Henchmen

FRANKIE (20s) sits behind the wheel of a black, late model Dodge Charger. He smiles to himself at the low purring rumble of the muscle car’s massive V-8 engine as it sits at a red light. AL (40s) sits beside him in the passenger seat, rolls his eyes at the young man’s youthful glee.

AL: Frankie, I feel like I should get out of the car and leave you two alone in a secluded garage somewhere.

FRANKIE: Don’t be jealous, Al.

AL: Jealous? More like creeped-out.

Frankie turns toward Al, but stops short when he glances at the rear-view mirror. Frankie adjusts the mirror. Al looks Frankie up and down.

AL: Why are you acting all shifty?

FRANKIE: Your bad pun aside, hopefully I’m just going crazy.

AL: More like “gone and come back.”

FRANKIE: Very funny, Al, but I could swear that pesky cop is behind us in the dark green Mustang.

AL: Is this where you tell me not to turn around?

FRANKIE: No need.

Frankie adjusts the rear-view mirror for Al to have a look. Al scans the cars behind them.

AL: Good news, Frankie. You’re not crazy, yet.

FRANKIE: I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence.

AL: I certainly hope so. But we’d better lose the cop, just to be safe. We can’t afford to have him following us to MacGuffin’s.

FRANKIE: Or worse yet, catching us.

AL: Are you going to be able to handle this? This muscle car ain’t no Micra like you normally drive.

FRANKIE: Why do you always have to do that: undermine my confidence before something really important?

AL: If you can’t take a little teasing, this partnership ain’t gonna last.

FRANKIE: So you think we’re partners.

AL: Shut up.

FRANKIE: And you want us to last.

AL: I don’t know how long whatever this is will last, but I can tell it will likely end in a murder/suicide. Soon.

FRANKIE: Is that your way of saying . . .

AL: Don’t say it. Just lose that cop back there; we’ve work to do and he can’t be a part of it.

Frankie stares into the rear-view mirror.

FRANKIE: It’s the cop all right. And he’s not being very subtle about following us, neither.

AL: Well, you’re the driver. Do something . . . maneuver-y and get us outta here.

Frankie secures his lap belt and pulls it tight. Al rolls his eyes again.

AL: Seriously, you can be such a little . . .

As the light turns green Frankie drops the clutch and stomps on the accelerator while at the same time he cranks the steering wheel hard to the left. Al losses his balance in the seat as the Charger cuts off four lanes of traffic. The cacophony of horns and the Charger’s revving engine drowns out Al’s curse.

AL: You could’ve warned me!

FRANKIE: Could’ve. Maybe should’ve. Didn’t.

AL: Did you at least lose the cop?

Behind them, the Mustang stops and starts its way through the angry motorists to follow the Charger up the hill.

FRANKIE: About that . . .

Frankie shrugs sheepishly and takes the next left.

AL: Seriously?

Frankie takes the next right, wide around another car. The Mustang is still on their tail.

AL: Alright, quit mucking about.

Frankie responds by accelerating through the next right turn and sideswiping a parked car. Al tries to stay upright, but the momentum topples him into Frankie’s arm as he tries to shift gears.

AL: Are you trying to lose the cop or beat me up?

Al fumbles with his lap belt.

FRANKIE: Honestly? A little of both.

AL: More of the former and less of the latter, please.

The cop has to slam on his brakes to avoid crashing into the sideswiped, parked car. He throws the Mustang into reverse and burns rubber backing up to make the turn.
Frankie passes a slow moving green VW Beetle.

FRANKIE: Slug Bug!

Frankie punches Al’s thigh.

AL: Ow! What are you doing, man?

FRANKIE: We passed a VW Bug and I called it. So I get to punch you. Haven’t you ever played ‘Slug Bug’?

AL: A couple points of contention: first – The game is called ‘Orange Punch Bug’ and you only . . .

Frankie makes a hard left and loses a hubcap as the Charger cuts off a cab and another car.
The cop weaves through the two cars and continues his pursuit.

FRANKIE: Why limit the game to just the orange ones? You don’t get to hit as many . . .

AL: And second – The driver is ALWAYS excluded from the game!

The Charger and Mustang pass a yellow VW Bug.

FRANKIE: Slug Bug!

Frankie hits Al in the leg, again.

AL: Stop that! And thirdly – This isn’t the time to . . .

FRANKIE: Dude, don’t blame me for all the hippy cars in this hippy neighborhood.

AL: This whole town is a hippy neighborhood, man.

Frankie pulls out into oncoming traffic and passes an orange VW Bug with the Mustang close on his bumper.

