Jason 'Camerado' Rosette: Screenwriter & Script Doctor

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SAMPLE PORTFOLIO (Updated May 2011)

CAMERADO Attn: Jason Rosette www.camerado.com :: camerado@camerado.com SKYPE kingcamerado TWITTER kingcamerado FB kingcamerado

LOST IN NEW MEXICO - www.lostinnewmexico.com Writer (Produced Feature Drama)




ELPEE When you're done with the next show, I want you to go home. SUSAN Yes sir. Elpee turns away to see Havier standing there, leaning on his broom. ELPEE Do you want to go home too? Elpee is about to say something else, when the phone rings again in his office. He hurries to answer it, slamming his office door. Susan finally notices the Skatepunk Couple at the window. Hi.


PUNK KID Two for Big Vendetta. They fork over their cash, get their tickets, and wander in. Susan absently opens the cash drawer to add her last bucks to the till-LINCOLN, JEFFERSON, JACKSON-The pyramid eye on one of the bills WINKS AT HER-Susan stares trembling at the drawer of bills for one weighty moment, before her hand as if on its own volition, darts out and SCOOPS ALL THE CASH INTO HER PURSE. She closes the empty drawer. She stands to leave. But finds Havier standing in the doorway with a bemused expression on his face. Susan begins an attempt at explaining herself, but mumbles to a halt. SUSAN I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It was real nice working with you. She abruptly turns to leave. She instinctively grabs a cardboard promotional cutout of Chuck Wing, which stands in the corner of the booth. And now she walks hurriedly away: bloated purse under one arm, cutout of Wing under the other.


Havier somberly watches her walk out. Then, as he's about to go back to work, he notices Susan's KEYS lying on the counter. He grabs them and rushes out the door after her. HAVIER Excuse me! You forget! EXT. PARKING LOT - DAY Susan walks in a daze to her Minivan, oblivious to Havier. He races after her, casting a quick glance back at his unattended bucket and mop. AT THE MINIVAN Susan climbs in and sits at the wheel. vacantly.

She stares ahead

Havier arrives--out of breath--and hands her the keys. He waits for her to say something...then finally breaks the silence. HAVIER No good to lose the keys. Can't drive the car, no way to go back home. Maybe some bad person finds them, does something, aye yai yai. Susan quietly fumbles with the latch on her purse. HAVIER (CONT'D) So...I will see you later sometime, huh? Maybe we will "paint the town red." Still no response from Susan. A police car rounds the drive into the parking lot and barrels towards the Multiplex. Havier eyes the cruiser apprehensively. He looks down at Susan's purse. A loose twenty falls from the enormous wad inside. to the blacktop and blows away.

It wafts

Havier's face flinches when he realizes what's going on. Havier looks back towards the Multiplex. One of the cops is already poking at his mop and bucket. Another hovers in the box office, looking for evidence. Havier nimbly climbs aboard Susan's minivan. over at him strangely, still in her daze: SUSAN Would you like a ride home?

Susan looks


INT. CAMELOT MOTEL - NIGHT A squat motel with a "medieval" motif, just off the highway near an industrial park. Susan and Havier eat pizza and drink beer while the TV drones in the background. Susan sits on the far side of the room as she hungrily wolfs down a slice. Havier has a napkin tucked carefully under his collar like a bib. He eats politely, carefully covering his chewing mouth with his hand. They both watch TV attentively while they eat. CLOSE ON TV It's a reality TV show. A few loinclothed folks are gathered around a small, blackened animal roasting on a spit. The LEADER lifts a conch and blows through it. TV LEADER All tribal members gather round. A few others emerge from thatched huts on the beach. TV LEADER (CONT'D) Ok. Looks like we've only got enough food to last us a couple days— An middle aged woman breaks down crying. Another scantily clad, very attractive young woman nearby comforts her. One of the men reaches for a piece of the roasting meat--but the leader knocks his hand away with a knobbed club. BACK IN THE ROOM HAVIER Oh, look at that man's stomach. is not starving on an island. Shhh.


SUSAN I'm tryin' to watch.

Susan lights up a Kool Mild. She counts her newly gained money while she watches, smoothing each bill as she goes. Damn!

SUSAN (CONT'D) Still short.

Commercial break. Susan takes out the photo of her daughter and puts it on the nightstand near her bed. She meticulously cleans the dust off the glass face. HAVIER Who is the girl?


SUSAN That's my daughter. HAVIER She is beautiful like you. is she?

How old

Susan sits back down, picks at her slice a bit then answers: SUSAN She would be six... HAVIER "Would be?" SUSAN She would be if...well, she passed away recently. HAVIER "Passed away?" She's dead.

