DESTINATION UNKNOWN
Life is so strange when you don’t know
How can you tell where you’re going to?
You can’t be sure of any situation
Something could change, and then you won’t know
— Missing Persons, 1982
By
Marty S
(“Super Genius”)
V6 — CLEAN VERSION
CONFIDENTIAL — LIMITED DISTRIBUTION ONLY
This document contains proprietary and confidential information.
Unauthorized distribution is prohibited.
ACT ONE: THE SET-UP
FADE IN ON:
A TEXT CRAWL. Marty, George, and Blair have known each other since September 1991, when they started as freshmen at a Boston-area college. They hung out together, sometimes lived together, sometimes worked together over the years. By the time “adulthood” set in, each went their separate way. George settled in South Florida. Marty lived in Boston before moving to China and then the Middle East. Blair, after a few years in Boston, settled in the Pacific Northwest. They did not remain close physically, but they remained friends.
Over 30 years of emails, text messages, AOL chats, and social-media hectoring, these three have stayed in relatively constant contact. Each is married. Each has a job. Each has kids — some adult, some young. The messages they share are stupid and sophomoric, but life and adulthood have caught up to all of them. None would admit to being gray old men. But sometimes that feeling gets to you. What they need is one more epic hang. One more stupid prank. One more road trip.
Six years ago, George vanished. He was later discovered to have been imprisoned — a case of mistaken identity. Authorities thought he was a drag queen involved in a Romanian book-fair scandal. During his disappearance, Blair and Marty formed a private splinter text group — just the two of them — called “…HandGrenades,” mostly to talk about their missing friend. The main group, “Handguns and Hand Grenades,” has existed in various forms since 2005.
INT. MACHINE SHOP — JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA — MORNING
A modest, weathered metal shop. Oil-stained concrete floors. The smell of metal, grease, and industrial solvents. Part of George’s life has always remained a secret to everybody. He never volunteered what he actually did, and when pressed, he’d offer a vague brush-off or a detailed irony that told you this was not a topic for conversation.
GEORGE (55, South Florida native, emotionally guarded, perpetual smirk — the running gag in school was that he was a man of great emotion, only one, usually manifesting as a smirk) stands at a workbench. He has just received the ultimate form of pink slip. His work has put him in contact with a dangerous substance. It is killing his boss and mentor, YURI (65s, Russian accent, precise movements), and it will ultimately kill him too.
Yuri approaches George, holding a manila folder. This conversation is rehearsed but weighted.
YURI
I have this for you. Da!
Yuri hands George the manila folder. George opens it. Inside: a trust document. The provision is simple — a relatively small sum, about thirty thousand dollars, has been set aside, but only if George spends it by going on a road trip with his two friends, meeting up somewhere by car.
YURI
Look, the last few years, they has been very difficult, and I know you tried to do your best. Now it’s time for you to go and have some fun. Thirty thousand dollar. You and your two friends — you’re going to meet somewhere in the middle of the United States. You’re going to drive.
GEORGE
(reading)
How am I supposed to—
YURI
You’re going to buy three cars. Sh*t boxes. Treacherous. I want them sent to your friends. You each get tablet — GPS, turn by turn. But the tablet will NOT tell you where you’re going. You’ll only know when you arrive. You’ll each have GoPro cameras to document your travels. We will track you through the cameras.
GEORGE
So they won’t know—
YURI
They don’t know anything. They will drive. I need you to know that by the time you finish your journey, I will probably already be dead. But I’ll be happy knowing you did this one last fun thing for me.
George, not usually prone to showing human emotion, lets the smirk crack — just slightly. He appreciates what Yuri is doing.
YURI
But one condition, George. You cannot tells them about this trust. Not about money. Not about my health. Not one word. If you do, the trust is void — and I will have no choice but to open my safe deposit box. What’s in there will ruin your life. And I won’t be around to stop it.
YURI
And there is one more problem, just for you. You cannot leave the state of Florida. Work-release. You will phone your parole officer many times to prove you are still in state. So you will stay local. Very local.
