Tell Page #3

- That's an ugly word.

- Yes, ugly.

I just need to make sure you

don't know where the money is.

Oh, come on.

Hey, hey, hey, I...

Oh!

Hmm.

Ethan Tell.

I'll be your parole officer for the next 18 months

unless, of course, you do something stupid

and find yourself back in here.

Not a good move.

Here are your parole instructions.

In a nutshell, don't leave L.A.

Don't hang out with any felons, any convicts,

or anyone who has access to a firearm.

Say that you just found God on your--

your release.

And your pastor wants to invite you over for dinner

to meet his gorgeous virgin daughter,

who has big titties and big nipples.

Well, say you're at dinner, and there's a Civil War rifle

that hasn't been shot in a hundred years,

right over dinner, right over the potato salad.

I suggest you get the f*** out of there

and stay away from that man, his church,

his daughter, and her big nipples

because they're trying to throw you back in jail.

That's a violation.

Here's your keys to the halfway house.

It's a residential facility, not a jail cell,

so there's no f***ing in the shower,

there's no peeing in the sink.

All the stuff you do in here?

Mmm-mmm.

It's a nice place, keep it clean.

Are we clear?

Yeah.

I'll see you every Tuesday, 10:30 sharp,

no exceptions, no excuses.

No bullshit.

See? I like you.

Pick a candy... Not the

purple ones, I love those.

And don't do anything stupid.

All right, they wanna know where you stash your cash at.

Don't try to skip town, make a run for it.

You won't get half a block

with every cop in the city...

watching you.

So if I were you, play it cool,

and tomorrow...

I'll help you.

Help me what?

Get the cash.

Mr. Johnson, uh, the cash

burned up in the fire.

I like that, keep it like that.

Convict on deck!

Parolee. Yeah.

Tell?

Tell!

I'm unarmed.

You look good.

Sorry I never came to visit you in prison.

I wrote to you, though. Yeah.

Divorce letter?

I... I got that one.

That was just so they wouldn't think I was an accomplice.

Smart.

You know, I, uh...

I wrote you letters.

I was kind of hoping that when you got out,

some time would pass, and then

maybe you'd be able to forgive me?

For what, shooting me

or not visiting me in prison?

Both, actually.

Can I give you a ride?

We can talk, catch up maybe.

It's good seeing you, Bev.

It was always just you and me.

Just one cup of coffee, please.

You know, it's gonna take more

than a couple of donuts, Bev.

When I shot you, I was off my ass.

Like, clean off my ass.

What does that mean?

All those promises you made,

how you were gonna take care of me, I believed them,

every single one of them because I loved you.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes