Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

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  • Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

    As I mentioned in a different thread, this weekend is the open challenge where the first place finisher will get to choose a three way writing battle in the upcoming weeks. The second place finisher will also get to choose between the remaining two battle lineups. And those line-ups are:

    vs. Ryan Condal. I believe his spec sale GALAHAD is the highest rated Blacklist script among the active Done Deal community. We may add another one of our working writer friends into this battle for added chaos and giggles.

    vs. jimjimgrande. For the past several years, he's written for successful prime-time TV shows, all of which I pretend I watch religiously. For those who are interested in writing TV shows, especially the one-hour dramas, jimjimgrande is the man. Our writing challenge will be TV related.

    vs. Ryne Pearson. A successful paperback writer and a screenwriter. We had a conversation about a possible battle. I said "Hey, let's do a writing throwdown where we have to adapt PAPERBACK WRITER by the Beatles." He said "I hate the Beatles... almost as much as I hate you." I don't think that was very nice.

    Ryne hurt my feelings. I cried in the corner. Then I pulled myself together and said "Screw this. I'm going to make everyone else suffer for Ryne's slight."

    So the topic is PAPERBACK WRITER. I only heard this song like six times in my entire life. But I thought this would be identifiable for many of us. Feel free to interpret it anyway you want. Here are the lyrics:

    Paperback writer

    Paper back writer (paperback writer)
    Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
    It took me years to write, will you take a look?
    It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
    And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer,
    Paperback writer.

    It's the dirty story of a dirty man
    And his clinging wife doesn't understand.
    The son (The son) is working for the Daily Mail,
    It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer,
    Paperback writer.

    Paperback writer (paperback writer)

    It's a thousand pages, give or take a few,
    I'll be writing more in a week or two.
    I can make it longer if you like the style,
    I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer,
    Paperback writer.

    If you really like it you can have the rights,
    It could make a million for you overnight.
    If you must return it, you can send it here
    But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer,
    Paperback writer.

    Paperback writer (paperback writer)

    Paperback writer - paperback writer
    Paperback writer - paperback writer



    Everyone has until Midnight EST, Saturday to post their 3 to 4 pages.

    Just a note: I am going to request that everyone keeps track of his/her own votes. You may edit your script pages post to keep a tally of DDers who reply on this thread to vote for you. And let's say, we give this until midnight Tuesday when I'll just look at those tallies and determine the winner.

    I'm going to give myself an hour to post my own for my amusement. You obviously don't have to vote for me.

  • #2
    Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

    I spent about 50 minutes on it. But I probably "cheated" because I knew the topic long before any of you did. Plus, I gotta say that JL doing what he did in week 1 and BDZ doing what he did in week 2 really inspired me to flip the audience expectation. So just by participating in the exercises and reading their pages, I felt I learned a lot.

    Also, I never wrote a psychological thriller. So I decided to give it a try. Not sure how successful I was but it was fun.

    Code:
    
     INT. STARBUCKS - NIGHT
    
                   An attractive [B]BARISTA [/B]rearranges the chairs back in place.
                   The last of the customers leave except for...
    
                   [B]PAPERBACK WRITER[/B] in the corner. He watches her every lithe
                   movement like a predator. His eyes dart back to his laptop as
                   she whips around and approaches.
    
                                       BARISTA
                             Sorry, we're closing.
    
                   Paperback Writer doesn't react. Just types away.
    
                                       BARISTA
                             We close at ten.
                                 (beat)
                             What's that? What do you do?
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                                 (mumbles)
                             Paperback writer.
    
                                       BARISTA
                             What's that?
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                             Paperback writer.
    
                                       BARISTA
                             Any books I might've read?
    
                   He glares, unnerving her. She retreats to the nearest table
                   to rearrange a chair that doesn't need to be moved.
    
                   ON HIS LAPTOP SCREEN
    
                   A query letter. As the words are typed to "Creative Artist
                   Agency," we hear his voiceover.
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER (V.O.)
                             Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my
                             book? It took me years to write.
                             Will you take a look?
    
    
    
                   INT. CREATIVE ARTIST AGENCY - DAY
    
                   ANGLE ON the wheels of a mail cart as it passes an open door
                   to "ELEANOR RIGBY, Book Agent."
    
                   IN HER OFFICE
    
                   [B]ELEANOR [/B]tears open an envelope, finds a manuscript titled
                   "YELLOW SUBMARINE" and a cover letter. Her eyes scan the
                   letter.
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER (V.O.)
                             It's based on a novel by a man
                             named Lear. And I need a job, so I
                             want to be a paperback writer.
    
                   Eleanor tears the letter and tosses the manuscript into the
                   trash bin. She doesn't notice the reflection off her office
                   window of a man standing by the door. He is...
    
                   [U]The Paperback Writer with the mail cart[/U]. His face boils in
                   anger as he watches her reading Yahoo News. 
    
                   ON HER SCREEN, a local story about a missing STABUCKS
                   BARISTA. As she stares at the file photo of [U]our barista[/U], she
                   sees a reflection of a man. She turns--
    
                   But no one is there. She frowns. Huh, I could've sworn...
    
    
    
                   INT. SUPERMARKET - DAY
    
                   Eleanor moves through the frozen food aisle, opens the glass
                   door, and picks out a Lean Cuisine. She closes the door--
    
                                       ELEANOR
                             AHHHH!
    
                   Paperback Writer stands there. He hands her another copy of
                   "Yellow Submarine." He eyes her with such primal intensity
                   that she dares not look away. 
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                             It's the dirty story of a dirty
                             man. 
                                 (anger building)
                             And his clinging wife doesn't
                             understand!
    
                   She peeks past him. An empty aisle. They're all alone. She
                   grabs the manuscript from his hand.
    
                                       ELEANOR
                             Thank you. I'll read it.
    
                   She pushes her cart toward the checkout. Hurry, HURRY!
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER (O.S.)
                             The son. The son is working for the
                             Daily Mail.
    
    
    
                   EXT. PARKING LOT - DAY
    
                   Eleanor hurries to her car. She pops open the trunk, puts her
                   grocery bags inside as fast as she can when--
    
                   --the Paperback Writer grabs the final bag.
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                             It's a steady job but he wants to
                             be a paperback writer.
                                 (chilling)
                             Paperback writer.
    
                                       ELEANOR
                             I'm sorry?
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                             Paperback writer.
                                 (hands her a card)
                             Paperback writer.
    
                   He eyes the manuscript she grips with her life. He relaxes,
                   trying his best to calm her. But that only makes it worse.
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                             It's a thousand pages, give or take
                             a few.
    
                   Paperback Writer pulls out a manila envelope with more pages
                   to a manuscript titled "Hey Jude."
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                             I'll be writing more in a week or
                             two.
    
                                       ELEANOR
                             A thousand pages. That's perfect.
                                 (inches to the driver's
                                  seat)
                             Thanks. That's really nice.
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                             I can make it longer if you like
                             the style.
                                 (earnest)
                             I can change it 'round.
                                 (desperate smile)
                             And I want to be a paperback
                             writer. Paperback writer.
    
                                       ELEANOR
                             Yeah. I got that.
                                 (re: his card)
                             I'll get back to you.
    
                   She jumps into her car, fumbling with her keys. C'mon, C'MON,
                   C'MON!!!! Her hand shakes, she can't breath. She struggles
                   with her seatbelt buckle. Screw the seatbelt. 
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                             If you really like it, you can have
                             the rights. It could make a million
                             for you overnight.
    
                   Finally, the engine starts. She slams the door and pulls out
                   of her spot. Yet the creepy man knocks on her window.
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                                 (re: his card)
                             If you must return it, you can send
                             it here. But I need a break and...
    
                   He jumps out of the way. She nearly runs him over.
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                                 (emphatic)
                             And I want to be a paperback
                             writer.
                                 (runs after the car)
                             Paperback writer.
    
                   He sprints after the car, trying to get her attention. 
    
                   INSIDE THE CAR, she sees a fading view of him through the
                   rearview mirror.
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                             Paperback writer! Paperback writer.
    
                   Her eyes are so focused on the creepy man that--
    
                   The car runs through a red light and is--
    
                   RAMMED by a Hummer.
    
                   Eleanor's head SMASHES through the windshield. She wasn't
                   wearing her seatbelt. As she bleeds to death...
    
                   FROM her fading point of view, the man approaches.
    
                                       PAPERBACK WRITER
                             Paperback writer...
                                 (distorted voice)
                             Paperback writer. Paperback...
    
                   As his hand reaches toward her, we[B] FADE TO BLACK[/B].

    Comment


    • #3
      Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

      Code:
       INT. PUBLISHERS OFFICE – DAY
      
                     More lavish than your typical publishers office. The
                     architect appears to have ingested pure-gold and vomited it
                     over every metal surface. It gleams and screams success.
      
                     The subject of that success, Publisher MR. PICKETT, 44, leans
                     back in his chair chomping a cigar. A portly gent- He drums 
                     stubby fingers on the stacked pages of a manuscript. Silently
                     regards the thin, fragile man sat opposite--
      
                     --This is Mr. LEAR, 38, a pathetic excuse for a man. Hunched
                     down in his chair. Receding hair, unkempt. Cheap shabby suit
                     covered in unknown light stains. At this moment, he's trying
                     to be the very thing he's not- Assertive.
      
                                         LEAR
                               I came to you, Mr. Pickett, because
                               you're the best in the business.
                           
                     He gestures to cross one leg over, but slips awkwardly.
                                       
                                                LEAR
                               Because you would sell your family
                               down the river to seal a deal. Like
                               me, you understand how far we must
                               go to get what we want.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               I appreciate the smoke up my ass.
      
                     He puffs smoke as if to metaphor his own words.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               But I'm not sure how much longer we
                               can flog this long-dead horse, Mr.
                               Lear.
      
                     Pushes Lear's manuscript across the desk.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               The manuscript is not for us.
      
                                         LEAR
                               You haven't even read it.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               And I don't need to. Even the title-
                                 (checks cover page)
                               -The Folly of Icarus.
      
                                         LEAR
                               It's a metaphor.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               Is it? … Tell you what, Mr-
      
                     He flips the page around- Forgotten his name already.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               -Lear, I'll hand over a cheque with
                               more zeroes than you've seen in
                               your whole pitiful life-
      
                     He leans his bulk across the table- Full of menace.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               -If you can conjure up a metaphor
                               for a writer who badgers my
                               assistant. Pesters me at my home.
                               Until, just to get rid of them, I
                               finally agree to meeting.
      
                                         LEAR
                               I apologize for my impetuousness.. but
                               y'see this is a labor of love.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               No. Do you know what constitutes a
                               labor of love, Mr. Lear?
      
                     Lear steels himself again. He pulls himself up in his chair-
                
                                         LEAR
                               It's when you dedicate yourself to
                               something to the extent you'd
                               sacrifice everything you ever had.
                               You cut yourself off from the rest
                               of the world. Seal yourself away
                               brick by brick if you have to.
                                   (points to manuscript)
                               All in order to devote yourself
                               solely to the only thing left you
                               believe in.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                                   (a long pause)
                               Heartfelt… But no. It's not. It's 
                               when a writer cares enough
                               about their craft to adhere to
                               common format. When they have the
                               god honest decency not to write
                               their entire 1000 page manuscript in
                               barely legible hieroglyphics.
      
                                         LEAR
                               It's not my handwriting.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               Then I pity the poor soul you
                               coerced into transcribing this
                               unholy, scrawled mess.
      
