WISHBONE
Code:
FADE IN: EXT. CITY STREET - NIGHT A horn blast. Tires squealing against wet pavement. A rusted flatbed truck, loaded with stacks of wooden crates, fishtails through the intersection, narrowly missing a white T-bird. The truck jerks left, then right, causing one of the crates to catapult through the air. The crate crashes against the sidewalk, tumbling and skidding until it collides against a bench where the rumpled form of a HOMELESS MAN lies under a cardboard box, huddled against the pelting rain. INT. WOODEN CRATE - NIGHT Loose feathers and dust particles float past alternating horizontal bars of light and dark. A few seconds of silence, then a raspy, two-pack a day, voice... RASPY VOICE (O.S.) Ow, **** that hurt. The head of a turkey appears, silhouetted against the white and dark horizontal bars. TURKEY Hey man, wake up! EXT. CITY STREET BENCH - NIGHT The Homeless Man twitches. A soggy edge of the makeshift roof lifts, exposing a grimy, haggard face. A bloodshot eye shifts left, then right. HOMELESS MAN Get out! This is my corner. Snort, cough, then a large mucosal projectile splatters onto sidewalk. The grizzled face disappears under the cardboard. INT. WOODEN CRATE - NIGHT The Turkey shakes his head, murmuring... TURKEY ****! Okay, whatever. EXT. CITY STREET - NIGHT A red beak squeezes between the wooden slats of the crate. TURKEY Look, I need your help. If you could just open this thing and let me out. A feathery wing tip appears, pointing to a metal latch on the side of the crate. The indigent lies there, snoring. A pigeon lands on top of the cage. TURKEY Dude, trust me. I don't want your little spot of heaven. Come on, just let me outta here. INT. WOODEN CRATE - NIGHT The Turkey pounds his wing against the wood slats. TURKEY Dammit! EXT. CITY STREET - NIGHT The startled pigeon flies away. EXT. CITY STREET - NIGHT A bus plows into a puddle, washing the crate with a slushy wave of water. INT. WOODEN CRATE - NIGHT Water drips from the wooden slats. The Turkey slumps to the floor. TURKEY Great, just ****ing great. Now I'm gonna freeze to death in some shithole next to a wino. The Turkey stands, head slumped. TURKEY Uh, sorry, didn't mean that. It's just that I don't have much time. It's my girl. EXT. CITY STREET BENCH - NIGHT The Homeless Man shifts, turning his back to the crate. TURKEY I gotta get back to her before... A police siren wails. TURKEY I'll make you a deal. Get me back to the farm, and I'll swipe some of the old man's booze...wine, whiskey, vodka...what ever the **** you want. EXT. CITY STREET BENCH - NIGHT The man lifts his head. HOMELESS MAN Johnny Walker Red... EXT. AMISH POULTRY FARM - NIGHT Two shadows dart past a farmhouse window. The Homeless Man and Turkey hide inside the barn, sitting on a pile of hay next to a shovel and ax. The Homeless Man takes out a bottle of whiskey, takes a swig, passes it to the Turkey. TURKEY By the way, name's Tom. Yours? HOMELESS MAN You can call me B.B. TOM/TURKEY So how'd you end up like this? B.B. takes another hit from the bottle. B.B./HOMELESS MAN String of bad luck. Wife's death last year pushed me over the edge. TOM Sorry to hear that. I really appreciate this. Wait here, I'll be back in a bit. Tom struts into the shadows of the barn. A latch clinks open, followed by a creaking hinge. Avian passion. Rustling feathers, muffled gobbles. A coyote howls in the distance. Tom and a hen turkey emerge from the shadows. TOM (to Homeless Man) Hey, I'd like you to meet my girl, Jibby. B.B. Pleasure. Why weren't you with the rest? JIBBY Refused to eat, too skinny. They were hopin' I'd fatten up for the Christmas harvest. TOM Genius, huh? We're makin' a run for the petting zoo in Freemont. Jibby points to the whiskey bottle. JIBBY Mind if I have a hit of that? The B.B. passes the bottle. TOM You know, I meant to ask how your wife died. B.B. Freak accident. Thanksgiving dinner. Ten minutes in, she started choking. We tried everything to save her. JIBBY Oh my God, that's horrible. Did they find out what it was? B.B. rises, takes a step toward the shovel and ax. B.B. Big woman, liked her food. She was chewin' on a drumstick... best part of the turkey... when a bone went down with some of the meat. Sharp end lodged in her windpipe. Tom and Jibby glance at one another, slowly backing toward the barn door. JIBBY Wow, that's so sad. TOM Yeah, tough break, man. Well listen, we should get goin'. B.B. shuffles to the barn door, coming between it and the two anxious turkeys. B.B. You know, all this reminiscing done my heart some good. Used to always have a Johnny Walker before Thanksgivin' dinner. EXT. CITY PARK - NIGHT A pile of broken wood slats lies to the side of large bonfire. Flames dance upward, searing fat droplets dripping from the carcasses of two turkeys skewered on an ax handle. EXT. CITY STREET BENCH - NIGHT B.B. lounges on the bench, feet outstretched, holding a juice jar filled with whiskey. Next to him, a hand-scrawled sign: "Happy Thanksgiving. Roasted Turkey. $0.50 per slice. Drumsticks, free." FADE OUT:
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