George nods. He understands. The threat is clear.
YURI
George — you good guy. You nice to me. You laugh at my jokes!
GEORGE
Your jokes seemed funny…
YURI
Don’t lie — my jokes is sh*t! You laugh anyway. I want to be nice to you. This is nice. You have fun! I will cover for you at the shop!
Yuri extends his hand. They shake. A deal is made.
CUT TO:
INT. GEORGE’S HOME OFFICE — JACKSONVILLE — NIGHT
George sits at his laptop, on Carfax. He finds them: three sh*tb*x 2012 Subaru Imprezas — specifically the models with CVT transmissions. He purchases all three sight unseen and arranges delivery. He texts Blair first.
TEXT ON SCREEN (GEORGE)
Yo, Blair, what’s your address? I’ve got something that I need to send you.
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
What is it, a Christmas card, finally after all these years?
TEXT ON SCREEN (GEORGE)
Yeah, something like that.
Blair replies with an address in the Portland, Oregon area.
Now George’s hands hover over the keyboard. He’s about to text MARTY — the one person he’s always feared, so much more physically and intellectually superior that even sending a text can be intimidating.
TEXT ON SCREEN (GEORGE)
Yo, M. Where are you living these days?
Forty-five minutes pass. Then a reply.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
Yo, D. You know I’m in Dubai these days. Why, what’s up? You want to come for a visit?
TEXT ON SCREEN (GEORGE)
No, man. Is there any chance you can be here in the States? I was thinking we could hang out.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
As it happens, yes, I’m going to be in Boston in July with my family. Do you want to come up and hang out for a little bit?
TEXT ON SCREEN (GEORGE)
No, I have something else in mind. Can I have your address in Boston? I need to send you something.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
Is it my Genesis Three Sides Live tape? You’ve had it since April 1992. You finally going to get it back to me?
TEXT ON SCREEN (GEORGE)
No, but something close to that.
Marty sends his Boston summer address and closes the chat, not knowing what comes next.
CUT TO:
EXT. BLAIR’S DRIVEWAY — PORTLAND, OREGON — MORNING
BLAIR (55, Irish-American, brash, no filter) sips his coffee in his bathrobe. He hears the mechanical sound of what could be a garbage truck in his driveway. It strikes him funny — it’s Thursday, and garbage doesn’t come until Monday. What the h*ll is happening?
He rushes out in his bathrobe to see a guy with a flatbed lowering down a boy-racer blue 2012 Subaru Impreza. Different tires at each wheel, scuffed and scratched. Huge dents. A complete and utter sh*tb*x.
BLAIR
Hey, man, what the h*ll’s going on?
FLATBED DRIVER #1
(thick Russian accent)
Listen, I was told to deliver this here. Are you Blair Connell?
BLAIR
Yes, I am.
FLATBED DRIVER #1
Well, you’re the proud owner of this car. Enjoy.
The driver hands Blair the keys, then stands there, looking at him.
BLAIR
What’s the f*ck*ng problem?
FLATBED DRIVER #1
Normally, it’s customary to tip.
BLAIR
Let me give you a tip then. I’m in my f*ck*ng bathrobe. All I’ve got here is my c*ck and my coffee. I can throw the coffee at you, or you can suck my c*ck. That’s the tip. Leave now, before your options get weak.
The driver, realizing he isn’t getting any money, begrudgingly walks off, grumbling. He flips Blair the bird over his shoulder.
BLAIR
Yeah. That’s great. F*ck you, and have a nice day. I hope you die.
Blair looks inside the Impreza. A box with a GoPro, a tablet, and a letter from George. He reads it.
LETTER (V.O. — GEORGE)
B*tch, enjoy your car. I will contact you. We will meet up and have a demolition derby. You’re weak. P.S. You smell, bad.