                     He slams the manuscript back down on the desk. The cover page
                     flutters from the stack to the floor. Lear jumps out of his
                     seat. Chases it across the office.
      
                                         LEAR
                               Please. It took me years to write.
                               Maybe if I just pitched it to you.
                               It's about a man who can no longer
                               live with the over-affection of his
                               wife. He's a dirty man-
      
                     Mr. Pickett flashes a cruel smile as he studies Lear, bent
                     over to pick up the cover page in his creased, shabby suit.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               An autobiography?
      
                     Lear follows his eye line. To the stains on his suit. On his
                     pants- Dusty white stains.
      
                                         LEAR
                               I apologize for my unkempt
                               appearance. It's plaster. I awoke to
                               a wall in my house crumbling away.
                               It was a necessary refurbishment.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               Appearances are everything,
                               Mr. Lear. Good day to you.
      
                     Pickett turns away from him. Begins sifting through his thick
                     rolodex. Lear hesitates, then—
      
                     --places the cover page on the stack. He turns to leave
                     leaving the manuscript there. Shuffles dejected towards the
                     door. He edges it open. Hesitates-
      
                                         LEAR
                               All I ever wanted to be was a
                               paperback writer, Mr. Pickett.
                                 (slips through the door)
                               Without that… I don't exist.
      
                     Back to Pickett. Sat at his desk. His sizeable bulk
                     blocking out light- But behind him, outside the floor to
                     ceiling windows, the vast cityscape extends to the horizon.
      
                     The hubbub of city life greeted by a new noise. A distant
                     sound- growing louder- A SCREAM! Louder and louder—
      
                     --And Lear's flailing body plummets past the window. On a
                     downward path to a concrete stain destiny.
      
                     Pickett barely has time to turn his head. IT all happened so
                     fast. Left with only a distant CAR ALARM.
      
                     INT. PUBLISHERS OFFICE – AFTERNOON
      
                     Pickett still sits at the desk. Hard to know if he even
                     bothered to move. UNIFORMED POLICE OFFICERS stand in the
                     corner. A young DETECTIVE HARRISON paces the room.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               I don't know what to tell you,
                               Detective Harrison. He was a deeply
                               disturbed individual.
      
                                         DETECTIVE HARRISON
                               Is that his manuscript?
      
                     Pickett has the manuscript stack of pages laid in front of
                     him. It's clear he's read quite a ways in- Most of it.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               I figured I'd read it. Not like I have 
                               to write a rejection letter on this one.
      
                     Pickett finishes up the final page. His expression begins to      
                     change. With each line. A quite sense of awe-
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               It all ties together. Every line.
                               Every piece of dialogue. It all had
                               meaning.
      
                                         DETECTIVE HARRISON
                               So it's good then?
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               It's... magnificent.
      
                     He turns the second to last page. No more prose. Just Words
                     scrawled on the final page: THERE ARE MORE PAGES, MR PICKETT.
                     AT MY HOME. THERE'S A KEY UNDER THE MAT.
      
                     He replaces the front page. Detective Harrison leans over his
                     shoulder. Reads the manuscript title-
      
                                         DETECTIVE HARRISON
                               Ironic.
      
                     Pickett looks up at him. Harrison detects his confusion.
      
                                         DETECTIVE HARRISON
                               The title. Icarus. Flew to close to
                               the sun. Melted his wings. Fell to
                               his death.
                                    (gazes across city)
                               A cynical man might consider he'd
                               planned to go out this way.
      
                     Pickett hesitates- Then bolts up out of his chair. Ambles
                     towards the door- Quite the speed for a man of his bulk.
      
                     INT/EXT. PICKETT'S SEDAN – LATER
      
                     Pickett looks vaguely ridiculous wedged behind the wheel of
                     his Sedan. Engine idle- Stuck at the lights.
      
                     EXT. LEAR'S HOME – AFTERNOON
      
                     The afternoon light begins to fade over suburban life as
                     Pickett waddles up the path to Lear's front door.
      
                     There's an audible CREAK of bones as he stoops to lift the
                     mat. Underneath—- the key. Just where Lear said it'd be.
      
                     INT. LEAR'S HOME – AFTERNOON
      
                     The CHINK of a key slipped into a lock. Pickett unlocks the
                     door. Slips it open. He GAGS as the stench hits him- Like sour
                     Milk. The next thing to catch his attention--
          
                     --Arrows. Painted crudely on the floor. Leading across the
                     hallway. Past the staircase. To a door leading down to—
      
                     INT. LEAR'S HOME – BASEMENT
      
                     Each rickety step CREAKS displeasure as Pickett makes his way
                     down the staircase. Darker down here- but no problem—
      
                     --The arrows now painted in UV paint. Glowing in the
                     darkness. Pickett keeps his eyes to the floor. Following the
                     path laid out for him. Not watching where he's walking—
      
                     --WHAM! His shin slams into a writing desk. At the moment
                     where the arrows stop. The desk flush against the wall. No
                     way for someone to sit behind it—-
      
                     --And then the full extent of it all hits him. As he looks
                     up— At a crumbling brick wall. Words painted in UV paint—
      
                     :MR. PICKETT, BY NOW I'LL BE GONE. AND THE FACT YOU'RE HERE
                     MEANS YOU LIKE WHAT YOU READ.
      
                     End of paint paragraph. And in the gap between that and the
                     next. A gap in the brickwork. About the size of an letter box-
                     But tilted downwards- to allow view of the desk.
      
                     He stares into the gap- AND A PAIR OF LIFELESS EYES STARE
                     BACK! Lear's earlier words echo through his head-
      
                                         LEAR (V.O.)
                               You cut yourself off from the rest
                               of the world. Seal yourself away
                               brick by brick if you have to.
      
                     He continues to read the painted words: THE RIGHTS ARE ALL  
                     YOURS. IT COULD MAKE YOU MILLIONS OVERNIGHT. BUT HOW
                     FAR ARE YOU WILLING TO GO THIS TIME-
      
                                         LEAR (V.O.)
                               Like me, you understand how far we
                               must go to get what we want.
      
                     Pickett follows the crumbling brick down. To another hole. At
                     perfect writing height to the desktop. And something inside—
      
                                         LEAR (V.O.)
                               It's not my handwriting.
      
                     --A hand, frail and withered almost to the bone. And still
                     attached to the poor bastard walled up in Lear's cellar.
      
                     The final painted words: HE WROTE IT BEAUTIFULLY. BUT HOW FAR 
                     ARE [I]YOU[/I] WILLING TO GO FOR IT THIS TIME, MR. PICKETT. HOW 
                     MUCH DOES HIS MANUSCRIPT MEAN TO YOU?
      
                     Pickett stares into the deep dark gaps. At the crumbling
                     brickwork fall away piece-by-piece. And something else—
      
                     --on the desktop. Something he hadn't seen before. Bricks and
                     mortar. Already prepared. Along with a trowel.
      
                     INT. PUBLISHER'S OFFICE – LATER
      
                     Mr. Pickett waddles along the corridor. Breathless. Drenched
                     in sweat. His SECRETARY stands up from her desk as he
                     approaches his office-
      
                                         SECRETARY
                               Mr. Pickett. Detective Harrison
                               left a number for you to call him.
                               He still has some questions.
      
                                         MR. PICKETT
                               Tomorrow. For today, hold all my
                               calls.
      
                                         SECRETARY
                               Yes, Mr. Pickett… oh, sir?
      
                     Pickett pauses halfway through the door. Secretary waves a
                     manicured nail at his suit pants.
      
                                         SECRETARY
                               You've got some stains on your suit
                               there.
      
                     Pickett freezes. He regards her warily. All his cocksure
                     swagger long gone. He slowly closes the door on her.
      
                                                                    FADE OUT:
      Last edited by Harbinger; 04-23-2011, 03:01 AM. Reason: One very bad typo

      Comment


      • #4
        Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

        Why not -- up late with nothing better to do...
        Okay -- so I couldn't keep it to three -- came out as five pages in about an hour and ten minutes -- spent 20 minutes knocking it down to four.

        So probably failed the parameters of the challenge -- but whatevs...

        Code:
             INT. PRISON CELL
        
             It's hard to tell whether it's day or night.  The light is always the
             same either way... Dim and yellow.  Provided by a single bulb, encased
             in a wall sconce made of steel mesh.
        
             There's a chair backed against the iron bars.  On that chair, a MAN
             sits with a clipboard in his lap.  The scratch of pen on paper echoes
             in the space, as he writes furiously.
        
             JACOB COLLIER is 43, but looks at least ten years older and 20 pounds
             over-weight.  His teeth and fingers are tobacco stained.  A Rorschach
             splatter of coffee defiles a wrinkled shirt.  And his hair is two
             months past due for a cut.  
        
             But in this moment, there's a glimmer in his eyes.  A cadence to the
             movement of his pen across the paper.  There is a hope and excitement
             that is obviously foreign to Mr. Collier.
        
                                           COLLIER
                                 And this was when?
        
             He leans toward a pair of bunks hanging from the stone wall in front of
             him.  The top shelf is unmade and unoccupied.  
        
             Hidden in the dark recesses of the lower bed, is a second MAN.  His face
             is veiled by shadow.  The tenor of his voice betrays a soul that exists
             in a place beyond blackness.  Although not visible, simply hearing ALDOUS
             ROBICHEAUX speak in his tortured bayou drawl is enough to induce chills.
        
                                           ALDOUS
                                 I'd have to say... And it does pain
                                 me in a most loathsome way to
                                 reminisce about such things... 
        
             Aldous inhales deeply.  Collier can't help but scoot to the edge of his
             seat.  His pen poised.  Ready for the details.
        
             ALDOUS SUDDENLY SURGES FORWARD!
        
             His momentum is halted by manacles, chained to the wall.  But the
             movement is enough to make Collier recoil in fear.  He practically
             pisses himself as Aldous' face kisses the light. 
        
             It's a visage born of torture.  Both endured and inflicted.  A thick
             rope of scar tissue slashes from the outside of his left eye down
             across his cheek and into his neck.  The remnants of an unsuccessful
             surgery to repair a cleft palate, have left his upper lip and nostrils
             a ruinous mess.
        
             But the most chilling feature Aldous Robicheaux possesses, is a pair of
             eyes that bore into their target with unmistakable and unbridled
             hatred.  A complete lack of humanity.
        
                                           ALDOUS (CONT'D)
                                 Ever hear that song, Paperback
                                 Writer?  You know, Beatles?  It was
                                 summer time.  1966.  My sister
                                 stole the record from some store in
                                 New Orleans... And I... Well...
        
             EXT. WOODS - DAY
        
             The harmonies of "Paperback Writer" echo through the trees with a
             detached and ominous foreboding never intended.
        
                                           ALDOUS (V.O.)
                                 I decided... The girl needed to be
                                 punished for her grievous offense.
        
             Behind a thick copse of trees a small and slouching shack is revealed. 
             A black cable snakes from the roof, providing this isolated hovel with
             electricity.
        
             INT. SHACK - DAY
        
             That electricity powers a beat down record player.  And now, the record
             is skipping.  Mercilessly repeating the refrain... "Paperback Writer...
             Paperback Writer... Paperback Writer..."
        
             Over and over it bleats.  And now, something else joins the repeating
             phrase.  A percussive beat keeping time.
        
             Camera creeps away from the record player into a hallway and to a back
             room.  Where we reveal the source of the beat.
        
             17-YEAR-OLD ALDOUS... The left side of his face not yet scarred, but
             his grotesque hair-lip and those dead eyes are obvious giveaways to
             this young man's identity.
        
