Issuu on Google+

Never Trust Blood By Matthew R. Paden WGA # 1342267

EXT. DESOLATE DESERT SOUTHWEST - DUSK (PRESENT) The unforgiving desert sun bakes. Heat waves shimmer off desolate tract, peppered with sage brush and cactus. AUGUST 23, 1996 - 7:51PM "SOMEWHERE IN THE DESERT SOUTHWEST" Silhouetted by the headlights of a ’74 Plymouth Cuda. A parched and sweaty African American, man, FRANK FLANAGAN, 51, wears a tattered, blood stained suit. At this moment, he sits on his knees execution style. A two-way radio, lies on the ground beside him. Pacing behind Frank, is HARVEY SUTTON, 29, a shady, washed out soul. His eyes, flinty and hard, are riveted towards Frank. His sweaty hand, grips a snub-nose .38 Revolver. HARVEY Helluva night ain’t it, Frank? (sniffs) Things not playing out how you thought, are they? FRANK It was an accident, Harvey. I fucked up. I’m sorry. Harvey snubs out his cigarette with his toe of his sneaker. He places the chrome .38 barrel to Frank’s head. HARVEY Too late for that, detective. FRANK Don’t pull. Not yet. Christ, man I’ve done some bad things in my time. I know. (trembling) I can’t die like this. Not here. Frank’s TWO-WAY RADIO, CRACKLES to life. WOMAN’S VOICE (over radio) Flanagan, Hewitt. I have the next of kin on your motel vic... SMASH TO BLACK (CONTINUED)



IN BLACKNESS, A TITLE CARD APPEARS "15 HOURS EARLIER" THUNDER RUMBLES. Rain pelts. Wind whips and hollers from the ominous dark sky. Mother Nature lets loose, as she cools her self off after a long, hot miserable day. A quick FLASH of LIGHTNING, introducing us to-EXT. PETE’S GAS STATION - RAINY NIGHT A forlorn, weather beaten fifties era service station. The kind of place, that’s long been replaced by the Big-Gulp mini-marts of today. ’74 PLYMOUTH CUDA pulls into the pitted lot, eases to a stop near the two outdated pumps, under the amber tint of sodium vapor. Headlights, meagerly pierce through the torrential monsoon. Wipers feverishly slash, smear road grime in an arch. A pair of red CONVERSE emerge, SPLASH into a murky puddle. Harvey Sutton, drenched, looks around. He tucks a snub-nose .38 Revolver into his waistband. INT. GAS STATION OFFICE - RAINY NIGHT Diminutive. dimly lit. A small METAL FAN, CREAKS, as it slowly oscillates. A ’80’s circa TAPE DECK, plays a Rockabilly tune. Tattered bikini-girl posters, adorn the soiled walls. BEHIND THE SERVICE COUNTER A gritty, pale-face MECHANIC. Maybe a buck-fifty soaking wet, leans back in a SQUEAKY wooden swivel CHAIR, SNORING. His coveralls, caked in motor oil. While a sweat-stained Australian style cowboy hat rests low over his closed eyes. A glossy PLAYBOY, is spread open over his torso. Playmate STACY SANCHEZ dawns the cover. Her teased, strawberry blond hair dances over her sun kissed shoulders. (CONTINUED)



A BELL above the glass door, JANGLES. As Harvey, trudges in. His wet SNEAKERS, SQUEAK across the polished, concrete slab. SERVICE BELL Harvey’s LEFT HAND, wrapped in a blood stained cloth, TAPS. MECHANIC startled awake, knocks his hat to the ground. He mops his sweaty forehead with a soiled dew-rag. MECHANIC (groggy) Sorry, mister... He SPITS out a thick wad of tobacco; a sticky string of brown saliva lingers from his lip to a cup. MECHANIC ...wasn’t expecting anyone this late. Just need some... (notices Harvey’s hand) ...jesus, man! What the hell happen to your hand? (dabs his brow) That’s a lot of blood you know? Harvey closes his fingers around the blood-stained cloth. HARVEY Jack slipped. (sniffs) Changing a tire a few miles back, fucking jack slipped. THUNDER RUMBLES. A flash of LIGHTENING pulsates. Harvey removes his dark Avaitors from his eyes. Places them on the cluttered Formica service counter. HARVEY Piece of metal up underneath, just sliced it right up. (sniffs, looks around) You got a public commode? The Mechanic, cracks open a can of beer.




MECHANIC Out of order. She’s puckered tighter then a nun on Sunday. (knocks back a hearty swallow) You just need some gas, buddy? With his forearm, Harvey brushes sweat from his forehead. HARVEY (sniffs) Fifteen on the pump and... (looks the selection of smokes over.) ...two packs of Lucky’s. Full flavored. MECHANIC turns, pulls down two packs of Lucky Strikes. HARVEY (O.S.) (sniffs) Is there some place I can get a room and a bite to eat? MECHANIC (turns to face Harvey) Pink Coyote. Shady little dive bout a three quarters of a mile up. (spits) With her neon, you can’t miss her. HARVEY (sniffs, refers to the Playboy) Is that Playmate, Stacy Sanchez gracing the cover of your jerk rag? MECHANIC Yeah, I think so. Mechanic, CRACKS open a CAN of chew. MECHANIC Should warn you, mister. (he fingers a hearty pinch) The price. On the gas. It’s a bit steeper then... THUNDER RUMBLES. A flash of LIGHTENING pulsates.




HARVEY (over) Stacy Sanchez, she’s genuine. (sniffs) A Spanish, peach. Myself, I don’t much care for Mexican pussy. I’m partial to the Oriental pie. Mechanic, stuffs the wad into his bottom lip. HARVEY digs into his pocket, pulls out a tattered photo of the African American man from the desert. HARVEY This guy, he come by this way? (sniffs, he hands photo to the mechanic) He look familiar to you? INSERT PHOTO Mechanic takes the photo, ganders at it for a long second. MECHANIC (hands the photo back) Nope. ’Fraid not. (smiles, rings the register) Gas plus smokes, be $17.89, boss. Cash or plastic? THUNDER RUMBLES. A flash of LIGHTNING pulsates... HARVEY whips out and points his snub-nose .38 at the mechanic. The lights flicker, power surges. BLACK. CLICK. the HAMMER, of the .38 creeps back. BANG! BANG! Two sequential MUZZLE FLASHES capture the mechanic, as he’s thrown back and twists around like a tattered rag-doll. BLACK.


EXT. OPEN DESERT - DAWN Desert night spins into desert dawn. The sun rises quickly, splashing pink and leaving blue.

Never Trust Blood - Scenes 1 and 2