AceWriters
09-21-2003, 07:10 AM
Notes: EZBoard seems to like to take profanity and place "@!!@!@#$" in its place. This is not my choice, but the editor's.
Like what you see so far? There's more, this is a finished script for a high concept piece that's "Wall Street" meets "The Player". Would like to correspond with individuals wanting to "swap" scripts for serious, hardcore evaluations. Please email mark@acewriters.com for more information, and thanks for reading!
FADE IN:
EXT. MONTY'S HOUSE - DAY
An upscale house in an L.A. suburb. MONTY TAYLOR, 35, slowly
walks out. He is unshaven, wears T-shirt with an "I SPY"
logo, well-worn jeans and sneakers, and totes an expensive
leather attaché case.
Monty walks past his Porsche. Way past. He turns around, aims
his remote. The engine CHIRPS to life.
INT. MONTY'S PORSCHE
Monty gets in, opens the case, which contains cell phones of
all shapes and sizes. He turns them on. They flash, BEEP,
CHIRP, RING, play MUSIC, like a toy shop Christmas display.
Monty flips open one of the phones, listens.
MONTY
Taylor... keep him there.
He places a CD in the player: Vivaldi's Four Seasons BLASTS.
INT. MONTY'S PORSCHE - DAY (LATER)
He speeds along a crowded highway, barely misses cars, buses
and semis. Calmly oblivious, Monty switches phones.
MONTY
Sharper Image. Jacko. Be there in
five minutes.
He finds some liquid Mylanta, guzzles it.
INT. MONTY'S PORSCHE - DAY (LATER)
The car roars up to a red light, barely slows down as Monty
checks for traffic. He floors the Porsche through the red
light, ignoring BEEPS from approaching cars.
INT. MONTY'S PORSCHE - DAY (LATER)
He corners into parking lot with "SHARPER IMAGE" sign, eyes
the cars like a vulture, spots a white Sedan.
MONTY (V.O.)
Bless me Father for I have sinned.
It has been one day since my last
confession.
He grabs a looseleaf book from the floor, thumbs through.
PRIEST (V.O.)
Go on, my son...
He glances at the Sedan's plates: JWD-617.
He scans the page: plate numbers, car models, registered
owners, stops at JWD-617. 2002 WHITE SEDAN. MICHAEL JACKSON.
MONTY (V.O.)
(quickly; memorized)
I accuse myself of lying...
fraud... theft... blackmail...
cheating... greed... pride... rape,
of the human condition... murder,
of the human spirit... these I
commit every day...
PRIEST (V.O.)
Your voice sounds familiar, my son,
and I hope and pray that you
continue to ask "why?" and search
your soul for a means to repent. Do
you wish to seek penance for your
sins?
He tosses the book, gives the car some gas.
EXT. PARKING LOT - CONTINUOUS
Monty parks in front of the Sedan, trapping it.
MONTY (V.O.)
I do.
PRIEST (V.O.)
I trust you are struggling to make
the necessary changes in your life.
That your eyes are open to the good
in the human spirit. The human
condition. That you search for it,
every hour of every day, until it
becomes more than you can begin to
understand.
And when that happens, my son, you
will already have started your
journey down the right path.
A red Ferrari peels up to the Porsche. Out comes a wild-eyed
guy, mid 30's, Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, hair groomed to
perfection. He is JACK MARTIN, Monty's partner.
MONTY (V.O.)
I want to find that path, Father.
Monty meets Jack at the trunk. It opens: cameras.
EXT. SHARPER IMAGE STORE - CONTINUOUS
Monty and Jack peer through the window. Jack aims him cam.
PRIEST (V.O.)
Are you ready, then, to repeat the
Act of Contrition with me?
Monty walks in. A SCREAM from inside. Out comes a HOLLYWOOD
STAR, in red leather jacket, white mask, followed by his
burly BODYGUARD, and Monty. Jack records.
The bodyguard blocks them as The Star runs to his car.
Jack lowers his camera. Monty winks. They suddenly run to the
parking lot. The bodyguard SWEARS and follows.
INT. CONFESSIONAL BOOTH - PRESENT DAY
Monty kneels before the silhouette of the PRIEST, takes off
his sunglasses, reveals a black and purple eye, swollen nose.
