Very Bad Things Page #7

FISHER takes her into his arms, pulls her to him, kisses her

hard, for all it's worth.

INT. A LARGE MONEY MANAGEMENT FIRM

Desk after desk after desk of identical men, seemingly

repeating the same task. We find Fisher at one of the desks,

number crunching. At the desk across from Fisher sits...

MICHAEL BRENN, short, compact, with a severe personality

disorder, masquerading as semi-appropriate behavior.

MICHAEL:

That's just insecurity.

FISHER:

I don't know. She's really been

stressing out.

MICHAEL:

Just insecurity. Nut crunching gut

splinters.

FISHER:

What does that mean?

MICHAEL:

It means she's insecure.

FISHER:

About what?

Michael's phone rings.

MICHAEL:

(picks up)

Mike Brenn. Yes. Yes. 14.3 at 7.5

for 6. At 29.83 at 9.

(hangs up)

I'm amazed the windows don't blow

out of their f***ing sockets with

all the repressed, ass-puckering

rage in these soul-less lizards.

FISHER:

(beat)

I just want her to be happy.

MICHAEL:

Same alarm clock every morning, same

two pops on the same snooze button...

(PHONE RINGS; picks

up)

Michael Brenn. Yes... Yes...

(looking through stacks

of stats)

Hold your horses. Okay. Got it. 6.321

at 17.28 for 6.6 at 9.256 out at

3432.343.

(hangs up)

Same shower, towel, toothbrush, razor,

hair gel. It's a f***ing epidemic

Fisher and you better start addressing

it. You're getting married and I'm

not going to candy-coat it. It just

gets worse. It's an eighteen wheel

cement mixer that will crush every

bone in your body.

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