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.