SUSAN She died.

Havier takes a moment to think about this. Oh.

HAVIER Oh. I'm very sorry.

Susan flips pensively though the channels. Havier feigns interest in the TV while Susan smokes and watches. SUSAN Do you think I'm fat? HAVIER No.

SUSAN Really? HAVIER Yes. But I do not care if the woman is fat anyway. If I like her, I like her. Susan grabs another slice. SUSAN You have a girlfriend back home? HAVIER No. My girl and I are together no more. She finds a businessman with much money. He has a nice car. He silently puffs his cigar.


Susan wears her gown and lies on her gurney while Havier holds her hand and strokes her hair. HAVIER Everything will be okay, sunshine. Morell fills a large needle and bites his lip in concentration. Just as he's about to insert the needle into Susan's arm, a revolving RED LIGHT whirls on the ceiling. Dammit-!


Havier and Susan look up at the light. What?


MORELL Nothing, nothing. It's nothing. And he inserts the needle into Susan's arm. She quickly falls into a slumbrous half-sleep. MORELL (CONT'D) We're ready, Manuel. Manuel obediently brings a petri dish, and the Doctor sucks up the contents with another needle. His hands shake as beads of sweat gather on his forehead. MORELL (CONT'D) Just like Juniper...just like Juniper. UPSTAIRS Agents and cops bolt through the pancake house, brandishing weaponsThey burst through the kitchen and head down the stairsBut they pile to a sudden halt when they reach Morell's armored fire door. Wisconsin bangs on the steel face with his fist--then discreetly rubs his hand from the pain. WISCONSIN Kurt Morell. Open up. This is the FDA, the FBI, and the ATF. SHERRIF And the Sherrif-WISCONSIN Yes, and the Sherrif. We have a warrant for your arrest. Morell answers from inside his lab.


MORELL (O.S.) Wayne is that you, you little shit? I told you I'd have the rest of your money tomorrow. Not today. Come back tomorrow. I'm in the middle of something. WISCONSIN Kurt Morell. This is the FDA, the FBI and the ATF. And the Sherrif. We have a warrant for your arrest. You are wanted for tax evasion, practicing medicine without a license, racketeering, transporting weapons across state lines, identity theft, and carrying unlicensed firearms. Faint scuffling sounds can be heard from Morell's side of the door. MORELL (O.S.) I'm terribly sorry, he's not here right now. WISCONSIN If you don't open the door voluntarily we will open it by force. Come out with your hands above your head. MORELL I bought three boxes last year but they were all stale. There's no further answer. Wisconsin motions to a couple of ATF agents, who bring in a thick metal BATTERING RAM. He gives them a nod. They charge the security door. INSIDE MORELL'S CLINIC Morell hurries back to the operating table to finish the implant. Walter and Benjamin whimper and hide as the battering ram strikes the door. SUSAN What's that noise? MORELL (to Susan) Nothing. Now, stay very, very still. Try to think of something nice. Say, a beautiful beach, or a pristine, snowcapped mountain... And Morell carefully inserts the giant horse needle into Susan's body.

PAT & LLOYD'S FINAL COUNTDOWN Writer (Feature Comedy in Development) - WGA #1231331


PAT (CONT'D) There you go. Don't let the quality of that item disturb your sleep Ma'm. (to everyone in the store) THERE YOU HAVE IT, ANOTHER SATISFIED CUSTOMER FOLKS! Lloyd starts clapping dutifully, a fan at a golf game. PAT (CONT'D) As I was saying, folks. Ma'm. Sir. Son. Make room for the crowd will you, son, I wanna stay with the crowd. He pokes a kid out of the way with the end of a spatula. PAT (CONT'D) Gather 'round folks and let me show you how this baby chops, slices, dices, grinds, grates, purees, whips, and more. Pat makes short work of an eggplant with the Food-0-matic. PAT (CONT'D) Now, these babies are made in the USA. Look at how that sucker makes short work of that eggplant, huh, how about that? A young couple blandly watches Pat as he whirls crazily in space, burning now with the pitch, dripping sweat. Lloyd scurries and scuttles to keep up. PAT (CONT'D) That's right, my colleague here will now demonstrate the latest in kitchen appliance technologies. Ladies and gentlemen...Lloyd Sparkles! But Lloyd is petrified now that the spotlight is on him. freezes: a human statue in Times Square. Everyone waits.


Lloyd makes a slight squeak but can't talk.

The crowd slowly dissipates-INT.


Pat and Lloyd recline on individual twin beds in their motel room. A stuffed elk's head hangs on the wall. It has a strange wild-eyed look in its eye. Dominating the center of the room is a pile of their kitchen products, including the mightiest of all, the Food O Matics.