MONTY
Let's do it.
INSERT: "SIX MONTHS EARLIER"
EXT. PARKING LOT - DAY
Monty, in jacket and tie, walks to his car, sees TWO PUNKS
playing tug-of-war with a Rolex.
FIRST PUNK
Hey, Holmes, I @#%$ snaked it. I
@#%$ keep it.
SECOND PUNK
You ain't keeping jack, jack.
Monty approaches.
MONTY
Aw, man. You @#%$ assholes. You
don't want to know what a shitty
night I've had. I have to run your
snatchin' asses to the station on
my day off, you're gonna @#%$
wish you took that McDonalds job.
He flips open his credentials, closes them.
MONTY (CONT'D)
Monty Taylor. Detective Monty
Taylor, Fourteenth Precinct. Drop
the @#%$ watch or I use your
faces to punch my timecard.
The punks look at each other, drop the Rolex, and run off.
His credentials: a press pass for The Los Angeles Times. He
smiles, glances down at the Rolex.
INT. LA TIMES OFFICES - DAY
Reporters scrambling. Phones ringing. A CHINESE DELIVERY MAN
handing out food to workers in cubicles.
A door with an inscription: MONTY TAYLOR.
INT. MONTY'S OFFICE
Monty's messy desk. Piles of folders. A tiny doll hangs from
a lamp, its neck in a noose, "L.A." inked on its shirt.
Monty adjusts his new Rolex, smokes a cigarette, talks into a
phone lit with buttons.
MONTY
You expect me to believe that
bullshit? He was caught, do you
hear me? Caught! On film. Leaving
the massage parlor. And his fuckin'
fly was unzipped... look, it's out
of my hands. It's going to the
presses.
Tell your boss his motto about
giving the city more jobs ends with
a hand job by an eighteen-year old
immigrant Korean...
(smiles)
...so you're not then denying he
did not have a hand job?... no, I
won't repeat the question.
PHILLIP HARRIS walks in, his glasses dangling off the edge of
his nose. He grips a newspaper like a club, sits.
MONTY (CON'T)
(into phone)
Call me back in an hour... Court?
Ok, talk to you then.
Monty slams the phone, stubs his smoke.
HARRIS
Thirteen years. Thirteen years I
made a point to keep the Times in
good standing with area officials.
And then this!
Harris hurls the paper at him. The headline: MAYOR BILLINGS'
ROMP WITH TEEN. A fuzzy photo of Billings kissing a blonde.
MONTY
This is news, Phil.
HARRIS
Did you really think you'd slip
this past the printers?
MONTY
Got it this morning. Right before
deadline. I made a decision.
HARRIS
You've been making a lot of
decisions. Our lawyers are working
overtime 'cause of you. You think
his administration's brass is gonna
settle this one? Look at this
photo, it's horrible, it could be
his daughter for all we know!
MONTY
That is not his daughter, Phil.
HARRIS
I taught you how to be objective. I
taught you the story. And this is
how you repay me?!
Monty glances at the glass door: the reporters stare back.
HARRIS (CON'T)
You lost sight of the line. I can't
help you anymore. I can't.
Harris gives Monty a hug. He doesn't let go.
HARRIS (CON'T)
(whispers)
Get out of here.
MONTY
Phil, the woman in that picture is
not his wife. I can prove it.
Harris lets go.
HARRIS
That's the difference between us. I
don't give a @#%$ who the Mayor
sleeps with. Just so I sleep.
Harris turns off the lamp, exits. Monty, in the dark, opens
his mouth to speak, stops, shakes his head.
INT. APARTMENT STAIRWELL - DAY
Monty, visibly upset, carries a box of personal items from
The Times, passes MAX, an old man in an undershirt and
shorts, struggling down. Monty hands him some envelopes.
MONTY
Here's your mail, Max. How's the
hip?
MAX
Fuckin' doctors... when you gonna
turn the tables on those sawbones,
give 'em a taste of their own
medicine?
MONTY
Too busy tasting my own.
MAX
What's the matter?
MONTY
Nothing I can't handle. Here, grab
my arm.
Monty helps Max up the stairs.
