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Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on February 5, 2013 by Comatose Casanova

Having trouble writing lately so here is another old first attempt at writing a script I never actually finished. Enjoy!


(Fictional) Lexington Louisville USA- The Place Dreams go to Die.

The sun bakes a broken down old gas station that rests in “the middle of no where” gasoline gently trickles down the rusted green gas pump. The wind whistles slightly, but not enough to drown out the sound of droplets of gasoline hitting the ground creating a small puddle that evaporates in the hot sun making a stain on the cement. The drip, drip, drip of the gasoline and the whistle of the wind all seems to stop becoming overshadowed by the sound of a high performance engine. A blue sports car with the bass pumping and tinted windows blazes its own trail across the cracked asphalt. Hitting top speeds, it pulls itself toward the gas station. The gas meter falls below “E” as the driver punches it to the floor the speedometer reaches above 100 mph. A set of black hands grabs the wheel to control it. The gas station is framed through the windshield that is stained with the carcasses of bugs that met their ultimate demise at the hands of the speeding machine. The blue mechanical devil gently glides its way into the gas station the rims are polished silver that casts a reflection so accurate that it reveals every detail of what you put in front of it. The wheels halt at that broken down leaky pump, and the stench of burning rubber fills the air. The bass shakes the frame of the machine as it is shut off abruptly. Inside the store a bald man sits dressed in overhauls a white shirt is placed underneath but small chest hair still poke through the thin fabric. He sits  reading the latest issue of penthouse magazine, a perfect set of breasts greet anyone who enters into the establishment. The gas attendant is startled by the beeping of his computer that rests on a yellow stained (former white) tabletop. The cashier tucks his “educational reading” into a drawer. He pushes the authorization button to allow the pump to start as he looks outside in disgust at the finely tuned sports car, and spits as he eyes up the two African Americans who have stepped out laughing wearing baggy clothes that barely stay on their body. His bald head catches a slight reflection of the sun and he shakes his head keeping a keen eye on the two men who are outside.

The screen reads $30.00 as the men hang up the pump and walk inside the store; they quickly walk to the back of the store to scope out the beverage section.


Cashier: How are you boys today?

Guy 1: Good, nearly ran out of gas out there. Glad there is at least one gas station around this hell hole homie.

Cashier (joking): I get most of my customers bridging on empty son.

The two black men laugh as they scan the store. The cashier opens the drawer he stahed the magazine in again and he places his hand on a gun, it is a small snub nose piece all black. His white hand gripped around it makes quite the contrast. Meanwhile a red truck pulls up outside at another pump, the cashier pushes the authorization button; he does not even take his eyes off the two men in the store who continue to scan the store for snacks. The two approach the cash and place two bottles of Nestle water on the counter. The second person cocks his eyebrow sensing the hostility as the man stares a hole into their souls.

Cashier: This and thirty dollars of gas?

Guy 1: Yes sir that is everything.

Cashier (suspicious): That is everything?

Guy 1: Yes…

Cashier: Are you sure?

Guy 2 (offended): Yes, we are God damn sure! What are you trying to get at here white boy?

The cashier grips his gun tighter as the young black man gets close to his face. BANG! The cashier falls behind the counter. BANG! Guy 2 goes down his brains falling onto the counter as he tumbles to the ground knocking gum onto the ground with him. Guy 1 turns to see a man with long black hair and a moustache that stretches from his upper lip, down the sides of his face all the way down to his chin. His eyes hide behind black aviator glasses, and a cigarette hangs between his lips gently as he holds his gun upright aimed toward the black man. The man looks there in shock at the gun wielding maniac, there in the reflection in his aviator glasses, you can see the man get shot directly in the chest, and another bullet nails him between the eyes (within the reflection of the glasses). Beautiful clean shooting, blood spouts out of the small black hole left in the mans head. The gunman blows the smoke off his old six-shooter that sparks silver. The gunman walks the store casually he looks through the snack isle finding nothing, then he comes to the mother load, in the beverage section a nice big quart of Jack Daniels stares at him. Good ol’ Jack, his only true friend. The gunman smiles with a set of white teeth as he grips the Jack and takes it toward the counter with him. The gunman hears choking, and coughing, he looks over the counter. BOOM! A bullet flies by the gunman’s head, and shatters the light right behind him. The gunman takes cover behind the counter. The cashier lies on the ground choking on his own blood, holding his hand over a hole in his throat. His eyes continue to fall back into the back of his head as the blood flows through the cracks of his fingers; he holds the gun with the other hand.

Gunman: Look fella you do not want to die like this, it is not as glamorous as they say to die in a hail of bullets. It is not like that little gun you have made by a poor child in east India is going to fire again anyway. You are lucky enough it fired in the first place. How long has it been collecting dirt and dust in that goddamn drawer? Years I would say.

The Gunman stands up and looks over the counter at the cashier who lies in a pool of his own blood. The cashier lifts the gun, and it falls in a sad attempt to fight off the man that is taking his life. The gunman smiles as he casually grabs a bag and pushes a fist full of cash from the till into it, along with his bottle of booze. He shoves a pack of blue cigarettes into his pocket and looks down at the cashier. He gets on his knees, smiling he pushes the cashiers head back and smacks his face lightly.

Gunman: Pay attention now.

He pauses to scratch his head softly with the end of his six-shooter.

Gunman: Now if there was one thing I learned from the killing spree of Mickey and Mallory Knox in the nineties it was “Always leave someone behind to tell the tail of your legacy. You need someone to continue your story.” I was going to let you live, clip you in the shoulder. My aim is a little off it seems though. Anyway, long story short is we have come a long way from then, technology wise anyway. I mean look at that camera up there, it will tell a better tale than you ever will…

The gunman looks up at the camera and smiles, posing arrogantly. He looks back at the cashier and shakes his head.

Gunman: Have you ever been to the United Kingdom? Of course not what am I asking, you are stuck in this little hell hole your whole life. In the UK they did a study, they figured out that the average person is caught on camera 300 times a day. That is crazy isn’t it? Now it’s great that you got this lovely little camera system here, because I could not leave you here bleeding to death that’s terrible. It is a very horrible way to die. I don’t think there is such a thing as pure evil. I like to think that there are degrees. That is why i can’t leave you here bleeding to death like some fuckin’ animal. I consider myself a humanitarian!

BOOM! One clean shot to the skull, blood splatters all over the counter behind him as the Gunman turns around grabbing his cigarettes, booze and cash. These things are all the necessary tools of life. As he gets outside he places a cigarette between his lips and lights it. He inhales and blows the smoke into the hot sun. He gets inside his pickup and drives away leaving disturbed gravel. He begins thinking to himself as he flies by the hot sandy desert…


Gunman (V.O.): Who the fuck am I? I ask myself that question every single day; I bet most normal people find themselves doing the same. The only thing is I am not sitting there behind a desk with my dick in my hand, no I am doing something. I am slowly finding myself as the days go on. One discharged bullet out a time. So what the hell have I found out about myself? I am an unloved being, a waste of talent; I am a survived abortion, the thing that goes bump in the night. I am torture, I am pain, I am rape, and I am the FUCKING AMERICAN DREAM … freedom personified. I am oppression; I am angry, empty… I am a walking Desperado.

Smiling Desperado flicks the cigarette out of the window and it bounds lightly on the asphalt. We follow this cigarettes journey as credits begin to roll to the tune of Folson Prison Blues by Johnny Cash



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