Lloyd pulls a French Horn from under his bed and starts to blow an idle tune. PAT Another off day. Can’t figure it out.

LLOYD We have enough money for the room this week, Pat? PAT We’re just in a slump, that’s all. The trough of a wave.

Lloyd stops playing for a moment and looks over at Pat. PAT (CONT'D) You know, in science, and this is one of those things they want you to know in NASA, by the way-Anyway, in science if you have two sets of waves, and if one is in a peak when the other's in the trough. They'll cancel each other out. Just think about that...they'll cancel each other out. Pat maintains a look of optimism through most of this, but gradually a glazed, faraway look in his eye takes over. LLOYD Wonder why it’s so bad Pat. used to be so bad.


Lloyd slowly runs a clean sock across his horn to polish it. Pat slowly stuffs his suitcase without folding his clothes. He pokes his head out the curtain to see if the coast is clear. LLOYD (CONT'D) Are we gonnna' skip out again Pat? Pat stops stuffing his suitcase for a moment. PAT Lloyd, we're faced with an ethical dilemma. We lack the funds to pay for the room, so by any normal standard I'd say, yes. (MORE)


Pat's got a NAPOLEAN HILL tape playing: it's Think and Grow Rich. He nods and smiles knowingly, occasionally nudging Lloyd as the tape plays when it's at a good part. NAPOLEAN HILL "The answer, my friend, is to remove any shred of doubt from your mind about becoming rich." PAT See that Lloyd, that's the key. Whatever you think you are, you shall be.

Even though we're on the road, busting a hump selling the Food-o-matics, I already think of myself as a member of the NASA team. INSIDE PAT'S MIND Pat waves to affectionate onlookers as he enters a steaming rocket capsule. A woman wearing a hoola skirt hugs him. REALITY PAT (V.O.) (CONT'D) I can see myself entering the capsule, going through the countdown, and lifting off towards the heavens. Here. Here's the Seven Eleven. pack or Twelve?


He reaches into his pocket and counts their remaining money. INT. MOTEL - NIGHT Pat and Lloyd lie in their respective twin beds in their underwear, each with a beer in hand and a few crumpled cans between them on the nightstand. LLOYD Maybe we’re losing our touch. Pat downs his brew and crumples his can with gusto. it against the wall. PAT We aren’t losing our touch Lloyd, its just that things...things go up and down. Round and round. Nature’s cyclical. Like the orbits of planets, there is an apogee and a perigee.

LLOYD You sure do know your stuff Pat.

He tosses


PAT (CONT'D) Mission control, something's wrong up here... INT. MORNING


Dim morning light creeps through the half-baked blinds of the Mirage Motel, where Pat and the implacable Lloyd lie sweetly dreaming. The PHONE RINGS loudly, jarring both sleepers awake. Pat darts forth from his nest and grabs the phone: PAT (CONT'D) Uh, Yeap. Oh, hi Mr. Bay. Na, na, just doing some calisthenics. Still a little groggy. What's up? INT.


A flourescent lit office, neat with furniture from Office Depot. On one wall hangs a poster which reads: Teamwork - the key to success! A stout, no-nonsense looking Korean in his fifties with neatly manicured nails sits at a desk and grunts into the phone. This is MR. BAY. MR. BAY Patrick. Where are you? You are team leader for your territory but we have no product moving in your region at all! This is no behavior for a team leader. IN THE MOTEL Pat instinctively pinches a fold of flab on his belly and winces as he reacts to Mr. Bay's diatribe. PAT Ah, Mr Bay, yes, well, we had some difficulties there for a while but the Food O Matics are really, really a hot item now, with the holiday season coming and all.

We remain convinced that our market share will improve as we exploit the improvements we've made in our capital structure--


MR. BAY (V.O.) You guys slipping, that's what. You last, last, LAST, last even behind Bert and Edna, and they only work Part Time! Retired! Old people! PAT Now, now, Mr. Bay, I've been doing this for over a decade, and I know the rhythms of the market.

I'm telling you, look, all systems are go...don’t worry about a thing, we're getting ready to take off. IN THE OFFICE -- MORNING MR. BAY Buww shit. Big pile of buww shit. You are lying to my again about your numbers. Who is the partner of yours, Lloyd Sparkle? I say to you get rid of that guy, he is no brain on his shoulder at all. PAT (V.O.) Mr. Bay, with all due respect-MR. BAY Eeeyaha, you listen hard Patrick. I want numbers up, and sales increase by thirty five percent or you are finish with Triangle Industry. You understand? IN THE ROOM Pat runs his fingers through his thinning hair. to respond, but it's all just Yabba yabba.