MAX
Five-fifty a month, still no
elevator. Tell that to your paper
friends.
MONTY
I don't think there's a story in
there, Max.
MAX
Trouble with all you hacks...
you're afraid to cross the line.
Max slips, holds his hip in pain.
MAX (CONT'D)
Feels like somebody's stuck me with
a knife and won't stop twisting.
MONTY
I hear ya... I hear ya...
INT. MONTY'S LIVING ROOM - DAY
A second-hand couch and table. Framed newspaper clippings on
one wall. Monty drops the box, his cellphone up to his ear.
MONTY
(into cellphone)
Mr. Blane, it's Monty Taylor...
I've been thinking about our
conversation a few months ago. The
Times isn't cutting it for me
anymore... oh, you heard about the
piece... no, sir, that's just a
rumor. There's no pending lawsuit
with the Mayor's staff. The story
was frozen... I don't understand.
The Tribune was hot for me. You
phoned me every day for... but...
Monty hangs up, dials another number.
INT. CLARENCE ADLER'S OFFICE - DAY
Monty in a suit, sits before a man of obvious importance,
CLARENCE ADLER, whose eyes squint as he listens.
MONTY
I'd be willing to start off as a
junior reporter. Whatever The
Journal has available. I can start
today.
Adler stubs his cigarette, shakes his bald head.
ADLER
You're definitely dynamite, kid.
And I don't want The Journal
anywhere near the explosion.
MONTY
I could tone it down... I'll tone
it down.
ADLER
From what I've been hearing, your
stick's already lit, son. I don't
know what it is you're trying to
prove, but damn if you aren't
taking the whole pudding.
He extends his hand to Monty. The royal kiss off.
INT. RYAN PUB - NIGHT
A well-worn bar. Monty sits across from the bartender, RYAN,
60: stocky, rugged, blue-eyed, wearing a Dodgers' T-shirt. A
few STRAGGLERS drink quietly in the shadows.
RYAN
Dynamite, huh? Back in my day, you
were dynamite, you were on top. So
what else you know how to do?
Monty holds his empty glass to his eye, peers at Ryan.
MONTY
Just this.
RYAN
What the @#%$ is that?
MONTY
Perception... introspection...
denigration... humiliation...
RYAN
You want to know what you look
like, kid, from my uh perception?
MONTY
It's not supposed to be about me.
RYAN
Kid, it's all about you. Wake up.
You want to humiliate, be a lawyer.
Or get your own talk show.
MONTY
It doesn't matter... I'm out.
RYAN
Your father, rest his soul... he'd
have been proud of you, kid. He
knew you were dealt a bad hand,
your mother dying when you was just
a baby and all. Don't think he
didn't worry about it, you on the
gur. A cop's son was no life for
you, he knew it. But damn if he
didn't charge like a bull through
L.A. like it was his waving red
cape. It was all he knew how to do,
too. And he accepted it.
Ryan fills two shotglasses, raises his glass.
RYAN (CONT'D)
To the best damn investigator this
side of the fault.
They clink glasses, drink.
RYAN (CONT'D)
And to your father.
Ryan raises his glass. They toast. Monty hands him the glass.
MONTY
Hit me again.
Ryan throws his rag into Monty's lap.
RYAN
Can't do that. You start early
tomorrow.
(off Monty's look)
What? You think I'm gonna stand by
and watch my only nephew follow in
his father's tracks? ...till
another paper comes to their senses
and picks you up. In the meantime,
get the place hopping, like in the
old days... as a favor to your
uncle.
An OLDER, WRINKLED WOMAN staggers past.
WRINKLED WOMAN
(singing)
Oh Oh Oh Oh I wish I was back home
in Derry...
RYAN
Easy, Liza, I got a paying customer
here.
MONTY
Looks like I got my work cut out
for me.
RYAN
Go on, hump off. Mary finds out I
was serving you, I'll be sleeping
with the dog tonight.
MONTY
Tell her I'm fine.
RYAN
Any truth to that story, hotshot?
MONTY
Truth doesn't sell anymore.
RYAN
Sure, kid. Whatever you say.
Monty tosses a twenty on the bar, walks to the door.
