STALKER

FADE IN:

EXT. SADDAM'S PALACE - NOON

IRAQ - USMC Forward Operating Base - 2011

A lone Humvee parked half in and out of the rear gate with three sentries inside keeping vigil of the alley directly across the street.

AIM

(voice over)

"The Art of War written some fifteen hundred ago by Sun Tzu stated an army equipped with men willing to do battles, tools ready for use and wisdom to win, it'll ride its enemy to total annihilation. The United States military possesses all of that and technologies light years ahead of our enemy, yet, she's tits deep in a war with no win insight. Obviously, the fucker Tzu never met God's soldiers."

INT. SENTRIES' HUMVEE - GATE - NOON

GUNNER, twenty-five, Hispanic, mans the turret .50 Cal machine gun pointing down the empty alley. His goggles and face caked with fine layer of sand. The only enemy insight is the sweltering sun he's been braving for several hours. He pours water on the goggles, flushing the layer of sand, wolfs down the rest and in his haste, drops the bottle inside the humvee. It rolls to a stop behind driver's seat.

GUNNER

"Eh, yo, New Guy, hand me that empty bottle I just dropped, man."

NEW GUY, twenty-two, Colorado white, sits apprehensive behind the wheel, whiteknuckling his decked out M4. He's so fixated on the invisible feines that might lurk in nooks of the alley Gunner's voice doesn't even register. Next to him is SARGE, white, 26, vigilant but relaxed, a combat vet who's seen and done the worst for mankind.

GUNNER

(still in the turret)

"I'm sorry, did I not say pretty please?"

(mumbles)

"Just tell me, man, who I gotta fuck around here to get shit done."

Sarge steals a glance at New Guy.

SARGE

"Relax, big man, you're in good company."

Sarge taps the weary soldier on the helmet to reassure New Guy of his presence. New Guy puts on weak smile.

NEW GUY

"Yeah. Sorry. You know the heat is killing me. And the smell!"

(shaking his head)

"The fear. How they do it, the locals. Guess if we can make it here then America is cake."

New Guy looks away, oblivious to the poetry of it.

SARGE

"Sweet and fat."

Gunner ducks down from the hatch, annoyed.

GUNNER

You two about done fucking each other's ear because I really shouldn't hold in my pee.

Sarge and Gunner busted out laughing.

SARGE

"Take it outside!"

Gunner grabs the empty bottle he dropped, unzips his pants.

SARGE

"I mean it. The smell lingers in this heat."

GUNNER

"You know my mom's gonna freak if she sees me sprawled on the cover of some paper under the caption, Marine shot dead in Iraq with his wee-wee hanging out. That's some cold shit for a mother to wake up to."

SARGE

"Don't fuck around, dude. Go piss outside, I got the fifty."

Gunner ignores him, he gets up in the turret, starts urinating into the bottle, still complaining...

GUNNER

"You want me out there in case some Juba wants to hone his craft? That's some cold, premeditated racist shit, man."

Sarge turns to look at Gunner.

SARGE

"Ladies and gentlemen of the juror, may I call your attention to the evidence, clearly, the man is packing for girlscouts."

New Guy chuckles, turns to see the fuss, looks at Sarge, both laughing at Gunner's expense.

SARGE

(serious)

"One spillage and you go back to patrol, nacho."

Gunner suddenly drops the bottle, spilling urine all over the place but before anyone could protest--

gunner

"Vehicle at twelve!"

Sarge and New Guy spin to look out the windshield. Sarge plugs his M4, thumbs off the safty.

SARGE

"Gunner, that fucker doesn't make it pass fifty yard you hear me!?"

(to New Guy)

"Get out and take position behind the door!"

Sarge and New Guy open the doors, spring out New guy levels his weapon at the vehicle. Sarge grabs the bullhorn from the dash, springs out.

INT. LUXURY SEDAN - ALLEY - NOON

Driver, a benign elderly man, stops the car in the middle of the alley. out the windshield, the Americans are some sixty yards straight ahead. It's hard to feel save with that kind of fire power training on him even at this distance. He looks at his wife in the passenger seat, grabs her hand, squeeaes hard as if it's the last thing they'll partake. He takes his shirt off, opens the door, gets out, goes around to the front of the sedan, hands in the air.

