Southland Tales Page #3

Nana Mae Frost,

please acknowledge.

Identification confirmed.

Welcome aboard, Miss Frost.

Thank you.

Nana makes me wear

these f***ing things.

Do I look like a nerd?

No.

- Welcome to Treer Plaza, tower one.

- Yes.

We know that Boxer crossed

the border into California.

There hasn't been a single fingerprint

found in the system since then.

We know someone

must be hiding him.

What the hell was he doing

in Nevada?

We think he was kidnapped

at a charity scavenger hunt.

Somebody stole

one of the prototype SUVs

from a warehouse in San Pedro.

Tracking devices tell us

that they crossed the border

way out past Lake Mead.

Get over to the computer.

I can show you.

- All right.

- He's been brainwashed.

I'm sending you

the surveillance footage right now.

This footage

was taken by his abductor,

someone with ties

to the Neo-Marxist movement.

Is that Boxer?

Yes.

Is this the last time anybody saw him?

Yes, except for these.

What's that, smoke?

Somehow

the vehicle caught on fire.

There was somebody in there, too.

What?

Baron has retrieved

the charred remains of the body.

- Have they identified the body yet?

- Not that I know of.

Grid nine zero two

nine one.

Venice Beach was home

to the Neo-Marxist underground.

They were the disciples

of German philosopher Karl Marx.

Here we go, just in time.

This is Fortunio Balducci,

his new best friend.

Drug dealer, pimp,

co-producer

on some new mystery project.

He's been crashing with Fortunio

in Manhattan Beach all week.

They hooked up

on some drug binge out in Vegas.

Our little Krysta

has promised me a marriage killer,

maybe even an election killer.

Boxer hasn't talked

to his wife in a week.

She's on the campaign trail.

Nobody knows where he's been,

much to the senator's dismay,

and his b*tch wife, Nana Mae.

People in Washington

are already whispering.

Looks like the nervous breakdown

of the century.

Too bad it's an election year.

Nothing that an eight ball, a porn star,

and tattoo parlor can't handle.

Revelation 6:
8...

"And behold, a pale horse,

and he who sat on it,

his name was Death. "

You know, there'd be

a lot less violence in the world

if everyone just got

a little more cardio.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Hey, is that a bazooka?

That is a heat-seeking ground-to-air

rocket launcher from Syria.

You can't afford that.

What exactly do you want?

I need some

What else do you need

along with the blanks?

That's all, just the blanks.

Here is your UPU 9

and the blanks.

What the f*** is this?

What, you won't take

a personal check?

No, I won't take a f***ing check.

Get the f*** out of my ice cream truck,

you Cro-Magnon b*tch.

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