Intro to unfinished screenplay

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Here's the intro to a screenplay I started writing a while back but never got around to finish.

Submitted: April 12, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 12, 2013






“EARTH ANGEL” by “The Penguins” plays over the scene.

Dark clouds scud by. Howling wind rustles the underbrush. The setting sun casts deep red hues over the landscape, giving it an otherworldly look, reminiscent of the surface of Mars more so than anything found on Earth. There isn’t a single soul in sight.


A native to the land, the KANGAROO RAT.  The little critter gets startled and chased off by something off-screen. Coming into frame we have--

A PICKUP TRUCK, zooming past, leaving only a cloud of red dirt behind. Its sides are covered with rust marks and its engine makes a loud knocking/tapping noise, showing clear signs of old age.

A bumper sticker can be seen on the rear of the truck, it reads:




The driver is an obese middle - aged man. His attire consists of an old flannel shirt, worn out jeans, and a cap with “Oakland Athletics” written on it.

His eyes have both a kind and world weary quality to them, as well as large bags underneath.

This is JOHN.

John half heartedly sings along with the song, which has transitioned over to playing on the truck’s radio.

A cell phone starts violently vibrating its way across the dashboard, interrupting him.



(on the phone)


Headed on my way home now.

Nothing major, false alarm.

 Doctor said she’ll be fine. Wrote down a prescription for some pills,

supposed to help deal with the aches.

Still thought it best that she stay the night though.

Tough as nails, always has been.

 Very few people hold up as well as she does at that age.

We should all be so lucky.

Frankie’s there with her now.

Still, yeah.

Said he was gonna call if need be.

Probably thinking of sleeping there too.

If ever there was a momma’s boy.


Tilting his head and resting the cell upon his shoulder, John pulls a cigarette out of his front pocket and lights it. One hand on the wheel at all times.


of a helicopter passing nearby.

A cursory glance through the windshield fails to result in a sighting of the chopper, John decided to ignore it.



Mhm, she came over too, asked what you’ve been up to.

Y’know. The usual.

Oh right, said they started school just last week.

Halie…Halie right?

 Halie’s fourth, the little one…second grade I think. I dunno.


 That’s pretty much all of it. Probably forgot to mention the new iphones and Barbie dolls

 they bought them.

You’re right. It’s the girls that usually ask for a pony.

They’re just a couple of kids, what do you want me to say?


The conversation goes the way John expected, but still would’ve preferred to avoid.

Anxious of the discussion that follows, his eyes nervously scan the inside of the truck.


THE OPEN GLOVE COMPARTMENT, hanging slightly ajar, loose. John notices this and tries to close it, at first with a light touch.



Yes, she did mention that.

 But you know…it…she was just trying to be polite.


The compartment refuses to close. Agitated, John starts slamming it.



They’re both pretty busy I’m sure, what with work and…the kids. Y’know, Halie and... the other one.


The compartment finally closes.



Can’t we have this talk once I get home?

I’ll talk with Frankie, ask whether they’re free this Friday or something.

Once I’m home and I’ve got my feet up.

That work?

You’re welcome.


Yeah, right, about that…

I bought…they only had this natural…naturpaw…raw, stuff.

Yeah, that.

 Clerk at the store lectured me on the finer points.

Something about it being made up of all organic beef, meaning its

great for the…the digestion, and healthier, I guess.

Guy just went on and on.

You’d think he was the one eating this crap.

The boys’ll eat whatever really, so it should be fine.

If they’re that restless, take them out for a walk.

Leash should be out by the garage.

Couple of hours.


No, of course not. I get it, I’m a big boy.

You’ve made your point, and I agree with it. Family matters and all that.


Love you too.


John puts the cell back on the dashboard.

“FEELINGS” by Albert Morris plays next on the radio.


Some time passes as John finishes smoking his cigarette.

Still a bit agitated, he finds himself scanning the inside of the truck once more, which leads to him noticing that the glove compartment has yet again opened itself, even wider this time.



Son of a…


Throwing what little’s left of the cigarette out the window and leaning over to try and close the compartment for good, he fails to notice that there’s a person standing on the road, smack dab in his path.

The truck’s headlights expose this stranger out to be--

a barefooted, haggard looking blonde woman, wearing a white, flower patterned dress covered in filth.

In the split second it takes John to register her, we watch, as the blonde extends both her arms out, front and center, as if holding something and pointing it towards the oncoming truck.


BLAM! BLAM! Shots are fired.


White knuckles clinging to the wheel and foot flooring the gas pedal, John makes a sudden turn off the road, away from the SHOOTER.

He’s scarred, breathing fast, panting like a steam engine.

Tiny bits of glass rattle inside the truck, courtesy of the two bullets that passed clean, right through the windshield, but before John can start counting his lucky stars we see--

BLOOD, spraying straight out of his jugular. He tries to apply pressure to the bullet hole with his hand, clutching it, as blood seeps its way in-between the fingers.

Barely focused on the road at this point, John fails to notice the steep berm coming up ahead, which leads to the truck ramping right off of it and heading straight down into a deep gully.


Inside the truck, John is hurled from one side to the other like a ragdoll.

Outside, the front wheels burry themselves in the dirt while the rear ones continue to spin in the air. We hear one last roar from the engine, before it completely cuts off. Silence.



The driver’s door kicks open, and out comes a bleeding, stumbling John. He plants himself face first into the ground, lies there, practically motionless.

Gusts of wind form dust devils around him, which for some reason rapidly grow in size and width.

Looking up, he sees why.


A HELICOPTER, hovering directly above John, pointing a bright light at him.

As if the events leading up to this moment weren’t enough cause for bedlam, we now have the blonde shooter making her return.

She’s walking towards John, gun still firmly in hand.


It might be from the blood loss or the sudden rush of adrenaline, or perhaps a combination of the two that causes John to see the world through a filter of haze.

At best he can make out a blurry image of the shooter standing over him, pointing her 9mm Beretta, but there’s also someone else, in the far background.

A man, it would seem, running towards the shooter, trying to stop her.

Of course as all this transpires, the helicopter continues to circle up above, illuminating the scene like an annoying firefly.




I’m sorry.


The man picks up the pace, realizing he might just fail to reach the shooter in time.

He’s just about made it.





of a gunshot.




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