             He stands over his prostrate 10-year-old SISTER.  He beats down on her
             with a slender stick.  Her dress has ripped at the back.  Bloody
             slashes are visible on her skin.
        
             Aldous starts to repeat "Paperback Writer" along with the skipping
             record.  Laughing maniacally as he does so.  Then, suddenly, he pauses. 
             Stands up straight.
        
             As his sister lies fetal on the ground, sobbing, the sound of the
             record fades away and young Aldous reaches out to touch the wounds he
             has inflicted upon the small girl.
        
                                           ALDOUS (V.O.)
                                 Was one of those times people talk
                                 about.  Whattayacallits.  Apathy?
        
                                           COLLIER (V.O.)
                                 Ummm.  You mean epiphany?
        
                                           ALDOUS (V.O.)
                                 Right... That's the word.
        
             Young Aldous seems mesmerized by the lines on his sister's back.  He
             nods his head for a moment.  Then smiles wide.
        
             INT. PRISON CELL
        
             Collier sits, still as can be.  Waiting for Aldous to go on.
        
                                           ALDOUS
                                 Like some kind of divine spirit
                                 floating down and whispering into
                                 my ear.  "This is your mission,
                                 son.  This is what you need to do."
        
             Collier clears his throat again.  Furrows his brow.
        
                                           COLLIER
                                 I'm sorry.  What does that have to
                                 do with my initial question?  
        
                                           ALDOUS
                                 Not too bright are ya?  Whatta
                                 you... Write for the paper to pay
                                 the bills?  But you got this dream
                                 right?  Like the song.  Wanna be a
                                 real writer.  Begging everyone who
                                 matters.  "Will you please read my
                                 book?  Been working on it for
                                 years.  Got a thousand pages and I
                                 can write more..." 
        
                                           COLLIER
                                     (nervous smile)
                                 Well this here... This is... I
                                 guarantee I'll sell the rights to
                                 this one for at least a million.
        
                                           ALDOUS
                                 One more leech to steal my blood. 
                                 Profit off my genius.
        
             Aldous sinks back into the dark cover of his bunk.  His face once again
             hidden, as his confession continues.
        
                                           ALDOUS (CONT'D)
                                 My sister was my first paperback.  
        
             EXT. WOODS - DAY
        
             Young Aldous stands by a stream.  In his hand is a knife, dripping with
             blood.  His arms and torso are splattered red.  On a rock in front of
             him, a large square of material is flattened on the rock.  Blood seeps
             from the edges.
        
             Aldous glances over his shoulder.  Huddled in the grass, is his younger
             sister.  A large square of skin has been cut from the center of her
             back.
        
                                           ALDOUS (V.O.)
                                 She inspired me.  And I didn't get
                                 a thousand pages, but I got a lot.
        
             INT. WAREHOUSE 
        
             A dimly lit warehouse is swarmed upon by POLICE.  Officers move between
             rows and rows of sheets, hanging throughout.  In the fractured light,
             it's hard to make out details.
        
                                           ALDOUS (V.O.)
                                 When they found my writings, I was
                                 understandably devastated.
        
             Someone turns on a light.  The hanging sheets are revealed: All dried
             skin cut from the backs of Aldous' victims.
        
             [U]Each is dehydrated and covered with endless ink scrawl.[/U]
        
             INT. PRISON CELL
        
             Collier's eyes are focused on his pad as he writes.
        
             Aldous leans forward, into the light once more.
        
                                           ALDOUS
                                 Funny thing is.  I really only need
                                 one more page to finish my paper
                                 back... One... More... Page...
        
             Collier stops writing.  His head tilts up, ever so slowly.  
        
             Aldous stares at him with the cruelest of smiles.  Then the killer
             holds up his hands to reveal:  
        
             [U]The manacles no longer hold him!
        [/U] 
             Collier opens his mouth to scream, as Aldous pounces.
        Last edited by Johnson; 04-21-2011, 11:04 PM. Reason: format fix

        Comment


        • #5
          Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

          Code:
          
                         INT. LOVELY HOME - NIGHT
          
                         Hardwood floors, flowers on a Chinois table in the foyer, a
                         curved staircase that leads to the second level from which we
                         hear muffled yelling, then silence for a moment or two. 
          
                         LAURA, in a flannel babydoll nightie (yes, it's plaid) and
                         slipper socks (yes, they're striped), comes running down the
                         stairs, breathing hard, frantic. 
          
                         She passes the entryway and disappears into what might be the
                         kitchen. The sound of drawers opening and slamming shut,
                         their contents(silverware, junk, knives?) noisily shifting.
          
                         Laura reappears, empty handed, and goes for the coat rack.
                         She digs in the pocket of a trench coat and pulls out a pair
                         of handcuffs. Eureka! She hears the man starting down the
                         stairs and hides the cuffs behind her back. 
          
                         ROBERT, the husband, the man, in a silk dress shirt and
                         slacks, walks right past her and gets his coat. 
          
                         Laura presses her back against the door.
          
                                             LAURA
                                   I won't let you go.
          
                         Robert swings it open as if she wasn't even there. Damn 
                         slipper socks. 
          
          
          
                         EXT. CUL-DE-SAC - NIGHT
          
                         Robert almost makes it to a shiny black BMW in the driveway,
                         when Laura bursts out the door.
          
                                             LAURA
                                   Please, don't go! It's...it's
                                   dangerous.
          
                                             ROBERT
                                   Safewords, I keep telling you.
                                   There's nothing to worry about.
          
                                             LAURA
                                       (suddenly defiant)
                                   Well, you can't go without these.
          
                         She holds out the handcuffs for him to see and chucks them
                         over the neighbor's fence.
          
                         FREEZE
          
                         The cuffs come back over the fence, frame by frame, click,
                         click, click, click, back into Laura's outstretched hand.
          
                                             LAURA
                                   Eseht tuohtiw og t'nac uoy, llew.
          
                         FREEZE
          
                         A beat.
          
                                             LAURA
                                       (defiant)
                                   Well, you can't go without these.
          
                         She holds out the handcuffs for him to see, drops them down
                         her panties and switches gears to what should be sexy, but
                         sounds desperate.
          
                                             LAURA
                                   Come and get them.
          
                         Robert sighs. He presses a button on his key ring. The trunk
                         opens for him to retrieve a set of furry pink cuffs.
          
                                             ROBERT
                                   I'm going to look like an idiot,
                                   now. Thanks.
          
                         Whatever fight was left in Laura surrenders to an obvious
                         conclusion.
          
                                             LAURA
                                   You don't want me anymore.
          
                         He softens, walks over and takes her by the shoulders,
                         loving, kind.
          
                                             ROBERT
                                   No, I don't want you, but I need
                                   you. You can't have both from a
                                   man. Nancy, Shawna, Jimbo, Pam, I
                                   won't even remember them after
                                   tonight, but you, Laura, you are my
                                   light. I'm nothing without you.
          
                         Click, click, click, click...
          
          
          
                         INT. EXECUTIVE OFFICE - DAY
          
                         A hand repeatedly clicks the backspace button on a keyboard.
                         The hand belongs to RONALD, disheveled and dirty, looking
                         entirely out of place (and a bit like Robert) at a shiny
                         mahogany desk. 
          
                         The door opens.
          
                                             RONALD
                                   Five more minutes, Lore.
          
                         LORI (Laura?), dressed to fit these fancy surrounding, enters
                         with NORMAN, a co-worker, both holding Styrofoam carry out
                         containers.  
          
                                             LORI
                                   I have to get back to work.
          
                                             RONALD
                                   Helloooo, Norman.
          
                         Norman gives a dismissive nod. Ronald pockets a flash drive
                         and vacates Lori's seat at the desk.
          
                                             RONALD
                                   See you tomorrow, babe?
          
                                             LORI
                                   Sure.
          
                         She hands him her lunch leftovers. Norman gags a little as
                         Ronald passes. Just for that Ronald takes his leftovers, too,
                         and then he's gone.
          
                                             NORMAN
                                   How long have you been divorced,
                                   three years? I don't get why you let
                                   him use your office.
          
                                             LORI
                                   He needs a break, and he wants to
                                   be a paperback writer.
          
                                             NORMAN
                                   Paperback writer?
                                       (shakes his head,
                                        whatever)
                                   Still, after all the sh!t he's
                                   pulled. 
          
                         Lori goes to the window, presumably watches Ronald down
                         below. She smiles, sad, pitying with the lingers of what
                         used to be love.
          
                         Norman sits in Lori's chair. Gags again.
          
                                             NORMAN
                                   Get the Febreeze.
          
                         It's not rhetorical. There's a bottle of Febreeze on the far
                         shelf.
          
                         Lori spins around, locks eyes with Norman.
          
                                             LORI
                                   Get it yourself.
          
                         Electricity. This is their thing.
          
                         And they're on each other like wild animals, all mouths,
                         hands, guttural noises. 
          
          
          
                         EXT. STREET - DAY
          
                         Ronald strolls past a shiny black BMW and claims a parked
                         shopping cart.
          
                         He pushes it along, wheels squeaking, whistling a jaunty
                         Beatles song, She Loves You.
          
                                                                        FADE OUT.
          Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.

          Comment


          • #6
            Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

            This took about 50 minutes.

            Code:
                                                                             FADE IN:
            
            
            
                             INT. BASEMENT OFFICE - DAY
            
                             A dark room cluttered with rotting boxes and books, old
                             and broken furniture, and piles of moth-eaten clothing.
                             Thick dust chokes the light of the single bare overhead
                             bulb hanging by a cord. The few windows, high up on the
                             concrete walls, are so grime-covered it's difficult to
                             even tell it's day time.
            
                             WILL HARRIS sits in a chair beneath the light, head on
                             the desk before him. Crusted blood marks his temple and
                             mats his dirty-blonde hair. His suit is badly wrinkled.
            
                             After a moment he stirs, brings a hand up to touch the
                             side of his head and winces. His eyes open as his head
                             lifts off a large stack of typewritten paper. 
            
                                                    WILL
                                       Hello?
            
                             No answer.
            
                                                    WILL
                                       Where am I?
                                            (beat)
                                       Darlene? Phil? Anyone?
            
                             He lifts himself from the chair and takes a step. A loud
                             clink draws his attention to his left leg. It's shackled
                             to the floor.
            
                                                    WILL
                                       What the hell?
            
                                                    JOHN (O.S.)
                                       Sit down, Mr. Harris.
            
                             The voice startles Will. He peers into the gloom, shading
                             his eyes.
            
                                                    WILL
                                       Who's there?
            
                             A man steps into the light. He's balding with a long,
                             filthy beard. Dirty, stained pyjamas and a tattered
                             housecoat. Stained teeth. Intense, crazy eyes. 
            
                                                    WILL
                                       Who are you?
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       Sit down.
            
                                                    WILL
                                       Tell me who--
            
                             The man lunges forward and swings a ****ing crowbar. Will
                             screams and drops heavily into the chair, clutching his
                             arm.
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       Good. You may call me John.
            
                                                    WILL
                                       Oh God, oh God! What do you want?
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       I want you to read my manuscript.
            
                                                    WILL
                                       What?
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       My manuscript. It's there, on the
                                       desk. Read it. Tell me what you
                                       think.
            
                             Will stares at the stack of paper for a moment, then
                             turns back to John.
            
                                                    WILL
                                       Are you out of your mind? I'm not
                                       reading your ****ing manuscript!
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       Have you heard of Edward Lear?
                                       He's a genius. I think you'll find
                                       I really captured his vision.
            
