INT. YE OLDE WESTERN SALOON - DAY Sarah, 28, with a mess of brown hair and a long rancher's duster coat walks through the doors of the saloon and scans the place. She's nervous, but desperate. SARAH: Jenkins? Tom Jenkins. (looks to the barkeep) Where is he? The barkeep nods towards a hunched over man at a table in the corner. She takes a nervous breath and very slowly walks over. You never know what these bleary eyed cowboys will pull. SARAH: Tom Jenkins. JENKINS: (drunk grumbling) What is it? SARAH: (annoyed) Wake up. Jenkins, 30s, a windblown cowpoke whose balls are bigger than his brains and has the scars to prove it, barely lifts his head to see who it is. Surprised to see her here, but too hungover to give a shit- JENKINS: (hungover/drunk) The fuck you want here, Miss Sarah? His drunkenness and obvious lack of faculties gives her a boost of confidence. SARAH: Where's Simon? JENKINS: He ain't here. (head back down) SARAH: You said he was here. JENKINS: I didn't say he was here. You assumed it. SARAH: Listen, I don't care what the story is anymore, I just need to find him. Where is he? Jenkins takes a loud, annoyed breath and looks up at her with a shit-eating grin. He plans on messing with her. JENKINS: Where's who? SARAH: You know damn well who I'm talkin' about here, Jenkins. I don't have time for your games. (desperate) Where is he? JENKINS: Why I don't have the slightest what you're talking about, Miss Sarah. He pushes the chair back to get up. Wobbles. SARAH: Jenkins, I'm going to ask you one more time... (pointedly) Where is he? JENKINS: Or what? He's nearly erect when she whips out a pistol she's been white-knuckling in her coat pocket, rushes the barrel to his nostril, and seethes with anger. SARAH: He took my money, Jenkins. Everything I had left. I know it was him who done it. I saw him out there after the storm rootin' around the dugout. Her actions are completely out of character and Jenkins is taken aback at first, but scoffs at her audacity. Until she grabs his balls with her other hand. SARAH: Perhaps it was you who was out there rootin' around the mess. Perhaps it's you who is the rightful thief. Should I be accusing you of taking the money? (he shakes his head 'no') Ah, so it was someone else? Someone lucky enough to escape what was supposed to be a deadhead shot to the skull and cocky enough to wear the hole in his hat as proof that the good Lord don't want him yet...? No response. He's all nerves now. She shoves him back down into his chair and cocks the gun pointed right between the eyes. SARAH: Everyone in here knows he drinks away every dime he's got 'til he ain't got none and he can't keep his dick in his pants to save Hail Mary and none of these girls'd sleep with the man for free if Jesus come hisself. And wouldn't you know it last night he's got every single one of them up there heavin' and ho'ing in miserable pleasure. (looks at one of the girls) Hell, even Miss Clara looks worn out and Lord knows she can't stand the man. She steps closer to him and presses the nozzle harder against his forehead with each word. SARAH: Where.is.Simon? Still no response. SARAH: Are you too drunk to understand what's goin' on here? She's losing confidence. He can tell. JENKINS: You're in over your head, sweetheart. Sarah hesitates then lowers the gun so it's pointed right between his legs and fires a shot into the floor. SARAH: No, Mr. Jenkins. I think you are. Is he scared? Excited? Impressed? With one finger he points upstairs. And with that there's a large commotion coming from that same direction. INT. UPSTAIRS WHORE ROOM at YE OLDE WESTERN SALOON - DAY Simon, 50, fat, hairy, sweaty, straight-up putrid mess of a man scrambles for his things and trips over a chair. INT. YE OLDE WESTERN SALOON - DAY Sarah hears this and looks to the stairs. Miss Clara points towards the door hinting that he'll climb out the window and jump down. Sarah looks back at Jenkins who looks as though he's about to lose his breakfast and gives a wicked smile and a wink before kicking the chair out from under him and running out the door. EXT. YE OLDE WESTERN SALOON - DAY Sarah runs out the door and stops. She's dizzy. What the hell did she just do? She hears footsteps on the wooden awning above her and runs down the stairs and turns to see fat Simon in his underwear trying to jump off the roof. She aims the gun at him and cocks it. SARAH: Simon! You owe me money, Mister, and everybody knows it. And I want every goddamn penny plus $50 extra for making me see you in them threadbare longjohns, you son of a bitch.

sorry for the length... quite a bit longer than i expected.

