Busted

15 Jan

car-stuck-in-snow

Last week, I realized that the amount that I write (constantly) isn’t accurately reflected by how often I update this blog (never). And by “realized,” I of course mean that my friend Jeff Toth said almost exactly those words to me. So you have him to blame if you hate this.

In an effort to get myself in the habit of blogging more regularly, I’m going to start throwing up the weird little writing projects that have been living in my documents folder forever, counting the bricks or trying to dig their way out with a spoon or whatever. Prison metaphor. You get it.

The goal is one a week, while the backlog lasts. This one is called “Busted,” and it’s a super short crime-comedy script that I can’t remember why I wrote. Anyway, I just re-read it and it’s okay. Hope you enjoy.

EXT. SNOWY HIGHWAY – DAY

A BUSTED OLD CAR sits, dead, on the snow-packed shoulder, covered in three inches of snow. TWO FIGURES shiver inside.

VOICE (O.S.)
What do you think you’re doing?

INT. OLD CAR – DAY

HUDSON and DUCK shake beneath the too-thin jackets they’ve hiked up around their necks. HUDSON, owner of the voice, is big and rock-solid. DUCK is small and brittle. He vainly tries to light a HUGE WAD OF BILLS with a broken lighter.

HUDSON snatches the money away.

HUDSON
What’s the team going to say if half the score’s missing?

DUCK
W-whatever man. I bet you want me to f-freeze to death so you can fuckin’ eat my ass to survive. Don’t think I haven’t noticed those hungry fuckin’ eyes.

Ouch. Something about that stung.

DUCK
(beat)
Shit, man. Sorry. I d-didn’t mean anything by it. I just–

HUDSON
I told you about my body image issues in confidence.

DUCK
Okay–yeah–sorry. That wasn’t cool–you’re right. I’m s-sorry.

HUDSON nods silently. Apology accepted.

HUDSON
(pause)
You’re right too. If we die out here, no one gets paid.

He reaches forward and grabs something off the dash. He holds it up: A cigarette lighter. The car’s old enough to have one.

DUCK
You b-beautiful son of a bitch! Hey, we should try the CB again – see if any of the other guys are looking for us.

Hudson nods and picks up the CB radio.

HUDSON (INTO CB)
Mayday, mayday, mayday. Please help. Mayday, mayday, mayday.

Nothing. Just static and the sound of blowing, frozen wind.

DUCK
God f-fucking damn it. What did we ditch the phones? The guns I understand. But the ph-phones?

HUDSON (INTO CB)
Anyone there, please come back. Mayday, mayday, mayd–

CLICK. The lighter ejects from the dash. Duck holds it up to the money. Hudson nods his approval. Then…

SQUAWK. The radio. Someone is speaking through the radio.

VOICE (THROUGH RADIO)
— read you. Over.

HUDSON
Oh, thank God. Me and my… Friend are out on Rural Route 119, westbound. Need immediate assistance. Who am I speaking to?

VOICE (THROUGH RADIO)
This is—(static)—county Sheriff Mc—(static). Say you’re on—(static)—west, huh? We don’t get too many folks out that way.

Duck snatches the CB mike. Both he and Hudson are turning a very unhealthy blue now.

DUCK
Yeah, well, we’re in a unique f-fuckin’ situation. Come gget us and we’ll explain f-fuckin’ everything.

VOICE (THROUGH RADIO)
Well… I’m in a unique situation too. Heard the federals are after a couple guys headin’ from the way you fella’s are headin’. And I’m under strict orders to call in the FBI for backup if I suspect anything… And, well…

DUCK
(beat, a realization)
Fuck you, old man! We’ll be fuckin’ dead before your fuckin’ backup gets here!

Nothing from the radio. A long moment of dead, cold air. He sticks the lighter back in the power port. Nothing. No click. He tries again. Nothing.

HUDSON
It’s dead.

The words aren’t for the lighter. DUCK stares at the money, making a decision. Then, suddenly, he reaches out and grabs the CB.

DUCK
Sheriff, come back.
(beat)
I know you can hear me, you old fuck. This is FBI Agent Darren Luck, Minneapolis field office. Call them to confirm that I’m checked-out undercover! Then come fuckin’ get us!

A long, icy pause as Duck wills the radio to respond.

VOICE (THROUGH RADIO)
Alright then.

Duck collapses into his seat, relieved. Still freezing, but relieved. And then he feels the gun barrel against his head.

DUCK
Thought w-w-we ditched the guns.

HUDSON
I’m fat, not stupid.

DUCK
Come on, man. You’re not f-fat.

Hudson cocks the hammer.

END.

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