                                                    WILL
                                            (hesitantly)
                                       And if I don't read it?
            
                             John violently and effortlessly turns the chair and Will
                             to face one corner of the room. Something is there, a
                             vaguely human shape lying across heaps of clothing. Will
                             leans forward, peering.
            
                             CLOSE ON a woman's horror-striken eyes framed in dried
                             rivulets of blood, mouth frozen wide in terror. She
                             hasn't been dead long.
            
                             Will recoils, nearly tipping over the chair.
            
                                                    WILL
                                       Jesus Christ!
            
                             John turns the chair back to the desk.
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       It's a thousand pages, give or
                                       take a few. 
            
                             Will takes the first page and, with shaking hands, begins
                             reading.
            
                                                    JOHN (CONT'D)
                                       I can make it longer if you like
                                       the style. 
            
                                                    WILL
                                       But...but this doesn't even make
                                       sense.
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       NO!
            
                             John slams his fist down on the table so hard it rattles.
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       I've spent years writing that! Do
                                       you know what it's like trying to
                                       understand genius? To get into a
                                       man's head and really understand
                                       him? Don't you dare say it's
                                       nonsense!
            
                             John is gripping the crowbar in two hands as though
                             trying to wring the life out of it.
            
                                                    WILL
                                            (staring at the
                                             crowbar)
                                       Okay! All right! Let me read some
                                       more. Maybe I'm not getting it.
            
                             Will takes the next page and scans it. Then another.
            
                                                    WILL
                                       You know, when it's put into
                                       context, this is actually pretty
                                       good.
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       You really think so?
            
                                                    WILL
                                       Oh, yes. In fact, if the rest
                                       reads like this I'd be happy to
                                       run it by my publisher, see what
                                       she thinks.
            
                             John places a pen and paper on the desk.
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       I'm very glad to hear you say
                                       that, Mr. Harris. Write down her
                                       address and I'll send a copy to
                                       her.
            
                                                    WILL
                                       No, I'll take it to her myself.
                                       It's the only way she'll--
            
                             John slams the crowbar down hard on Will's leg. He
                             screams again.
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       You're not leaving here, not until
                                       I sign a book deal. If you like
                                       it, you can have the rights.
                                       You'll make a million bucks
                                       overnight, I promise you. But I
                                       want my book deal.
            
                                                    WILL
                                            (sobbing)
                                       You got it! I'll sign, I'll sign
                                       anything! Just let me go.
            
                                                    JOHN
                                       How can you say that? You haven't
                                       even read it. Go ahead, read. Then
                                       we'll discuss it.
            
                             John's face comes within inches of Will's.
            
                                                    JOHN (CONT'D)
                                       I want to be sure you really get
                                       it before I let you take it.
            Vancouver Screenwriters Meetup Group

            Comment


            • #7
              Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

              ya'll are rockstars. i didn't even come close to an hour - it took me about three hours.

              HTML Code:
               FADE IN:
              
                               A close-up on a writing pad.  A hand reaches in and
                               writes text on the page: "The Beatles, 1960".  The MUSIC
                               of [I]Paperpack Writer[/I] drifts over us soft and lilting.
              
                               JOSHUA LEAR, 17, is entirely focused on his writing.  A
                               fairly unnoticeable kid except for his overly long hair
                               and quirky newsboy hat.  His foot thumps to the music.  
              
                               Joshua takes off the headphones and pulls out a small
                               recorder.  PULL BACK to see the lawns and building behind
                               him.
                             
                               EXT. LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL - DAY
              
                               Middle-class public school.  Students are milling about
                               for the lunch break.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                              (into the recorder)
                                         Paperback Writer.  McCartney wrote
                                         it in 1966... January I think. 
                                         His words are in the form of a
                                         letter to a publisher...  The song
                                         was recorded in only two takes... 
                                         Research that train of thought, it 
                                         could be a cool angle...
              
                               Joshua pauses the recorder.  He notes THREE GIRLS walking
                               past him toward the school doors.
              
                               MANDY PHILLIPS, 17.  A blonde goddess.  She chats with
                               her two friends but we can't hear them.
              
                               Joshua grabs his belongings together.  He hurries over to
                               the girls.  Just as they reach the door he OPENS it for
                               them.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         Hi Mandy.
              
                               Mandy sails through the open door.  Her two friends
                               follow without comment.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         I like that skirt your wearing...
              
                                                      RANDY (O.S.)
                                         Yeah, cause it barely covers your
                                         ass.
              
                               REVERSE ON
              
                               RANDY, 18, a rocker wannabe.  His orange bowtie and slick
                               hair make him look like a David Bowie throwback from the
                               60s.
              
                               EXT/INT. LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL - FOYER - SAME
              
                               Randy and Joshua dodge students as they enter the large
                               hall.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         Did you finish your paper?
              
                                                      RANDY
                                         It's a bogus assignment.  Are you
                                         going to the game?
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         It's ten percent of our grade.
              
                                                      RANDY
                                         Cause I'm thinking we could
                                         carpool.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         You don't drive.  Have you picked
                                         a subject?
              
                                                      RANDY
                                         Your car.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         Your writing about my car?
              
                                                      RANDY
                                         No, we're taking your car.  I
                                         wrote about David Bowie.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         Dick.
              
                               A CLASS BELL RINGS.
              
                                                      RANDY
                                         Later.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         See ya.
              
                               INT.  CLASSROOM - SAME
              
                               A TEACHER stands outside the classroom door talking to a
                               couple of students.  He is MR. HARRIS, 40s.  He finishes
                               the conversation.  As the students drift away--
              
                               INT.  HALLWAY - SAME
              
                               Joshua approaches.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         Hey, Mr. Harris.
              
                               The teacher turns to Joshua.
              
                                                      MR. HARRIS
                                         How are you today?
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         Good, good.  I was thinking about
                                         the class paper.
              
                                                      MR. HARRIS
                                         No extensions.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         Nah, I'm working on it.  You said
                                         it could be about any historical
                                         music though, right?
              
                               Mr. Harris nods.
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         So I'm doing it on The Beatles.
              
                                                      MR. HARRIS
                                         That's nice.  I'm a fan of the
                                         Rolling Stones.  
                                              (chuckles)
                                         You know, I still have Brian
                                         Jones' broken guitar string from
                                         their '64 U.S. tour...
              
                                                      JOSHUA LEAR
                                         Cool.  Hey, can I get an
                                         extension?
              
                               FADE TO BLACK.
              life happens
              despite a few cracked pots-
              and random sunlight

              Comment


              • #8
                Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

                I suck. According to my iPod, took 33 songs. But my kids were not doing as they were told. Kept slipping out of the cuffs, and trying to escape.

                Anyway, 3 pages exactly. I think.

                Code:
                [FONT=Courier New,Courier]              
                
                               FADE IN:
                
                               INT. BOOSTORE - NIGHT
                
                               KINGSTON LEAR, 40ish, sits at a small wooden table, idly 
                               tapping his pen against his glass of water.  A stack of 
                               hardcovers next to his elbow.  One of the books is displayed 
                               on top of the others, shows the title and the author:  HIS 
                               THREE DAUGHTERS by Kingston Lear.
                
                               TINK...TINK...TINK...the pen taps.
                
                               A CUSTOMER wanders into his eyeline.  Lear perks up.
                
                               The customer glances once at Lear, then quickly looks away, 
                               suddenly finds interest in the Gay/Lesbian section.
                
                               Lear watches as the customer suddenly realizes what section 
                               he's in, looks around to see if anyone's noticed, sees Lear 
                               looking right at him...
                
                               Lear smiles, pen at the ready.
                
                               The customer, embarrassed, looks for an escape, scurries 
                               away through the Inspirational section.
                
                               Lear sighs.
                
                                                     A$$HOLE CLERK (O.S.)
                                         At least you don't have to worry 
                                         about number one fans, now do you? 
                
                               Lear darts his eyes to the thin, pimply-faced college-aged 
                               kid shelving books nearby.  He's got tie on, has James Dean 
                               on it.  
                
                               Lear notices the kid isn't even paying attention to where 
                               he's placing the books, just giving Lear a smarmy smile.
                
                                                     LEAR
                                         Excuse me?
                
                                                     A$$HOLE CLERK
                                         I've read your book.
                
                                                     LEAR
                                              (brightens)
                                         Really?  What'd you think?
                
                                                     A$$HOLE CLERK
                                         Couldn't make it past page twenty-
                                         six.
                                              (approaches)
                                         Those signed?
                
                                                     LEAR
                                         Yeah, but I've still got ten minutes 
                                         left--
                
                               The A$$hole Clerk grabs the books.  Lear manages to snag the 
                               display copy; holds it like a dog with a bone.
                
                               The A$$hole and Lear glare at each other:  [I]Mexican standoff.[/I]
                
                                                     HONEY  (O.S.)
                                         Oh, thank God, you're still here.
                
                               A pretty blonde, 30s, races in.  She's built like a 
                               thoroughbred race horse:  muscles and curves in all the right 
                               places.  She's a beauty with the body to match.
                
                               The A$$hole Clerk salivates openly as Honey approaches with 
                               a copy of Lear's book.
                
                               Lear gives Honey a toothy smile.
                
                                                     LEAR
                                         Hi.  I'm--
                
                                                     HONEY
                                         I've read everything you've written, 
                                         from An Abundance of Moral Turpitude 
                                         to Dreams of Avarice, but my favorite 
                                         is Head Full of Traffic.  And when I 
                                         saw that you were finally getting a 
                                         hardcover, and that you were actually 
                                         doing a signing HERE...well...
                
                               Lear gives the A$$hole Clerk a smug smile as Honey hands him 
                               her book.  He grabs it, transfixed by her beauty.
                
                                                     LEAR
                                         And who do I make this out to?
                
                                                     HONEY
                                         Honey.  Your number one fan.
                
                               She turns to the clerk, still openly staring.  Glares at him 
                               until the clerk shuffles away.
                
                                                     LEAR
                                         That's your real name?
                
                               He quickly signs, snaps the cover shut.
                
                                                     HONEY
                                         What can I say?  My parents were 
                                         sweet on me.
                
                               Lear laughs a little too loudly as he holds the book out to 
                               her.
                
                                                     LEAR
                                         So you're my number one fan?
                
                               She grabs the book...
                
                                                     HONEY
                                         I'm embarrassed to say that I know a 
                                         LOT about you...
                
                               Lear notices her hand:  the knuckles are calloused, and the 
                               middle knuckle looks to have been broken before.
                
                               Their eyes meet.
                
                               Lear FLIPS the table up as Honey throws a jab, CRACKS the 
                               table, but Lear PUSHES the table at her, using it as a shield.
                
                               Honey backpedals, then sidesteps as Lear and the table come 
                               crashing down.  She reaches behind her, pulls out a GUN.
                
                               Lear expertly rolls into the Art section, comes up and grabs 
                               an oversize book of Impressionist paintings.
                
                               Honey steps into the aisle, gets a face full of Monet as Lear 
                               pounds her with the book.
                
                               She staggers back, but keeps her feet.  She FIRES a shot at 
                               where Lear had been.
                
                               SCREAMS.
                
                                                     A$$HOLE CLERK
                                         Hey, what the f***...Oh, s***!
                
                               A$$hole takes off.  Honey ignores him, and the few CUSTOMERS 
                               racing for the exits.
                
                               She eases into the aisles, hunts down Lear.
                
