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Avenging Thad
by johan norman (norman_johan@hotmail.com)

Rated: R   Genre: Action/Adventure   User Review:

This screenplay is copyrighted to its author. All rights reserved. This screenplay may not be used or reproduced without the express written permission of the author.


an ID-card, drawn through the reader. A green indicator
alights, as an approving sound BEEPS. A BRAWNY BOUNCER
checks a small screen, tells a YOUNG MAN to pass by nodding
his head.

A BLONDE BOMBSHELL repeats the procedure. And the Bouncer
nods. Lets the Bombshell enter.


above the entrance, it screams --
THAD - with a light blue shirt - stands in line, nervously,
a few feet behind. The young man is tall. Appears slight
dorky and awfully kind. He tries hard to cover his anxious
This will never work, Patrick!
PATRICK - a cool, smooth ladiesman - senses Thad's trouble.
Leaning in at Thad, he's on the verge of losing patience.
Will you get your shit together,
Thad?! We told the girls to come
here tonight and I won't let you
fuck it up!
Thad and Patrick both look back. There stands two expectant
YOUNG WOMEN. They are both pretty and smiling. Both sparsely
dressed. Thad leans over to Patrick.
      (hisses back)
But I'm too young! How the fuck am
I supposed to fool the machine?


The PEOPLE in front - slipping through the machine -
disappear inside.

It is Patrick's turn. He draws his card through the furrow.

And the light is green.

Thad, he lets the girls go first. The first girl, she
inflicts greenlight. And the second girl, an approving BEEP.
Thad's turn. Convulsively, he moves his card to the reader.
Puts the card in the furrow. And he pulls. A rejecting BUZZ
and an intense red light tell Thad to stay put.
Sorry, kid.
Lemme try again.
No use, kid. The machine doesn't
lie. Please step out of the line.
And Patrick steps in.
Come on, chief. Look at me. I'm
twenty three. Do you seriously
think I would hang out with an
immature nineteen-year-old?
And the Bouncer eyeballs Patrick with offense.
You're inside. Well there I
wouldn't call the man, that could
pluck me out in five seconds flat,
a liar.
Patrick puts his arms up, yields.
Sorry, Thad. You're on your own on
this one.


Stabbed by treachery, Thad stares right through Patrick.
Again, he moves his card for the machine.
Please let me try one more time.
I'd recommend you not to do that.
Party thirsty PEOPLE impatiently wait behind Thad.
                       PARTY THIRSTY GUY
Will you get the fuck out!?
Thad puts his hand up in a stalling manner. An attempt to
calm the guy down.
Okay, Mr. Bouncer. I respect that.
Let me just shake your hand to
show my gratitude for your
And Thad slowly reaches his hand out.

Patrick smirks - turns to the girls - ready to enter the
                       GIRL 1
What about Thad?
He'll be inside in a sec.
They head inside --

-- when someone shouts: AAAHHH!!!

Patrick and the girls whip their heads back.

Thad faces Patrick -- he stands bent over -- in severe pain.
The Bouncer holds Thad's arm twisted. A $50-bill sways from
his hand, down to the ground.


You trying to bribe me, you little
Thad can merely stutter out --
I should kick you're little bony
No...! Please...please don't!!
Thad feels his arm close to be snapped. Patrick anxiously
observes the scene. The Girls and the rest of the GUESTS
look on with exitation.
                       PARTY THIRSTY GUY
Yeah! Kick his ass!
And the moodier crowd goes: YEAH!!
Bouncer turns to Patrick, still with Thads arm like in a
This piece a shit with your party?
Patrick is torn between decisions. Looking at the Girls.
Looking at Thad. The impatiant Girls. Pitiful Thad. Makes up
his mind.
With his eyes drilled down the pavement, Patrick turns back
to the Girls. He puts his arms around each waist and they
head inside.
But Thad can only focus on keeping his arm intact.
Nice friends you got there.


The Bouncer lifts his left leg up. Aims, and delivers a well
directed kick in Thad's behind, as he releases the grip of
the arm.

Humiliated Thad flies forward, lands on his hands.

