East Meets West - a film script

Ext. Deserted South Texas highway.
Near sunset.

FADE UP
The sun hangs low in the western horizon of the Texas oil-fields bathed in hues of copper and multitudes of gold.  A lone miniature oak tree casts a shadow thrice its height over parched pasture grasses, cactus and nettle.  Four weary long-horn stand vigil over their watering hole while chomping lengths of sun baked hay.  The air ripples with heat and bears the rusty groans of the hulking oil wells peppered from horizon to horizon.  One rig nearby, drenched in rust and tar, groans in monotonous exertion.  The sunlight is momentarily blocked by the nodding "donkey well" as it dips doggedly.  Again the sun pierces in shards of blazing light as the horse head ascends, returning to its elevated perspective. 

A flash of pitch coupled with an engine's roar snap the otherwise quiet Texas country side .  The 1966 jet black Lincoln Continental barrels past the four head of long-horn.  The beasts' dark, fly encrusted eyes follow the specter as it screams down the Texas artery never missing a metronome precision chew of their cud.  The sleek "clap-door" is pristine save for the crumpled front fender smeared red with blood, hair and bone fragments.   Also - - the hood is caved in and the passenger side windshield is a spiderweb of cracks splintering the setting sun's rays in a million directions.  A lone figure dressed in an ebony suit, white shirt and black tie faces the setting sun, both hands adhered to the steering wheel.  Disco-ball refractions of sunlight from the mangled windshield glint playfully on the driver's inky sunglasses.  A swatch of red light roams the back rest of the empty passenger seat - the sun light piercing a large but rather neat blood spatter on the windshield.  Silently the crimson patch saunters south to the empty seat where it meets gold and explodes into a shower of orange reflected sparks.  The Samurai sword is sheathed in an unassuming, not so gently used black scabbard.  Not flamboyant like the knock-offs purchased at American flea markets.  This sword has been passed from father to son for generations and looks every bit the relic that it is.

A hand gently moves the sword into the driver's lap and away from the laser red shaft causing the eruption of light to extinguish.  The driver's black coat and white shirt sleeve ride up briefly revealing the Yakuza tattoo cuff around the bronze, hairless wrist.  The hand glides back to the steering wheel.  The driver's square face is unconcerned as the Continental's unmistakable linear speedometer passes 120 and goes out of site behind the reflective aluminum panel.  A piercing screech overtakes the thunder of the motor as the monstrous vehicle fish-tales in response to the break-pedal being driven into the floor board by the size 13 black Brunomaglis.  The Lincoln drifts into a turn north on to a forgettable dirt road.  A gale of stones and choking dust engulf the back-end as it tries to find its footing on new terrain.  The headlights spike the roiling cloud like two white swords hacking this way and that in time with the vehicle's gyrating.  She finds her gripping and rockets forward, still swerving, still in control.
FADE BLACK


Ext. Paso oil rig.
Near sunset.

FADE UP
The Paso oil rig is newer than most.  The horse-head dips and ascends with little more than a well-lubricated hum.  Not completely unravaged by the elements,  patches of rust have infiltrated the worn white paint like a chain of dark islands in an ashen sea.  A bus sized reservoir tank hunkers nearby, sloppily painted like its repetitive mate with the word "PASO" centered and emblazoned with red block letters.  Perched on top of the tank is the figure of a man.  His blue-jean covered legs flop to and fro, boot-scoot'n to a tune he hums under his breath.  His boots, dulled with dirt,  leave wakes of airborne dust as they strut through the air.  He wears a sleeveless white t-shirt complete with the faded cartoon character Calvin smugly urinating on a Chevy logo.  He takes a long gulp from his Shiner beer bottle.  The man has to tip his sweat stained cowboy hat back with his free hand to finish it off.  An air of accomplishment illustrates his tan, stubbled features.  Flipping the dead soldier in the air and catching it by the neck, he throws the bottle.  As the flashing missile flips away into the quickly fading light, a feint whistle signals every rotation.  It collides with the ground at the feet of a second man and explodes into a cloud of glittering shards and granules.  The first man smirks and re-adjusts his hat.

2nd man

 Watch it! You sum-bitch!  Shane, that ain't cool man!