                               Whips into the Biography aisle, gun raised.
                
                               The embarrassed customer from earlier, tries to shield himself  
                               with a book:  MEN AND BOYS, TOGETHER.
                
                                                     CUSTOMER
                                              (terrified)
                                         Don't...
                
                               Honey passes him by, checks the aisles.
                
                               Comes across an ELDERLY COUPLE, who scream and hobble away.  
                               Honey continues...
                
                               Peaks around a SANDWICH BOARD that has Lear's name and book 
                               dry markered on it.
                
                               Sees Lear duck by the magazine shelves, but she doesn't have 
                               a clear shot:  the magazine shelves are vertical to the 
                               horizontal lines of shelves Honey's in.
                
                               She knows where he is now, though.  The magazines have four 
                               aisles, and there's no way he can leave that section without 
                               her spotting him.  He's cornered himself.
                
                               Honey approaches, cautiously, but confident.
                
                               Positions herself so she can see into two aisles at the same 
                               time, about five feet from the openings.  She's not getting 
                               a book in the face this time.  
                
                               First two aisles, clear.
                
                               She smiles.  Gun ready to fire, she moves to the next 
                               position.
                
                               Lear YELLS as he pushes the A$$hole Clerk in front of him 
                               right at Honey.  The kid has James Dean balled up in his 
                               mouth.
                
                               She gets off THREE SHOTS before she realizes it's not Lear 
                               who caught the bullets center mass.
                
                               Lear SHOVES the dead body of the A$$hole at Honey, and all 
                               three tumble to the ground.
                
                               Lear pins her gun arm, and head butts her in the already 
                               broken nose. 
                
                               She GRUNTS in pain, and throws Lear off with a convulsive 
                               kick.
                
                               Lear blocks the gun arm swinging his way, puts it in an arm 
                               lock, and BENDS.
                
                               Honey YELLS, blocks out the sound of the elbow breaking.  
                               The gun drops.
                
                               Lear picks it up.  Honey KICKS him in the face.  The gun 
                               skitters away.
                
                               He trips her up as she races for the gun.  Lear's on top of 
                               her, grabs a magazine on the floor.  PULLS on her broken 
                               arm.
                
                               Honey SCREAMS.
                
                               Lear SHOVES the folded up magazine (Reason) into her open 
                               mouth.  She gags.  He SHOOOOVVVVVVES.
                
                               And doesn't stop until her eyes are wide and staring.
                
                               He rolls off her, breathing heavily.  Blood trickles into 
                               his eyes from the gash on his head where she kicked him.  
                               Sweat rolls off him.
                
                               SIRENS approach.
                
                               He checks her pockets.  Nothing.  Grabs the gun.  Heads to 
                               the back of the store.
                
                               EXT. BROWNSTONE - NIGHT
                
                               On a SECOND FLOOR window, a light is still on.
                
                               INT. BROWNSTONE - STUDY
                
                               ANTHONY MERCER, 50s, is a fat man with impeccable taste in 
                               clothes and cigars.  Office is furnished in leather and oak, 
                               and the walls are adorned with pictures of Anthony shaking 
                               hands with heads of state.
                
                               He's sipping a whiskey, watching one of his three computer 
                               monitors when the intercom BUZZES.
                
                               Punches a key on the keyboard, one of the monitors changes 
                               scenes.
                
                               MONITOR
                
                               Lear stands on the front stoop, looks at the camera.
                
                               Mercer pushes a BUTTON underneath the lip of his desk.  The 
                               front door BUZZES open. 
                
                               He opens the desk drawer, puts his hand on a GUN in the 
                               drawer.
                
                               Two seconds later, Lear walks into the study.
                
                                                     MERCER
                                         The signing went well?
                
                               Lear sits in a leather chair facing Mercer.  Mercer notices 
                               Lear's condition.
                
                                                     MERCER (CONT'D)
                                         No, it appears not.  A disgruntled 
                                         fan, perhaps, or...?
                
                                                     LEAR
                                         Someone named Honey.
                
                               Mercer nods.  Takes his hand off the gun, closes the drawer.
                
                [/FONT]

                HH

                Comment


                • #9
                  Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

                  Concept and dialogue leapt to mind immediately. Hour and a half total time. format fixed.



                  Code:
                                  FADE IN
                  
                  
                  
                                  INT-LITERARY OFFICE
                  
                                  Dungeon dark, parlor-warm. Walnut walls with velvet
                                  chairs. Knights in Armor guard the door with lance and
                                  sword. Tower Bridge in view outside for-
                  
                                  DESMOND JONES (25) sullen and mop-topped. The crusty airs
                                  of English Lit on shelves make him quiver-
                  
                                  -as does a BEEFEATER, chair-side, with razor-sharp
                                  harlberd axe aimed neck-high, wicker basket with maroon
                                  stains just beneath.
                  
                                  A plain white manuscript box sits on a table before
                                  Desmond, working-class rough but polite.
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            There it is, then, Miss Mills. Done.
                  
                                  MISS MILLS (40ish) sits opposite, taut and severe in
                                  tweed cape, tight jodhpurs and boots, a riding crop
                                  tucked up her arm. An author's aristocrat.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            Call me Heather.
                  
                                  Heather's every syllable of King's English is crisply
                                  perforated, even through the dog-leg bend of her lips.
                  
                                                        HEATHER (CONT'D)
                                            I like the style, Mister Jones. Course,
                                            we might have to change it 'round a bit.
                  
                                  He protests with soft pause and manners.
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            Desmond, please. Glad you like it, But if
                                            I may point out, you haven't read it yet.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            I usually like what I haven't read.
                                                  (draws him out)
                                            No matter. If I'm to take you on, I must
                                            know you. How are you getting on now?
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            Oh, I've a few jobs. I get by, mostly.
                                            Sometimes, its with a little help from my
                                            friends. 
                                                 (a bit proud)
                                            Bit of a struggler, I am. Worker bee, 
                                            mostly, but me wife doesn't get the big
                                            notions. She doesn't understand my need
                                            to create.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                                  (tactfully)
                                            Have you considered an...edit, as it
                                            were. In your home?
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            You mean, divorce? Nah, Molly's a good
                                            sort, mostly. 
                                                  (playful)
                                            Besides, I'd tell her to wanker off, and
                                            I'd likely end up with a crazy bird with
                                            a wooden leg.
                  
                                  He slaps Heather's knee. A hollow thunk-
                  
                                  Desmond nervously taps his fingers against the table.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            And if I don't take you on?
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            Well, life goes on then. Ob la di, ob la
                                            da, that sort of thing. Right?
                  
                                  More finger-taps, staccato. She paws the box-
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            You say it's based on a work by a man
                                            named Lear.
                  
                                  He opens up on his writing.
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            That's right, mum. It is.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            Norman Lear? American?
                                                  (he's lost)
                                            King of telly?
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            King Lear. See, I say it's based on a
                                            novel by a man named Lear, cause if I say
                                            it's based on Shakespeare then you lot
                                            think I've buggered on the whole thing. 
                                            And I haven't. So Shakespeare, Lear. 
                                            See what I did there? That's all right,
                                            isn't it?  
                  
                                  Nerves and tapping increase, now a rhythm. 
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                                  (re; the box)
                                            And the murder weapon is a silver hammer? 
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            Right, but that's the herring, you see?
                                            The hammer is really an axe. C'mon, luv,
                                            you get it. A guitar.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            So your man's offed his mates with a
                                            guitar, because they cast him out?
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            Betrayed him, they did.
                                                  (hopeful)
                                            Some lot, eh?
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                                  (mulling)
                                            It's..Biblical! 
                  
                                  Her riding crop snaps against the manuscript box. Desmond
                                  jumps-
                  
                                  Almost decapitates himself on the Beefeater's harlberd-
                  
                                                        HEATHER (CONT'D)
                                            I love things in the Biblical sense.
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            You're a madwoman!
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            Mad for your talent, man.
                                                  (knowing, wary)
                                            Do you have mates, Desmond?
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            I have. I did.  I thought I did. They're
                                            across the pond, on business.
                                                  (sure they are)
                                            Getting on famously, so I'm told.
                  
                                  His tapping's now all-out drumming, a perfect pop
                                  beackbeat.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            You've got quite the beat there. Have you
                                            done music?
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            Not really my thing, so I'm told.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            Well, Desmond, I think I might like to
                                            take you on. But Desmond Jones is not a
                                            name with color to it. Not for a writer. 
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            It's just me pen name. We can change it
                                            'round.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            What to name you. Something marketable.
                                                  (off in thought)
                                            Desmond Goode, perhaps. John? Paul? No.
                  
                                  'Desmond' fears her swift discovery. But it comes-
                  
                                                        HEATHER (CONT'D)
                                             Peter!
                  
                                  -and he says, before he knows it-
                  
                                                        DESMOND
                                            I don't think that name suits me best. 
                  
                                  -His hand shoots to cover his mouth, but she's caught it.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            That's it! Peter! Pete. Pete Best, the
                                            paperback writer. You'll be bigger
                                            than...
                  
                                  She's searches for the word, distracted. He's pissed at
                                  himself, cat out of the bag.
                  
                                                        DESMOND/PETE
                                            Jesus!
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            Yes!  Jesus!  You'll be bigger than
                                            Jesus, and we won't make any apologies
                                            for it!
                  
                                  She rises, interview over. He's blown it. He thinks.
                  
                                                        DESMOND/PETE
                                            Well, I hope I passed the audition, as it
                                            were.
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            You're almost there, man. On the brink.
                                            I've one more writer to interview. A
                                            Yank, but I can't imagine finding anyone
                                            better than you to write my paperbacks. 
                  
                                  The drumming finally stops. Smiles spread but only for a
                                  moment-
                  
                                  For as he leaves-
                  
                                  -a squalid and bearded American in glasses pushes in and
                                  slaps his manuscript down over Pete/Desmond's box.
                  
                                                        BEARDED AMERICAN
                                            Heather, this one's gonna make a million
                                            for you. Overnight.
                  
                                  -it's title is 'Carrie'-
                  
                                                        HEATHER
                                            I would like a million, Mister King.
                  
                                  -and Pete Best' smile fades as the door closes him out.
                  
                                  FADE OUT
                  Last edited by callingit; 04-23-2011, 08:15 AM. Reason: format

                  Comment


                  • #10
                    Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

                    Okay, so maybe I goofed trying to keep it literal. But it WAS fun.

