JASON ROSETTE

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(Updated May 2011)

CAMERADO Attn: Jason Rosette

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 LOST IN NEW MEXICO - www.lostinnewmexico.com
Writer (Produced Feature Drama) 17.

SUSAN
Ok.

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.

SUSAN
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.
 18.

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. She stares ahead

vacantly.

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. It wafts

to the blacktop and blows away.

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. Susan looks
over at him strangely, still in her daze:
SUSAN
Would you like a ride home?
 37.

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. He
is not starving on an island.
SUSAN
Shhh. 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.
SUSAN (CONT'D)
Damn! 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?
 38.

SUSAN
That's my daughter.

HAVIER
She is beautiful like you. How old
is she?

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?"

SUSAN
She's dead. She died.

Havier takes a moment to think about this.

HAVIER
Oh. 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.

 113.

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.

MORELL
Dammit-!

Havier and Susan look up at the light.

SUSAN
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

weapons-

They burst through the kitchen and head down the stairs-

But 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.

 114.

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
3.
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. He
freezes: a human statue in Times Square.

Everyone waits. Lloyd makes a slight squeak but can't talk.

The crowd slowly dissipates--

INT. OPEN RANGE MOTEL - NIGHT

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.
 4.

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. Never
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)
 7.

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. Six

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. He tosses
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.
 10.

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

INT. MORNING - MOTEL

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. OFFICE - DAY

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--
 11.

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. He stammers

to respond, but it's all just Yabba yabba.

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. MOTEL - DAY

Pat dejectedly hangs up the phone, just as Lloyd rises from
his slothlike torpor.

LLOYD
Who was it Pat?
 17.

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.

PAT
Good kids? Good kids?
(MORE)
 21.

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.
 99.

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. 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.
 100.

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. CEMETARY - NIGHT

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.

LLOYD
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 6.

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.

 7.

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 crewdog-

CHARCOAL 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.
 8.

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:
 9.

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?
 24.

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.

DOC
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.

SHAKY
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.
 39.

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.
 75.

One of them clambers frantically over to the ox cart to take

cover. The ox cart father warns his family and guests:

FATHER
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.
 'UNSPECIFIED ANIMATED MARTIAL ARTS FEATURE'
Additional Writing & Script Doctor 129.

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-four-
five-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?

WUDANG LEADER
What?

INN KEEPER
You know. The rooms he booked. The
food. All the best house liquor.
The damage...
 130.

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?

KUNLUN LEADER
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!
 101.

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.

LADY LOUNG
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 books…yea, 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. He sold
only maps and Atlases, so we called him Al Mappo.

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
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