INT. TREEHOUSE - DAY The other five-year-olds dump grubby, defiant TERRI on the pink rug. She looks up - To find seven-year-old MARCY towering over her. MARCY: Where did you hide my Barbie dolls? TERRI: What Barbie dolls? MARCY: Who said anything about Barbie dolls? TERRI: You did. This is not turning out quite the way Marcy had hoped. MARCY: Don't make me do it, Terri. You know I will. TERRI: Don't care. MARCY: You know you won't be able to resist. No one ever does. Terri's starting to look worried. But she scowls and crosses her arms. No dice. MARCY: You pushed me to this! Remember that! You made me do it! Bring out... the basket of kittens! Terri wails in horror as one of the boys climbs up through the trapdoor with a wicket basket containing the cutest kittens known to man! Marcy takes the basket. Strokes the mewling, cuddling, unbelievably cute bundles of fur. Terri clenches her fists, about to explode with the effort of resisting... MARCY: Who's a cute kitty? Yes, you are! Yes, you are! TERRI: All right! They're in the washing machine! Just let me pet the kitties! Marcy smiles. No one resists the kittens...

INT. HUMUNGOUS TALENT GROUP - LATE NIGHT Lit only by the desk lamps of the overworked and exit lights along the ceilings and walls, this is the tasteful and elegant main office for Hollywood's most prestigious talent agency. Or at least it was this morning, because right now it looks like the hurricane of the world's greatest office party ever just blew through. Thank God for the Christmas break because Hercules himself would have a helluva task cleaning up after all these party animals. Unbelievably, party's still going on in a corner office. INT. DARREN GOLDMAN'S OFFICE Huge, imperious office, decorated as a subtle but pointed reminder that Darren Goldman's better than you in every way imaginable. Furniture moved to make space, our group of young assistants and junior execs sit in a circle, shoes off, passing spliffs, bottles of blue label and imported stoli raided from Darren's private stash. One couple drunkenly slow dance to the music playing gently in the background. Clear empty bottle spins, slowing down, finally stopping. It points to the most senior of them, Scarlet. Tofer smiles like he's been waiting for this moment all night. TOFER: Truth or dare? Scarlet glances warily at Tofer's lascivious leer. SCARLET: Truth. Definitely truth. TOFER: What did you think? SCARLET: About what? TOFER: The script. What did you think of Blake Mayer's script? Scarlet stares right back at him, saying nothing, as the assembled group gently grumbles in concert. CLAIRE: C'mon, no work you guys... SCARLET: That's ok... (back to Tofer) It was interesting... TOFER: That's what you said before. Did you like it? Scarlet takes a long draw from the fatty just passed to her, passes it on while taking a long pause to think. As she exhales, we see her face relax, just for a split, until it settles into a sphinx like gaze. Tofer recognizes that look... TOFER: You didn't even read it, did you? SCARLET: One question per spin, them's the rules. She takes the bottle, spins it, but it ends up pointing right back at her. SCARLET: Shit! TOFER: Yeah, double truth! (to Scarlet) Did you read it? Scarlet shrugs like "you got me!" TOFER: Why not? Slit of a smile crosses her face. SCARLET: It truth or dare, sunshine... Do you think you can handle the truth? TOFER: (nodding) Of course. SCARLET: Finei, Tofer... the reason I didn't read it is because I hate you. Always have. You're a fucking prick and I'm gonna make sure you never advance in this place. A gasp or two, then deathly silence. SCARLET: You waltz into here, like Darren's little golden boy, and the first thing he does is give you an A-lister... just like that... do you know how long the rest of us had to work here before we got a sniff of even a second-rate director. The others nod in agreement. SCARLET: The shit we've had to put up with from him, it's not fair... (more softly, almost tearful) It's just not fair. Tofer raises himself up from the ground, grabs his expensive oxfords and an unopened bottle of blue label. TOFER: I'm sorry you feel that way, Scarlet, but Darren likes me because I bring home the bacon and I don't mind him taking the credit. The last three big hits we've had... you know, the ones that grossed nearly two Billion... all movies *I* found. He leans down to face her. Eye to eye. TOFER: By the way, if you were anywhere near as good at your job as you think you are, you'd also know that in the New Year, you're gonna be working for me. Tofer starts to make his way out... TOFER: Everyone, please enjoy your holidays.