He stammers

MR. BAY (V.O.) (CONT'D) Get your head out of clouds, Patrick, or you will be fire! Believe me? FIRE!!!! And get rid of that bird head partner, Lloyd Sparkle!!!!. INT.


Pat dejectedly hangs up the phone, just as Lloyd rises from his slothlike torpor. LLOYD Who was it Pat?


REGISTER GIRL (CONT'D) There's a couple fellas here to see you, from Triangle Industries? Yea...I see. Ok, thanks. She hangs up. REGISTER GIRL (CONT'D) Mr. Stone says he can only give you space for one table. PAT Well, that's fine, that's all we need.

REGISTER GIRL Oh. I thought you were set up already. PAT

Excuse moi? REGISTER GIRL Aren't you with those fellas back there? The girl points, and Pat follows her goosebumped arm towards the furthest aisle. A couple clean cut college kids are standing at a table near the deli counter, a crown gathered round. LLOYD (whispers) Who’s that Pat? PAT I dunno. Are they with Triangle?

LLOYD Shirley woulda' told us I’m sure. Pat heads over towards the newcomers' setup, with Lloyd slowly in tow. Pat stands for a moment in front of the alien table, pretending to be a customer while he sizes up the intruders. Both newcomers look like recent college grads. The first is golden haired CHAD, who resembles a Ken Barbie doll--even down to the pastel neckerchief he wears. His partner, VINTON, is the dumb muscle of the operation. He's beefcake-ish, but could be from a biker bar or from an S&M club with a ball in his mouth, wearing buttless chaps.

20. PAT Alright. Today only. But I’m telling you, that’s our spot.

Pat and Lloyd walk off towards another aisle. As they pass Izzy at the deli counter, Lloyd waves at her sheepishly. Izzy winks at Lloyd: he blushes bigtime. LLOYD Who are those guys Pat? PAT I don’t know. Some fucking assholes who think they’re hot shit. We’ll show em hot shit.

LLOYD That’s right. We’ll show them hot shit. Pat and Lloyd trudge towards a distant corner of the store. They begin to set up by the meat section, but an assistant manager appears and directs them towards the furthest aisle. LATER Pat rests with his hands on the table, a look of disgust on his face as he leafs through his countdown manual. Lloyd fidgets, adjusts the tablecloth, rearranges the display Business is abysmal. No one in sight. A pasty looking man in overalls moves past silently, looking curiously at the blenders: Boxes and boxes of gleaming new Food O Matics. PAT Smart ass punks.

LLOYD Huh? PAT Said smart ass punks, those two over there, look at them. College kids think they own the place, think they can come here and take over just like that?

LLOYD Ah they're good kids. Pat is aghast. Good kids?

PAT Good kids? (MORE)


PAT (CONT'D) Sparkles, those two are our competition, get that straight right now. They just took money out of our pocket, took food out of our mouth. Good kids...good God, Lloyd, maybe Mr. Bay is right, maybe we should part ways. LLOYD Did Mr. Bay really tell us to split up? Lloyd looks at his old buddy mournfully. Pat kicks the table leg in frustration. He runs his fingers through his thinning hair again. LLOYD (CONT'D) We just had some bad luck that's all, Pat, it's not the end of the world. A little bad luck isn't the end of the world. Pat looks despondent, distant. He slowly closes his countdown manual and regards the bank of Food O Matics before him. PAT Yea, well...somehow we gotta reduce our overhead, these things cost us money.

Every day they sit here unsold, I dunno, I just feel like they're sitting on my shoulder laughing at me. Lloyd looks at Pat like a sympathetic old grandmother and gently places his hand on Pat's shoulder. INT. MOTEL - NIGHT Pat counts out a few bills from his wallet, their haul from the day. They didn’t make much. Lloyd moonily extracts his gleaming French Horn from its case and gives it a slow, caressing shine with a balled up sock. PAT (CONT'D) I’ll be back in a second. Pat heads heads to the hallway to hit the soda machine. He fumbles around in his pocket for the exact change, punches a button for a MR. PIBB.


EXT. IZZY'S HOUSE - NIGHT Lloyd stands alone in the gravel driveway, staring at the humble aluminum sided house that Izzy calls home. It's a moonless night, and the trees shudder silently in the dark. Lloyd cautiously walks a few steps towards the front door of the house. On the way, he passes Izzy's window. VIEW THROUGH WINDOW There in the warm glow of a small desklamp, Izzy stands wearing only a bra and panties as she gets ready in front of the mirror. Lloyd is flabbergasted by her lithe, perky beauty. He stands transfixed, rooted to the spot, hidden by his own reflection. He blushes and tries to look away, but he cannot. Finally, Izzy tosses on some slacks and a sweatshirt, and Lloyd moves along to the front door. He stands there for a long while, his finger hovering over the button without pressing it. Finally he rings the bell. Lights blink on, and heavy footsteps pound the floor. Izzy's father, Ed Stone, manager of the local Food Pirate, flings opens the door. ED Can I help you?

