Miles Ahead Page #2

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on that session tape, man.

Let's get you into fighting form again

and start working on that comeback.

Hey, I didn't go nowhere, George.

Now you want some music,

send me my f***ing money.

Fine...

Mr. Davis, if you could just

open the door for a moment...

- What?

- Mr. Davis,

I'm sorry to take up your time.

My name is Dave Braden,

Rolling Stone magazine.

I'm here to do your comeback story.

- Okay, move back a little bit...

- Yeah.

Get off my motherfucking...

Motherf***er!

Hey, there's no need for that. F***!

Open this f***ing door!

Motherf***er!

- Hey!

- Hey, calm down, Mr. Davis!

Hey, open this goddamn...

You lost your f***ing mind?

Crazy motherf***er!

I'm not playing with your ass!

Hello?

Open this door, God damn it!

You better not be touching

nothing in there, motherf***er!

Open the goddamn door!

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Inside the master's disheveled lair,

rumor becomes reality.

Jazz's Howard Hughes reviled and revealed.

Open the f***ing...

All right. I'm coming. I'm coming.

All right, Mr. Davis,

I'm going to open the door,

but I need you to calm down.

There's no need for violence like that.

Open the door!

- Mr. Davis. Please.

- Get the f*** out of my house!

- Get the f*** out of my house!

- Just... Just relax!

You going the wrong way, motherf***er!

Listen, there's no need for that.

I'm just here to speak to you.

Sh*t! Sh*t!

Columbia!

Your record company set it up.

- Columbia?

- Yeah, I'm just a writer, man.

Can you drive, motherf***er?

Prick.

Open the door.

- What?

- Open the door.

- What's that?

- You mind?

Man, take that f***ing thing

off my dashboard.

Irish motherf***er.

Let's go.

There... There he is! Miles!

Miles!

Look, I think we just

got off on the wrong foot.

I just need a little background.

I mean, I could write some bullshit

out of a magazine,

but I'd rather hear it

in your own words, you know?

Miles Davis' story. My words.

That would be great.

Go right.

Okay. I was born.

I moved to New York, met some cats,

made some music,

did some dope, made some more music.

Then you came to my house.

That's it?

Great. I guess I'll fill in

the blanks later.

It's what all you writing motherfuckers

do anyway, right?

Right turn.

Wait, we're going to Columbia?

Pull in right there.

I'll just wait down here.

Bring your ass out of my car!

Sh*t.

Miles?

Don't send people to my house

to write some dumb f***ing article.

Write a check, George. I'll wait.

Hold it a second, Miles.

I didn't send anybody to...

- Here, take your boy back.

- Hey!

- I didn't send anybody to your house, Miles.

- Okay, guys...

You send this motherf***er to my house

to write some comeback story?

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