Never Trust Blood - Scenes 1 and 2

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)