EXT. GATE

Sarge taking cover behind the passenger door, begins to bark into the bullhorn, slowly annunciating each word.

SARGE

"Get back in your car! This is a restricted area. Do not advance on us or we'll be forced to use deadly force. Get back in your car or we will shoot you!"

New Guy starts motioning with his hand for them to back out. Sarge turns to New Guy.

SARGE

"Cut that shit out. They might mistake it for an invitation. And get that scope on the vehicle."

New Guy stops with the hand, bring the scope up to his right eye. Through the scope, the elderly man does a slow three-sixty spin for him.

NEW GUY

"Male outside doesn't look armed."

He walks the crosshair over to the sedan, the wife just sitting there. In the back seat, a BOY, no more than ten scoots into view, cradling something. New Guy quickly puts the cross hair on him. He's cradling a bloody towel wrapped around an infant.

NEW GUY

"Oh, shit! They've got an injured baby!"

Sarge tosses the bullhorn on the seat, scopes the car with his rifle...

SARGE

"Fuck me!"

New Guy wants to help, looks over at Sarge who's deeply irritated, he yanks the bullhorn from the seat, speaks into it.

SARGE

"Sir, we're only equipped to treat minor injuries. The hospital is only ten kilo due east."

The elderly man just stands there, hands juts in the air.

NEW GUY

"I don't think he understands English."

Sarge mulls it over, cursing his luck.

SARGE

"Can't"

(into bullhorn)

"Sir, turn around and take the second left, the hospital is on your left. We cannot help you."

New Guy can't believe what he's hearing.

NEW GUY

"I thought we're here to help these people."

GUNNER

"Like it's up to us what we do here?"

SARGE

"Fuck me!"

NEW GUY

"C'mon, Sarge, that baby's gonna bleed to death in this traffic."

SARGE

"Shut the fuck up and get that weapon on them!"

Sarge raises the bullhorn again just as a distance rifle shot cracks the air. Half a second later, the elderly man's chest explode crimson red. He drops, faceplanting the ground hard.

SARGE

"Juba! Get your ass down!"

Sarge ducks behind the door. He looks across to New Guy--he's gone. WTF? Sarge springs back up and just as his head clears the top of the door--another distance cracks and...TWAP! The round slams into his right cheek, blowing out his left jaw. He topples, can't scream, blood gushing from the wound. Gunner swings the .50 cal all over the place, doesn't notice his Sergeant's been hit. Doesn't even see New Guy mad-legging it for the sedan -- tunnel vision. Gunner desperately searches for the sniper. He would die trying. Another crack whips the air--half a second is all his life is worth. TWAP! Blood arcing out the hole in his forhead, brain explodes out the back of his skull. He topples, slides down the hatch, sprawls atop piles of ammo belts. Blood blooms out the back of his head. His arms and legs jut out. It's weird when the body doesn't know you died.

EXT. ALLEY - LUXURY SEDAN - NOON

New Guy arrives at the sedan, adrenalin pumping, hurls himself in the driver seat, jams his M4 on the dashbord and guns the pedal. The engine just rev....SHIT! Another distance crack blows out the driver door mirror. New Guy throws the shifter in drive, floors it. The Door slams shut as the sedan rockets towards his parked Humvee.ANother distance shot and the tail light explodes.

INT. ALLEY - MOVING LUXURY SEDAN

The end of the alley coming up fast, everything is but a blur. New Guy glimpses the empty turrent, Sarge's legs kicking on pool of blood behind the passenger door, but it doesn't register, he's on a mission.He takes the corners at full speed, turning left, the sedan fishtails, narrowly missing the curb before tracking straight into the path of--

THREE ON COMING HUMVEES. Everyone stomps on the brakes. Wheels locking. Tires squealing. This is gonna hurt!

INT. MOVING LEAD HUMVEE

The marine instinctively veers left to avoid impact only to find the sentries' Humvee in the path--

EXT. GATE

Sarge is a bloody mess, manages to push himself back into the passenger seat but struggles to get both legs inside when he glimpses the lead Humvee coming at him. If there was any hope for him prior there isn't one now. He know's it's over. WHAM! He is crushed with a sickening sound.