AL: Orange Punch Bug!

Al smiles with mischievous glee and punches Frankie in the arm.

FRANKIE: Ow! Dude, I thought drivers were exempt in your game.

AL: Oh, *now* the professional criminal is interested in playing by the rules?

FRANKIE: Fine, but is it weird just how many VW Bugs are in this town? It’s like . . . hang on!

Frankie turns left at an intersection and tightly follows the road as it curves to the left and down a hill. The Charger scrapes the concrete barrier and loses another hubcap.
At the bottom of the hill, both cars plow through a four-way stop sign with thankfully no other cars around. Frankie takes a zig-zag course towards the edge of the city and the highway: left, right, left again. The cop matches their every turn. Another left and another right and they are on the open road of a country highway.

AL: Is there a plan here or are you just winging it?

FRANKIE: I know what I’m doing.

AL: Yeah, but apparently so does that cop.

Frankie cuts the corner on a left-hand bend in the road and drifts across the median strip. A motorcyclist has to skid and lay his bike down to avoid a head-on collision with the Charger. The biker skids along the road and rolls out of the way of the ensuing pile up. Frankie slows the Charger as the cop’s Mustang spins out on the shoulder to avoid the resulting traffic jam.

FRANKIE: And that, is why you should always wear a helmet while on a motorcycle.

AL: I don’t know. He appears okay to me.

Frankie follows Al’s gaze out the back window to see the motorcyclist standing up and shaking his fist at them. They also both see the cop pull the Mustang around all the stalled vehicles and back onto the highway. Frankie accelerates again, snaking around the bends and curves of the highway. The Mustang slowly gains on them.

AL: Unless you’re holding back on us in the motor department, we don’t seem to be able to outrun him.

FRANKIE: I don’t understand. This Charger should be pulling away from that little old Mustang. But my foot is to the floor and he’s still gaining. You got anything in your bag of tricks there to slow him down?

Al leans forward and pulls the sawed-off shotgun out of the satchel at his feet and loads both barrels. The Charger and Mustang weave in and out of slow moving traffic. Frankie pulls onto the shoulder to get past a truck and scrapes the railing, losing a third hubcap. The cop swings into oncoming traffic to get around a camper trailer. Clear of the congestion, the cop tries to pull even with the Charger, but Frankie boxes him out.

AL: Let the cop get alongside us.

Al climbs into the back seat. Frankie straightens out the Charger and the cop draws even with them. Al rolls down the back window and aims the shotgun as best he can at the Mustang. The cop backs off at the sight of Al and the shotgun, but Frankie slows to match his speed. Al fires off two blasts; one round strikes the Mustang’s windscreen and the other the front fender. The Mustang backs off momentarily, but accelerates again. The two cars smash fenders as Al attempts to reload. The cop slows just a bit and the Mustang’s front fender taps the back of the Charger’s rear fender. Frankie loses control of the car and it leaves the road.

FRANKIE: HOLD ON!

AL: TO WHAT?

The Charger runs up an embankment and takes temporary flight. It lands, hard, on an auxiliary road running parallel to the highway. The car bounces once over the sidewalk and into a gas station. Frankie and Al are thrown forward as the Charger crashes into a gas pump.

AL: Shouldn’t we be exploding in a fiery ball of death?

FRANKIE: You watch too many movies, dude. But let’s get out of here before you’re right.

Al and Frankie exit the car and run off on foot.

In the dead of night, outside the backdoor of an old warehouse in a disused industrial park on the south side of Seattle, two figures keep watch.

Both men wear dark, military style clothing. The older of these two henchmen, mid-40s, sports a graying mustache and ponytail. His tall, lanky frame is more athletic than it appears. He holds a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun under one arm and leans against the warehouse wall under a broken lamp.

The younger henchman, early-20s, is clean shaven, with a bloody dab of tissue just under his chin. Facial hair would go a long way to hardening his baby-face features, but the spotty peach-fuzz he grows doesn’t help. He is shorter than average, but not short. His shoulders are broad and his limbs muscular. The handle of a small revolver sticks out of his coat pocket and he keeps touching it to reassure himself that it hasn’t fallen out. His over-sized black, combat boots squeak as he strolls back and forth under a working lamp on the other side of the door from the older man. After a couple of failed attempts, the young man finally manages to light his cigarette.

The old henchman shakes his head with a cluck of his tongue. Straightening up, he clears his throat.

The younger man looks around and points to himself quizzically.

The older man rolls his eyes and sighs heavily.