LLOYD Yes sir, my name's Lloyd. Sparkles.


Ed eyes Lloyd strangely as a flicker of recognition sweeps across his face. ED You're one of the fellas been demonstrating food processors at the store?

LLOYD Yes sir, that's correct. Ed smiles managerially. ED What can I do for you?

LLOYD Well, actually I'm here to meet Izzy.


Ed frowns. ED You better not be screwing my daughter.

Lloyd crumples under Ed's hard stare. Izzy finally appears: freshly made up, chipper as a squirrel. She gives her Dad the finger. ED (CONT'D) Where you going? IZZY Out. ED

With him? Lloyd sheepishly lets himself be led away by Izzy. They pile into her Camaro and peel away, tires throwing stones as they go. EXT.


Izzy and Lloyd sit in the Camaro, which is tucked into a shady nook in back of a small cemetary. They're in their own small hideaway, cozy as the trees whistle outside. Izzy pulls a small rattling carton from the glove compartment. She takes out what appears to be a CO2 cartridge and puts it into a dispenser. She twists the end and a balloon fills with gas. IZZY Here you wanna try one?

LLOYD What is it? IZZY It's a whippet.

A whippet?


IZZY They’re fun. It’s laughing gas. They use it to make whipped cream.

She hands Lloyd the balloon.

He tentatively grasps it.

IZZY (CONT'D) Go ahead, put the end in your mouth and...breathe in.

FREEDOM DEAL Writer (Feature War Drama in Development) WGA # 1467328


INSIDE CHARCOAL ONE The pilot of CHARCOAL ONE sits in front of a vast panel of dials and gauges. One hand barely moves the wheel, while the other rests on the plane’s eight throttles. He taps out a tune, absently, half-humming along with it. Behind the pilot, sitting at a glowing console, is the NAVIGATOR. He inserts his Olivetti computer punchcard containing the strike coordinates. NAVIGATOR Piece of cake. PILOT Repeat that, over NAVIGATOR I said piece of cake, sir. Border sortie. No triple-A, no nothing. The pilot looks disinterestedly out at the brilliant cloudscape before him. NAVIGATOR, CONT. You ever flown a BUFF into triple-A sir? PILOT Once up in Vinh they had some low level artillery they threw at us. Nothing serious, some shrapnel in engine eight. We decompressed a little. NAVIGATOR I heard some guys flew over Vinh last month. The gooks’re using new some kind of new SAMs there. Over. PILOT Well that’s Vietnam, so it’s hairy. But this is The pilot smiles and catches himself: PILOT, CONT. “Not Vietnam”. So it’s “not hairy” at all. His shades reflect the dazzling light of 40,000 feet.


The navigator flips an offset switch on his instrument panel and speaks into his intercom. NAVIGATOR This is Charcoal One, over. We’re ready for targeting - Charcoal Two do you copy, Charcoal Three, do you copy? How you crewdogs hanging? CHARCOAL ONE (V.O.) (through headset) Charcoal One copy that crewdogCHARCOAL THREE (V.O.) (through headset) Charcoal Three copy - except for some questionable fried chicken from U-Tapao we are all ‘go’ for hack. CUT TO: EXT. VILLAGE - DAY Down below, in Samnang’s village, a bride and groom make their way through a gathering of guests at a traditional rural wedding ceremony. Curling ferns form garlands over a bamboo frame which forms the backdrop of their ceremony, while the old window presses Khmer noodles from rice paste. Barely visible beyond, hidden in the shadows of the rubber tree plantation, lurk the NVA army and VC guerillas. A group of monks come and flank the scene, waiting to anoint the newly-wedded couple. The smiling abbot alights next to a bowl filled with flower-petal-water. Samnang sits next to his mother and brothers and sisters. His mother is a pretty woman with the eye-creases of a jokester, while his father, lean and sunworn, watches quietly. SAMNANG Where’s Uncle Ramy? MOTHER Ah, that rascal’s probably chasing ladies at the market back in Svay Rieng.