CUT TO:
EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING — BOSTON AREA — DAY (ABOUT A WEEK LATER)
MARTY (55, intellectually superior to everyone, physically imposing, expat in transit) and his family get out of a long black Cadillac Escalade, Uber-driven from Logan Airport. They pull up in front of a building in a not-so-rundown part of a mostly rundown town. His wife and their two kids are groggy from travel.
As the Uber driver prepares to leave, a flatbed truck with a bright pink 2012 Subaru Impreza pulls up, blocking the driveway.
UBER DRIVER
Hey, buddy, can you move that thing so I can get out of here?
FLATBED DRIVER #2
(Russian accent)
I’m just going to be a minute. Hold tight.
The flatbed driver literally flips up the bed of the truck. The pink Subaru rolls off into the bushes, halfway across the driveway, semi-blocking traffic on the road and the driveway.
FLATBED DRIVER #2
Hey, are you Marty?
MARTY
(dazed from travel, amazed at what he just witnessed)
Yeah, why are you asking?
FLATBED DRIVER #2
Catch.
The driver briskly throws the keys thirty feet at Marty. Marty tries to catch them, fumbles, and they fall to the ground.
FLATBED DRIVER #2
I was told to give you this, f*ckh**d, and I was also told that you would not be able to catch that. Enjoy your ride. I would move it before people try and kill you.
The driver leaves. Marty picks up the keys, walks to the pink Subaru, and gets in. He starts it up, realizes it’s a manual transmission — which he cannot drive — and starts to panic. Then he sees a note stapled into the dashboard.
NOTE (V.O. — GEORGE)
Hey, M. I wanted to get you something that matched your personality. This f*ck*ng car is gay and so are you. P.S. Enjoy the stick shift. Your pal, George. P.S. You smell, comma, not good.
MARTY
(to his wife, deadpan)
George got me a manual transmission. In a pink car.
MARTY’S WIFE
You’re not actually going to drive it, right?
MARTY
(pause)
He’s playing a long game.
CUT TO:
INT. GROUP CHAT — “HANDGUNS AND HAND GRENADES” — DAY (ABOUT A WEEK LATER)
George posts a long message to the main three-way group.
TEXT ON SCREEN (GEORGE)
Yo guys, I’m in a bit of a pinch and I really want to see you guys. I sent you these cars because I figured we could have a Gumball-rally-style race. I’ve taken the liberty of putting GPS transponders on each of the cars. Each of them has a full tank of gas, has had an oil change, and half their transmission fluid drained. And let’s not even talk about what we did to the differentials at the garage.
TEXT ON SCREEN (GEORGE)
I’ve also taken the liberty of figuring out where you guys live. Please don’t be menaced. I’m sending you each a tablet with turn-by-turn directions to a meeting point I’ve determined to be the exact geographical center of where we all are. It won’t show you the destination — just where to turn next. I expect to see you guys on the road and driving by no later than tomorrow night.
TEXT ON SCREEN (GEORGE)
Don’t b*tch to me about gas money because you’re both rich. Don’t talk to me about your families. We all have skin in this game. Just tell your wives and your kids that you got to go out for a little bit. It’s not the first time either of you have walked out on your families. Don’t lie. Just do this for me, please.
CUT TO:
INT. “…HANDGRENADES” CHAT — BLAIR + MARTY ONLY — CONTINUOUS
In their two-man splinter group, Blair and Marty react.
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
NFW – I’m busy.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
I know! Like – who can just drop everything and go on a caper… I’ve got kids. YOU’VE got kids…
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
George’s got kids too.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
yeah – but they’re older. They are mostly out of school and stuff. My son has only been out of diapers as long as he was IN diapers!
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
So you’re not gonna go.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
Nah… I can’t. It’s funny. But no.
CUT TO:
INT. BLAIR’S LIVING ROOM — 24 HOURS LATER — DAY
Blair’s wife pokes her head in.
BLAIR’S WIFE
Honey, can you take the trash out? And the lawn needs—
BLAIR
Yeah, yeah, I’ll get to it.
