Concussion Page #6

SCARBOROUGH:

We know that.

BENNET:

You may know. But I can prove it.

(and we cut, and--)

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 12.

26 EXT. INDUSTRIAL RIVER BANK - DAY

WIDE of a weed-strewn empty lot. A king-cab Chevy pick-up in

the lee of abandoned construction. Side windows blown,

replaced with garbage bags.

As a Harley bike ENTERS FRAME crossing to the pick-up, cut to

27 A REAR-VIEW MIRROR.

In them, eyes, slightly mad, trying to recognize their own

reflection. They fill the screen, then we WIDEN TO-

28 INT. CHEVY PICK-UP TRUCK - DAY

MIKE WEBSTER, 50 but looks 70. Unwashed. Hair stringy.

Granular thickness everywhere, forehead barnacled with scars.

Fingers mangled in a permanent curl, as if gripping a ball.

Surrounded by soiled clothes and Ding-Dong wrappers. Crucifix

dangles from the mirror.

Piles of lined yellow paper. Covered edge to edge in scrawl.

An equally massive MAN dismounts the bike: 6’8”, 320 lbs:

JUSTIN STRZELCZYK (Strel-zik), 36. Heavy-bearded, plaid

shirt, overalls. A giant hippie.

STRZELCZYK:

Webby, hey man, love your digs!

(no response)

Webby, it’s Jugger!

(then)

Mike. It’s Justin.

(Webster turning his big

head, no recognition)

I’ll just sit with you a minute?

And slips behind the wheel. Smells like ass. On the passenger

seat:
container of ammonia; super-glue.

WEBSTER:

(awakening to where he is)

Where is this?

STRZELCZYK:

This is Ohio. Off some freeway.

WEBSTER:

Ohio’s got the best truck stops.

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 13.

STRZELCZYK:

But this ain’t even that. This is --

I don’t know what this is.

Strzelczyk picks at the yellow paper. Starts to read. Then.

Reaches for Webster’s knee.

STRZELCZYK (CONT’D)

My brother. Been looking for you.

Pam said I might find you here.

(which taps Webster into

momentary focus)

WEBSTER:

Juggers.

STRZELCZYK:

We’re all worried about you.

And takes a wad of toilet tissue dipped in ammonia, puts it

to his face. Eyes flare -- “Don’t do that” -- “Keeps me

awake! Don’t want to fall asleep!” -- Strzelczyk grabs for

the wad -- “What the -- Mike!” -- two tree-trunk arms shovel-

hands slap at it-

WEBSTER:

Don’t wanna fall asleep don’t wanna

fall asleep can’t fall asleep-

A glimpse of the mess of Webster’s mouth: teeth glued back

in, gums bloody.

STRZELCZYK:

You gotta let me take you back.

(Webster can’t remember)

You called an audible, Mike. You

took off.

(pause; then)

I heard you sold your Super Bowl

rings. Your rings, man.

Webster non-responsive. Then gets out of the truck. Agitated.

Can’t get the words out. Strzelczyk gets out his side, comes

around. Right up into Webster-

STRZELCZYK (CONT’D)

Pam is your wife. Garrett, your boy-

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