The sudden stop jerks turret gunner in lead Humvee forward with breakneck speed. His mouth slams into the rear of the .50 cal spraying blood, teeth. The occupant inside fair no better.

EXT. STREET

Second Humvee fishtailing wildly to a stop only to be rear ended by the third Humvee. The luxury sedan, somehow, screeches to a stop unscathed between the pile ups.

INT. SECOND HUMVEE

The marines collect themselves, check themselves, minor bruises all around. MARINE in the passenger seat looks up at the sedan that causes all this, they're bumper to bumper with the sedan parked at an angle where the rear end is in full view for him. Something's not quite right. The sedan rear end hangs suspiciously low -- it takes few seconds to register. SHIT!

MARINE

"SUICIDE BOMBERS!"

And that's all it takes. His driver slams the beast in reverse, floors the gas.

INT. LUXURY SEDAN

New Guy watches the two Humvee haul ass backward as fast as the massive diesel engines allow. He turns to the elderly female passenger whose eyes gleam hatred. In her hand a crude grip-like device with wires coming out the bottom. It was in plain sight the whole time but he had missed it in his haste to save them. He reaches for his sidearm, pure instinct.

BLAM! A round grazes the side of New Guy's head, blowing hole in the windshield. He gropes at the wound, turns to look in the back seat just as the Boy presses the maw of his rusty revolver right between the brows. The wrapped infant in his arm had died at least several days ago. Then the Boy shouts with terrifying vengence.

BOY

"Allah akbar! Allah akbar!"

An explosion and New Guys blood, brain, skull fracment splatter the winshield. The Boy continues to scream to his God. The elderly woman presses the button and the sedan explodes with god's wrath.

EXT. STREET BURNING HUMVEE

A lone survivor crawls out of the burning wreck, climbs to her feet, charred and shedding smoke. Her uniform shredded, left boot's on fire, right one done melting into her skin. She staggers through the carnage gripping a nine in her hand.

AIM

(voice over)

"And that's when the mighty USMC came for us. Struck a deal with their mortal enemy. A quid-pro-quo for only we dare walk through the valley of death to kick the bitch's teeth in return for uninterrupted supply of that warm, dank coppery blood."

Several Humvees comes on to the scene, disgorging marines. They quickly spread out to form security perimeter. A marine with two small fire extinguishers starts spraying the burning wreck. A medic rushes over to tend the lone survivor, he grabs her arm, startled, she spins, shoots him in the eye - the medic doubles over before falling on his back. The others can only watch in horror.

AIM

(voice over)

"But then out of nowhere this thing came and hunted us with cold efficient blood lust. And for the first time in centuries I was scared. We all were."

SCENE 2

INT. BLACK HAWK HELICOPTER - NIGHT

Somewhere in Afghanistan - 2012

Through the claustrophobic grainy green circle of PILOT'S NVG, STRAYDOG, early thirties, jockeying the long winding stretch of the Afghan valley at a comfortable height above the terrain. A small village zips by below revealing they're hauling at good speed. His flight leader, LEAD DOG'S voice crackles over radio.

LEAD DOG

(over radio)

"How bored are you?"

STRAY DOG

"Stiff as hard on. What's on your mind?"

LEAD DOG

(over radio)

"Cowboy alley coming up about ten miles. What say we give the bad guys a wake up call?"

STRAY DOG

"How about I drop back, give us about a minute of separation and make it two wake up calls?"

LEAD DOG

(over radio)

"Boy, that is just rude! Let's dumb some alt and ride their rooftops."

STRAY DOG

"Roger that. Surf's up!"

EXT. TWO BLACK HAWK HELICOPTERS - NIGHT

The sleek black helicopters slice through the darkness in tight formation. Lead Dog's helicopter starts a rapid descend while Stray Dog sticks his lead like glue and level out at less than hundred feet above terrain. Lead Dog engines roar as he starts to pull away.

