First 12 pages of my screenplay: TURNABOUT
Thought I would share the first few pages of my screenplay: Turnabout. Please feel free to comment, shread it, beat me to a pulp, all of the above 
[snippet]
FADE IN:
EXT. BEACH HEAD - NIGHT
SUPER: SOMEWHERE ALONG THE IRANIAN COAST - 1998
Cloudy, moonless night blends water and sand into a flat
expanse of black. Waves slip on shore — a soothing WHOOOSH.
LIEUTENANT JACK FRIAR (25), Semper Fi personified, orders his
Marines to hunker down on the beach — keys his Personal Role
Radio (PPR) attached to his M16A4 combat rifle.
JACK
Scout leader, you in place?
SCOUT LEADER (V.O.)
Since oh-dark-thirty, sir.
JACK
Status?
SCOUT LEADER (V.O.)
Hold on, sir.
SNIPER HIDE
Canary grass ripples inland with the coastal breeze. Slowly,
almost imperceptibly, a man-sized patch of grass undulates in
a different direction.
Camouflaged in his SNIPER’S GHILLIE SUIT, SERGEANT RUSSELL
ADDLER (22), eases himself into a prone firing position,
smoothly raises his M40A1 sniper rifle, WHISPERS:
RUSSELL
Breathe… Relax…
Shoulders round off — tension gone.
RUSSELL
Aim.
He peers through the sniper scope.
RUSSEL’S POV
Cross hairs zero in on the SILHOUETTE of a MAN perched in a
leafy tree — settle on the Man’s head.
BACK TO SCENE
RUSSELL
eases his finger backward against the trigger, backward
against the excess slack — an imperceptible squeeze.
PFFFFT.
RUSSEL’S POV
Silhouette slumps forward, suspended in the branches — dead.
BACK TO SCENE
Russell activates his PRR.
RUSSELL
Passage clear.
JACK (V.O.)
Roger, Scout leader. Moving out.
Link up at check point X-ray one
six three zero.
RUSSELL
Roger that.
BEACH HEAD
Jack signals his men forward toward the
RIDGELINE
Marines navigate headlong, through BUFFEL GRASS, over SAND
DUNES, forty-pound FIELD PACKS strapped to their backs.
A MARINE next to Jack comes to a halt — looks down. His feet
tangled in an unseen trip wire.
MARINE
Shit!
FLARES pepper the night sky — paint the landscape in an
eerie yellow light.
JACK
Ambush! Ambush!
MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the beach.
MORTARS THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Death rains down.
JACK
Incoming! Fucking incoming!
Jack and his men scamper to the
RIDGELINE
BOULDERS, SEDGE GRASS form a three-foot wall of relief from
the persistent machine gun fire.
JACK
Scout leader? Copy?
Long pause.
JACK
Scout leader!
Nothing.
JACK
Shit!
Another MARINE writhes, rolls in the sand
He leaps to his feet — claws at his back.
Claws at his neck — like some perverted dance.
MACHINE GUN FIRE erupts, spits unseen death — rips through
the Marine’s body — ends his misery.
Another MARINE meets the same fate, and another, and another.
Four dead MARINES in a blink of an eye.
Jack inspects the ground, freezes — a mass of boiling flesh,
slithers and crawls.
SNAKES!
Jack carefully extricates himself from the snake pit.
Plucks three snakes off his body — One. By. One
In the fading yellow light of the flares he observes
PANICKED MARINES
covered in snakes stagger, stumble, tear at their bodies — a
platoon of Medusas.
Bullets BUZZ in the darkness, deadly metal gnats — cut down
Marines one by one.
So much carnage that BLOOD soaks into the sand, covers the
snakes — sends them into a frenzy. The battle against snakes
and bullets — lost.
RIDGE LINE
Jack attempts to maintain a semblance of command — digs in
his pack for a map.
Mortar rounds EXPLODE behind him — machine gun fire RIPS
across the ridgeline. Snakes coil around Jack’s thigh.
More EXPLOSIONS — more GUNFIRE.
Jack barks into his mike:
JACK
Red Dog! Red Dog! Bravo three two.
Air support– Grid four one niner,
zero two four. Under heavy attack.
Request air support! Now!
GUNNERY SERGEANT BENJAMIN “TUCK” TUCKER (40), a tank in
fatigues, a grimace locked on his face, tosses hand signals
at Jack.
Jack responds, circles his finger in the air — retreat! He
keys his mike:
JACK
Red Dog! Red Dog! Situation
deteriorating! Fast!
A second drags by. Two. Three becomes an eternity.
JACK
God damn it! Tell Morales I need
fucking air support! NOW!
Rips off the PRR, dashes toward the
BEACH HEAD
At the BOATS (RIBS), DEAD, WOUNDED litter Jack’s field of
view — he kicks a snake into the surf.
JACK
Where’s Addler?
Tuck shrugs — brushes a snake off of Jack’s shoulder. He
eases behind Jack — plants himself between Jack and the
ridgeline.
Jack spins, eyes focused deep into the black of the interior.