RYAN (CONT'D)
(shouts)
The dynamite kid has left the
building!
Monty shakes his head, smiles, exits.
Like what you see so far? There's more, this is a finished script for a high concept piece that's "Wall Street" meets "The Player". Would like to correspond with individuals wanting to "swap" scripts for serious, hardcore evaluations. Please email mark@acewriters.com for more information, and thanks for reading!
FADE IN:
EXT. MONTY'S HOUSE - DAY
An upscale house in an L.A. suburb. MONTY TAYLOR, 35, slowly
walks out. He is unshaven, wears T-shirt with an "I SPY"
logo, well-worn jeans and sneakers, and totes an expensive
leather attaché case.
Monty walks past his Porsche. Way past. He turns around, aims
his remote. The engine CHIRPS to life.
INT. MONTY'S PORSCHE
Monty gets in, opens the case, which contains cell phones of
all shapes and sizes. He turns them on. They flash, BEEP,
CHIRP, RING, play MUSIC, like a toy shop Christmas display.
Monty flips open one of the phones, listens.
MONTY
Taylor... keep him there.
He places a CD in the player: Vivaldi's Four Seasons BLASTS.
INT. MONTY'S PORSCHE - DAY (LATER)
He speeds along a crowded highway, barely misses cars, buses
and semis. Calmly oblivious, Monty switches phones.
MONTY
Sharper Image. Jacko. Be there in
five minutes.
He finds some liquid Mylanta, guzzles it.
INT. MONTY'S PORSCHE - DAY (LATER)
The car roars up to a red light, barely slows down as Monty
checks for traffic. He floors the Porsche through the red
light, ignoring BEEPS from approaching cars.
INT. MONTY'S PORSCHE - DAY (LATER)
He corners into parking lot with "SHARPER IMAGE" sign, eyes
the cars like a vulture, spots a white Sedan.
MONTY (V.O.)
Bless me Father for I have sinned.
It has been one day since my last
confession.
He grabs a looseleaf book from the floor, thumbs through.
PRIEST (V.O.)
Go on, my son...
He glances at the Sedan's plates: JWD-617.
He scans the page: plate numbers, car models, registered
owners, stops at JWD-617. 2002 WHITE SEDAN. MICHAEL JACKSON.
MONTY (V.O.)
(quickly; memorized)
I accuse myself of lying...
fraud... theft... blackmail...
cheating... greed... pride... rape,
of the human condition... murder,
of the human spirit... these I
commit every day...
PRIEST (V.O.)
Your voice sounds familiar, my son,
and I hope and pray that you
continue to ask "why?" and search
your soul for a means to repent. Do
you wish to seek penance for your
sins?
He tosses the book, gives the car some gas.
EXT. PARKING LOT - CONTINUOUS
Monty parks in front of the Sedan, trapping it.
MONTY (V.O.)
I do.
PRIEST (V.O.)
I trust you are struggling to make
the necessary changes in your life.
That your eyes are open to the good
in the human spirit. The human
condition. That you search for it,
every hour of every day, until it
becomes more than you can begin to
understand.
And when that happens, my son, you
will already have started your
journey down the right path.
A red Ferrari peels up to the Porsche. Out comes a wild-eyed
guy, mid 30's, Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, hair groomed to
perfection. He is JACK MARTIN, Monty's partner.
MONTY (V.O.)
I want to find that path, Father.
Monty meets Jack at the trunk. It opens: cameras.
EXT. SHARPER IMAGE STORE - CONTINUOUS
Monty and Jack peer through the window. Jack aims him cam.
PRIEST (V.O.)
Are you ready, then, to repeat the
Act of Contrition with me?
Monty walks in. A SCREAM from inside. Out comes a HOLLYWOOD
STAR, in red leather jacket, white mask, followed by his
burly BODYGUARD, and Monty. Jack records.
The bodyguard blocks them as The Star runs to his car.
Jack lowers his camera. Monty winks. They suddenly run to the
parking lot. The bodyguard SWEARS and follows.
INT. CONFESSIONAL BOOTH - PRESENT DAY
Monty kneels before the silhouette of the PRIEST, takes off
his sunglasses, reveals a black and purple eye, swollen nose.
MONTY
Let's do it.