SAMNANG You said Uncle Ramy was coming. Samnang is visibly disappointed. MOTHER He could be on the piss again, ‘On. Maybe it’s for the better. We don’t want him here cursing at the wedding anyhow. All conversation halts as the wedding couple step forth into the gallery of guests. FATHER Sa’at (beautiful) MOTHER N’anghaui (sure thing!) The bride slowly turns to meet her beloved. They are both dressed in bright, colorful wedding outfits, the finest they could make. The Abbot leans in to say his phrases. He begins to toss and sprinkle the couple with water from his holy bowl. CUT TO: EXT. RUBBER TREE GROVE - DAY The wedding party continues faintly in the distance. Rows of heavy NVA trucks and military hardware of the 5th Battalion lie at the ready, camouflaged with webbing and tree branches. Sacks of rice are neatly stacked near wooden crates of ammunition, barrels of diesel fuel, and other supplies. A few soldiers work on the trucks, one of which has been completely burnt out and blackened in battle, yet is amazingly being rebuilt for use again. A bunker, carefully designed from palm logs and covered with a layer of earth and tree branches, oversees the compound. CUT TO:


INT. BUNKER - DAY A group of NVA officers sit at a makeshift table in the rough palm log bunker. Wooden file shelves are the only furniture besides the table and the palm stump chairs they sit on. A portrait of Ho Chi Minh adorns the otherwise rough wall another poster nearby depicting valorous NVA and Viet Cong soldiers on the move. The only visible luxury - a tea kettle - rests in the middle of the table. One officer, recognizable from atop the truck earlier, stands in front of a map. Various countries of the region are labelled in Vietnamese: Laos, Thailand, Vietnam of course... ...and Cambodia. The officer points to an area just inside Cambodia, marked with a red oval. More red ovals can be seen on the map, each of them lying just inside the border of Cambodia. NVA OFFICER Fifth battalion is again at nearly full unit strength. However, the enemy and its puppets have increased airborne reconnaissance markedly since the Cambodian New Year. Our antiaircraft units here are weak, but doing their best. The officer places the battered ID cards of a US pilot onto the table. CLOSE ON ID It’s an officer’s mess hall ID card from U-Tapao airbase in Thailand. NVA OFFICER, CONT. Saigon puppet forces have already been contacted in areas 353 and 354, supported by the US Imperialists. His commander, wiry and spry, sipping a cup of tea, interrupts him COMMANDING OFFICER What is your assessment, Lieutenant?


SHAKY, CONT. “I got a gal named Sasafras, she got pimples on her ass...” Another grunt, DOC JONES, wearing a medic’s helmet, stealthily creeps up on Shaky while he’s singing. SHAKY, CONT. “Some are big and some are small, some you can hardly see at all.” Doc gets within arms reach - he swats Shaky on the helmet with the flat of his hand. Kaboom!


Shaky wheels around to face Doc Jones. SHAKY What the heck, mayn? Shaky’s voice has a slightly laid back Southern twang to it. DOC JONES You ain’t gonna shoot me? Doc gestures towards Shaky’s pristine M16. Nope.


DOC JONES Good. Things jam up more than AK’s anyhow. Doc winks at Shaky. He confides in him like Groucho Marx: DOC JONES, CONT. It is actually quite awful to dress the wound from an M16. Tiny round, but it tumbles and ricochets through the flesh. Ha-cha-cha. A burst of gunfire erupts from the furthest side of the hamlet. Nothing to worry about. Doc continues: DOC JONES, CONT. Whereas the round from the gook AK will just plow its way right through you. You dig? Shaky looks over at an elder Monk standing under a banyan tree. They watch each other quietly for a while.


IN THE FOREST An NVA platoon is dug in, returning fire to the armored unit with small arms and machine gun fire. Two regular soldiers, CAPTAIN TUYET DIEU and PRIVATE THANH LE, crouch behind trees, directing the fire from their fellows. One female Viet Cong soldier, the nineteen year old TRINH, seen earlier at Samnang’s village, shudders under fire in the nearby ferns. PRIVATE TUYET DIEU (in Vietnamese) Where did these troops come from? PRIVATE THANH LE They mobilized from the rear, sir. A hail of machine gun fire bursts against their tree, splintering it. TUYET DIEU (to Trinh) Are you holding up OK, comrade? There aren’t many of you lot left after Tet. You must be especially lucky. Were you born this year - are you a dog? Trinh forces herself to smile courageously. Tuyet Dieu offers a teasing compliment. TUYET DIEU, CONT. Liberation Front soldiers should be at home in the forest. TRINH Comrade, this is the Cambodian forest...it’s not quite the same as back home. BAPBAPBAPBAP - another burst of rounds floods in from Dorsey Roberts’ heavy machine gun. The NVA troops can hear him howling in the distance as he fires: DORSEY ROBERTS (distantly) Gaaa Nigga’...Gaaa ! Take that Charlie! TUYET DIEU Private, bring a rocket to bear on the second vehicle with the black man.


