The CP "Film Noir" Script
 

The Music Game and the Movie Line Game have taken on a life of their own, so I now I propose that the talented harangeurs of the Planet take on the responsibility of writing a Film Noir Tough Guy Detective script, like those grainy flicks of the 40's and 50's.

You guys use these lines every day...

An example or two..

Why not borrow detective Walter Brown's line from The Narrow Margin: "What kind of a dish was she? The sixty-cent special--cheap, flashy, strictly poison under the gravy."

Or you can simply emulate the classics with Follow Me Quietly's immortal "Follow that car!" Life may be a crooked game of blackjack with no more chips left to play. "The next person that says Merry Christmas to me, I'll kill them."

We have so many wanna be Mickey Spillane on this board, this could be fun.

First line in the next post.

It was one of those kind of nights. I was in my office late, having my favorite setup - scotch with a scotch chaser, when the knock came upon that door that read "Lamar Hunt, Private Detective"... yeah, my door.

At just that moment I belched loudly, doubly incriminating, as whoever it was outside my door now knew that I was there, and I was also reminded of the chili and egg sandwich I'd had for dinner.

I then got up to answer the door, as reluctant as I was to do so. Like a recalcitrant bulldog, my every instinct told me not to do it, but despite my doubts, I slowly turned the knob.

I don't know why I said it. It just came out.

"NO! I don't have anymore POT!"

Lamar had this funny look on his face...

"Ummm, okay....donut?"

"Don't ever call me that again," was the only response that could be mustered.

Then she walked in. Without a word she looked over at the dessert spread I had prepared, the shot glasses filled to the brim. She walked over to the desk, with a sachet that would make a priest head for confession. With a single motion, she threw the amber liquid between her ruby lips, and swallowed. Her tongue ran over her upper lip, absorbing the last traces of the scotch.

"Your a friend of the Walker boys, too.", she said, looking out the window at the streetlights.

All of a sudden, my paranoid instincts kicked in.

"Who? Why do you want to know? Are you a Commie??!? ARE YOU!?!?"

She stared at me for a while.

"I mean the Walker boys from down the street. The bicycle repairmen..." she said in a way that can only be achieved by a mysterious woman with a huge overbite.

"Ah, yes," I fumbled, trying to cover my tragic outburst, "what about them?"

"They're okay fellas, I guess, but they tend to get into spots they have trouble removing themselves from sometimes," was her reply.

"You know, actually, it's you're," I said, unable to control myself after thinking over her earlier statement. Being a grammar nazi can really hurt business sometimes, and her eyes betrayed the second thoughts she was having about being here in the first place.

"I said You're" she replied... "One would think a detective would be able to deduce the fact that the apostrophe is silent!" "Maybe I should take my business elsewhere." she stated sarcastically.

"Maybe you should shut your mouth, bitch!"

Well, that did it. She stormed out the door, slamming it behind her so hard I thought the glass was going to shatter. My temper had lost me yet another client.

I sat back down and poured another drink. It looked like it would be a long night.

Being constantly reminded that I hadn't won a big case since the 70's by my "friends" in Denver had taken a toll on me as of late. Hopefully the sixteenth shot of scotch would take the edge off and help me deal with this striking yet incredibly annoying bitch.

"What exactly do you want, Miss...? I inquired, not knowing her name.

damnit!

"It's Miss Davis," she said, with hope glistening in her eye.

"You got something in her eye, there, honey," I told her, gesturing towards her deep blue eyes.

"Oh..." she sighed. She rubbed at her eye for a bit, and pulled something from her eye in an unexpectedly sexy way. "It was just a piece of hope, that's all."

"I see... anyway, where were we?" I responded.

She looked at me, and her eyes were both cloase and far away at the same time. I could feel those eyes in a deep, down low kind of way.

"I've lost something, something very dear to me.", she said. The tone in her voice told me that when she lost it, she was dealing with a hard-boiled egg, the kind of egg you drop in really hot water and forget about for 20 minutes.

I have no idea what the hell I just said, to be honest, but let's just say the dame needed help. She needed it bad.

So I pried further. "What is it that you've lost, letshavesexonmydesk?"

"What did you say?"

"Uh, nervous tick. So, what have you lost?"

Slick recovery, I thought to myself as I waited for her to say something.

"I've lost my -- my," she couldn't finish as she broke down, her swimming pool eyes overflowing with tears.

"Just tell me maam', let me help you." I said in my best hope this bitch hires me to help her so I can buy more scotch voice.

"I've lost my autographed Jim Plunkett jersey that I got in the divorce of my ex-husband. He was a Chiefs fan so he stole it since he knew that was the only way he could really hurt me. He could fuck around on me, never come home.. none of that mattered. But fuck with my Raiders... well that rips me apart emotionally. I can buy more spiked shoulder pads, darth vader masks and so on, but that was signed by Jim right after I swallowed his manhood, so it can never be replaced."