“Yeah, you. Who else would I be talking to, man?” The older man raises a hand to cut off the imminent answer to his rhetorical question. “Listen, Ernie, I know you’re new and . . .”

“It’s Frankie. Frank, actually.”

“Really, man?” the older man asks with incredulity.

“Well . . . yeah,” Frankie says with equal incredulity. “Why wouldn’t I be . . .”

“It doesn’t matter, man. Just put that out and step away from under the light. No need to make things easier for anyone out there.”

Frankie stubs out the cigarette and steps out from under the working lamp. Failing to think of anything better to do, Frankie takes the revolver out of his pocket and opens the cylinder.

“Hey, Al!” Frankie exclaims at his bored partner in crime. “This gun they gave me is only loaded with three bullets.”

“So? They only gave me two for my gun.”

“But you’ve got a double-barrel, dude. It only holds two. Mine’s a revolver and it’s called a ‘six-shooter’. . .”

“Why can’t you be more of a ‘the gun’s half-full’ kinda guy and quit your bitching?”

“No,” Frankie stammers, “you see, revolvers are supposed to have . . .”

“Is there a question coming,” Al interrupts, “or is this just an impromptu firearms lecture from the new guy?”

Frankie snaps the revolver shut and puts it back in his coat pocket before stepping closer to Al.

Pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the warehouse, Frankie asks, “How does the Big Boss expect just the two of us to defend the warehouse with just five shots between us?”

“That’s not our job, man,” Al says matter-of-factly.

“Then what is our job, dude?”

“To die,” Al says to Frankie’s surprise before adding, “. . . loudly.”

“But how could the Big Boss put me out here to die?” Frankie says more to the Big Boss behind the warehouse wall than to Al standing beside him. “Dude, the Big Boss said I was, and I quote, “invaluable.””

“I’ll let ya in on a little secret,” Al says patting the side of Frankie’s face. “The only reason the Big Boss has a dictionary on his desk is so he can hit people with it. He thinks invaluable means not-valuable.”

“So,” Frankie says with furrowed brow, “the only reason we’re out here . . . is to die.”

“Loudly.” Al corrects him. “Don’t forget that part. That’s kinda the whole damn point, man.”

“But what’s the point in that?” Frankie asks, his spirits clearly crushed.

“The point is to make enough noise to warn the Big Boss so he can call in the real defense,” Al says, “while he escapes, of course.”

Frankie strides several squeaky paces away with his hands on his head before returning to Al.

“Then why not just use guard dogs or an alarm?” Frankie says with sudden inspiration.

“We’re cheaper and easier to replace.”

“This is fucked up!” Frankie says, visibly shaken.

“No,” Al corrects him. “This is what you get for being a fuck up.”

“But that can’t be right,” Frankie says, seeing a possible life-saving loophole.

“How you figure that, smart-boy?” Al asks with a tilt of his head.

Frankie puts both his hands on Al’s shoulders, reels at the look he gets from Al, and quickly withdraws his hands.

“You just hired me last week,” Frankie says with a cracking voice. “This is my first assignment, dude. I haven’t had time to fuck up!”

“There’s the presumption of a fuck up,” Al explains.

“So the Big Boss figures I’m bound to fuck up eventually . . .”

“. . . and he’s left you out here to die . . .”

“. . . loudly.” Frankie adds.

“Yep,” Al says almost proudly of his young pupil, “to die loudly before you fuck up.”

“A preventative death,” Frankie says.

“A loud, preventative death.”

“Yeah . . . a loud, preventative death for a fuck up to be fucked up later.”

“Now you got it, man,” Al says, smiling despite himself.

“Loud and clear!” Frankie says, saluting and clicking his heels together.

“Don’t get cute, funny-boy.”

“And what about you?” Frankie asks.

“Of all the things I’ve been accused of over the years, ‘cute’ ain’t one of ‘em.” Al says sternly.

“No, old-timer,” Frankie says, surprisingly boldly. “What was your fuck up? Why are you here?”

“Hiring you.”

Headlights appear at one end of the street. Revving engines and screeching tires drown out any further discussion.

Al fires both barrels simultaneously towards the headlights, drops the shotgun, and runs the other way.

“Make some noise and run, man!” he shouts at the flat-footed Frankie.

Frankie tries to pull the revolver out of his pocket, but it snags on his coat.

The cars screech to a stop. Doors open and figures pour out of the vehicles, firing at Frankie.

Bullets zip past the young henchman, grazing his leg. Frankie manages to return two shots through his coat pocket as he limps after Al who is already long gone.

“Henchmen at the Wheel” – script

“The Henchmen”