When the LAUGHING PEOPLE head inside one after another -- to
approving sounds and blessing greenlights -- Thad crawls up
on his elbows and knees.

He turns to sit on his ass. Watches his palms. Grazed, blood
slowly streams. He watches his shirt. Torn in places.

Thad shakes his head. He jealously moves his eyes. To the
long line of PEOPLE getting to pass the Bouncer. His eyes
water up. Before shedding tears, he buries his head in his
Pitch black. A female repeatedly utters her INTENSE


And a lock bolt TWISTS. The MOANING stops.

A chink of light emerges and increases when a door slowly
opens. Thad shambles inside the darkness. He gently elbows
the door shut. Resolutely makes sure to reduce any possible
noise --

Ow, fuck...
The light flicks on. Thad jumps, on one leg, up and down.

A 50-something brunette in a terry robe -- LORRAINE
NUNGESSER -- stands leaning in a doorway, eyeballing Thad.
Worn as she is, you discern a bygone beauty.

Thad ceases jumping. Persuasively smiles up.
Hey, mom!


What are you doing here?
I live here.
Thad looks up. At the sides. Down.
Don't I?
Lorraine clearly dislikes Thad's smartass attitude and
ignores it.
What are you doing home already?
I wasn't let into Gonzo Lounge.
Again? What is it, fourteenth time
you try?
Thad irascibly stares at his mom.
Give or take. Why so hostile to me
coming home?
Shamefaced Lorraine bashfully faces the floor.
When a BLACK MAN emerges -- from behind Lorraine -- sloppily
dressed and quite hefty.
                       SLOPPY MAN
I should probably go.
Ya think?
Lorraine keeps eyeing the plastic floor. Thad ragingly
regards Sloppy Man as he passes. And he glances Thad quickly
and nods.
                       SLOPPY MAN
Sloppy Man pulls the door shut as he leaves.


Thad's turns his blazing eyes from the front door to burn
giant holes in Lorraine's skull. She declines, with all of
her power, to look up.
Latest conquest, mom? Nice catch!
Thad stomps right past Lorraine. She tilts her head back.
When facing the ceiling, she SIGHS.
A tavern. Rotten wooden planks make the floor. Moldy
discolored concrete the walls. The windows partly blocked
from insight with dirt. The dusty chandelier sheds the
deserted bar some sparse light.

A SQUAT BARKEEPER ends his wiping, turns into the back,
leaves the only customer present.

PRESTON, aged 32 and badass-looking in a leather jacket, is
sitting on a barstool. His whole existence steams from
chronic misery. Dejection.

He's currently watching, a barely working, 14" television.


shows a soccer-game. The scoreboard says: TB - LA 2-0.

Preston's face is a statue four inches from the screen.
What fuckin kind a pass is that!?
Preston throws his arm out.
When two GUYS enter the tavern. They stop just inside,
scanning the premises.

The FRONT GUY strongly exerts to come out cool.

The WINGMAN, though, is way more subtle behind.
                       FRONT GUY
Wow. Emptier than my scrotum a
Sunday morning!


The Front Guy HOWLS. Looks back at his Wingman, luring him
to laugh. Wingman insecurely smiles.

Front guy heads for a table, right to the left from the
entrance. Wingman right behind. They get down oppose to each

Front Guy throws a glance at the bar. Taps Wingman's arm,
who turns to the direction.

Preston's head is drilled into the TV. When he suddenly
jumps off the stool.
Score, you fucking moron!!
Preston irresolutely staggers around, hand on his forehead,
before he gets back down.
The Guys observe him from across the room.
                       FRONT GUY
Hey, fuckface!
Preston slowly turns his head sideways, keeping eyes on the
tv the longest he can. Watches them, eyebrows raised -- me?
                       FRONT GUY
Yeah, you. Would you please keep
it the fuck down?!
Preston eyeballs the two for a second. Turns back. To the
TV, and he widens his eyes. Worried. Angry.
No!! That's no penalty!!

a PLAYER dressed mostly in white puts the soccerball on the
penalty spot. A few steps back. Ref WHISTLES. The Player
begins his run-up -- and scores by the right post.