INT. LEAD DOG'S HELICOPTER - NIGHT

Green dials beam on the faces of two men with NVG on. The older pilot in the left seat is LEAD DOG. Through the grainy green glow, Lead Dog spots a village to his left. The mud houses dotting the side of the mountain. some two hundred yards ahead. It's flanked by mountain ranges featuring eerie rock formations. 

LEAD DOG

"I'm going to dump some more angel and get down with the resident evil."

Lead Dog works the cyclic and collective, bringing the bird down as low as he dares. He give it a yee-haw as the village whips by underneath him.

INT. STRAY DOG'S HELICOPTER - NIGHT

Through the green wash of NVG, Stray Dog spots a lone mud house hanging precariously on the mountain side above the rest. He climbs, aims for it, turns to his co-pilot who took his NVG off the helmet and is holding it in front of a camera.

STRAY DOG

"All right, here we go."

Stray Dog waits until they're just about to zips by the lone mud house then..

STRAY DOG

"Say cheese, motherfuckers!!!"

WHAM! The helicopter keels over to the right hard sending the co-pilot's camera and NVG flying. Co-pilot spins to see where they went.

STRAY DOG

"Shit. Check the instrument!"

The co-pilot turns his attention to the panel, scans the array of gauges. Stray Dog wrestles the controls...

STRAY DOG

"I've got her. I've got her. Lead, we just took a hit."

His voice a few octaves higher. Lead Dog's voice instantly crackles over the radio.

LEAD DOG

"Copy that. How bad?"

The Black Hawk begins to right itself, Stray Dog looks at his co-pilot who gives him a thumb up.

STRAY DOG

"I think we're good."

He notices his quivering voice, pauses, unnerved himself.

STRAY DOG

"Uh, I've got to angel up. Meet me at angel five, gonna need you to assess the exterior damage."

LEAD DOG

(over radio)

"Roger that. What was it, small-arms fire?"

STRAY DOG

"Negative, it's definitely not that."

LEAD DOG

(over radio)

"Probably a bird."

STRAY DOG

"Big god damned bird if that. I swear it felt like someone chucked a sofa at us."

EXT. STRAY DOG'S HELICOPTER - NIGHT

Profiled against the dull moonlight, a massive bulge can be seen on the skin just behind the left rear door. It appears they took damage. The helicopter starts to ascent. The moon slips behind a massive cloud and the bulge suddenly move...

INT. LEAD DOG'S HELICOPTER - NIGHT

They're pretty high up, straight and level at five thousand feet or so. Lead Dog cranes to look out his side window.

LEAD DOG

"Stray Dog, I have you behind to our left. Yeah, looks to me you're heading straight for us, bud. Uh, you copy?"

Lead Dog turns to his co-pilot who's flying the helicopter.

LEAD DOG

"Their radio must be shot. Give us some lateral separation, I'll tell you when to stop."

The co-pilot nudges the cyclic, the helicopter banks and darts right. Lead Dog looks back out his side window, acting as an eye for him.

LEAD DOG

"Stop, stop, stop."

(adjusts the mic boom)

"Stray Dog you copy? Paul, you copy?"

Stray Dog's helicopter creeps into view. They're neck to neck. Lead Dog leans until his NVG dings the glass pane. 

LEAD DOG

"What the? Oh, my god."

His face wrecked from terror. He grabs the cyclic, yanks it full right--too late. The helicopter shudders, something slams into them so hard the right rear door buckled inward. Lead Dog slams the cyclic full forward, the helicopter dives at crazy angle.

co-pilot

"Jesus Christ. What the hell are you doing?"

LEAD DOG

"I'm trying to get it off! Get your gun out!"

CO-PILOT

"Get what off? What's out there!?"

TCHUNNNG! A hole is punched through the left rear door. Then another and another. Whatever out there it ain't stopping. The helicopter continues to dive. The wind howling outside. The rotor blades whine, stressed to the max. The pounding at the door. This is not happening. The co-pilot starts to whimper.

LEAD DOG

"Shoot it! Shoot the goddamn DOOR!"

Lead Dog pulls out of the dive with several feet to spare. The pounding hasn't led up.

LEAD DOG

"Take the stick."

