Happy Hunting

---

- Hello?

Who's this?

Do you speak English?

Habla ingles?

Habla ingles?

Yeah, I'll wait.

Hello?

Yeah, I know her.

But it's been...

Shit.

How did she die?

No, she didn't

have a kid.

Why are you telling

me this?

Wait, wait, you sure

it's mine?

Look, I get that but...

Isn't there anyone else

you can call?

Where in Mexico?

Okay.

Okay,

I'll call you back.

- What's up with you?

- I get the shakes.

- That happens if you

go cold Turkey.

- Haven't tried for

a while.

- How do you know

this guy?

- He's all right.

Been working for

big Dave.

- I ain't never seen

you before.

- I ain't been

around long.

- How much you want

for the shit?

- Whatever's fair.

- You hear about Randall?

- What?

- Fat Shirley's Randall?

- No, randal from up

the road.

Old fucking wheelchair

Randall.

- Shit, yeah.

How's old boy doing?

- He dead.

- Get the f*ck out

of here.

- You say this is

good shit?

Let's see if the lady

can dance.

I'll put five minutes

on the clock.

- C'mon, tell me, man.

How he dead?

- Well he won the scratchers,

ten grand.

- No kidding.

- Yeah well you know

his wife?

- Nah.

- Fucking hot.

I mean hot for

Randall at least.

Work down there at the

soap factory.

Man, ain't never any

body seen her so

much in love with the

motherfucker.

She been cooking for him,

and cleaning for him,

sucking on his

old cripple dick

from time to time.

Now the only

problem is,

old Randall started

getting real sick.

Puking over the

side of his wheelchair.

His fucking skin's

turning yellow,

his hair's falling out.

The genius he is,

thinks it's the booze,

so he goes on

the wagon.

But that shit

ain't helping.

Old Randall check himself

into the hospital.

Two days later, the

motherfucker's dead.

Doctors say they found

him filled to the

gills with industrial lye.

- Holy shit!

- Turns out his old lady

been sneaking it

into his food a little

at a time.

Stealing it from the soap

factory.

Angling on taking Randall's

scratcher money.

- Bitches, all of 'em.

- Hey, you got

three minutes left.

The f*ck kind of crank

you trying to

push on us, hombre?

Some advil and baby

laxatives shit?

- That's a solid cook...

- Solid cook?

- Fucking bullshit.

How'd you see this

thing playing out?

You sit the f*ck down!

- I'm getting big Dave

down here right fucking now!

- Shit!

- Hey it's Warren.

I'm driving.

I can be at the border

by Thursday.

Look, I don't know exactly

where I'm going.

I need an address.

I'll call back.

- We're sorry, your call cannot

be completed as dialed.

Please check the number

and dial again.

We're sorry, your call cannot

be completed as dialed.

Please check the number

and dial again.

- This is Warren, again.

Look I'm close to

the border.

In some motel somewhere

in the middle of nowhere.

I need to know where

I'm going.

So until you call me back,

this is as far as I go.

- Staying or passing through.

- Just passing through.

Bedford flats?

- Yeah, founded by the

bedford corporation.

Hunting town, used to chase

buffalo out on

the salt flats till they

ran out of steam.

Something they picked up

from the Indians.

- Hunters, huh?

- Not for a long time.

- You're done, Bob.

Want me to get the

sheriff again?

Now finish up and get

on out of here.

Everyone's sick of

your shit.

- Hey bud!

Didn't catch your name.

- Warren.

- Steve.

So are you staying or

passing through?

- Just passing through.

- Wanted to give you

my number.

- Nah, it's cool.

- C'mon man, this isn't some

gay pick up thing.

I'm not coming

onto you,

I just collect

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