Preston lunges up, the stool flying back. Flings a booklet
to the floor of pure rage.
      (bangs his fist on
       the bar)
                       FRONT GUY
Hey! Didn't i tell you to shutta
fuck up!?
But Preston neglects. Grabs the TV instead, jerks it up,
lifts it over his head. Turns around, he thrusts it away.
And the window SHATTERS. The TV's gone.

And the Front Guy shuts.

Preston gets back, his back facing bar, only leans on the
stool. In his hands, buries head.

When -- CHOCK-CHUCK -- a pump-action shotgun from Preston's
behind. The Barkeeper points it at Preston's head.

And Preston widens his eyes. Quickly whips around, grabs the
pointing pipe and lowers the gun. He draws a .45 automatic
to the Keeper's nose. Snatches the shotgun, from the
Keeper's clasp.
Thanks. I'll be needing this.
A paralyzed Barkeeper stares at the muzzle. Preston lowers
his gun, puts it away, in the back of his pants. Turns
around, holding the shutgun, moves for the exit.

Widemouthed, the guys at the table follow Preston's walk.
When he spots them, he detours past their table.

The Front Guy, now the opposite of cool, recoils, as Preston
approaches. The Wingman resembles a nesting box.
You said something to me before?
I'm not sure, cos I was too into
the game.
Did you?
With convulsions, the 'Cool' Guy shakes his head --


                       FRONT GUY
No. And if I did, I've forgotten
it now, anyway.
Preston nods while staring the Guy down. He puts the shotgun
pipe on his shoulder, in a laid-back way, and shoots further
fear in the.

And Preston leaves the tavern, unpleasantly mellow.
Preston stops -- in the streetlight -- just outside the

A concerned ELDER COUPLE -- with widened eyes -- passes
Preston. And he recalls the shotgun, still on his shoulder.
He puts it down, in under his jacket. Then looks around.

Preston starts walking -- keeps the shotgun hidden -- the
best he can. Quite troubled, he strolls down the sidewalk
and avoids TWO PASSING GUYS.

Preston turns into the crossing street.
Preston scuffles down the sidewalk and just as an alley
approaches --


step out of it right before Preston, who halts.
                       DARK MAN
Preston! Such a coincidence.
Preston looks at the Dark Men. Then swings around to bolt.
But there stands another DARK MAN blocking his way. Preston
backs a couple steps. Then swings back round, instinctively
draws the shotgun --

-- BLAM!! -- LEFT DARK MAN's head is blown away.

Dark Man behind grabs Preston around his torso. Preston
pumps another bullet in position and repulls the trigger --


-- CLICK -- empty. With reduced mobility, Preston tries to
swing the shotgun at DARK MAN in front. He sidesteps to
avoid and grabs the shotgun in the move. Snatches it out his

Preston sees the face for the first time, revealed in the

MAREK, a man who'd scare his own children. Intimidating,
grotesque and lethal.
Marek? So, Kazmierki send out his
little Polish errend-boy, huh?
What, he doesn't trust me?
And SMACK! -- Marek BUTTWHACKS Preston's nose with the
shotgun. He SHOUTS. The Dark Man KNEES Preston in the
crotch. And Preston falls down on his knees. Blood gushes
from his nose.

Marek holds the shotgun as a bat. He loads, trips the couple
steps for another blow. Backswings.

Gory Preston sees it coming, when --

A casino. It's dark, only the gambling tables are murkily

Mostly GRUMPY MEN sit playing a black jack table.

A LADY, probably around the 50s, stands among a hoping crowd
at a craps table.

The little marble stops at red 7 on the roulette wheel. And
the CROUPIER rakes all the chips on the felt back to the

The felt mats on every table are worn by the edges. The
CROUPIERS are as shady as the place itself.

The guests are either highly respected BUSINESSMEN or TRAGIC

Preston stands at the revolting bar with a scotch at his
hand. Nervously checks his golden watch.


An office. Huge, stylish and flaunty with massive mahogany
furniture. Expensive art decks the walls, surrounded by
twice as expensive frames.