BLAIR’S WIFE
And my mother is coming next week, so we need to—
BLAIR
(under his breath)
Jesus.
CUT TO:
INT. MARTY’S BOSTON APARTMENT — SAME TIME
Marty’s wife points at a wall of things that need fixing.
MARTY’S WIFE
The bathroom sink, the kitchen cabinet, the—
MARTY
I know, I know.
MARTY’S WIFE
And the kids’ schedules are—
MARTY
(muttering)
I hear you.
A full day of being henpecked and honey-do’d. Both men, independently, decide: f*ck it.
CUT TO:
INT. MARTY’S CAR — PARKING LOT — LATER
Marty sits alone in his car. He texts Blair.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
So – when are you leaving?
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
…like 11-12 tomorrow. You?
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
Same.
ACT TWO: ON THE ROAD
As preposterous as it sounds, both Blair and Marty — beaten by life again and again over the 35 years since graduation — decide: “What the f*ck? Let’s do it.” The middle of the film cuts back and forth between Blair, Marty, and George as the gags roll on. Throughout, Blair and Marty tell each other where they are. George never reports a location — because George never left Florida.
EXT. BLAIR’S DRIVEWAY — PORTLAND, OREGON — MORNING
Blair loads a duffle bag into the blue Subaru. His family stands in the driveway — his wife with their son (20s) and daughter (teens). His wife is a little mad, but she knows sometimes you have to let boys be boys. She kisses him goodbye.
BLAIR’S WIFE
Well — you just have to let boys be boys. But don’t do anything too stupid. You know how you get!
BLAIR’S SON
Yeah — try not to get AIDS!
BLAIR’S DAUGHTER
(disgusted face)
You’re a moron.
Blair gets in. He starts it up. The CVT transmission makes a menacing, winding whine. He looks at the sh*tb*x, the tablet (turn-by-turn only, no destination), and the GoPro mounted above the mirror. He thinks of Jackie Chan in Cannonball Run.
BLAIR
(to himself)
This thing is f*ck*d. How am I going to do this? This thing is f*ck*d.
BLAIR
(quietly, realizing)
Cannonball Run. I’m in a f*ck*ng Cannonball Run.
He drives off. His family waves.
CUT TO:
INT. PINK 2012 SUBARU IMPREZA — BOSTON AREA — SAME TIME
Marty sits in his ridiculous pink Subaru in the driveway. His wife stands outside the window, not waving. He plugs in the GoPro and sets up the tablet: TURN BY TURN DIRECTIONS ONLY. No destination.
He pulls out. About 13 feet down the road, the car stalls. Fortunately he’s been watching YouTube videos on driving stick. He pops it into neutral, restarts, drops it into gear. It moves. About 30 feet later, it stalls again. This mechanical ballet repeats itself for the next couple of miles until he gets the hang of it.
MARTY
(to himself, frustrated)
Come on… Come on…
He grips the wheel, stares at the pink hood. The tablet blinks: CONTINUE STRAIGHT FOR 2 MILES.
MARTY
(deadpan realization)
Cannonball Run. This is actually a Cannonball Run. In a pink manual-transmission Subaru.
CUT TO:
INT. “…HANDGRENADES” CHAT — DAY
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
Did George just Jackie Chan us?
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
Cannonball Run vibes. Sh*tb*x cars. No destination. GoPros.
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
Except Jackie Chan had a better car.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
Jackie Chan could also drive stick.
CUT TO:
INT. BLUE 2012 SUBARU IMPREZA — HIGHWAY — DAY
Blair drives. The CVT transmission whines like a dying animal. His tablet reads: TURN RIGHT AT MILE MARKER 47. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He only knows: turn right. The full continuous run to Tallahassee is 2,247 miles — about 33 hours of driving. But Blair is 55, not 20. He’ll need naps. Lots of them. Total trip: closer to 44 hours.
BLAIR
(to himself)
What the f*ck am I doing?
He texts Marty.