A mortar round EXPLODES — SAND, GRAVEL, BUFFEL GRASS rain
down on the two men.
Jack side-steps Tuck. Tuck horse collars Jack — jerks him
back.
TUCK
He knew the risk, LT. We all did.
JACK
But I sent him out alone–
Jack lunges at Tuck with no affect — a brick wall.
TUCK
And now you have men to get home.
Jack rivets his gaze into the dark.
INT. RECON HEADQUARTERS - KUWAIT - DAY
A TENT in the desert. Not any tent. This tent belongs to
Battalion Commander COL. RUSSELL ADDLER (45), pit-bull-mean.
Jack stands at attention, a rock, silent.
Col. Addler cuts a chaw of chewing tobacco, shoves it in his
mouth — strides around his desk, gets in Jack’s face.
COL. ADDLER
You disobeyed orders, Friar and
single handedly ended five
generations of Addler Marines–
Jack opens his mouth to speak — Col. Addler cuts him off.
COL. ADDLER
You disregarded protocol… sent a
Marine sniper into hostile
territory without his spotter…
and not just any sniper–
Col. Addler leans forward — nose-to-nose with Jack.
COL. ADDLER
I’m going to crawl so far up your
sorry ass you’ll see my face every
time you brush your teeth.
THICK, BROWN TOBACCO JUICE splatters on Jack’s face, trickles
down his cheek — he never blinks.
COL. ADDLER
I will see to it you get every shit
mission that comes along until you
suffer the same fate as my son.
Col. Addler retreats — grabs a cup from his desk, spits.
COL. ADDLER
Save the Corps any further
embarrassment–
Grabs a stack of papers from his desk — waves them at Jack.
COL. ADDLER
–sign these resignation papers.
Tobacco juice dribbles down Col. Addler’s chin.
COL. ADDLER
I took the liberty of having them
prepared for you.
INT. ARLINGTON, VA HOTEL LOBBY - NIGHT
The very essence of a hotel for the carriage trade. Posh,
indulgent.
SUPER: TEN YEARS LATER
Jack snatches his CARD-KEY from the DESK CLERK’S hand,
retrieves a WOODEN CASE and SMALL DUFFEL BAG — ambles off.
DESK CLERK
(annoyed)
You’re welcome, sir.
INT. JACK’S HOTEL ROOM
Jack enters, closes the door with his foot, flips on a light
with his elbow.
A SUITE.
He passes through an elegant SITTING ROOM, into the
BEDROOM
with a KING-SIZED BED, DRESSING TABLE, and ARMOIRE.
He tosses the duffel bag on the bed — gently sets the wooden
case on the dressing table. He strolls over to a set of
FRENCH DOORS — opens them, steps out on to a
BALCONY
that overlooks the parking lot — he smiles, reenters the
BEDROOM
He stops at the bed, UNZIIIIPS the duffel bag — withdraws a
VIDEO CAMERA, sets it aside. He reaches in again, extracts a
TRIPOD — expands the legs.
He places the tripod near the balcony doors — mounts the
video camera to the head of the tripod. He flips open the LCD
screen, pans the camera toward the parking lot — tweaks the
focus.
He rechecks the LCD screen and satisfied, moves to the
DRESSING TABLE
and reverently flips the catches on the wooden box.
CLICK, CLICK.
He lifts the lid and reveals a disassembled SNIPER’S RIFLE.
He gently lifts barrel from the case. His fingers run up and
down the barrel — like a man caressing his lover’s thigh.
EXT. WASHINGTON D.C. STREET
Seedy, low rent neighborhood, more bars than mom and pop
shops — homeless litter the sidewalks.
Two working girls — SKANKY BLONDE, CHUBBY REDHEAD — patrol
their corner.
A CAR SQUEEEELS to a stop — the passenger window powers
down, reveals Jack in the driver’s seat.
Skanky Blonde struts over, leans in.
SKANKY BLONDE
Wanna party?
JACK
Always. How much?
SKANKY BLONDE
Depends Baby…
JACK
On?
SKANKY BLONDE
I’m allergic to pork. You a cop?
Jack digs in his pocket — removes the hotel card-key with a
YELLOW STICKY NOTE attached and a HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL.
JACK
A little preventative medicine.
Skanky Blonde tugs on the bill — Jack holds tight.
JACK
You gotta a car?
SKANKY BLONDE
Got whatever you want, Baby.
He releases the bill — she pulls off the note, tucks the
money and card-key deep into her cleavage.
JACK
Pick me up in front of that bar
sometime after it closes.
SKANKY BLONDE
Sometime?
Jack’s finger cruises up her ample cleavage, along her
throat, stops at her chin — he tilts her head back.
JACK
More where that came from.
SKANKY BLONDE
Mmmmmmm. More is good.
Skanky Blonde winks — blows him a kiss.
INT. JACK’S APARTMENT
Pig-sty chic. No GOOD HOUSEKEEPING SEAL OF APPROVAL here.
Jack slips on his EMT jacket — ambles over to a small, dusty
BOOKCASE.