"Plunkett, eh?" I said to the dame. I'd remembered Plunkett. Helluvan arm he had.

Her deep eyes sunk into mine.

"This isn't cheap. Give or take, we're talking around..."

I stopped when she pulled out the black leather briefcase. My heart started beating wildly, and then she opened it.

I felt like someone had walked over my grave at that moment.Out of her satchel she produced a pair of
jewel encrusted sunglasses...adorned with the letters
"A.D."

"Those belong to my nemesis Dr. A. Davis!",i said with
a startled cry."I thought i killed him years ago...."

Davis, Davis the name came at me like a pack of wild dogs. I thought I would never hear that name again. I sank down in my chair and stared at the papers on my desk.
But I was being rude. "Have a seat Miss Davis." As she sat down I got a good look at her gams. My eyes moved on up from there. This dame was built like Arrowhead stadium.

Wait a second! I thought. All of a sudden the dots were connected. A. Davis! Miss Davis! It all made sense!

Figuring Davis was not that common of a name, I inquired about my old nemesis, but not in any way that would arouse suspicion.

"So, Miss Davis. Your husband..."

"Ex, husband, Mr. Hunt."

"I'm sorry. Ex-husband."

She was a persistant, fiesty one. She had the look of a Bronc fan after a loss. And I knew those looks.

"Where...where does your ex-husband live, Ms. Davis?"

"Oh, he splits time between Los Angelos and Oakland. Frankly, I couldn't tell you exactly. I think he also said something about Mexico City."

That's where it hit me like a bull. Mexico City. My god the memories arose from me like...something that rises quickly.

I recalled the poisoned water... the giant mosquitoes... waking up covered in honey and wearing only socks in the middle of a bullfighting arena...

But nothing having anything to do with Davis. So I kept asking quizzically.

"You say that your husband went back and forth between L.A. and Oakland?"

"Yes," she replied, "but I think he settled for Oakland."

I laughed very hard and milk came out of my nose. Oddly enough, I had not been drinking milk.

An awkard silence blanketed the room.

"So... you wanna go do something?"

She glanced at my desk. Then back to me. She smiled. She started to reach over...

With one swipe I threw everything off my desk into a disorganized array of clutter. "Touch me baby..." I repeated to her. "Touch me like you've never touched anyone before."

She pulled back with shock in her eyes.

"I just wanted to know if this desk was oak or maple you sick fuck!"

Dammit!

"Uh.. yeah, that's what I meant..." my eyes wandered the room nervously. "Uh... it's actually balsa. You know, budget cuts."

"I think it's oak..." she said.

"GAWDDAMMIT YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW THE fuckING DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BALSA AND OAK!?!?"

She sat there, shocked.

"I forgot to take my medicine this morning..." I covered.

"Okay..." she replied, having no clue what the hell was going on.

And the truth was, I had no clue what was going on either. We sat for awhile, ruminating over the previous minute and a half.

To break the silence, I offered her a coffee. "No thanks."

"Water?"
"No, I'm fine."

I cleared my throat...

"So, your ex-husband...Where were we?"
"Oakland, and then you had your little...spill."
"Ah, that's right." I said, lighting up a smoke.

"And what does he do now, Ms. Davis?"
"He's a businessman. An owner of something, god knows what."

Then I remembered. The team. The Mexican Bandits. We had both owned the Bandits 25 years ago. Happy, friendly, owners. But one day...

The dirty thought cleared from my mind.

It was apparent this woman didn't know her husband owned "her" beloved r.aiders.

"Ms. Davis, before we go into any more details, I need to tell you something."

I told it to her. Straight. It was tough, but it was necessary. She sat down silent.

I looked at her with loving eyes. The poor doll. I excused myself so she could be alone for a while.

When I came back in, the window was open, the shade flapping in the breeze. I ran to it. There she was, fallen from a one story building, and dead...as dead as the 2004 chargers.

After my initial shock, I smiled. "Oak or maple?" I amusingly asked myself. It was so obviously balsa.

As I listened to the radio that night, I heard the strangest thing. The "dead" girl...Ms. Davis...had fled from the police station and was gone.

Fearing of an actual plot, I decided to let it rest. She wasn't my responsibility. I laid back, lit a stoagie, and let the ashes fall to my naked body.

Six hours later I awoke with a hangover from hell and burnt pubic hair. I wonder what's next for me. More scotch I'm sure, but I've had enough dead girls and Raider fans to last me for awhile. Sometimes I wonder how I continue to go on in this life, then I remember...