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
My tablet just says ‘turn right.’ That’s it. No destination.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
Mine too. Do you know where you’re going?
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
I’m in f*ck*ng Idaho. Or… wait. No, I think I’m in Washington still.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
You’ve been driving for 6 hours?
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
Yeah. And this car sounds like it’s dying.
They chat continuously. Hours pass. The mystery of the destination haunts them. (Marty’s own run from Boston is 1,087 miles — about 16 hours of driving, 27 with rest.)
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
Has George mentioned where he’s going?
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
No. He’s been radio silent. Just keeps posting to the main group.
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
That’s weird.
CUT TO:
INT. METAL SHOP — JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA — DAY
George works at a lathe. Yuri walks by.
YURI
You okay?
GEORGE
Yeah. Just… they’re out there driving.
YURI
Good. They’re having fun, dah?
GEORGE
I hope so.
Yuri pats him on the shoulder. George glances nervously at a row of unmarked solvent drums in the corner. He can’t stop thinking about Chucky Decissio — the guy who used to wash his hands with WD-40 and got cancer of the nuts and died.
CUT TO:
EXT. REST AREA — OREGON/IDAHO BORDER — EVENING
Blair pulls into a rest area, about 8 hours outside Portland. He started mid-morning and wants to rest so he can drive overnight — partly to evade police. The sun is setting. He’s exhausted.
He tries to lay the driver’s seat back as flat as it will go. It’s stuck. He goes to the passenger seat — also stuck. He moves his duffle bag of deodorant and Slim Jims and lays across the back seat. There’s a funny smell back there. He doesn’t want to know.
He closes his eyes and uses the Army Ranger technique: holds his breath, empties his lungs, several deep breaths, repeats until his heart rate lowers. Then sleep comes.
As he sleeps, he hears scratching. He half-dreams of the raccoons on his back porch trying to get in through the screen door — their little hands working at the latch. In his half-sleep, he mumbles.
BLAIR
(half asleep)
F*ck off… stupid f*ck*ng raccoons…
The scratching continues.
BLAIR
(still half asleep, louder)
F*CK OFF! You stupid f*ck*ng raccoons! Get off my f*ck*ng deck!
The scraping gets LOUDER. He opens his eyes — a ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE of down-and-out tweakers stands around the car, faces pressed to the windows.
BLAIR
(100% awake, pure terror)
M*TH*R F*CK! M O T H E R F*****CK!!!!!
He tries to step from the back seat into the driver’s seat in one motion and gets stuck halfway.
BLAIR
F*****CK!
He tumbles into the driver’s seat and starts the car.
BLAIR
F*ck! F*ck! F*ck!
The car starts. He drives off. A moment of relief. He rubs his eyes.
BLAIR
At least I got a pretty good rest.
He looks at his watch: 10 PM. He’s only been asleep a few hours.
BLAIR
Shiiiit.
Checking his mirrors — THUD. Another THUD. In the rear-view: the hands of a TWEAKER clinging to the back of the car.
BLAIR
You fargin b*st*ch! Get the f*ck off my car!
Blair pulls over. The tweaker rolls off onto the ground in one motion, then rises like the T-1000 from Terminator 2, locking eyes with Blair. The tweaker’s eyes gleam RED.
BLAIR
(pure dread)
Oh f*ck! Not THIS! Not NOW!
The tweaker turns and runs, shouting back—
TWEAKER
…your f*ck*ng car sucks anyway!
Blair catches his breath. Then he sees it: a white Tesla passing slowly, blacked-out windows.
BLAIR
Hey! Hey! HEYYYY!!! Did you guys see this sh*t???
He immediately texts Marty.
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
White Tesla. Blacked out windows. Just passed me after some tweaker fell off my car.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
Wait – FELL OFF YOUR CAR?
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
Don’t ask.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
And there’s a white Tesla following me too. Has been for the last 200 miles. Always 150-200 yards back.
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
Same here. What the f*ck is going on?
