Law of the Wood [6]
An Original Motion Picture - Script
Rough Draft - Third Revision
Written by: L T Hunter
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[Pitch black room. Tight shot, focus on blinking clock reading six in the morning.
Mixed commotion, glass bottles clinking together across the room unseen. One shadow
passes in front of a small slit in the shades blocking out the daylight passing
through the window. The small particles of dust, and haze of stale smoke still
hanging thick in the air, stirred by the shadow scurrying around in the blackness.]
Groundman:
‘Get up man, we’re gonna’ get fired, for Chrissake git’ outta’ bed man!’
[The heavy blackout curtains folded back violently, partially torn from the rod.
Light from the rising sun blasting into the small cavity, illuminating all the
empty bottles strewn about the floor, dresser, bed and lining the perimeter of
the room, some in pyramids, some smashed in small piles in the corners of the room.]
Apprentice:
‘C’mon, aaargh!’
Groundman:
‘Dude, da’ boss is gonna’ tan both our asses if we’re not on dat’ last bird…’
[A small Hughes 500 approaching from the work camp, lands just outside.
The pilot looks curiously as if confused. A man steps out of the side opposite.]
Apprentice:
‘Are you serious, after last night, I doubt he even cares!’
Groundman:
‘Get up, we’ve pulled the heavy crew, we got to be there, you know that.’
Apprentice:
‘Alright! Gimme’ a second to put on my…’
[Rifling through the closet, throwing out a shirt, a dirt ripped cover-all and
a hat, along with boots and a couple of well-soiled socks, which hit him in the
face. His hair still in disarray, eyes barely able to open or focus.]
Groundman:
‘Here! Don’t bother with it, jus’ get out da’ door. The stew is so pissed off…’
Apprentice:
‘Why is that?’
Groundman:
‘You’ve got both sets of da’ keys for all da’ equipment ya’ dumbass’
[The keys come tumbling out of the pocket of the over-alls]
Apprentice:
‘Oh shit.’
[The helicopter blades nearly spun all the way down. The man on the pad looking
toward the two men running, half-dressed, and stumbling across the yard. Several
others look on shaking their heads, hiding their laughs, the mechanic re-fueling
the helicopter guesturing over to the pilot to pay him some money which the pilot
takes from his zippered chest pocket.]
Groundman:
‘Sorry Stew, won’t happen again.’
[A much older, rather distinguished man nearing retirement, his hair grey at his
temples, and into his unshaven muscular jaw. His steel-rimmed glasses tipped ever
so slightly downward so that his cold blue eyes meet with theirs.]
Steward:
‘Ya’ gotta’ learn that being on my crew means ya’ can be counted on.’
Apprentice:
‘Sorry Stew, won’t happen again.’
Steward:
Angry voice, ‘One more word an’ ya’ll be gettin’ a pink slip.’
[From out of view, the ‘Boss’ approaches, quite a bit taller, and massive. As the
helicopter turbine begins to spool-up, the rotors begin to turn faster. The
huge man, dressed in all black gear, wearing a hard-hat with a single word
boldly marked across the top on all sides, ‘BOSS’, puts a huge hand on both
standing in front of the shop steward.]
Foreman:
Yelling, ‘I did ya’ Dad a favor puttin’ you on dis’ crew, an’ dis’ is what I git?’
[In the helicopter, sitting beside his roommate, leaning over to his partner.]
Groundman:
‘Better pour dat’ slop in the hole double-time.’
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Copyright 2007 - All Rights Reserved
