Life Page #14

RAY:

You killed Santa Claus?

BISCUIT:

(scolding)

On Christmas Eve.

POKER FACE:

He wasn't the Santa Claus, he was

just wearing the suit and ringing a

bell.

WILLIE:

What did you guys do?

The whole table waits expectantly for their reply.

RAY:

I kinda lost track of how many people

we killed that night. Must have been

15 or twenty -- not counting women

and children. It was a real bloodbath.

All that screaming...

CLAUDE:

Pack of lies. Don't listen to him.

We didn't kill nobody. We were

railroaded. And we gonna prove that.

RAY:

He just blocked it out. N*gger's

crazy. He's the one who did all the

stabbing. He's capable of some heinous

sh*t.

(thumbing down the

table)

How 'bout him down there?

At the end of the table, GOLDMOUTH, a hulking specimen, snarls

menacingly, flashing a glittering set of teeth.

WILLIE:

Goldmouth? They say he was born out

back behind the shithouse. That's

what they say.

RAY:

You all been here a long time. Doesn't

anybody ever escape from this place?

WILLIE:

They run but they never get too far.

RADIO:

Couple years back, Cookie made it

clear to Greenville.

RAY:

Greenville, that the nearest town?

WILLIE:

(nodding)

It's a two-day walk if you don't get

lost. Take a mighty cagey country

boy to navigate the woods and bayous

between here and there.

BISCUIT:

Those dogs they got can sniff a skid

mark in your underpants from a half-

mile off.

RAY:

Alright, well, let's say you make it

to Greenville. What's there, anyway?

COOKIE:

Grandma Dodi's Pork Rib Joint.

POKER FACE:

That's where they nabbed him.

COOKIE:

Didn't even get to have my peach

cobbler.

WILLIE:

The most important thing they got in

Greenville is a train that heads up

north.

Just then, Goldmouth stands up, casting a shadow over Claude.

GOLDMOUTH:

Hey, girl, you gonna eat your corn

bread?

Claude looks up, considering his options.

CLAUDE:

No, man. I want you to have it.

RAY:

Wait up there, Claude. You give that

guy your corn bread and the next

thing you know you'll be ironing his

shirts and clipping his toenails.

GOLDMOUTH:

Maybe I oughta eat your corn bread.

RAY:

My corn bread? Oh no, my friend. I

love corn bread.

Ray picks up his corn bread and takes a huge bite out of it,

rolling his eyes with enthusiasm.

RAY:

I thought my mama made good corn

bread but this is really something

special.

Ray looks at the faces around the room, smiles broadly.

Goldmouth is getting embarrassed.

RAY:

Who knew I'd have to come all the

way down to this here prison, deep

in the a**hole of the great state of

Mississippi, to find such a tasty

piece of corn bread?

The prisoners begin to laugh. Ray's got them now.

RAY:

And who knew that in this great corn

bread-making institution I'd come

face to face with the biggest,

ugliest, stinkiest, ugliest gold-

mouthed negro in the entire world.

Now get out of my face before I lose

my appetite!

EXT. CAMP 8 YARD -- DUSK

A punch sends Ray sprawling in the dust. Goldmouth looms

over him. The incorrigibles form a circle around the

combatants. Poker Face, the camp bookie, is taking all bets.

GOLDMOUTH:

How you like your corn bread now,

New York?

Goldmouth and Ray square off. Goldmouth swings, Ray ducks

and counters with a swift jab to the gut. Goldmouth just

flashes a shiny grin and clobbers Ray with a fist the size

of a Thanksgiving turkey. Ray sinks to the dust. Radio drops

down near him.

RADIO:

Come on, New York, you can do better

than that! Get up and show him how

they do it in Harlem!

Ray shakes his head and staggers back to his feet. He circles

the big man and gets in a couple of good shots, much to the

crowd's approval. Goldmouth shakes his head and wipes the

blood from his nose. Now he's mad. He grabs Ray by the shirt

and delivers a crushing blow. Ray reels backward into Cookie's

arms.

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