INSERT: "SIX MONTHS EARLIER"
EXT. PARKING LOT - DAY
Monty, in jacket and tie, walks to his car, sees TWO PUNKS
playing tug-of-war with a Rolex.
FIRST PUNK
Hey, Holmes, I @#%$ snaked it. I
@#%$ keep it.
SECOND PUNK
You ain't keeping jack, jack.
Monty approaches.
MONTY
Aw, man. You @#%$ assholes. You
don't want to know what a shitty
night I've had. I have to run your
snatchin' asses to the station on
my day off, you're gonna @#%$
wish you took that McDonalds job.
He flips open his credentials, closes them.
MONTY (CONT'D)
Monty Taylor. Detective Monty
Taylor, Fourteenth Precinct. Drop
the @#%$ watch or I use your
faces to punch my timecard.
The punks look at each other, drop the Rolex, and run off.
His credentials: a press pass for The Los Angeles Times. He
smiles, glances down at the Rolex.
INT. LA TIMES OFFICES - DAY
Reporters scrambling. Phones ringing. A CHINESE DELIVERY MAN
handing out food to workers in cubicles.
A door with an inscription: MONTY TAYLOR.
INT. MONTY'S OFFICE
Monty's messy desk. Piles of folders. A tiny doll hangs from
a lamp, its neck in a noose, "L.A." inked on its shirt.
Monty adjusts his new Rolex, smokes a cigarette, talks into a
phone lit with buttons.
MONTY
You expect me to believe that
bullshit? He was caught, do you
hear me? Caught! On film. Leaving
the massage parlor. And his fuckin'
fly was unzipped... look, it's out
of my hands. It's going to the
presses.
Tell your boss his motto about
giving the city more jobs ends with
a hand job by an eighteen-year old
immigrant Korean...
(smiles)
...so you're not then denying he
did not have a hand job?... no, I
won't repeat the question.
PHILLIP HARRIS walks in, his glasses dangling off the edge of
his nose. He grips a newspaper like a club, sits.
MONTY (CON'T)
(into phone)
Call me back in an hour... Court?
Ok, talk to you then.
Monty slams the phone, stubs his smoke.
HARRIS
Thirteen years. Thirteen years I
made a point to keep the Times in
good standing with area officials.
And then this!
Harris hurls the paper at him. The headline: MAYOR BILLINGS'
ROMP WITH TEEN. A fuzzy photo of Billings kissing a blonde.
MONTY
This is news, Phil.
HARRIS
Did you really think you'd slip
this past the printers?
MONTY
Got it this morning. Right before
deadline. I made a decision.
HARRIS
You've been making a lot of
decisions. Our lawyers are working
overtime 'cause of you. You think
his administration's brass is gonna
settle this one? Look at this
photo, it's horrible, it could be
his daughter for all we know!
MONTY
That is not his daughter, Phil.
HARRIS
I taught you how to be objective. I
taught you the story. And this is
how you repay me?!
Monty glances at the glass door: the reporters stare back.
HARRIS (CON'T)
You lost sight of the line. I can't
help you anymore. I can't.
Harris gives Monty a hug. He doesn't let go.
HARRIS (CON'T)
(whispers)
Get out of here.
MONTY
Phil, the woman in that picture is
not his wife. I can prove it.
Harris lets go.
HARRIS
That's the difference between us. I
don't give a @#%$ who the Mayor
sleeps with. Just so I sleep.
Harris turns off the lamp, exits. Monty, in the dark, opens
his mouth to speak, stops, shakes his head.
INT. APARTMENT STAIRWELL - DAY
Monty, visibly upset, carries a box of personal items from
The Times, passes MAX, an old man in an undershirt and
shorts, struggling down. Monty hands him some envelopes.
MONTY
Here's your mail, Max. How's the
hip?
MAX
Fuckin' doctors... when you gonna
turn the tables on those sawbones,
give 'em a taste of their own
medicine?
MONTY
Too busy tasting my own.
MAX
What's the matter?
MONTY
Nothing I can't handle. Here, grab
my arm.
Monty helps Max up the stairs.
MAX
Five-fifty a month, still no
elevator. Tell that to your paper
friends.