The center shelf holds a GROUP PHOTO of Jack’s Marines next
to a framed PHOTO of himself and a CLASSY LOOKING BRUNETTE.
A PEWTER FLASK, SMITH AND WESSON FIRST RESPONSE KNIFE, and
CAR KEYS rest on the shelf below.
Jack grabs the flask, toasts his Marines — drinks. He slides
the flask in his jacket, grabs his keys — leaves.
INT. EMT AMBULANCE
DASHBOARD LIGHTS paint the CAB’S INTERIOR a soft orange.
Quiet chatter drifts from the TWO-WAY RADIO — tires HUM.
BILLY WILLIAMS (33), pudgy and baby-faced, sits behind the
wheel, eyes on the road — business-like. Jack slumps against
the passenger door — irritation chiseled on his face.
JACK
So you and what’s-her-name are
going to tie the knot.
BILLY
Her name, is Janice. And yes, next
April. The twenty-fifth. Can’t wait
either.
JACK
I’ll bet.
BILLY
Speaking of better-halfs–
JACK
Don’t even.
Billy takes his eyes off the road — glances at his partner.
Jack ignores him.
BILLY
That bad?
Jack sits up, digs in his jacket pocket — extracts the
pewter flask. Takes a long draw.
BILLY
Shit!
JACK
Shit, what?
BILLY
Never mind.
JACK
Christ, you’re as bad as Kelly.
Nag, nag, nag, nag, nag.
Billy’s grip tightens on the wheel — shoulders pinch around
his neck. He leans forward — eyes riveted on the road.
BILLY
For you’re own good.
JACK
You mean for your own good.
Jack takes another hit — offers the flask to Billy. Billy’s
knuckles turn white against the black steering wheel.
BILLY
You’re right. I’m so damn selfish.
What was I thinking?
Jack studies Billy long and hard.
JACK
Meaning?
EXT. ARLINGTON, VA - INTERSECTION
Deserted. Quiet.
Relays in TRAFFIC CONTROL BOXES softly CLICK as TRAFFIC
LIGHTS switch from red to green.
AN ANCIENT FORD ESCORT motors along. Behind the wheel a YOUNG
MARINE smiles as the light turns green.
YOUNG MARINE
Gonna make all the lights now.
AROUNG THE CORNER
a shiny new CADILLAC ESCALADE powers down the narrow street.
INSIDE THE ESCALADE
PRETTY-BOY (30), checks his teeth in the rearview mirror,
runs fingers through impeccably gelled hair. He reaches in
his pocket, pulls out his cell — dials.
The Escalade ROARS through the red light into the
INTERSECTION
SLAMS into the Escort!
Propels it sideways.
The axles SNAP!
The car tumbles over and over until,
it SLAMS into a WROUGHT-IRON LAMP POST.
SILENCE.
The Escort rests upside down — wrapped around the lamp post,
HISSES steam.
GASOLINE puddles beneath the wreck — trickles to the curb.
Metal GRATES against metal as the Escort settles.
Still on the phone, Pretty-Boy slides out of his Escalade,
strolls to the pretzled Escort — glances at the mangled
Marine.
PRETTY-BOY
You okay, man?
Catches a glimpse of his feet.
PRETTY-BOY
Shit! I lost one of my Criscis.
(into phone)
Hey, man, they’re eighteen hundred
a pair. Shit.
Races back to his vehicle, searches.
A PASSERBY fumbles with his cell, takes a calming breath,
dials 911 — reports the accident. He pockets his phone,
races to the wreck — comforts the injured Marine.
INT. EMT AMBULANCE
Billy jerks the wheel right, drives his foot into the brake
pedal — the ambulance SCREEEEEEEEEEECHES to a halt on the
shoulder of the road.
BILLY
You’re a fuck up, Jack! Your life
is in shambles. Always fighting
with Kelly, always drinking on the
job, always expecting me to cover
your ass.
Jack smirks — screws the cap on the flask, drops it in his
jacket pocket.
JACK
Why don’t you say what you really
mean–
The soft chatter on the two-way morphs into a LOUD BARK that
echoes through the cab.
DISPATCHER (V.O.)
One-zebra-four, over.
Billy tenses, ready to crawl up Jack’s ass.
DISPATCHER (V.O.)
One-zebra-four, over.
Billy snatches the mike — responds:
BILLY
Go ahead, central.
DISPATCHER (V.O.)
Trauma. Auto. Corner of East
Braddock Road and Commonwealth
Avenue.
BILLY
Ten-four. Rolling.
Jack activates the EMERGENCY LIGHTS and SIREN — slips on his
SEAT BELT.
INTERSECTION
Pretty-Boy searches the interior of his Escalade — finds the
missing Criscis, slips it on his foot. He strolls around his
Escalade, inspects the damage — kicks the right-front tire,
yaps into the phone:
PRETTY-BOY
Oh, man–
Pushes against a crumpled quarter panel.
PRETTY-BOY
–shit! You wouldn’t believe the
damage. What?
(beat)
Some piece-of-shit Ford. Christ!
Lights a CIGARETTE — kicks the tire again.
[\snippet]
Keep Writing!