The co-pilot has lost it, he unbuckles the belt, tries to puSh the door open but can't. Suddenly, the right rear door snaps open with thunderous bang, the wind carries it into the night. The wind whips violently around the cabin. Lead Dog NVG flickers then quits, pitch black. He taps it a few times then flips it up. Pitch black. He unbuckles the belt, grabs his nine, turns, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness...a massive silhouette, inhuman, collapses on the rear cabin floor, its back hideously arches, goes into convulsion. 

The co-pilot just stares out the windshield, paralyzed with freight, his untimely death playing in his mind. Lead Dog's transfixed at the trashing silhouette inside the cabin. No one's flying the helicopter. Either way they're doom.

LEAD DOG

"What the fuck...?"

The silhouette appears to be going through some kind of alteration. Shrinking in size, becoming more -- human. The trashing subsides. It yawns, slowly pushes itself to its knee, looks around, confused...its eyes come around to him. It studies Lead Dog then something clicks. Now it remembers and smiles. Lead Dog, too, remembers what he was going to do. He levels the nine at it. His eyes adjusted to the night.

LEAD DOG

"Paul? No. No. It can't be you."

Something drops from its hand, hits the floor with a thunk. Lead Dog fires just as a scintillating white light erupts, fulling the cockpit, the entire night.

SCENE 3

INT. USMC COMMUNICATIONS OUTPOST - NIGHT

Dark, small and freezing. Next to the door below the one window, a long bench with several laptop and several communication equipment. Broken radio equipment piled on top of eachother on the floor in one corner. A bunk bed against the far wall with several portable scattered on the floor. Next to it, a marine in full winter parka kneels on the floor behind a tipped over metal locker, M-16 levels at the door with piles of thirty-round mags next to it. His breath clouds in the frigid air. This is the DISPATCHER.

Sound of generator sputtering outside startles him. He closes his eyes, silently praying to every Gods there is. The generator keeps sputtering then comes to life. After a moment the lights flicker on, the heater spins to life and the marine lets out a sigh of relief. The door bursts open, a flurry of snow and wind rushing in. Standing outside in military parka holding a giant flashlight in one hand, a hammer in the other is MECHANIC. He looks pissed. 

DISPATCHER

"Thanks for getting out of bed on my account."

(walks to the door)

"I tried to get the stupid thing going for half an hour. You know, I tried. For what it's worth, I just got here a week ago and haven't seen anyone since. Yeah, good seeing you."

He holds out his hand. Mechannic ignore him, eyes wanders the room, stops at the bunk bed. On the top and bottom bunk, an array of religious paraphenalias are neatly arranged. A sleeping bag rolled out under the bottom bunk. It's obvious where Dispatcher sleeps.

DISPATCHER

(embarrassed)

"You know. You know? Hey, you want some fresh coffee?"

Mechanic's eyes dart to the string of garlic bulbs around Dispatcher's neck. Dispatcher lets out a nervous chuckle.

DISPATCHER

"The guys that was here. Jim was it? They told me it was severe frostbite, but you know...um...you know what happened to him? To Jim?"

Mechanic looks suggestively down at the rusty colored blotch where Dispatcher's standing. Finally, he speaks.

MECHANIC

"Jim had a necklace just like yours."

Mechanic slams the door shut. Dispatcher leaps off the stain, locks the door, wishing he had stayed in school. He walks over to the desk, plops down on the chair, turns on both laptops, the radio equipment. He sighs, migraine kicking in...  

TO BE CONTINUED

77 Mass

FADE IN:

EXT. COMPTON - NIGHT
The streets are empty save a few motorists caught out in the cloudburst. Even the drug lords and thug lords are playing house arrest thanks to Mother Nature coercion by way of torrential rain.

INT. POLICE CRUISER – SIDE STREET - NIGHT
The rain pounding at the cruiser like it's being chased by corner thugs. The wipers working hard, squeaking, barely keeping the rain at bay. Propped behind the wheel is ROOKIE, early twenties, his head buzzed high and tight, uniform immaculate, all dressed up to save the mean streets of Compton but can't quite hack the graveyard shift. A moment later and the empty drug corner can no longer hold his interest, his forced-open eyes start to give. He furtively pinches his forearm but the torrential serenity is too much and he dozes off.
Next to him is his FTO, Sgt. MILLER, late 30s and usually a 200 pound of pugnacity, but tonight he stares blankly out the windshield, eyes brimming with pain. Without looking, he turns the wipers off and the rain consumes them. He glances at Rookie when through depths of serenity comes a distinct exhaust note of rotary engine. It grows louder. More infuriating. Miller hits the wiper just as a tricked-out third gen RX-7 screams by the intersection jolting Rookie to consciousness. Rookie reaches for the siren. Miller recognizes the RX-7 and death grip Rookie's hand. He studies the Rookie’s face, lets go of his hand.