Shane

Crack baby!!  Cody - (pointing) why don't you peddle your dumb ass 

over to that cooler and get me another beer before he shows up.

Cody

Alright.

Cody sheepishly does as commanded and wanders to the blue and white cooler stashed next to a stack of steel pipe.  Tall and skinny, Cody sports a layer of stubble that covers his unexceptional features shadowed by the brim of his green John Deere trucker's hat.  His button-up, electric orange shirt stained with oil and wear looks one size too big for his thin frame.  His faded jeans droop off of his hip bones revealing a pocket of emptiness where is hind-end should reside.  His jean cuffs are split at the seam and torn from being continuously stepped on by his well past their prime Redwings.  Cody kneels to open the soiled lid and searches through the ice and bobbing empties.  A sliver of light cuts the nearby darkness with a train of hurtled sand in tight trail.  Shane snaps out of his planted dance, his penetrating gaze affixed to the veering intruder.

Shane

Cody!  Forget it.  Get over here...he's coming!

Cody ceases rooting in the ice and looks over his shoulder, letting go of the cooler lid.  Anxiety and purpose shade Cody's features as he sprints to the tank.  Shane slides effortlessly to ground from his roost atop the tank.  The single light becomes two on the golden horizon.  The dull murmur of a pushed to the limit motor increases in volume over the motions of the oil well.  Shane reaches into the waistband of his pants and retrieves a Smith & Wesson .38 special.  Shane instinctively clicks open the barrel to check his ammunition, flicks his wrist sending the barrel back to the firing position and cocks his weapon.  Cody's eyes widen in distress when seeing the gun.  Shane slips the gun back into his waistband.

Shane

Never bring a knife to knife fight...right little brother?

Cody nods in coerced agreement.  The headlights of the black Lincoln smear the darkness nearby, kicking up a spray of gravel.  The vehicle fishtails to a stop some 20 yards from the two men.  A fog of sterile dust envelops the black beauty in seconds.  Shane and Cody soon succumb to the haze too, waving their hands in front of their faces as if such action might actually work.  The high-beams cut off diminishing the unnatural electric glow of the smog.  The motor of the Lincoln Continental shuts down followed by stillness.  Cody and Shane steal a glance at each other, questioning with their eyes the inaction from their guest.  The pendulum movements of the droning well are deafening in the tension laced, swirling grit.  The clicks of a door handle and squeal of dirt-caked hinges startle the well's frictionless chorus.  The droughty soot begins to find it's way back to earth revealing the Lincoln and a hulking figure standing next to her silhouetted in the dissipating cloud.   

Yakuza

あなたは、それを持ってしましたか ?

(Japanese: Did you bring it?)

Shane

Now...you know we don't speak Chink.  If you're asking

about the case...it's safe.

Yakuza

それはどこですか ?

(Japanese: Where is it?)

Shane

I told you...We don' - -

A flash of light and a deafening explosion gash the still.  The gun shot's echo reverberates inside the oil tank like the clang of a church bell.  Shane's head recoils from being hit.  His body flops to the ground in a mangled pile like an unmanned puppet.  Cody's eyes pop with terror while falling to the ground to aid his brother.  Shane's eyes gaze upward, lifeless.  Cody twists his head in the direction of the shooter - his face a haunting mix of horror and rage.
(PICTURE FREEZES)

Voice of Cody

I guess he didn't bring a knife to a knife fight either.

(PICTURES UNFREEZES)
Cody picks himself up and bolts into the darkness.  The Yakuza holsters his weapon in his coat, strolls in front of the Lincoln, now a viscous gray from the Texas dust. 

Voice of Cody

My day started out pretty shitty.  But...I suspect it's about...

The passenger side door screams opens and the Yakuza reaches for his sword.
(PICTURES FREEZES)

Voice of Cody

...to get a whole lot worse.  Looks like the knife fight is with me. 

(PICTURE UNFREEZES)
He grabs his blade and slams the passenger side door.  Cody runs without thinking or breathing.  He's in flight mode, swinging his head left and right when possible, looking over his shoulder for signs of his pursuer.  Panic driven inhaling and exhaling reverberate the barren pastures as the last traces of gold drain from the Texas night sky.

FADE BLACK

dissolve title:  24 hours earlier...