Release the puppies of doom, the cuddly bunnies of armageddon!! Buah-ha-ha

INT. DANNY GOLDSTEIN'S HOUSE, BROOKLYN - DAY Dressed for winter, Danny enters his home, closes the door behind him. We hear the TV blaring from the kitchen at the back. DANNY: Hey Ma, I'm back. Danny removes his hat and scarf, puts them on the coat-stand. TV sound from the kitchen drops... MA GOLDSTEIN (O.S.): Dinner's not till late... Your father's still at the hockey. You want me to make you a sandwich? DANNY: Thanks ma, that'd be great. Danny removes his bag, then removes his coat, hands that on the coat-stand. MA GOLDSTEIN (O.S.): Whattaya want? I got some chicken leftover from last night, or some cold cuts from Tresky's. Tresky's... Danny starts to shiver involuntarily, almost in dread. DANNY: Chicken's good. Can you add a little mayo? MA GOLDSTEIN (O.S.): Do you want wheat bread? I got some rye, too. Danny picks up the pile of letters lying on the hallway table, goes through them as he makes his way to the kitchen. Sees the letter from Columbia University, grins and opens it. DANNY: Wheat's fine. MA GOLDSTEIN (O.S.): What about coleslaw? KITCHEN Still reading the letter, Danny enters to see the 70 year-old spitfire he calls Ma, at the counter, expertly wielding her kitchen knife like some insane Samurai cook. -- Oprah's on the TV. He sidles up to his mother, hugs her, kisses her on the cheek. Snatches a piece of chicken, wolfs it down. DANNY: Okay, what's with all the questions? Is this some kind of interrogation?... Coleslaw from Sam's? MA GOLDSTEIN: (indignantly) Of course I got it from Sam's. What kind of mother do you think I am? (she eyeballs Danny) What's wrong with you? I was just asking what you wanted with your sandwich. DANNY: This is great Ma... really. I'm just a little stressed. MA GOLDSTEIN: Oh, before I forget, your aunt May says hello. Danny opens the fridge for a drink, pauses to search. DANNY: How is that old witch? Did she get her broomstick out of the service shop? Danny rises, defeated in his search, slightly frustrated look on his face. DANNY: Ma, do we have any chicken soup left? He sits at the kitchen table, finishes the letter. DANNY: (to no one in particular) How about that... the department accepted my research proposal.

EXT: Suburban cul-de-sac. A garage band is noisily jamming out, drowning out all noise on the black. Push in on LAURA, 14, high school band geek. peppy. She’s carrying around a brochure and a fundraising sheet. She knocks on the door, It has a “no solicitors” sign on it. In ALL CAPS. The door opens and there’s RUSSEL HOMAN. 40’s, All American. He’s in a dress shirt and slacks with the sleeves up. He has a salesman’s grin Laura: Hi… I’m sorry I’m looking for Mr. Jenkins. Russell: Oh, sorry about that I’m, Russell, we’re related. Laura stares puzzled. Russell: On his wife’s side. Laura give a look like “ooh.” Laura: I saw the sign, but it doesn’t say anything about “band fundraisers.” Would you like to buy some chocolates? Russell: Well, don’t mind that, Craig’s just a grump. Got anything with strawberries? Laura: White Chocolate strawberry bars? Sure they’re great. Russell: Groovy, I’ll take one of those. Laura: Thanks that’ll be $10 Russell pulls a wrinkled $20 from his pocket. Russell: Go ahead and keep the rest as a donation. When will these be delivered? Laura: A couple of weeks. Russell: Great! Just send them here and I’ll get them from Craig. Laura: Ok, thanks, and thank you for supporting the music department. Laura gives a little smile and leaves Russell turns and heads inside. Russell waits for a second, turns and walks back in the house. INT: Jenkins house Russell passes picture frames of the Jenkins family. None: of them look like Russell. He opens the door to the garage INT Garage Russell: Signed you up for chocolate. Helped out the school band. So, Craig, I followed the money, to you, now I want to know, where are the drugs? Jenkins: Blow me. Russell pulls out a pair of pliers from a tool bench. Russell: Craig, help me, out, I’m just looking for answers. Russell forces his way into Craig’s mouth and yanks a tooth. Blood spurts and Craig wails in pain. Russell: More importantly, help your family. Your wife, she’s with us, your son? Picked up this afternoon. They’re fine, a little scared but that’s all. Craig: I can’t… Russell loses it. He takes the pliers and gives a hard smash across Craig’s face. Old cuts reopen new blood starts to spray. Russell: We lost three UCs. I’m giving you, two options, tell me or I swear you’ll be gone too. Craig: They’ll kill me.. BAM, two more his with the pliers then goes in and roughly pulls out two more teeth. Russell drops the pliers and pulls out a .40 glock and points it at Jenkins. Jenkins is moaning and crying. Russell: Make all the noise you want, nobody’s going to hear you. Only people that’ll know you’re dead, will be me, and neighbor girl with your chocolate. Russell presses the pistol behind Jenkins’ ear. Waits for a loud note from the garage band, the note comes and- Jenkins: Wait. Wait, it’s Eoghan, with an “E” in front. Russell puts down the gun and pulls out a memo pad. Russell: So an “E” in front, and how do you spell the rest of that?