MILLER

“You Tom or Jerry?”

ROOKIE

“Sir?”

Rookie reacts to Miller's question like the man has a dick growing out of his forehead.

ROOKIE

“Sir, that five-ten might be stolen.”

MILLER

“It's important I find out now you Tom or Jerry, and why it's the truth.”

Miller's stone face indicates he’s not fucking around. Rookie turns away, thinks about it.

ROOKIE

“Jerry, sir. Because he a good guy pitched against bad odds. I would protect him. That’s the truth.”

Miller breaks the stare, leans back in his seat, looks out the windshield, shaking his head in disappointment. He reaches over and flicks on the turn signal in opposite direction of where the RX-7 has gone.

MILLER

“Tom would've been on that driver's ass by now. Take this right then left on Crenshaw and get your ass some caffeine drip.”

EXT. GAS STATION - NIGHT
The down pour hasn't led up. The orange RX-7 turns into an alley, its headlights go out, the engine of. The sleek sports car glides to a stop behind the gas station minimart.

INT. MINIMART
The tube hanging from the ceiling showing a middle aged Caucasian male climbs into bed where a frightened thirteen-year-old Asian girl awaits him. The wicked nature of it all is lost on the owner, mid thirties, a solid RUSSIAN, who watches the homemade video from behind the counter. Despite the cotton swab sticking out his left ear, one look and you know he'd eat shit before rolling over for anyone.

INT. ORANGE RX-7
Passenger’s black and built like a linebacker, white bandanna around his face, blood blossoming from the area around his mouth. He painfully wiggles his right hand into a glove then completes the guise with a pair of shades. This is MOGAS. He turns to the DRIVER, a handsome and imposing African American male.

MOGAS

“Look, man, you do what you got to, but this shit is just wrong, man.”

Driver takes deep breath, closes his eyes to hide the pain roiling inside.

MOGAS

“Yo, I'm just saying. She ain't count this how you end your sad shit, man.“

Driver pulls a black bandana loosely tied around his neck over his nose partially revealing his tattooed throat. He turns to Mogas, his eyes says it all, now more than ever, the modern banditos pound, shake and hug like it's their final goodbye.

MOGAS

"Aight, let's roll call that motherfucker then."

INT. MINIMART
The Russian pulls the cotton swab out his left ear, smells the yellow goo, dip the clean end in vodka, sticks it back in the same ear and gives it a few twirl to scratch the itch. He downs a good chunk of vodka, wolfs down a handful of mints, spilling some--definitely loaded. He replaces the bottle under the counter next to the sawed-off shot gun, turns and peers through the blind behind him. Cursing the rain pounding the shit out of his brand new BMW M3. Feeling eye on him, he turns...

MOGAS

“Ding dong, motherfucker, better get that door alarm fixed.”

The big Russian stares pass the maw of two 1911 chrome Colt .45s.

MOGAS

“Eh, yo, got a bathroom I can use?”

Mogas chuckles, enjoying the upper hand. The Russian looks more annoyed than afraid, and in an act of defiance…

RUSSIAN

“White only.”

Mogas chuckles at the man's chutzpah.

MOGAS

“Ain't no thang, snow nigger. Sheeit.”

Mogas backs up a few, unzips with one hand, urinates on the floor, stuff his unit back in, zips up his fly.

MOGAS

“Open the box, man.”

Russian complies, plugs wad of cash from the register while holding his stare at Mogas, counts the bills, taking his time...