                    Code:
                    [FONT=Courier][FONT=Courier]EXT. ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE - DAY [/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Small, squat houses line a long and winding road.  Of [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]course, it's threatening rain - it's England.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]JOHNNY LENIN (19), kicks at a mud clod with his army boot.  [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]It explodes on impact, spraying him with mud.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]A second youth walks with him - tall, gangly, pale.  He almost [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]disappears into the black overcoat he's wearing.  Black [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]Goth attire completes the picture.  This is PALL MCCARTNEY (18).[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]EXT. AUNT MINI-ME SMITH'S HOUSE[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]The two head for the back door and unlace their boots. [/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  Aunt Mini-me says she can get me a [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  job at the stockyard.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               PALL[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  Only two jobs for new blokes - [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  dehorning cows or shoveling manure.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]INT. JOHNNY'S ROOM[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Pall turns sad, hound dog eyes on Johnny.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               PALL[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  So, whatcha gonna do?[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Johnny grabs a box containing a manuscript.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  I want to be a paperback writer .[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               PALL[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  Paperback writer??? [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [SIZE=3][FONT=Courier]       (considering it)_[/FONT][/SIZE]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  Paperback writer. Capital. How're [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  you gonna get 'em to read it?[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Johnny holds up the first page from the stack.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  "Dear Sir or Madam, will you read [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  my book?" --[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Pall rips the page out of his hands.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               PALL[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  Are you daft?! Every sodding writer [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  says that![/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]He grabs Johnny by the shoulders.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               PALL (CONT'D)[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  It's like the stockyard, mate. [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  You're either grabbing the bull by [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  the horns, or you're sitting back [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  at the arse-end, waiting for [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  something to happen.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Pall's grabbing clothes out of Johnny's dresser.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               PALL (CONT'D)[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  You've got to go to them! Show up [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  unannounced at their doorstep and [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  demand that they read your book![/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]EXT. LONDON ALLEY[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Pall is using spirit gum to attach a false beard to Johnny's [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]face.  He doesn't have enough and has to spread it thin.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]INT. AARP PUBLISHING OFFICE[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]As the AARP PUBLISHER sits in his chair, Johnny's heavy into [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]his spiel.  But the false beard is flapping at the edges.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  It took me years to write, will you [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  take a look?[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]EXT. AARP PUBLISHING OFFICE[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Johnny, now clutching the fake beard in his hand, runs out - [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]pursued by the AARP Publisher brandishing a cane.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]EXT. ACME ROMANCE PUBLISHING OFFICE[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Pall's placing a Fabio wig onto Johnny's head.  As Johnny [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]unbuttons the top half of his shirt, Pall uses Elmer's Glue [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]to paste the fake beard onto Johny's chest.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]INT. ACME ROMANCE PUBLISHING OFFICE[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]The ROMANCE PUBLISHER is all agog as Johnny holds his [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]manuscript, acting out a scene.  [/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  It's based on a novel by a man [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  named Lear.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]She's practically panting.  Until the Fabio wig slips [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]forward over Johnny's face.  [/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Then she lunges forward, rips his "chest hair" off.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]EXT. ACME ROMANCE PUBLISHING OFFICE[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Johnny runs out, screaming and clutching his chest.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]EXT. BUS STOP - LATER[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Pall and Johnny stand next to a banker, GEORGE (50s).  [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]Standing next to him and holding a couple of raincoats is [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]GEORGE'S HAIRY SON (16), who's talking with Johnny.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  ...And I need a job so I want to be [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  a paperback writer.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               GEORGE[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  Paperback writer. Ha![/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]The sky lets loose with a pouring rain.  George ignores it.  [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]His son hands a raincoat to Johnny.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               GEORGE'S HAIRY SON[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  He never wears a mac.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]INT. R. U. SMUTTY PUBLISHING HOUSE[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Johnny enters, wearing the raincoat.  And, from the looks of [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]his bare legs, apparently no pants.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  It's the dirty story of a dirty [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  man. And his clinging wife doesn't [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  understand.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]EXT. STREET[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Pall, Johnny and George's Hairy Son stand around, dejected.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               PALL[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  He's been working for the Daily Mail. [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  It's a steady job, but he wants to [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  be a paperback writer.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]EXT. EPIC LENGTH PUBLISHING COMPANY[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Pall opens a ream of new copy paper and inserts it into the [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]middle of Johnny's pages.  [/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]INT. EPIC LENGTH PUBLISHING COMPANY[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Johnny's manuscript bulges out of the box.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  It's a thousand pages, give or take [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  a few. I'll be writing more in a [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  week or two. I can make it longer [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  if you like the style, I can change [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  it round. I want to be a paperback [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  writer.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]In the b.g. appears a GREEK CHORUS, composed of AUNT MINI-ME [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier](short, squat, 50s), Pall, and George's Hairy Son.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               GREEK CHORUS[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  Paperback writer![/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]INT. FAMOUS MOVIES PRODUCTION COMPANY[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Johnny, trying to look like Terrance Mulloy.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  If you really like it you can have [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  the rights. It could make you [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  millions overnight.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Hands the PRODUCER a business card.  With his name and [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]address written on it in pencil.  [/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY (CONT'D)[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  If you must return it, you can send [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  it here.[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]The producer takes the card, grimaces, flips it over.  It's [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]really from the hiring manager of the stockyard. [/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]EXT. FAMOUS MOVIES PRODUCTION COMPANY[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]Johnny's being hustled off the lot by a security guard as [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]he's trying to explain.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               JOHNNY[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  But I need a break and I want to be [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  a paperback writer![/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]The Greek Chorus stands on the sidewalk, sunglasses on.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               GREEK CHORUS[/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  Paperback writer![/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier]A lorry drives by.  On the side is printed: EPSTEIN [/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier]PUBLISHING. RINGO, WEST YORKSHIRE.[/FONT]
                     
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]               GEORGE'S HAIRY SON [/SIZE][/FONT]
                    [FONT=Courier][SIZE=3]  Where's Ringo?[/SIZE][/FONT]
                     
                                                                                     FADE OUT:
                    [/FONT]
                    Last edited by DangoForth; 04-23-2011, 07:46 AM. Reason: durned formatting and changed an I to a U

                    Comment


                    • #11
                      Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

                      Some good entries so far. Damn it.

                      I'm no good at shorts so I wrote it as the first three of a feature.

                      PAPERBACK WRITER
                      A failed novelist kidnaps a publishing executive to document the veracity of his newest work -a memoir about the planning, preparation and execution of a Presidential assassination.

                      Think Taxi Driver x Misery x The Odd Couple x WTF???

                      As always, thanks for reading.


                      Code:
                                     FADE IN:
                      
                      
                      
                                     INT. SUBWAY TUNNEL - DAY
                      
                                     The 6 Train barrels through its dark tunnel.
                      
                      
                      
                                     INT. SUBWAY CAR - DAY
                      
                                     DICKIE STARKEY, 45, sits in his million dollar suit, talking
                                     into his Bluetooth.  He's the kind of guy who gets his hair
                                     cut every other day.
                      
                                                         DICKIE
                                               I loved it.  It's pure genius!
                      
                                     He is texting at the same time.
                      
                                     ON HIS IPHONE: "pure ****"
                      
                                                         DICKIE (CONT'D)
                                               We might as well leave room on the
                                               cover for the Booker Award stamp.
                      
                                     IPHONE: "will NEVER publish"
                      
                                                         DICKIE (CONT'D)
                                               Yes, certainly ...Geeeeenius!
                      
                                     IPHONE: "SHIIIIT!!!11!!"
                      
                                                         DICKIE (CONT'D)
                                               Max, I have to run but we will talk
                                               very soon, okay?  Great.  I have
                                               another call. Talk soon.
                      
                                     IPHONE: "lose his number"
                      
                                     Dickie clicks over.
                      
                                                         DICKIE (CONT'D)
                                               Hello? ...I'm on the train... I
                                               don't know.  My driver's wife had a
                                               baby, or she got hit by a car or
                                               something. ...I know, my assistant
                                               is already looking at resumes...
                                               ...Okay, I'll be in soon.  
                      
                                     A YELL from across the aisle.  It's HAROLD MICHAEL WINSTON,
                                     55.  His tattered clothes and beard put him somewhere along
                                     the "Eccentric Professor-Homeless Man" Continuum. 
                      
                                                         HAROLD
                                               No! No! No!
                      
                                     He furiously crosses out some lines in the book he's reading,
                                     "The Silver Hammer" by Maxwell S. Lear.  Every square inch of
                                     margin is covered in his tiny handwriting.  He pulls half of
                                     a hot dog from the pocket of his blazer and takes a bite.
                      
                                                         HAROLD (CONT'D)
                                               This will not do.
                      
                                     Dickie ignores him as he dials his phone.
                      
                                                         DICKIE
                                               Yes, this is Dickie Starkey from
                                               Apple Publishing.  Please put me
                                               through to Mister Quarryman.
                                                   (beat)
                                               Sweetheart, I can assure you he'll
                                               want to take my call.
                      
                                     Publishing?  That got Harold's attention.  He stares over the
                                     book at Dickie.
                      
                      
                      
                                     EXT. APPLE PUBLISHING - DAY
                      
                                     Dickie hurries into the fancy midtown office building. 
                                     Harold watches from across the street.  With his hot dog.
                      
                      
                      
                                     INT. HAROLD'S APARTMENT - DAY
                      
                                     Harold locks the deadbolt behind him and sets down some bags. 
                      
                                                         HAROLD
                                               Ladies and gentleman, please gather
                                               round.  I have received a
                                               revelation!
                      
                                      The entire apartment is full to bursting with three things:
                      
                                     Books, stacks of manuscript paper, and cats.
                      
                                     Several cats gather around Harold at the door.
                      
                                                         HAROLD (CONT'D)
                                               Thank you.  Wait... Julia?  Martha? 
                                               Come here, please.
                      
                                     Harold kneels and addresses one of the cats directly.
                      
                                                         HAROLD (CONT'D)
                                               Mister Mustard, will you see if
                                               Julia and Martha are in the
                                               Solarium?  
                      
                                     Inexplicably, the cat scurries off.
                      
                                                         HAROLD (CONT'D)
                                               Michelle! Pam! Sadie!  I've asked
                                               everyone to join me in the foyer. 
                                               Prudence!
                      
                                     More and more cats run, walk, scurry and stretch toward
                                     Harold.  He clears his throat, as a public speaker might.
                      
                                                         HAROLD (CONT'D)
                                               Our society has corrupted the
                                               nature of renown.  The nature of
                                               prestige.  Of fame.  Do you know
                                               what a "Snooki" is?
                      
                                     He pauses dramatically, as if the cats might respond.  They
                                     don't.
                      
                                                         HAROLD (CONT'D)
                                               Nor did I, my friends, until I
                                               looked at the best-seller chart! 
                                               It reads as a directory of
                                               whoredom!  Did I say 'abomination?' 
                                               Did I cry 'Babylon?'  Friends, I
                                               did.  Friends,  I do!
                                                   (beat)
                                               Penny, you're tardy.  There's room
                                               up here next to Miss Lizzie.
                      
                                     He watches, frowning, as a small cat weaves her way through
                                     the feline crowd and sits at his feet.
                      
                                                         HAROLD (CONT'D)
                                               I have a plan.

                      Comment


                      • #12
                        Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

                        Code:
                        INT. OFFICE SUNSET PUBLISHING - DAY
                        
                        MADILINE DOLITTLE AND JASON BROCK paw at each other in a small 
                        cluttered office.  Fully clothed, but on the verge of something 
                        hot they squeeze into a passionate embrace.
                        
                                          INTERCOM (V.O.)
                                   He’s waiting for the elevator.
                        
                                          JASON
                                    ****.  
                        
                        Madiline  breaks, hurries to the window to view her reflection.  
                        She straightens her skirt and blouse.  Fluffs her hair.
                        
                        Jason scribbles on a post it note.
                        
                                                 JASON (CONT’D)
                                              Just one little kiss.
                        
                        While they embrace, Jason reaches up Madiline’s skirt.
                        
                                                 MADILINE
                                              Not now silly.  
                        
                        Madline scurries out of the office on her delicious legs, as 
                        Jason gets back to work.
                        
                        INT. RECEPTION AREA - DAY
                        
                        Elevator doors slide open and a ramrod straight distinguished 
                        gentleman in his sixties steps out. This is Mr. Eldon Lear, 
                        head of Sunset Publishing.
                        
                                                RECEPTIONIST
                                           Good morning, Mr. Lear.
                        