One corner of the room is covered with plastic -- on floor,
walls and ceiling. A BUNCH OF FOUR MEN are standing in that
area. It's the three that Preston fought and --

DOMENIC KAZMIERKI, fiftyish, haughty boss dressed in what
appears to be a Giorgio Armani suit. A fat gold chain hangs
around his neck.

Marek JACKSON and BLAHNIK, are holding a squirming, black
man -- PHISH -- down over a table. He's in agonized pain.

Kazmierki puts himself in front of Phish, who calms down.
Think it suits me? I told you,
Phish answers by staring at Kazmierki.
First time I pawn a valuable
belonging from you. Next time,
something even closer to your
Kazmierki doffs his jacket. Tosses it on a leather couch a
few feet way. He slowly slides a machete out from a sheath
in his belt.

Frozen Phish's eyes distend. And he restarts squirming.
Madly. Throws his body back and forth. Desperately.
Forty K. That's an amount I can't
appreciate uncollected. That sums
up to --
Marek forces Phish's left hand up on a wooden chopping
board. Phish tries to tug his arm back. Fails.
-- your left hand.
Phish stops squirming. GASPING, he looks at Kazmierki.


No! Please don't, Mr. Kazmierki.
Kazmierki raises his machete above his head.
I'll get you the money. Soon I
possibly can. I promise, I --
WOOSH -- Phish HOLLERS. Agonized and frighened. The Goons
release him.
I know you will. Expecting you to,
Phish wraps his right hand around his left wrist, tries to
stop the blood from sploshing out from where the hand should
be. It lies beside him on the chopping board. Lying in
featus position, he weeps like a baby.
Kazmierki grabs a towel lying on the table and starts wiping
the blood clean off the blade.
You know I appreciate the work you
do for me, Phish. But business is
Kazmierki sheaths the machete.
Take care of the wound. Make sure
to keep the office clean.
Blahnik and Jackson haul Phish down from the table and lead
him for another door.

Kazmierki yanks a blood-stained handkerchief up from his
left front pocket. Gently, but precisely wipes some sprayed
blood of his right hand.

Is the other motherfucker here


Yeah. Waits at the bar.
Kazmierki heads for his jacket.
      (his back to Marek)
Get him, will you!
Course, Dom.
Preston observes the losing gamblers. He sees Marek
approaching. Downs his scotch. Marek arrives. Leans into
Preston to speak. They leave the seat.
Kazmierki sits laid-back in his flaunty leather chair.
Watches Preston's nervous entrance with delight. Marek
follows behind. Kazmierki turns to Marek.
Look at'im! Shivering like a
gaselle in the eye of a tiger.
Kazmierki SMUGLY SNIGGERS. Then shows Preston with his hand
to the visitor chairs.
I stand. Wanna get this over with?
Kazmierki shrugs.
Okay. Look, I know I owe you some
Correction, Preston. You owe a lot
of money. Fifty K to be exact.


I know. And you gonna get it --
Kazmierki swings back forward, SLAMS his hands in the desk.
Preston cringes.
By some reason, I've been patient
with you, Preston. And I'm not a
patient man. Hontestly beats me
what makes you special, but I feel
it's reaching the end.
Preston throws his arms out.
So, whatta fuck you want me to do?
Kazmierki spots the watch jumping out from under Preston's
leathery sleeve. Nods to Marek.
First off, I'm confiscating that
shiny watch of yours.
Marek clutches Preston's arm and forces the watch off his
wrist. He goes to Kazmierki with it. Hands it over.
Kazmierki studies it. Nods deeply impressed.

Just then, Jackson enters the office with Phish and Blahnik
right behind. Preston fixates his eyes on Phish's bandaged

Bahnik shoves Phish towards the office door.
See you monday, Phish!
Phish nods as he quietly exits the office.
Preston watches the door close after Phish.
What's your second action?
Not sure yet. Any suggestions?


