Post by Tommy "Southpaw" O'Malley on Oct 18, 2008 0:55:39 GMT -5
~Open Scene
The scene opens on the second floor of a two story commercial building as the Southern Houston sun fades into the horizon of the Gulf. Tommy is sitting in his loft apartment at his desk, sipping a mug full of hot Jameson whiskey, and scrolling through his contacts in his digital addressbook on his computer.
The camera focuses as Tommy smiles and stops his analytical eyes on one entry. He takes a swig of hot whiskey, and then fishes for a cigarette from his drawer. He finds a half-exhausted pack of matches on his desktop and then strikes and lights the cig.
Tommy leans back in his chair and examines the entry.
Tommy "Southpaw" O'Malley: "Grady Black"
Tommy whispers the name, as if he's reminiscing the history between himself and the faceless name on the computer screen.
O'Malley bends forward and puts his office phone on speaker and dull dial tone is heard. Tommy punches in what must be the number on-screen. The receiving phone rings twice before a click is heard and a scratchy, voice is heard.
Voice: Hullo?
O'Malley grins and then leans back and takes a drag on his cig before answering in a quick, Irish traveler accent.
Tommy "Southpaw" O'Malley: Grady, me boy, I have some work for ye and yer boys. Has to be worth more than shovelin' shite for your da.
Grady Black: Tommy? The Hammer, Tommy "Southpaw" O'Malley? Feck me.
Tommy "Southpaw" O'Malley: That's right, you are fecked, ever since you stopped fighting boxers and started drinking full time.
Grady Black: Tom, as long as I'm paid in liquor, I'm a rich man for the jobs I do.
Tommy "Southpaw" O'Malley: I'm serious as a t'ree-headed pecker fecker. Write this address down...
The cameras fade.
Five minutes later, the phone is heard going dead and the blank screen fades back to Tommy glaring into the camera.
Tommy "Southpaw" O'Malley: So, Martin, you want me to ref this feckin' poor excuse for a title match. So be it. If you want what I want--hell, what your boss wants, then maybe you should pay attention to what goes down this weekend. The usual suspects think they have it all figured out.
JEnt just wants headlines, so they go bust someone's knee, Nancy Kerrigan style, before, after or during the match.
Boring.
The lights go out, and some panzy beats people up when they can't see, and leaves them a rose.
Homosexual.
JahMon Rastafari, busch-leaguer JahMon walks around like he owns Patrick Martin's balls, doing whatever the hell he wants, to whomever he wants.
Problem is, he hasn't done shite.
What do you have to prove? You know how to use a lead pipe. Big feckin' deal. Go smoke some dope with your arse hole, that'd be more shocking.
Or, maybe if you won something by doing something well, then you would start to turn the corner. Then you'd start to earn respect. Nah, thats a pipe-dream--not in this fed.
Tommy takes another drag on his cig, then lets the cig rest on his lips.
Tommy "Southpaw" O'Malley: At least Luger and Blondie don't let shite go one way. They know how it works in the "real" world.
I can flip that switch, too Martin. Kersh, I can be your "ref", hell I can be your sheriff. I can also be your worst nightmare.
Tommy finishes the drag and then puts out the cig in the ash tray.
Tommy "Southpaw" O'Malley: To be honest Martin, I've got a gameplan, but I don't know how this ends. Or begins.
End Scene~