MONTY
I don't think there's a story in
there, Max.
MAX
Trouble with all you hacks...
you're afraid to cross the line.
Max slips, holds his hip in pain.
MAX (CONT'D)
Feels like somebody's stuck me with
a knife and won't stop twisting.
MONTY
I hear ya... I hear ya...
INT. MONTY'S LIVING ROOM - DAY
A second-hand couch and table. Framed newspaper clippings on
one wall. Monty drops the box, his cellphone up to his ear.
MONTY
(into cellphone)
Mr. Blane, it's Monty Taylor...
I've been thinking about our
conversation a few months ago. The
Times isn't cutting it for me
anymore... oh, you heard about the
piece... no, sir, that's just a
rumor. There's no pending lawsuit
with the Mayor's staff. The story
was frozen... I don't understand.
The Tribune was hot for me. You
phoned me every day for... but...
Monty hangs up, dials another number.
INT. CLARENCE ADLER'S OFFICE - DAY
Monty in a suit, sits before a man of obvious importance,
CLARENCE ADLER, whose eyes squint as he listens.
MONTY
I'd be willing to start off as a
junior reporter. Whatever The
Journal has available. I can start
today.
Adler stubs his cigarette, shakes his bald head.
ADLER
You're definitely dynamite, kid.
And I don't want The Journal
anywhere near the explosion.
MONTY
I could tone it down... I'll tone
it down.
ADLER
From what I've been hearing, your
stick's already lit, son. I don't
know what it is you're trying to
prove, but damn if you aren't
taking the whole pudding.
He extends his hand to Monty. The royal kiss off.
INT. RYAN PUB - NIGHT
A well-worn bar. Monty sits across from the bartender, RYAN,
60: stocky, rugged, blue-eyed, wearing a Dodgers' T-shirt. A
few STRAGGLERS drink quietly in the shadows.
RYAN
Dynamite, huh? Back in my day, you
were dynamite, you were on top. So
what else you know how to do?
Monty holds his empty glass to his eye, peers at Ryan.
MONTY
Just this.
RYAN
What the @#%$ is that?
MONTY
Perception... introspection...
denigration... humiliation...
RYAN
You want to know what you look
like, kid, from my uh perception?
MONTY
It's not supposed to be about me.
RYAN
Kid, it's all about you. Wake up.
You want to humiliate, be a lawyer.
Or get your own talk show.
MONTY
It doesn't matter... I'm out.
RYAN
Your father, rest his soul... he'd
have been proud of you, kid. He
knew you were dealt a bad hand,
your mother dying when you was just
a baby and all. Don't think he
didn't worry about it, you on the
gur. A cop's son was no life for
you, he knew it. But damn if he
didn't charge like a bull through
L.A. like it was his waving red
cape. It was all he knew how to do,
too. And he accepted it.
Ryan fills two shotglasses, raises his glass.
RYAN (CONT'D)
To the best damn investigator this
side of the fault.
They clink glasses, drink.
RYAN (CONT'D)
And to your father.
Ryan raises his glass. They toast. Monty hands him the glass.
MONTY
Hit me again.
Ryan throws his rag into Monty's lap.
RYAN
Can't do that. You start early
tomorrow.
(off Monty's look)
What? You think I'm gonna stand by
and watch my only nephew follow in
his father's tracks? ...till
another paper comes to their senses
and picks you up. In the meantime,
get the place hopping, like in the
old days... as a favor to your
uncle.
An OLDER, WRINKLED WOMAN staggers past.
WRINKLED WOMAN
(singing)
Oh Oh Oh Oh I wish I was back home
in Derry...
RYAN
Easy, Liza, I got a paying customer
here.
MONTY
Looks like I got my work cut out
for me.
RYAN
Go on, hump off. Mary finds out I
was serving you, I'll be sleeping
with the dog tonight.
MONTY
Tell her I'm fine.
RYAN
Any truth to that story, hotshot?
MONTY
Truth doesn't sell anymore.
RYAN
Sure, kid. Whatever you say.
Monty tosses a twenty on the bar, walks to the door.
RYAN (CONT'D)
(shouts)
The dynamite kid has left the
building!
Monty shakes his head, smiles, exits.