RUSSIAN

“Thirty Georges. No Lincolns. Maybe no luck tonight”

Mogas gets the subtle insult, shoves one pistol down the waist of his pants, steps to the counter and socks the Russian full in the face with a hard right, sending him into the blind behind him. The Russian rights himself, wipes blood trickling down his nose, more insulted than hurt. But Mogas is devoured by rage and reaches over, grabs the dogged Russian by the hair, slams his face cheek first on the counter--the cutton swab poises on the left ear like nail ready to be driven in.

MOGAS

“Look here you fucking commie snow cracka’ nigger. In America, you yield to the man with firepower, motherfucker.”

WHACK! Mogas hammers the swab with the butt of his chrome, driving it all the way in. The Russian yanks his head free, belches an enraged scream. Mogas swiftly draws the other chrome tucked in his waist, points it at the floor behind the counter.

MOGAS

“Yield, motherfucker. Now open the box!”

The Russian balls his fists, battling the rage as he looks Mogas dead in the eye. Having conquered the jarring pain, he takes deep breath, tosses the stool aside, kneels, casts aside the area rug, pries up a floorboard revealing a small safe box. He wipes blood trickling from his nose, dials the combination, eyeing the sawed-off under the counter--not yet. He grabs the bricks of cash, tosses them on the counter.

MOGAS

“Bag that shit, snow, and roll call your nigger.”

The Russian studies Mogas as he bags the money--a hint of recognition.

RUSSIAN

“Maybe we meet before? My man, put guns away and we go outside. You win I give you money free.”

MOGAS

“Shit! Snow cracka’ nigger got more balls than a corner ho! I can dig that.”

He aims at the Russian's crotch.

MOGAS

“How 'bout this, they stop bullets, I'll suck your dick. Now look here”

Mogas tosses his shades, eyes gleam hatred. He rips the bandanna off, tosses it aside revealing bloody gauze taped over his mouth. He rips that off too, and cracks sinister smile displaying a horrific mess in which all his front teeth are gone. His mauled gum bleeding profusely.

MOGAS

“You recognized? You feel me now, motherfucker? “

(spitting blood as he roars)

“Yeah, you know you in shit now dinky-dow motherfucker! I ain't gonna rewind myself this time you cocky bitch. You call that lilly nigger tell him Kingkong done tanking his kickback or I put another breather in your head off for emphasis. Bitch!”

Mogas wipes blood oozing from his mouth, smearing it all over his cheek. The Russian picks up the phone and dials...

RUSSIAN

(on the phone)

“We have an eighty-thousand-dollar problem.“

The Russian cringes from a stab of pain, he pauses letting it subside.

RUSSIAN

“We've been robbed.”

(dead eyeing Mogas)

“It's that nigger!”

The Russian ducks down behind the counter and with one fluid motion, snatches the sawed-off and--BOOM!. Mogas throws himself on the floor just as a gaping hole and splints are blasted through the counter front panel, exploding dozen bags of chips on display behind where Mogas was standing. Mogas landed supine by the entrance without his chrome, he winces at the grazing wound on his left shin. He frantically looks around, spots one of his chrome on the floor right below the gaping hole. Shit! He springs head first for it just as the Russian comes up from behind the counter and fires right where his head was, shattering the glass pane on one of the doors.

MOGAS

“That's two. My turn, bitch!”

Mogas plugs up the chrome, rolls on his back, empties the clip blindly at everything the opposite side of the counter hitting everything except his intended target. No time to reload, he springs to his feet and staggers out the door into...

EXT. PARKING SPACES
Mogas pumps his legs with all his worth ignoring the pain. He runs pass the two gas pump islands just as the RX-7 tears around from the side of the minimart and comes to a stop.

INT. RX-7
Driver watches Mogas heads into the street and melts into the rain.

DRIVER

“Shit, Mo!”

Driver angrily hammers the steering wheel with his fist when he spots the Russian explodes out the door with sawed-off in hand. He guns the pedal, skids around the first pump island before tracking straight for the exit until a police cruiser, its lights and siren off, skids to a stop blocking him. Driver slams the brakes, the tires screech before coming to a stop almost bumper to bumper with the cruiser. Driver slams the car into reverse when the Russian appears in his path behind him. Driver viscerally spins the wheel to avoid hitting him. Bad move. The RX-7 plows into the parked M3 hard. Dazed, he sees the Russian coming hell bend on revenge for him, Driver reaches behind the seat for his weapon--too late.The Russian arrives at the passenger door wearing a maniacal smirk.