One of them clambers frantically over to the ox cart to take cover. The ox cart father warns his family and guests: Go, go -


He waves everyone off the ox cart. Desperately he stays behind, trying to untie his faithful ox. The animal hems and bellows under the impending attack. FATHER Everyone, go to the field. Run! In the sky, two more Hueys join the assault. They’re pregnant with rockets, big pods dangling next to each skid. They each let loose with a whooshing stream of ordnance which raises and pulverizes the road, the fields, the NVA trucks ahead. INT. SECOND HUEY - DAY The second Huey is piloted by an ARVN South Vietnamese airman. He observes the ox cart on the ground while monitoring his radio. RADIO (VO) (in Vietnamese) Alright we got a light vehicle there on the ground, take them out, brother PILOT, CONT. Roger. OK, waste them all, the cart and everyone near it. The door gunner shouts back to the pilot ARVN GUNNER They look like locals, sir! PILOT, CONT. Waste them. Let’s just get them all, sort it out later. The gunner takes aim at the cart and the regular NVA soldier next to it, just as the father of the ox cart family manages to free his animal. The ox gallops away, intoxicated by terror and freedom. It stumbles into the pond, but furiously it scrambles across to the open plain.



The Shaolin Master leaps to his feet and attacks the Opera Master, while the remaining clan members run in to support his attack. They let out a great CHEER of support for each other, putting their differences aside at last. The Opera Master finds himself retreating in the face of their enthusiastic and coordinated assault. INN KEEPER One table...two chairs...a pot of liquor. The Innkeeper rapidly works his abacus, calculating the cost of every piece of furniture destroyed by the battle. KUNLUN LEADER You think you can defeat us with your dirty tricks? Plates go flying. A chair breaks through the window nearby. The table he’s sitting on is smashed by the flying body of the Opera Master. INN KEEPER, CONT. One oak table. One-two-three-fourfive-six-seven plates... CLOSE ON ABACUS The Innkeepers fingers FLY in a BLUR along the beads of the abacus with astounding, nearly superhuman speed. The Opera Master lies bruised and defeated in the ruins of the Dragon Inn. The clan members close in on him to give him the final blow, but the Inn Keeper blocks their path. INN KEEPER Wait, wait, wait! He holds his arms out as if he’s about to make an important announcement. INN KEEPER, CONT. Can we take care of the check first? What?


INN KEEPER You know. The rooms he booked. The food. All the best house liquor. The damage...


The Inn Keeper flicks his abacus and holds it high for everyone to see. INN KEEPER, CONT. Altogether, four hundred ninety seven. Round it up to five hundred to make the math easier? Move away.


The clan members ignore the Inn Keeper, and continue walking towards the Opera Master to deliver their final blow. The Inn Keeper continues to calculate on his abacus. Again he blocks the path of the clansmen. INN KEEPER Sorry fellas, I made a mistake, it’s actually six hundred ninety six. Round it up to Not saying a word, the Kunlun Master SMASHES the abacus with his iron wrist. Beads spill everywhere. KUNLUN LEADER Let’s round it down to zero. The Inn Keeper stares with dismay at his shattered calculator. Seething with anger, and with a hidden ROAR, he immediately attacks the big five clan leaders all at once. The Kunlun Leader laughs at first - then is flattened with a single blow. He lands dazed on top of the Opera Master. Shaolin Leader - BAMM!

Widang Leader - SMACK!

Soon all the clan leaders lie in a heap, piled atop the Opera Master. The Inn Keeper brushes himself off and gathers the beads of his abacus. As he speaks, he flicks the beads at the clan members: INN KEEPER (CONT’D) This is for destroying my property... (flicks some more) This is for driving my customers away... (flicks some more) This is for injuring my apprentice, as much of a lame-brain as his is...and this for ganging up on me!


Lady Loung looks into the eyes of the Mask Man. Her eyes soften with recognition. The Masked Man looks deep into Lady Loung’s eyes as well. It’s as if he is about to say something... LADY LOUNG Tell me who you are. Suddenly, he sees a flashing object reflected in her eyes. It’s the weapon of the Red-Faced character, attacking him from behind! The Masked Man grabs Lady Loung’s shoulder, tosses her out of the way and helps her duck the attack. All the actors on the stage simultaneously throw off their costumes: they are all heavily armed assassins. Look out!