                        Lear nods and continues nodding as he strides through the area 
                        to a dark area an onto
                        
                        JASONS OFFICE DOOR
                        
                        Lear pushes the door open.
                        
                                               LEAR
                                      I need to discuss Patterson’s manuscript 
                                      with you. Be in my office in an hour. 
                        
                                             JASON
                                      Yes, sir.
                        
                        Lear continues on to 
                        
                        INT. MR. LEAR’S OFFICE - DAY
                        
                        Lear looks around his office, an office fit for the head of publishing.  
                        Tastefully done.  On his desk, a couple of photographs of Lear 
                        with well known authors.
                        
                        On one wall, are two magnificent pieces of art.
                        
                        Lear makes his way to a masterful copy of the Mona Lisa.  
                        From two feet away, he studies the painting. A slight grin on his face. 
                        
                        Slowly he moves closer, until his eye is pressed against the eye 
                        of Mona Lisa.
                        
                        LEAR’S POV   A stall in the woman’s restroom.
                        
                                                  LEAR (O.S.)
                                            Drat. Empty.
                        
                        Lear moves to an abstract painting of a horse’s head. He peers 
                        into the Horse’s eye.
                        
                        LEAR’S POV  DICK DURBAN, the mail room boy, is completing 
                        his task at a urinal. We see his back as he finishes.   
                        
                                                LEAR (O.S.) (CONT’D)
                                            Turn now. Turn--
                        
                        A knock at Lear’s office door.
                        
                        Lear scrambles to his desk.  
                        
                        At the foot of his desk, opposite where he sits is a camera 
                        lens embedded in the floor, invisible unless one is looking for it. 
                        
                                               MADILINE (O.S.)
                                          It’s me Mr. Lear
                        
                                                LEAR
                                           Yes. Yes. Come in.
                        
                        Madiline walks over to Lear’s desk, stands a little too far 
                        to Lear’s right.
                        
                                                MADILINE
                                          Here is the manuscript you wanted.
                        
                        Madiline moves to just the right position as she hands the 
                        manuscript to Lear.
                        
                                                 LEAR
                                          Just remain here while I fire
                                          up my computer and check a 
                                          few things.
                        
                        ON LEAR’S COMPUTER SCREEN  A shot of what’s going on under 
                        Madiline’s skirt.  Coming into focus a post it note: I know what 
                        you’re up to Mr. Lear.  
                        
                                                LEAR (CONT’D)
                                                 (muttering)
                                             You do?
                        
                                                MADILINE
                                             What was that?
                        I was going for the opening of a sp, but could only get to a little over two pages in a reasonable time. I'm slow, but
                        wanted to try to join in on the fun.
                         
                        Last edited by jonpiper; 04-23-2011, 03:56 PM.

                        Comment


                        • #13
                          Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

                          Cool, another fun way to procrastinate! Some good (and creepy) pages so far. For some reason, Harbringer's reminded me of SAW.

                          Like Joe, didn't do a self-contained short, it came out looking like the beginning of something larger -- perhaps?

                          Code:
                                         EXT.  CITY STREETS - DAY
                          
                                         Tall buildings bear over streams of people filtering through
                                         the sidewalk.  Everyone's plugged-in to either their iPod or
                                         smartphone.
                          
                                         Chatting away into her Blackberry is JULIE HOLIDAY (30s). She
                                         has a power walk to match her suit.  She's speaking to:
                          [i]
                                                             CARTER (FILTERED)
                                                   Jooles, I swear this is the one. 
                                                   This is the paperback we've been
                                                   waiting for.
                          [/i]
                                                             JULIE
                                                   And I'm excited for you.  You just
                                                   have to be a little patient--
                          [i]
                                                             CARTER (FILTERED)
                                                   Six months for a read not patient
                                                   enough?
                          [/i]
                                                             JULIE
                                                   It's a busy time for us.  We're
                                                   backed up on potential projects. 
                                                   I'm staring at a stack on my desk
                                                   right now.
                          [i]
                                                             CARTER (FILTERED)
                                                   You don't sound like you're in your
                                                   office.
                          [/i]
                                         Julie turns pushes through a door, into a--
                          
                          
                                         INT.  COFFEE BEAN - CONTINUOUS
                          
                                         Where she takes her place at the back of a line.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Yeah -- we're having some
                                                   renovation work done to the
                                                   hallways.
                          [i]
                                                             CARTER (FILTERED)
                                                   So you're not at a Coffee Bean?
                          [/i]
                                                             JULIE
                                                       (spooked)
                                                   What, you following me now or
                                                   something?
                          [i]
                                                             CARTER (FILTERED)
                                                   No, I just saw you walk in.
                          [/i]
                                         Julie looks around and sees the MAN the voice belongs to,
                                         already sitting at a table with a coffee, phone to his ear. 
                                         [u]Busted[/u].  The man is CARTER WILLIS (40s).  A man that has bled
                                         for his pages his entire life.
                          
                                         Julie kills the call as Carter gets up and walks over.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Look, I'm heading back to the
                                                   office after this.  How about I get
                                                   started on yours this afternoon--
                          
                                                             CARTER
                                                   How about you cut the crap and be
                                                   straight with me for a change?
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Right... okay... you want the
                                                   truth?  Your last 3 manuscripts
                                                   were terrible.  You're on the
                                                   culling list and have been for quite 
                                                   some time now.  We took a chance
                                                   when we brought you onboard and 
                                                   you're bombing hard.  I don't need 
                                                   to read your latest to know that it
                                                   isn't going to make anyone a
                                                   million.
                          
                                         Carter is stunned -- struck hard by Julie's brazenness. 
                                         Completely dejected, he turns and heads for the door.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Don't blame me, you wanted honesty,
                                                   Carter.
                                                       (as he exits)
                                                   You writers are all the [u]fuc-king[/u]
                                                   [u]same[/u]!
                          
                                         She turns to realize eyes gawking at her.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   What?!
                          
                                         They look away.  Julie composes herself and returns to the
                                         line.
                          
                          
                                         INT.  JULIE'S OFFICE - DAY
                          
                                         Windows reveal an incredible view of the city.
                          
                                         Julie kicks back at her desk with a magazine.  She chuckles
                                         to what she is reading.  Engrossed in her article, she
                                         blindly reaches out to her coffee -- and knocks it over.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Crap...
                          
                                         She grabs tissues from a box and dabs at the mess.  Peels
                                         away items and wet paper -- uncovering...
                          
                                         ...A MANUSCRIPT, cover page: "THE PAPERBACK KILLER by Carter
                                         Willis".  She stares at it.  It stares back.
                          
                                         She picks up the manuscript and weighs it her hand.  Is about
                                         to peek beyond the cover page when...
                          
                                         ...her desk phone BEEPS.
                          
                                                             ASSISTANT'S VOICE (FILTERED)
                                                   Miss Holiday, I have a DETECTIVE
                                                   STERN out here to see you.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Let him in.
                          
                                         The door opens and DETECTIVE STERN enters with a UNIFORMED
                                         OFFICER.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Detective, what can I do for you?
                          
                                                             DETECTIVE STERN
                                                   Miss Holiday.  We would like to
                                                   talk to you about a Mr. Carter
                                                   Willis?
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   God, don't tell me he went to the
                                                   police.  Come on, what he did tell
                                                   you?  That I hurt his feelings?
                          
                                                             DETECTIVE STERN
                                                   I'm afraid he is dead.
                          
                                         The news hits Julie hard -- but not in a sympathetic way.  In
                                         fact, the only thing she's concerned about is:
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Wait, he didn't kill himself, did
                                                   he?
                          
                                                             DETECTIVE STERN
                                                   No, he was murdered.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Oh thank God -- I mean -- tragic of
                                                   course -- just that the last time I
                                                   saw him, he wasn't exactly a happy
                                                   bunny.
                          
                                                             DETECTIVE
                                                   Yes, about that.  I believe there
                                                   was some kind of altercation at a
                                                   coffee house.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   It wasn't an altercation.  In fact
                                                   it was barely an encounter.
                          
                                         Detective Stern soaks that in.
                          
                                                             DETECTIVE STERN
                                                   Are you aware of a manuscript
                                                   called "The Paperback Killer"?
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   It's Carter's latest manuscript.  I
                                                   have it on my desk right here.
                          
                                                             DETECTIVE STERN
                                                   We found a freshly printed copy at
                                                   his home where his body was found.
                                                   Can you explain to us why it
                                                   references your name?
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Un-[size=2]fuc[/size]king-believable.  The guy's
                                                   been using my name is his work?
                          
                                                             DETECTIVE STERN
                                                   The manuscript contains accurate
                                                   details in the way Mister Willis
                                                   and a number of others in the past
                                                   month were murdered.  And it names
                                                   you as the person responsible.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                   Is this a joke?
                          
                                         Based on the cops' faces, this is no joke.  Julie promptly
                                         grabs Carter's manuscript from her desk and starts flipping
                                         through the pages.
                          
                                                             DETECTIVE STERN
                                                   Miss Holiday, I'm going to have to
                                                   ask you to come with us.
                          
                                                             JULIE
                                                       (repeatedly)
                                                   This isn't possible, this isn't
                                                   possible--
                          
                                         IN THE MANUSCRIPT: "Julie Holiday" repeatedly mentioned;
                                         "Coffee Bean"; "Julie says, 'We're having some renovation
                                         work done to the hallways.'"; "Julie shouts after Carter, 'You
                                         writers are all the fuc-king same!'"
                          
                                         As Julie reads on in disbelief, the Uniformed Officer
                                         approaches her with a set of handcuffs.
                          Last edited by Why One; 04-24-2011, 06:13 AM. Reason: Those silly spellings :)

                          Comment


                          • #14
                            Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

                            I didn't like this one. But hey, we writers rise to the challenge or we go home. In times like this, we ask ourselves the most important question: "What would Charlie Sheen do?" The answer is obvious. We write like there's no fucking tomorrow.

                            Code:
                                                                                         OVER BLACK:
                            
                            
                                                            THOMAS O'LEARY (O.S.)
                                                  It's a haunting story. It's a love story.
                                                  He's a serial killer.
                            
                            
                                                                                            FADE IN:
                            
                            
                                        INT. ED CABANO'S OFFICE - DAY
                            
                            
                                        ED CABANO, 50, sits behind his desk, his hands clasped over
                                        his big fat belly. 
                            
                            
                                        It's a nice desk. Mahogany. Behind him an impressive view of
                                        the city, despite missing two very large towers.
                            
                            
                                        Manuscripts litter his desk and the shelves behind him. But
                                        his attention is on:
                            
                            
                                        THOMAS O'LEARY, 30, sitting in the guest chair, curling the
                                        edges on an empty folder.
                            
                            
                                                            ED CABANO
                                                  A love story. About a serial killer.
                            
                            
                                                            THOMAS O'LEARY
                                                  You have to understand him. He loves what
                                                  he does. He craves it.
                            
                            
                                        INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT
                            
                            
                                        The restaurant is almost completely dark except for a point
                                        of light, shining on a LONE MAN, 40, at a table, dressed in a
                                        nice suit.
                            
                            
                                        This is a stark black and white scene, straight out of a
                                        movie or a bad novel.
                            
                            
                                        Another man moves into frame, cast in shadow. This is LEAR,
                                        50. He moves forward.
                            
                            
                                                            THOMAS O'LEARY (O.S.)
                                                  He's got a big bushy beard! You can't see
                                                  his lips move when he speaks. He kills
                                                  slowly. Usually with a knife! Or some
                                                  sharp object. Maybe a can opener.
                            