VOICE

“Police officer, drop your weapon!”

EXT. THE RUSSIAN

The Russian turns to the voice. It’s the Rookie, he’s standing behind driver's door with his gun trained on him.

ROOKIE

(shouts over downpour)

“I said drop your weapon now!”

Driver ignores Rookie, turns to Miler who rises from behind the passenger door, lowering his gun. The Russian grins at him like he knows the man, turns back to his quarry, smashes the window with his fist, shoves the sawed-off inside.

INT. RX-7
Driver braces for the terrible death when he hears…POP! POP! Driver flinches. The Russian's head explodes blood, topples out of sight.

EXT. POLICE CRUISER
The Rookie trembles, he’s just shot a man. Miller's in disbelief, throws a fits.

MILLER

“Goddammit! God fucking dammit! Fuck you do that for? Shit!”

Rookie is beside himself.

ROOKIE

“He was going to kill someone. You saw it, right?”

MILLER

“He was robbed! Awww fuck me!”

ROOKIE

“Oh, Jesus. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know he was robbed. How did you know he was robbed? I think I killed him, man.”

MILLER

No shit. Nice fucking shot, Jackass! Fuck. FUCK!

Rookie lowers his gun, presses the shoulder mic. Miller sees it and protests.

MILLER

Hey!

Miller races to Rookie, grabs him by the shoulder.

MILLER

“Not yet! Now get a hold of yourself and check on the driver. And don't fucking kill anyone!”

Rookie makes for the RX-7 when to his horror, Driver staggers out from the wrecked sports car, hooded and masked. Black swat pants tugged in his combat boots lugging an AK-47. A shitty sight for anyone.

ROOKIE

“Oh, shit...”

POP! POP! Rookie meekly ducks at the sound of gun fire. Miller keeps double tapping his nine. POP POP! The round searing through Diver's drenched jacket, expelling jet trails of mist revealing where his bullets hit. Miller pumps the rest of his clip and Driver finally collapses.

MILLER

“What the fuck was that?“

(quickly turns to Rookie)

“Don't fucking call it in, yet.”

ROOKIE

“Uh, sarge...”

EXT. DRIVER
Driver climbs to his feet, snap-cocks the fire breathing Kalashnikov, levels it at Miller who immediately dives head long into the cruiser. Rookie takes the hint, hurls himself on top of Miller just as night erupts with fully automatic fire. The radiator grill, the hood and windshield are punched full of holes. Driver slams a fresh clip in, reloads and commences turning the black and white to sponge.

INT. POLICE CRUISER
Bullets everywhere. Perforating the shit out of the dashboard sending debris flying. A ricochet smashes Rookie's shoulder mic to bits. It's going to be a long fucking night. Suddenly the firing stops.

MILLER

“He's reloading, get the fuck off me, Jackass.”

Rookie slithers out of the car, runs and disappears behind the cruiser. Miller seizes the moment, springs behind the wheel, guns the pedal and beelines for Driver, who can be seen driving a fresh mag in, snap-cocking the bolt. Possessed by abomination, Driver makes no effort to flee, and squeezes off the fresh mag at the on-coming black and white. Miller instinctively ducks. The volley smashes a chunk out of the driver's seat headrest. The cruiser plows ahead at the man possessed who continues pumping lead. Out the windshield just before impact, Driver leaps for the hood but didn’t quite clears it...the impact sends him tumbling across the hood, the roof, disappearing behind the cruiser which plows into the parked RX-7. Miller is worse for wear, tries to get his bearing, manages to stagger out of the riddled black and white then drops to the ground.

EXT. DRIVER
Driver struggles to his feet. He tries to walk but quickly stops as a stab of excruciating pain tells him something is broken in so many places. He tries again and this time the pain sends him face down on the ground. He musters every ounce of strength, rolls on to his back, exhausted, he allows himself a muffled agonizing scream. He’s done and knows it and just lies there watching the rain coming down hard on him. He grins at the heaven above.