CUT TO:
INT./EXT. GAS STATION — CONNECTICUT TURNPIKE — DAY
Marty pulls into a gas station. He gets out to pump gas. The manual transmission has been a nightmare — stalled at least a hundred times. He’s parked haphazardly and forgets to engage the parking brake.
Inside, paying for coffee, he looks out the window — his pink car is rolling slowly toward a concrete barrier.
MARTY
(freezing)
No. No no no no—
He RUNS out of the station, panicking, grabs the door, somehow gets in while it’s still rolling, and throws on the brake. The pink car stops inches from the barrier.
MARTY
Jesus f*ck*ng Christ!
He sits there, breathing hard.
MARTY
(to himself)
George is a f*ck*ng *ssh*l*.
CUT TO:
INT. GAS STATION BATHROOM — SOMEWHERE ALONG THE ROUTE — NIGHT
Blair is at the urinal taking a leak. Another man walks to the urinal on his right — 65 years old, the spitting image of Herbert the Pervert from Family Guy. He doesn’t unzip. He just stands there, looking at Blair.
Blair pushes out the last bit. Then turns to the man in a slightly come-hither voice.
BLAIR
You want some of this?
PERVERT
Oh — why YES — Yes I do!
Blair turns and p*ss*s all over the man. He zips up his fly.
BLAIR
I’m glad I could oblige!
Blair walks out. The pervert stands there, drenched, in shock.
CUT TO:
EXT. CONSTRUCTION ZONE — INTERSTATE — DAY
Marty fights the manual transmission through a single-lane construction crawl. Stop. Stall. Restart. Stop. Stall.
[GAG — STILL IN DEVELOPMENT: Marty’s construction-zone set piece. Placeholder until the bit is locked.]
CUT TO:
INT. BLUE SUBARU — INTERSTATE — NIGHT
Blair, on speaker with Marty, revs the dying CVT mercilessly while he talks — expounding his life philosophy on cars you don’t actually own.
BLAIR
Here’s the thing about a car you don’t own — you can do unthinkable things to the transmission. Rental car? At the end you just hand the keys back to the guy behind the counter, go ‘…broken…’ and walk away. This car? George BOUGHT this for me. So technically it’s mine. Which is the only part of this that p*ss*s me off.
MARTY
You’re destroying it on purpose.
BLAIR
I’m stress-testing George’s gift.
CUT TO:
INT. PHONE CALL — INTERCUT — NIGHT
Blair and Marty talk while driving. The banter drops away.
MARTY
Do you really think he’s on his way out?
BLAIR
I dunno — after we found out he was in the clink I was basically desensitized to anything happening.
MARTY
I know.
MARTY
You know — when you texted me to say he was ‘inside’ I kinda felt like he died. I know that was stupid. But it was how I felt.
BLAIR
Yeah. That makes sense.
Silence on both ends. The weight of old friendship.
CUT TO:
INT. “…HANDGRENADES” CHAT — NIGHT
They keep comparing notes. Every stop, each man clocks a white Tesla. George never mentions seeing one.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
Has George said ONCE where he is? Or seen a Tesla?
TEXT ON SCREEN (BLAIR)
…no. Now that you say it. Never.
TEXT ON SCREEN (MARTY)
We’re doing all the driving. He’s staying local. I’d bet money on it.
CUT TO:
INT. METAL SHOP — JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA — NIGHT
George checks his phone. The main group lights up with locations — Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee. They’re closing in. They still don’t know where they’re going. Yuri walks over.
YURI
They’re almost here.
GEORGE
Yeah.
YURI
You nervous?
GEORGE
Yeah. I’m nervous.
ACT THREE: PAN-HANDLED — AGAIN!
EXT. PARKING LOT — ARCADE VENUE — TALLAHASSEE, FLORIDA — DAY
Blair’s blue Subaru pulls in first, after roughly 44 hours of driving and rest. He’s the first one there, and he has to wait, and he’s p*ss*d off — his typical younger, nasty, Irish-American self.
