Ex Drummer Page #5

- Yes.

You talking about me? What d'you want?

- You're Big Dick, so...

I'm Big Dick, so?

- Well...

I'm Big Dick. Who are you?

Little Cock?

Wanna see it, my big dick? Wanna see it?

You can see my big dick. Here you are.

Here you are, man.

Here you are.

D'you mind?

Wow!

- Well?

Is that a big dick or what?

- Yes.

Lick it, you filthy f*ggot!

Lick it then.

- Come to the toilet with me?

Go on, get out of here.

I'll f***in' stick it up your arse!

You're never to go with that guy, OK?

You're never to go with that guy!

OK, OK. Drop your trousers.

- Wait, wait.

Drop your trousers.

- Wait, darling.

I'll put it in. I'll put it in.

I'll put it in. Come on.

Give it here. Yes, there.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

Yes, more. More.

Not too deep. Not too deep.

Not too deep! Not too deep! No!

Shut up, lowlife!

- Take it out!

F***! F***in' hell!

F***in' hell!

With you lying there like that,

I can say what I like.

D'you want to know something?

I like sucking off c*cks.

Have done for a long time.

I sucked off my first dick

when I was sixteen.

It's weird, the first time.

Like a cigarette.

Doesn't taste that good.

You have to fill it up.

Play everything as much as possible.

I played too much.

- Too much?

Yes. With his stiff arm.

- The drummer.

Everything together. That's best.

- No, just over it.

Here's Jimmy. Does it still hurt?

- Does it still hurt?

Has it closed yet?

- I'll need a Pamper until I'm fifty!

F***in' hell.

- What's that?

The poster for Leffinge.

Look, here we are.

Take it.

- Come on!

Harry Mulisch is playing at 8 o'clock.

- A real bunch of arseholes.

We're playing at half past ten.

- Real arseholes!

Thee Fake Of Gentlemen are also on here.

One of those guys has got cancer.

That's good for us.

- Six Million Jews.

Great name!

How come I didn't think of it?

'Cos you never think of anything, except

about f***ing someone's bald mother.

Shut up about that! Shut up about my ma,

OK? Please, stop! We're here to...

How's your pa?

- What d'you mean?

How's your pa?

Well? How's your pa?

He's not doing very well.

I asked how your pa is.

- Not doing very well.

I'd heard he wasn't doing too well and

I'd just like to know how he is.

I'm not asking you to save

the world's economy, am I? Meathead.

How's your pa?

My pa's not doing too well.

Can I go and see him?

- No.

I'd like to go and see him now.

Can I? I'll go now.

No, you can't go and see him.

No one's allowed in.

Why not?

- Because not.

Why not?

- No one's allowed in.

Why not, Verbeek?

- My ma doesn't want people in there.

Your ma? A dead daughter is bad,

but your mother complex...

is also serious...

- Leave him alone, man!

Have you been f***ing

without splashing blood on the wall?

See you the day after tomorrow.

- That's it, get lost.

Don't go now. We've got to...

What's your handicap?

See you in Leffinge, poo pokers.

- What shall we do then?

How are you going to drum?

We haven't got the handicap yet.

Of course, who else would it be?

Who else would it be?

It's nothing to do with him.

- So it's my fault?

It always is!

- It's nothing to do with him.

Who asked you to sit down?

Who asked you to ask me in?

I'll be brief.

- Your wig's crooked.

You make me want to puke.

I don't give a sh*t

that you're a well-known writer.

I'm doing it all for Jan.

For his band.

Why don't you get another drummer?

Because he needs someone famous.

And get your feet off that chair.

Dries? Come inside

I want to ask you something.

Who asked you to take a seat?

- Who asked you to ask me in?

I'll be brief.

- Your wig is crooked.

You make me want to puke.

You may be a good writer

but you're still a piece of sh*t.

The only reason you're allowed

in my house is because my son needs you.

Why doesn't he get another drummer?

- Because he needs someone famous.

And get your feet off my chair.

And stop asking all those questions.

Leave us alone.

Leave Koen alone, leave Jan alone.

Leave us all alone.

First, you want me to stop

asking questions about Pa Verbeek.

Second, you don't want me to joke

about you f***ing that other baldy.

Get lost.

- I've also got a first and a second.

First, where were you when you heard

that King Boudewijn was murdered?

Murdered? He wasn't murdered.

He died in his bed.

He was a decent man.

But sh*t like you hasn't got any respect

for anyone. Get out of here.

Second, when I go in somewhere I put

my feet where I feel like putting them.

You f***in' bastard! Look at that!

My cupboard! Look at that!

You f***in' bastard! You brainless

writer! With your filthy mouth!

Verbeek!

Verbeek!

What's that fat cow doing here?

She's our manager.

- Manager?

Who needs a manager

for such a crap event?

She can help. Tell us

when we have to go on stage and stuff.

Bullshit!

What can she do? She can't...

- Fine, fine.

I'd like to introduce you to Ivan Van

Dorpe. Ex-junkie, -father, -colleague

and today drum roadie.

- Is he?

We'd agreed I was roadie today.

You should be glad you're still alive.

- Six Million Jews?

There's only a few left and

they breed like rabbits.

Who are you?

- I'm Stef Vanneste,

the mayor's son, the organiser...

Get your hands off me.

And presenter of all this.

- I'll have some coke and some grass.

He's got a great arse.

- Who are you? Guys!

Who d'you think? Eh?

- I don't know.

The Feminists.

- Oh, that'll be right.

I've only got six passes.

I'll have some more made.

Beers?

- Watch out!

The Feminists. The sausage jockey

is there too. Had it stitched yet?

Leave Jimmy alone.

- Shut up! Want my dick in your mouth?

Stick it up my arse.

Like with Jimmy.

F***, you talk like a man!

Did you teach him that?

Hey, Nico, up to your tricks again?

Is that 'cos Erna's not with you?

Bring someone to f*** with you?

Yes. But she hasn't got

an exploded rat between her legs.

Arsehole.

Here you are.

That's not right either.

- Shut your stinkin' kisser or I'll...

And don't tell my drum roadie

to shut his stinkin' kisser.

OK, lame brain?

- Lame brain! Like it!

Must remember that.

- What with?

What with, yeah, right.

Come on, it's going to start.

Good evening, Leffinge.

Poetry from Harry Mulisch from Ostend.

Bunch of wankers!

Now you're gonna hear some real music!

Well, well, look who it is.

Are you writing another book?

Yes.

- I've read all your books.

What's the title going to be?

- The 12.07 train.

Is it going to be another thick book?

Yes. In the first chapter

it's running half an hour late.

Who is?

- Your brain tumour.

Oh. Is it going to be a thick book?

- Yes.

Have you got a title already?

Goodbye, I'm going.

- Oh. Good title.

Been giving someone a blowj*b?

Listen, ma of all managers.

Tell Stef Vanneste to announce us

as The Feminists, four handicapped

guys from Ostend. OK?

There may be women or faggots

in the jury. That helps.

Rub that red muck off your face.

People will start wondering.

Found yourself a new victim?

Rate this script:5.0 / 1 vote