                            
                                        INT. ED CABANO'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS
                            
                            
                                                            ED CABANO
                                                  Why? Why does he kill? You see, I'm
                                                  interested, Mr. O'Leary. But I must
                                                  understand. What motivates your
                                                  character?
                            
                            
                                                            THOMAS O'LEARY
                                                  He's a paperback writer, see. Written a
                                                  very large novel. He's shown it to all
                                                  his friends, all his family. Everyone
                                                  loves it. But when an agent turns him
                                                  down, this is when he must act, see. 
                            
                            
                                        INT. RESTAURANT - CONTINUOUS
                            
                            
                                        Lear moves into the light, now directly beside the LONE MAN. 
                            
                            
                                                            LONE MAN
                                                  Lear! What in god's name are you doing
                                                  here? I burned your script, Lear. Burned
                                                  it into the ground. Then I salted the
                                                  earth in that very spot!
                            
                            
                                        Lear's hand raises high. He's got hair-pick. He DRIVES IT
                                        INTO THE LONE MAN'S NECK!
                            
                            
                                        Blood sprays across the room. The Lone Man SCREAMS!
                            
                            
                                        INT. ED CABANO'S OFFICE
                            
                            
                                                            ED CABANO
                                                  Huh. Interesting twist. Saw it coming,
                                                  though.
                            
                            
                                        Ed reaches forward and thumbs through a massive manuscript on
                                        the desk. 
                            
                            
                                                            ED CABANO
                                                  Is it possible to get a manuscript this
                                                  size into paperback format? Is it
                                                  possible to get Oprah into a bikini?
                                                  Better men than me have tried. Competent
                                                  men. Intelligent men.
                            
                            
                                                            THOMAS O'LEARY
                                                  It will be even more difficult a week
                                                  from now. A month from now.
                            
                            
                                                            ED CABANO
                                                  It's not finished?
                            
                            
                                                            THOMAS O'LEARY
                                                  There's a new chapter nearly every week!
                                                  I'll tell you a secret, Mr. Cabano. Lear
                                                  doesn't want it to be finished. He wants
                                                  to be turned down. He wants me to write
                                                  more. He craves to continue his journey.
                            
                            
                                        Ed Cabano takes the manuscript and tosses it back to Thomas.
                            
                            
                                                            ED CABANO
                                                  Come back when it's finished. I do like
                                                  the idea but you've got an incomplete
                                                  product. Why waste my time?
                            
                            
                                                            THOMAS O'LEARY
                                                  But, you don't understand. It has to be
                                                  finished! It needs to be finished! This
                                                  is a dangerous story, Mr. Cabano. Very
                                                  dangerous! Please help me put it to an
                                                  end! Please!
                            
                            
                                        EXT. OFFICE TOWER - DAY
                            
                            
                                        Thomas hits the sidewalk, his manuscript under his arm.
                                        BUSINESS PEOPLE brush past him. Important people on important
                                        errands. How frail they are.
                            
                            
                                        Thomas turns and is confronted by a big man with a big bushy
                                        beard.
                            
                            
                                                            THOMAS O'LEARY
                                                  No. Please. Not again.
                            
                            
                                        INT. UNDERGROUND GARAGE - NIGHT
                            
                            
                                        An elevator DINGS.
                            
                            
                                        Ed Cabano walks among expensive cars in the dimly lit garage.
                            
                            
                                        We follow Ed as he heads toward a porsche. He clicks his
                                        remote and the car beeps, the doors unlock.
                            
                            
                                                            LEAR (O.S.)
                                                  Mr. Cabano.
                            
                            
                                        Ed Cabano stops dead. In his tracks.
                            
                            
                                        A large figure cuts our view of him.
                            
                            
                                                            ED CABANO
                                                  Thomas, you do have a knack for
                                                  melodrama.
                            
                            
                                                            THOMAS O'LEARY (O.S.)
                                                  This was your decision. You know it was
                                                  your decision.
                            
                            
                                        The large figure moves toward Cabano now, lifts his hand
                                        high. He holds a butter knife. There's butter on it.
                            
                            
                                        Cabano spins around, eyes wide.
                            
                            
                                        BAM! BAM! BAM!
                            
                            
                                        The gunshots reverberate around the garage for quite a long
                                        time.
                            
                            
                                        Smoke drifts around Ed's face and he sneezes.
                            
                            
                                        Thomas steps out of the shadows, looks at Lear, now on the
                                        ground, bleeding from gunshot wounds to his chest. 
                            
                            
                                                            LEAR
                                                  Finish my story. Thomas. Finish my story.
                            
                            
                                        Dead.
                            
                            
                                        Thomas stares at him in awe.
                            
                            
                                        As Ed turns to open the door of his car.
                            
                            
                                                            ED CABANO
                                                  Finish it. Call my secretary in the
                                                  morning. I love a good serial killer
                                                  story.
                            
                            
                                                                                           FADE OUT:
                            Screenwriting is like stripping. You don't just dump your clothes on the floor. You tease as you go. And then you get screwed in a back room for money. - Craig Mazin

                            Comment


                            • #15
                              Re: Open Challenge: Paperback Writer

                              Late, but hey, you gotta cut those of us stuffing Easter baskets and hidin' eggs a little slack, no?


                              Code:
                                             INT. GARBAGE TRUCK - DAY
                               
                                             CLASSICAL MUSIC fills the truck cabin.
                               
                                             LEWIS LEAR (40), burly, tattooed forearms, swings his rig to 
                                             the curb of a neatly manicured estate, next to a chest-high 
                                             pile of refuse and cardboard boxes.
                               
                                                                   LEWIS
                                                       Damn.
                               
                                             EXT. STREET - DAY
                               
                                             Sweat pouring from his brow, Lewis hurls the last box into 
                                             the truck's collection bin, climbs behind the wheel and pulls 
                                             away.
                               
                                                                   WOMAN'S VOICE (O.S.)
                                                       Wait!
                               
                                             Carrying a heavy box, a WOMAN (40) scurries down the estate 
                                             driveway.
                               
                                             EXT. STREET - DAY
                               
                                             Lewis hops off the truck.
                               
                                                                   WOMAN
                                                       Thank goodness.
                               
                                             She hands Lewis the box. 
                               
                                                                   WOMAN
                                                       Fred wanted you to have these.
                               
                                                                   LEWIS
                                                       Who? 
                               
                                                                   WOMAN
                                                       My brother, he died last week. 
                               
                                                                   LEWIS
                                                       Sorry to hear that. 
                               
                                                                   WOMAN
                                                       Thank you.  It was time.  He didn't 
                                                       even recognize his own children in 
                                                       the end.
                               
                                             Lewis peaks into the box. 
                               
                                                                   WOMAN
                                                       I'm afraid it isn't much, just a 
                                                       bunch of old books from what I can 
                                                       tell.  He loved to read and write.
                               
                                             INT. GARBAGE TRUCK - DAY
                               
                                             Lewis heaves the box onto the bench seat.
                               
                                             A thick manuscript flies out and lands on the seat next to a 
                                             half empty bottle of Jack Daniels.
                               
                                             EXT. TRAILER HOME - NIGHT
                               
                                             Lewis's wife, CHARLISE (34) sips a glass of red wine, mashes 
                                             potatoes in the cramped kitchen, calls to her husband.
                               
                                                                   CHARLISE
                                                       Whatcha readin'?
                               
                                             Surrounded by stacks of books, Lewis reclines in an easy 
                                             chair, studies the manuscript.
                               
                                             Charlise pivots, steps into the living room, a look of concern 
                                             on her face. 
                               
                                                                   CHARLISE
                                                       You okay?
                               
                                                                   LEWIS
                                                       Uh, huh.
                               
                                             Charlise returns to the stove.
                               
                                                                   CHARLISE
                                                       Dinner's in a few minutes.  Can you 
                                                       go check on Chloe? 
                               
                                             Lewis suddenly leaps from the recliner, bolts through the 
                                             door.
                               
                                             EXT. TRAILER HOME - DAY
                               
                                             Perched on a ladder, Lewis slaps a piece of sheet metal over 
                                             a window, nails it to the frame.
                               
                                             CHARLISE, eyes reddened from crying, storms down the trailer 
                                             steps, shouts.
                               
                                                                   CHARLISE
                                                        This is crazy, Lewis.
                               
                                                                   LEWIS
                                                       Don't you start with me again, 
                                                       Charlise.
                               
                                                                   CARLISE
                                                       Lewis, please.  Listen to me!
                               
                                             Lewis pulls the manuscript from his back pocket, thrusts it 
                                             at Charlise.
                               
                                                                   LEWIS
                                                       They killed him before he could warn 
                                                       the rest of us.
                               
                                             Lewis grabs a shotgun lying on a picnic table.
                               
                                                                   LEWIS
                                                       Now go on, get to packin' like I 
                                                       told you.  They'll be here soon. 
                               
                                             CHLOE, the couple's three-year old daughter, crawls down the 
                                             steps.
                               
                                                                   CHLOE
                                                       What's wrong mommy?
                               
                                                                   CHARLISE
                                                       It's okay honey. 
                               
                                             Charlise snatches up her daughter, hustles inside.
                               
                                             INT. TRAILER HOME - NIGHT
                              
                                             LIVING ROOM 
                               
                                             Shotgun slung across his lap, Lewis traces his finger, line 
                                             by line, over the manuscript pages.  He calls out to his 
                                             wife.
                               
                                                                   LEWIS
                                                       We gotta go.  You almost done in 
                                                       there?
                               
                                                                   CARLISE (O.S.)
                                                       Just a couple more minutes. 
                               
                                             BEDROOM
                               
                                             Charlise replaces the phone on its base, checks the door 
                                             lock.
                               
                                             LIVING ROOM
                               
                                             Flashes of red and blue strobe from under the door threshold.
                              
                                             Lewis jumps up, shoves the manuscript into his pocket, peers 
                                             through a peek hole in the metal plate covering the window.
                               
                                                                   SHERIFF (O.S.)
                                                       Mr. Lear, this is the Sheriff.  I 
                                                       need you to come out and talk with 
                                                       us.
                               
                                             Lewis ratchets a round in the shotgun chamber, shouts to 
                                             Charlise.
                               
                                                                   LEWIS
                                                       See, just like he said.  First my 
                                                       job and then my life.
                               
                                             Lewis unlatches the lock, flings open the door, shoulders 
                                             his weapon, fires...
                               
                                             BLAM-BLAM, BALM, BLAM.
                               
                                             EXT. TRAILER HOME - NIGHT
                               
                                             A flashlight beam passes over Lewis's bullet-riddled body.
                                             The weatherworn SHERIFF (62) reaches down, picks up a blood-
                                             stained roll of papers.
                               
                                             INT. TRAILER HOME - NIGHT
                               
                                             Chloe's WAILS pierce the night. 
                               
                                             Trembling, in shock, Charlise holds her crying baby at the 
                                             dining table.
                               
                                             The Sheriff takes a seat across from her.  He sets the roll 
                                             of papers on the table.
                               
                                                                   SHERIFF
                                                       When did he find out? 
                               
                                             Charlise stares blankly across the room.
                               
                                                                   CHARLISE
                                                       Last month.  They fired him after 
                                                       the first set of treatments.  Then 
                                                       we lost the house.
                               
                                                                   SHERIFF
                                                       Damn shame.  I'm real sorry, ma'am.
                               
                                                                   CHARLISE
                                                       Yeah, a real shame. 
                                                                                                FADE OUT:

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