Trinidad & Tobago - March, 1999
"So you want it, or not? I don't have all day, you know."
"Look, I'm trying to make up my mind. You sure you're not a cop?"
"If you don't order something soon, we're going to have to ask you to leave. And why would a cop be working at a coffee shop, sir?"
"Because you're sneaky like --"

My reminiscing was cut short by the sound of heels clicking towards my door. The sound was then replaced by that of of a thin, raspy knock.

I opened the door very slowly.

It was Miss Davis.

"I... I thought you were dead!" I stammered through unbelieving teeth.

"So did I..." said the lovely undead broad.

"Wha... what are you doing here?"

"We have unfinished business..."

I scanned my mind, my pop culture database and came to the chilling realization that I saw dead people.

I immediately called M. Night Shalyman.

While dialing the phone, I absently waved Miss Davis in the door. As she sat down I noted that she was still in the same get up as before.

Damn those gams just went on forever didn't they?

My eyes continued to cruise up and down those silky stalks with visions of the honeypot between them.

"Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?"

The gal was getting me so worked up, I was hearing voices now.

I suddenly realized that the voices were coming from the phone I was holding to my ear.

Who it was I would have never expected.

It was A. Davis.

"Hello, Lamar. Are the Chiefs still crying, Lamar?" said Davis in a creepy serial killer voice.

"H-h-how did you get this number?!?" I stammered (memo to self: see speech therapist).

"You called me..." Davis growled polietly, however polite a growl can be.

"Oh. I must have the wrong number. Sorry." I absent-midedly hung up.

"Can we get back to ME now?" screeched the adorable Miss Davis.

I didn't hear her. I realized what a big mistake I had just made.

She tried to kick me in the groin, but my quick reflexes allowed me to judo flip her over my desk.

"One second, lady. I'm about to make a phone call that could break your case wide open, and I don't mean that in a double entendre sort of way."

Ring, ring...

"Yes, is this the M. Night Shyamalamhamorother residence?"

"Sir, this is Fifth Third Bank, 1366 Union Street."

"Oh. Is M. Night What'shisname there?"

"Let me check. 'I'm not a player, I just **** a lot...'"

I hate being put on hold, so I decided to hang up the phone and hunt down this Somalian guy myself.

While trying to make a quick exit, I realized the undead former Mrs. Davis was still there. "Where the hell are you going, " she asked, " I jumped out of a ****ing window for you and you can't show me the common courtesy of listening to my problems???"


gams, gams, gams.......



"How bout a road trip???" I inquired??? "Me, you, and BJ can go for a ride and you can tell me all about your problems!"

Little did she know that BJ was a character that would be created with her scotch glistened lips in an hour or two if I had my druthers.

So we packed into the car and headed for Somalia, because I was pretty sure that's where M. Night Shalyman was from.

I knew he'd know something about Miss. Davis' deadness.

Turns out he wasn't home, so we went back to the office.

Whoever created the saying "Being dead sucks" sure knew what the hell he was talking about. Although I didn't have a golf ball or a garden hose, I'm pretty sure this little philly wouldn't have any trouble passing that test.

Hopefully the trip to Midnight Samalamadingdong's house will take awhile.... the pipes are pretty clean now, but I prefer glistening.

Or was it?

I woke up somewhere in Thailand. I had to get back to KC, so I hitched a ride with a rice farmer and headed for the airport.

He wasn't in Somalia. M. Night had taken residence in, where else but - Mexico City. It was all starting to come together.

I knew it would be a treacherous journey. There was that damn poision water, and of course the bulls. The bulls struck like the power of Zeus's lightning. You could never escape them, only hope to hide from them day after day. At times, the sewers would be your only home. In them, the hours stretched on for what seemed like days. The only thing I had to keep me going was Ms. Davis.

I felt the vibrations of a Nokia cell phone tucked deep into my pants pocket. I took it out, but unfortunately dropped it into the sewage. Didn't matter. I really didn't know how to answer my cell phone anyway.

At night, the bulls slept, and the homeless wandered. That's where I met Chico Valdinez.

I woke up in a cold sweat. None of it happened, none of it happened, I to myself.

It was all a blur. One moment I'm in thailand, the next I'm in Somalia. I turned on the light.

I screamed like a little girl when I saw laying beside me...

MISS DAVIS!

"Wha... what are you doing here?" I shouted quite loudly.

"I'm here for help. You must help me find my husband and kill him."

Gladly, I thought. A. Davis had been a dirty bastard to me for a long time and I wanted revenge. I just couldn't tell her that he was indeed the owner of her beloved Raiders.

"Doll, I don't know how to say this... but..."

"But what?"

"Before I say anything more, I just have to know."

"You have to know what," she simpered while batting those big baby blues.