The assassins leap through the pile of discarded costumes and zero in on Lady Loung and the Masked man, daggers and swords drawn. INT. OPERA THEATER - NIGHT The Masked Man stands alone in the center of the stage, surrounded by the actor-assassins. A group charges towards him with daggers and swords drawn BOOOOOTTTT! One of the assassins goes flying into the audience. AUDIENCE MEMBER#1 What’s going on - ? The audience members start to panic as the fighting escalates. Some run for the exits, only to be stopped by a gang of guards wearing masks. OPERA GUARD Don’t move! Others clutch their stomachs in pain...something is wrong. Onstage, a swarm of assassins swirl around the Masked Man and dive in to attack. Only one stand out in particular though: The Red-Faced character.

BOOKWARS 'Terrific' - LA Times 'Hilarious' - The New Yorker Writer (Produced Feature Documentary) - www.bookwarsmovie.com

BOOKWARS – Script with Transcript (Hour Long TV Version) www.bookwarsmovie.com NARRATION: I got a scholarship.

Took out some loans, got a degree.

Despite the degree, I didn't have any luck finding a job. And I ended up...broke. Broke in the big city, and that's not a good feeling. I was living in a dark, strange place. And my roommate, who took care of the rent, he also happened to be an addict. Well he wanted the rent money--quick. So I made an inventory of everything--anything I had that I could sell to pay the rent, get a bite to eat. I had a lot of books‌yea, books. During my college days I'd bought a lot of books on the street from a street bookseller, a smiling Southerner whose name I've now forgotten. I called him "BookMan." I decided...I would do the same. Finally, I arrived at the spot that I'd secretly chosen on my reconnoiterings on the day before. I pencilled in my prices and laid out my books. And, by God, they came! Readers from the nearby neighborhoods somehow sniffed out my books and descended upon them. I was saved. Snatched from the brink of destitution by my friends Goethe, Camus, Rimbaud, Heidegger. Well I set up again the next day, and again the next. And it wasn't long before I met others. Other booksellers from all over the city who had also come to West 4th street to set up shop. One of the first booksellers I met out there was Everett. Everett was an outdoorsman, he was impervious to the cold. He'd wear shorts and Chinese slippers in all weather, every day of the year.

Rick, Rick Sherman. Rick was into Timothy Leary and Robert Anton Wilson. So he was trying to re-wire his consciousness...through sheer non-exertion. He was an aspiring magician. He'd practice his magic tricks at the bookstand, help us pass the time. And then there was Alan. Alan had some of the best books around, but he was a little tempermental. Who else? Paul. Paul was the youngest bookseller on the block-even younger than me--so he was "The Kid" Then there was Al: the oldest bookseller on the block. only maps and Atlases, so we called him Al Mappo.

He sold

Polish Joe, smoker of 100 Cigarettes, had no regular spot. He was a drifter. He sold on West 4th, 3rd avenue, St Mark's Place, wherever the wind would blow him. Joe was often full of doubt, and was sometimes unlucky in the book trade. Boris was from Russia. He was a ruthless businessman He disappeared a while back and no one's heard from him since. Thomas loved his books, and he dreamed of opening his own bookstore one day. He took care of his books like they were his children. He'd find a beat-up unwanted volume of Pythagoras, erase all the blemishes, smooth out all the creases, meticulously repair the spine, add a dab of glue and then give it a new home. I never saw Thomas eat or drink. He seemed to somehow derive his nourishment from his books, living off of them as a lichen lives off a rock. Alright, so there were a lot of other booksellers out there. But one of the most successful, the one I learned the most from was Peter Whitney, bookseller extraordinaire. A lot of people seek good fortune. Well Pete seemed to be good fortune himself. He had "the touch". He was also a hard worker.

PETE: That one there, the treasury of art and literature, if you hold it long enough someone will buy it. The other two are gonna’ be real hard to sell. VO: There were others like uh, Zach, he lived in New Jersey, "Land of the ten cent book" Tony was from the Czech Republic, and he played a mean guitar on the side. Emil told me he escaped, but never said from where. And then there was myself. A true BookMan in my own right, although in the beginning I was green. VO: There was another street, another strip where booksellers hung out, and that was only a few block away over on 6th avenue, the Avenue of the Americas. Marv was the spiritual leader, the Angel of the Group.

ADDITIONAL / OTHER WRITING Click to listen... 'Stork Cools its Wings' - Lyrics and Vocals 'Beginners' - Lyrics and Vocals 'WAYDOWN DEEP' - Lyrics, Vocals, Guitar

CONTACT CAMERADO Attn: Jason Rosette www.camerado.com :: camerado@camerado.com SKYPE kingcamerado TWITTER kingcamerado FB www.facebook.com/kingcamerado IMDB www.imdb.com/name/nm0742891/

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