BLAIR
(to himself)
F*ck this, f*ck that, f*ck*ng people. F*ck*ng George. F*ck*ng Cannonball Run.
A while later, he sees the pink Subaru roll in.
BLAIR
(to himself)
What the f*ck is this? It must be Marty. It must be.
Sure enough. Marty gets out. They shake hands.
MARTY
Hey, what up dog? How was your drive?
BLAIR
Idiot. We’ve been chatting this entire time on our phones.
MARTY
Yeah, but that’s telephonic. I wanted to say it in person.
They start to really talk. The reality sets in.
BLAIR
What is happening? I mean, what the f*ck is happening? What is going on with George? Why has he sent us on this mystical quest? And where is George?
MARTY
And by the way — if he picked a location at the geographical center of where we were, how come we’re meeting in Tallahassee? Which, if my memory of geography serves, is really, really close to Jacksonville, where George lives.
MARTY
F*ck*ng George. He sticks us with the long drives and goes the local route himself. F*ck*ng kid.
About three hours later, a black 2012 Subaru Impreza pulls up. It’s George. He gets out, weathered from five years inside, and nervous.
GEORGE
Hey, you chumps finally made it.
Blair rushes toward him.
BLAIR
Dude, what the f*ck? How good of you to drive the 30 min to get here!
GEORGE
Yeah. Don’t worry about it. What we need to do is pull into this parking lot over here, because this is starting to look like a meetup of the gay Model United Nations of America.
They each drive their cars — tattered, weathered, beaten, cracked, banged up, noisy, misfiring — into the lot.
CUT TO:
EXT. PARKING LOT — CONTINUOUS
The three men stand between their three beat-up Subarus. George fumbles with his hands, then with his words.
GEORGE
You know guys, I really wanted to see you one last time.
MARTY
What do you mean one last time? This is starting to sound like something very, very different. What the f*ck is going on, man?
GEORGE
I have an ulterior motive.
BLAIR
You always have an ulterior motive.
GEORGE
No. This time it’s not like that. I can’t go into details, but I just wanted to bring you guys together so we could hang out for a little bit and play video games in the arcade over here, because I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
MARTY
Listen, I don’t need to have intellect far superior to both of yours to understand the implied menace in what you’re saying. Dude, say what you need to f*ck*ng say. Otherwise this is going to get bad fast. What the f*ck did you drag me away from my family for, for the last three days?
GEORGE
(hands up, trying to calm the room)
Okay, calm down. I’ll explain everything.
Just as he says it, three white Teslas pull up, very fast. Blacked-out windows.
MARTY
Did you guys have cars like this following you the entire way here?
BLAIR
What, George? You mean all 45 minutes for you?
GEORGE
No, it was like a couple of hours for me, but yeah, I see your point.
MARTY
Yeah, we each had a white Tesla following us. Who the f*ck are these people, George? What have you gotten us into?
They approach the Teslas. As they do, a black car carrier pulls into the lot, fast. Seven roughneck guys pile out. Then the third Tesla opens — and it’s Yuri.
The roughnecks start loading the Subarus onto the carrier.
MARTY
Hey, man, my f*ck*ng phone’s in there. I need to get my phone.
A roughneck gives Marty a dead-eyed stare, says nothing, walks to the Subaru, takes the phone out, throws it on the ground, and continues loading the car.
Blair studies two of the roughnecks — and recognizes them. So does Marty. They’re the flatbed drivers who delivered the cars in Portland and Boston.
BLAIR
You two. You delivered our cars. Tell me you didn’t drive all the way from Portland and Boston for this.
FLATBED DRIVER #1
(Russian accent, grinning)
No, no, no. Mr. Yuri, he pay for us to fly the Falcon 50 jet to be here. We have the BIG party on the plane! Many womans and many wodka!
He steps to Blair and taps him lightly on the chin with the knuckle of a loosely clenched fist.
FLATBED DRIVER #1
Next time you TIP your driver — OK?
Blair shudders.