"Oh my God," I thought, "how the hell did ol' Al ever let this one get away to begin with?"

"Why do you want your ex wiped out?" Surely there was a horrible story behind all of this animosity from such a lovely dame. And knowing what I did about Mr Davis I was ready to believe anything.

"Well..." she pondered for a bit. "Ever since Al left L.A., I felt abandoned..."

"Go on," I said. I was a bit distracted at the time.

"We drifted apart and eventually divorced. In the settlement, he got the one thing I wanted."

"Well, what is it?"

"It's ... it's..." her sparkling blue eyes watered up and a stream of sorrow flowed out.

"What's the matter?"

She calmed down a bit, gained her composure, and told me what it was she wanted.

"My bull testicles. My...friend. He bought them for me as a gift when he was in Mexico City."

I looked at her. "And this, friend, Ms. Davis?"

She wiped away a tear. It was almost to much for her to bear.

"We had a...an affair, Mr. Hunt." She sobbed, the tears rolling down her rosy cheeks and disappearing into her blue dress like a ghost in the night.

"What was his name, Ms. Davis."

"What does it matter! He's dead now! Dead!" She flew herself on to my shoulder.

I figured it to be so. Affair, jealous husband, madman...it would all come down to a murder.

But that didn't explain why Al had wanted the souvenior. Evidence? A tasty mid-night snack? Conversational piece on his living room coffee table?

I stroked her deep black hair. "It'll be alright," I assured her.

The phone rang, startling us both.

I slowly picked up.

"Uh... hello?" I nervously mumbled

"Hello, Eddie?" said the voice.

"Eddie? There's no Eddie here."

"Is this 555-2993?" the voice replied.

"No, 555-2933." I shot back.

"Oh, sorry. I have the wrong number." the mysterious man said. He then hung up.

I put down the phone and looked and Miss Davis.

"Where were we? Oh yes, bull testicles."

The phone rang again.

I glared at it, but it didn't give up.

I picked it up.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello, Eddie?" said the voice.

"You have the wrong number again."

"Is this 555-2993?" the voice replied.

"No, 555-2933. Just like last time."

"Man, I did it again."

I hung up.

I turned back to the dame.

The phone rang again.

"HELLO!" I barked.

It was the same voice. "Well, now I'm just screwing with you."

I slammed the phone down on the receiver, pulled out my snub-nose .38, and shot it. Twice.

Unfortunately I took some shrapnel from the telephone right to the gut and was rushed to the hospital.

Miss Davis was still thinkin' of herself, the broad.

"But Lamar, how will I ever retrieve my bull testicles?" she sobbed to me as I lay in my hospital bed, intestinal juice pouring out of me.

I laughed. A lot.

"Why are you laughing?" she sniffed, quite perplexed.

"Ha ha ha... oh... you just said 'how will I get MY testicles back!' HAHAHA! Oh man!!" I just couldn't stop lauging.

She shot a mean, mean look at me.

I shut up.

Just then Doc Jensen came in.

"How long am I gonna live doc??" I wailed.

Doc solemnly said "Well, I have good news and bad news..."

"The good news is you're going to live. The bad news is you're going to have a piece of telephone in your body for the rest of your life."

I could live with that. But wait!...

"Can I still take showers?"

The moment I said it, I knew it was a stupid question. Being as nice as this particular doctor was, he flashed me a smile.

"No. I'm sorry. Only baths."

I didn't understand, but maybe that was the way it was supposed to be. In my life, there are many things you just don't understand.

The doctor came near me. "Hey," he said. "If you have any questions, just call me."

I looked at the card he gave me.

Doctor Jensen. 555-2993

Was this merely a coincidence? I didn't have to find out though, soon I was getting on a plane, headed for...

Mexico City.

I had heard a brand new fedora store had opened there. The hats were cheap, like everything in Mexico. So I grabbed three and took them up to the counter...

"Tasdfkjhsdh sldjhfsdh tihslh t aljhft ttasdhf?"

Damn. I'd forgotten my spanish translator in the hotel. So, I said the only words I knew.

"Si. Gracias."

Just then, 6 men dressed in black came at me.

They shot me fifteen times, just as I had requested. They rushed me to the hospital.

"Dr. Sanchez should be right in. Would you like some water?" the nurse asked.

"Umm.... no thanks..." I mumbled, knowing the risks of such an action.

Just then the Doctor walked in. But I recognized him... Wait a second, he's just al Davis with a funny mustache and a white coat on!

"Al! Al, what are you doing here I thought I killed you years ago!" I stammered.

"Ha ha ha... now it is I who shall do the killing..."

But just then, Al Davis had a heart attack and died, and we all lived happily ever after.

The End

Thank God.

I'm a damn genius.