Preston turns back to face Kazmierki.
Yeah. Lemme loan another fifty
Kazmierki eyes Preston. And suddenly starts to LAUGH OUT
LOUD. HOWLS. The three Goons join in. Preston is not.
Kazmierki stops.
You're shitting me, right?
Be more likely to shit my pants.
Another fifty K, you say? That'll
sum up to an even hundred.
Wrong. It'll be even.
Kazmierki just stares right through Preston.
Lookit. I got an airtight tip.
Galaxy away in Tampa. It can't
backfire. Tampa's two goalies
Kazmierki keeps staring.
They'll put a fucking kid in the
Kamierki stares.
You see? I'm telling you, it'll be
even fuckin Steven!
Kazmierki stares. Ponders. Preston regards him with great
Marek, arrange it!
Marek hesitates.


Boss --
Just do it!
As Marek leaves, Kazmierki turns to Preston.
As I said, it reached the end.
Last chance.
Preston nods, EXHALES of relief.

of Marek holding the shotgun above his, loading to drive.


SMACK - doggy stanced Preston gets rammed over the cheek,
falls flat to the ground. Blahnik, the goon behind, and
Marek lift Preston up in each end. They carry him for the
alley, both close to loose grip.
The alley is dirty and littered. Marek and Blahnik struggle
past piles and piles of garbage bags. Preston MOANS

Marek and Blahnik reach a huge pile of bags at the far end.
They throw Preston down in it. Nearly unconcious.
      (to Blahnik)
Will you do the honor?
Blahnik hauls a huge handcannon out of his pants. Points it
to Preston's head. Preston lazily watches with unfocused


That thing supposed to scare me? I
see bigger, scarier stuff when I
pull off my pants.
Despite all the joy we get out of
your visits, business is business.
      (gun held at
Do zobaczenia.
Blahnik slowly squeezes the trigger --

SCHWING -- a shiny hook suddenly clinches around Blahnik's
wrist, yanks the arm down -- BANG -- Blahnik shoots himself
in his foot. SHOUTS.
Whatta fuck!?
It's Phish. He twists Blahnik's arm, the handcannon drops to
the ground. Blahnik falls down. Phish kicks the cannon away.

Holding decked Blahnik's arm twisted, he makes a pirouette
kick over lunging Marek's face. Marek falls to the ground.

Agonized Blahnik squirms in pain.

Marek, quickly up on his feet, leaps at Phish, the shotgun
raised above his head. Swings at Phish, who catches the butt
with his hook. Uses the forward power to spin the shotgun
out of Marek's hands, hitting the pipe under his cheek.
Phish catches the shotgun and jabs the butt over Marek's

Marek falls to the ground, major trouble breathing. GASPS
REPEATEDLY to get the least bit of air.

Blahnik rolls around and MOANS OUT OF PAIN. Phish goes to
Preston. Helps him up on the feet. Preston still dizzy.
Thanks, man... Who are you,


I'm Phish. Our paths was crossed
at Kazmierki's office.
Preston focuses his eyes. Studies Phish's face.
Oh, yeah... Right. The handless
      (looks at hook)
Nice hook... very shiny.
Grab the shotgun and let's go.
Let's go?
Yeah... To Kazmierki's. Time to
show him to the red door.
Preston SCOFFS.
Yeah, I don't think so.
Preston turns, starts walking for the street. Phish runs
after, around him. Stands in the way. Preston stops.
Where you heading?
After my little near-death
experience just before, I'm
leaving the country.
And, what, letting him get away
with everything?
That's right. It's not my duty to
stop him. And besides, that man
intimidates the shit out of me. I
owe him too much money to still be
healthy to stay.
Hey, I'm scared of him, too.


Then, why bother? I rather flee
him, than meet him. Thanks for
saving my life. Excuse me.
Preston bumps into Phish as he passes him. Phish grabs
Prestons arm.
If you want at least one opposable
thumb, you should let go of my
Phish holds on. Still behind.
He's gonna hunt you down, you
know. He won't be nice to you when
-- not if -- when he finds you.
You know that don't you.
Preston does know that.
You gotta face your fears to
overcome them.
Good. Then, you go face Kazmierki
and I'll go face the running bulls
of Pamplona. You gonna let go of
my arm, or what?
C'mon! Help a brother out!
Brother? I'm not related to
obsessed cripples with death
Preston grabs Phish's thumb. Twists, and Phish is suddenly
laying on the ground.
Take care.
Grimacing Phish watches Preston leave the alley.


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