Popcorn

Karl was not an understanding type of person. ‘What, you mean the point of view of a socially inadequate jerkoff? Please.’

‘I really don’t think you can dismiss them that easily.’ Brooke was doing her best but it was a hopeless task.

‘Pardon me, miss, for appearing rude, but that I should give a fuck what you think. Wayne Hudson and that weird, scrawny little bitch he drags around with him are screwed up trailerpark whitetrash nobodies who have mashed potato instead of brains. The sooner they get burnt, fried, decapitated, castrated, lobotomized, liquidized and generally fucked over, the better. I would gladly take a mallet to the little fucking scumbags myself.’

Bruce and Brooke braced themselves. Surely now the mayhem would begin. Wayne had moved to behind the couch where Scout was sitting. He had only to reach down into the cushions at her back to produce a machinegun, and this appallingly provocative man would be dead. Scout herself need merely brush aside the cushion on her lap. Surely it was all over for Karl?

‘You talk big, Karl, but you’d never do it.’ Bruce’s laugh was wooden as a daytime soap. ‘You always end up on the side of the underdog.’

‘Underdog? Those scum?’ Karl replied.

Bruce was now convinced that Karl had a death wish.

‘Like I would waste my tears on such syphilitic maggots? I would puke on their graves and those of their mothers, who no doubt were whores.’

Shut up! Every fibre of Bruce’s being willed this loudmouthed oaf to shut up. Brooke, too, was desperately trying to reach somehow into his mind and stop this fool from digging all their graves with his violent language.

How often had Brooke spoken in the past about auras and third eyes? While not actually holding a season ticket on the New Age Traveller bandwagon, she had always claimed to have a palpable connection with the mystic. She believed firmly that thoughttransference was possible. She was getting a painful crash course in Old Age reality.

Wayne ’s voice was cold, although in comparison to his eyes it was positively balmy. ‘You think the Mall Murders are fuckedup white trash, Mr Brezner?’

‘He does not think that!’ Bruce almost shouted.

‘You can’t just dismiss them’ was Brooke’s desperate plea.

‘Weird, scrawny little bitch?’ Scout said to herself, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘That weird scrawny little bitch he drags around with him?’

‘Karl didn’t mean that!’ Bruce forced himself to laugh again; it sounded like a razorblade cutting through a tin can. ‘You should hear the way he talks about his wife.’

Karl, oblivious of the terrible agenda swirling around him, was mystified by Bruce’s attitude.

‘Excuse me? What is this right now? Oprah? Are we having some kind of debate about these fucking filth? Of course they’re fuckedup white trash. What else would they be? I’d like to take that pair of pointless, gutless, nobrain, nodick, asshole insults to the intelligence of a wet fart and-’

‘Karl! What do you want?’ Bruce leapt to his feet. ‘I’m busy here. I have stuff to do and you are getting in my face.’

He had not wanted to confront Karl quite so bluntly. If he acted too strangely, Wayne would know that Karl’s suspicions must inevitably be aroused. On the other hand, he had to shut Karl up and get him out before he talked them all to death.

Karl studied Bruce for a moment, but decided not to rise to him. Karl was, after all, an agent and Bruce was his top client.

‘OK, Bruce, OK. You’re the artist. I just negotiate the obscene and disgusting amounts you get paid. Now, like I say, I think we have real trouble here. This is an important moral issue and we can’t be seen to duck it. We have to react to this thing responsibly. What we have to do is get out there immediately, say fuck you, and announce a sequel to Ordinary Americans.’

‘Everybody died at the end of Ordinary Americans,’ Bruce replied.

‘Bruce, yours is not a pedantic audience. Look, you have to rise above this thing. Get out there today and work the chat shows. You did great on Coffee Time yesterday. Tell the world that these killers are not your responsibility and-’

Wayne walked across the room and plucked Karl’s whisky glass from his hand. ‘OK Bruce. I’m sick of this guy now. We have things to talk about. Get rid of him.’

Bruce jumped out of his seat in his eagerness. ‘Right, good, OK. Karl, I appreciate you coming round and I’m going to think over what you said, but right now I’m busy, OK, so…’

Karl was astonished. He had known Bruce for years. They were friends. ‘You want me to go?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Because you have stuff to do with these people?’

‘Yes.’

Karl looked from Wayne to Scout and made no attempt to conceal his distaste. He was very worried. These types were clearly no good. There was trouble here. He had no idea just how much trouble there was, or indeed what kind.

‘Look, Bruce’ – Karl lowered his voice – ‘if you want something rough to mess around with, you should talk to me and I’ll get it for you. This kind of thing is dangerous. You’re going to end up blackmailed.’

‘Karl, go,’ Bruce replied. ‘Now.’

Karl turned away. He could do no more. ‘OK. See you.’

WAYNE

See you.

Wide shot, taking in the whole room. Karl is walking towards the door. Wayne reaches down behind Scout and pulls out a gun.

BRUCE

(Shouting)

No!

Almost simultaneously, before Karl even has time to realize that something is wrong, Wayne has shot him in the back. Karl begins to fall forward, dead. Two shot of Brooke standing over Scout, doing Scout’s hair. Brooke screams.

SCOUT

Ow! You pulled my hair!

BROOKE

I’m sorry.

Wide shot. Everything is happening at once. Karl is still falling to the floor. Slow motion. An expulsion of blood and guts flies out from the front of the falling body as the bullet explodes through.

Closeup. On the wall in front of Karl’s falling body, a framed print, a poster for Ordinary Americans. Karl’s lifeblood impacts upon the poster in a bloody splat. A buzzing sound is heard.

Whip pan from bloodstain on the poster, across the wall to a closeup on the wall intercom, which is buzzing again.

Chapter TwentyThree