INT. SPEEDING VAN – NIGHT
A half dozen mid-twentyish partyers lie passed out across a bare
mattress in a disheveled heap of wildly colorful clothing. A
flood of street lights flickers sporadically through the van’s
dark tinted windows, illuminating then erasing the
expressionless face of the only passenger not asleep.
FRANCO GENOVESE, 6’1″ and powerfully built, struggles to his feet
and crouches to avoid striking his head. He makes his way forward,
dropping into the empty passenger seat. His hands hard from years
of manual labor, he steadies himself against the dashboard and
stares out through the windshield.
TWO-SHOT – FRANCO AND PAULIE MALATESTA
PAULIE, a smaller man with black hair and olive skin, continues
navigating the van, just mildly distracted by the presence of his
Pull in here.
EXT. DINER PARKING LOT – NIGHT
The black van pulls into the entrance.
Stop. Let me out.
Franco exits the van. Dressed in a short black leather jacket
with a small white peace sign painted on the back shoulder,
he walks toward a dumpster resting in the shadows. His thick,
dark brown, shoulder length hair covers the collar of his jacket.
The worn blue jeans accent the power in his legs. With both
hands, he grasps a chain link fence separating the diner from
a gas station and stares down at the ground. He stays that way,
not moving. A car pulls in the entrance behind the van. Paulie
taps the horn.
Franco looks up at him but doesn’t answer. The driver waiting
not so patiently behind the van hits his horn.
Franco, come on.
Franco looks at him and waves for him to go. The driver blasts
his horn a second time. Paulie gestures angrily, drives around
the diner, onto the street and away. Alone, Franco lifts his
head and eyes, his face immersed in the glow of an overhead