BLAIR
George, what the f*ck did you get us into? What the f*ck is going on? Who’s this guy over here?
GEORGE
No, don’t worry. This is my friend, Yuri. He’s my friend. He would never hurt me.
MARTY
(summoning the might of his superior intelligence)
George, are you still so f*ck*ng stupid that you would think something like that? What the f*ck did you actually get us into?
Yuri approaches, calm, almost gleeful.
YURI
George, thanks you for doing this jobs for me. I needed it to just get over a small financial hump.
GEORGE
But Yuri, what about what you said? Your health?
YURI
Your friend is right. You not very smart. And when I say one financial hump — you are the one small financial hump. And now I’m over it. I used the three of you to bring these cars together so I could distribute the heroin and fentanyl and guns and drugs all throughout the United States. And I got you to brings them for me.
Blair’s Irish-American temper flares. He charges.
BLAIR
What the f*ck, man?!
GEORGE
(hand up)
No. Blair, let me handle this.
GEORGE
(to Yuri, heartbroken and angry)
Yuri, what the f*ck? We were friends. I trusted you. I went to the pokey for you. Come on, man. Why did you do this to me?
YURI
(laughing)
I did it to you because I could do it to you. I did it to you because it needed to be done to you.
Yuri reaches behind his back and pulls out a Desert Eagle. He points it at George.
YURI
And now I’m going to do this to you.
He flicks off the safety.
YURI
Das Vidanya, m*th*rf*ck*r.
He pulls the trigger. A cartoon-style scroll with the word “BANG” unfurls from the barrel. Yuri bursts into uncontrollable laughter.
The three men have, at this point, p*ss*d and soiled themselves at the thought of being executed in an anonymous Tallahassee parking lot.
BLAIR
(voice cracking)
Did you just… did you f*ck*ng just…
When Yuri finally gets control of his laughter, tears streaming down his face—
YURI
Oh, George, you are so f*ck*ng stupid. I wish you could see you face now. You p*ss*ng you pants!
GEORGE
(in disbelief)
I don’t understand what’s happening.
YURI
This is just gag. A Joke! You know – Joke! ‘Ha Ha!’?
MARTY
What the f*ck do you mean a gag? You used us for a gag?
YURI
Yes, I used you three for a gag. I wanted to have some fun.
BLAIR
What gives with the Teslas?
YURI
Those were autonomous vehicles, driving themselves. They had recording devices. There were listening devices in your cars. We just wanted to make sure you were going to do this. We have the whole thing on tape. We’re going to edit it into a movie.
GEORGE
Were you going to tell me about the movie?
YURI
I’m telling you about the movie now!
MARTY
What’s the name of the movie? ‘The Four Gay Retards’?
Yuri looks at him, genuinely puzzled.
YURI
There’s only three of you.
MARTY
(with superior intellect)
I guess you didn’t think that I was including you in that. Or did you not figure that out?
GEORGE
(still in disbelief)
I still don’t understand what’s happening. Why did you do this?
YURI
I just wanted to have some fun. We’ve been working so hard down at the metal shop. You’ve been such a good boy that I wanted a break, and I wanted to film it.
GEORGE
But Yuri, where did you get the money for this?
YURI
George, I’m a billionaire. I’ve always had tons of money. Once I leave this work-release program, I have billions in Bitcoin waiting for me. I was just waiting out the clock in the shop with you.
GEORGE
Then why do I always pay for your lunch?
Yuri looks at George.
YURI
Because you’re a f*ck*ng chump, that’s why.
The three men stand there, soaked in relief and humiliation, processing what just happened. Beyond the lot, the arcade sign hums. They drift toward it. Inside, a gleaming DAYTONA VR machine waits — their favorite game, ancient by today’s standards.
GEORGE
Who has quarters to play VR?
MARTY
Do you know what a quota is, boy?
BLAIR
(a beat)
he-he… 25 cents?
GEORGE
I wonder what Cassidy is doing right now?
FADE TO BLACK.
THE END