Strange Days Page #4

LENNY:

I don't deal black-jack clips! It's

policy. I got ethics here.

TICK:

Yeah, when did that start? Come on,

man! It's what people want to see,

and you know it.

LENNY:

So lay it off to somebody else.

TICK:

Come on, Lenny. I got expenses. I

got to get this rig fixed. Look at

it...

Tick holds up a zip-lock bag containing the Walkman-sized

stainless steel CORTICAL RESONANCE RECORDER, the record

deck we saw earlier in the POV. Also in the bag is the

SQUID NET, a matrix of sensors designed to conform to the

human head (this is different from playback trodes). The

whole works are covered with congealed blood.

TICK:

Give me six at least. This's a good

clip, here. Gets you pumpin'.

LENNY:

Yeah, well, the first part's okay.

Better than the usual soaps you

bring me.

TICK:

Now that is cold, Lenny. I always

bring you choice.

Lenny fishes around in a cardboard box at Tick's feet,

pulling out a tape.

LENNY:

Sure, like this low-grade sh*t here,

some girl in a fight with her

boyfriend... it's a test-pattern.

Nothing happens. I'm snorin'.

TICK:

Hey, you're always saying, 'Bring me

real life. Bring me street life.

And, like, one man's mundane and

desperate existence is another man's

Technicolor.'

LENNY:

I said that? Look, I'll take it for

five, and you'll make out okay,

because in this case it's pure

cream, you don't have to cut

anything back to the wearer.

TICK:

Ha! That's for f***ing sure.

LENNY:

What else you got?

CUT TO:

MONTAGE/SERIES OF SHOTS

Lenny in his BMW, driving through the LA streets.

Streetlights and neon flare across the windshield in a

calligraphy of light. Lenny works the cellular, gets

messages on his DIGITAL PAGER, weaves in and out of

traffic -- punches the buttons on his radio, changing

stations all the time. Raw, nervous energy: like a kid

who can't stay still. It's a hard hustle in the big food

chain.

LENNY:

Look, Jerr. I'm nothing if not a

man of my word. I'll drop the money

by tomorrow, next day latest. It's

a little crazed right now. Yeah, on

my mother's eyes, I swear. Thanks,

buddy.

(hangs up)

Prick.

(to the car ahead

honking)

What kinda move you call that?!

Lemmings.

Lenny turns up the radio. SELECTED DRIVE-BY IMAGES, as

the talk-radio provides commentary.

Lenny's car passing under glowing Santa Clauses on the

light-poles. Banners proclaiming the coming "Millennium

LA" festivities.

TALK-RADIO HOST

... it's a little after 2 am on

December 30th, 1999... the second to

last day of the whole darn century,

and the phone lines are open. Dan

from Silverlake, you're on the air.

Transition to a rougher section of town. Buildings roll

by endlessly, tagged by gangs in graphic tribal patterns.

some are burnt-out ruins.

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