Made

INT. SPORTSMAN'S LODGE - SAN FERNANDO VALLEY - DAY

A large crowd has gathered to watch two WHITE BOXERS square

off in a temporary ring in the center of a converted banquet

hall. One is BOBBY, the other is RICKY. They are drawn

together to start the bout by a bell and a hand gesture as

the REFEREE backs away. Immediately the two fighters unload

a relentless barrage of POWER PUNCHES. Neither man is holding

back, and the punches all find purchase in the swelling faces

of their opponent. The crowd rises to its feet in appreciation

of this rare level of competition in the lower strata of the

heavyweight division.

CUT TO:

EXT. BOBBY'S CAR - COLDWATER CANYON - LOS ANGELES - SUNSET

Bobby drives Ricky home through the winding twists of LA's

landmark canyon. Both their faces are swollen, verging on

the grotesque. Bobby drives a black Special Edition 1979

Trans Am with the gold Firebird stenciled across the hood.

The car is not in great shape, but in its day ruled the road.

A Hawaiian mini warrior mask hangs from the rear view.

The T-top is out, and Ricky struggles to light his cigarette

in the wind. He finally ignites the whole book of matches in

frustration, lights up, then tosses it out.

It lands, still flaming, at the base of a 'No Smoking in the

Canyon' sign. They drive down the palm tree lined stretch of

road bordering Beverly Hills. They turn East on Sunset

Boulevard. The Strip lights are first flickering to life.

EXT. RICKY'S APARTMENT - YUCCA CORRIDOR - NIGHT

The opening SCORE dies away as Ricky sits beside Bobby. The

neighborhood is awful. The light of the corner liquor store

and a menthol cigarette billboard make up for the broken

street lamps. Ricky smooths out his running suit and steals

an instinctive cautionary look, scanning all the blind spots

for predators. The swelling has now truly set in. He's a

mess.

RICKY:

Did Max mention anything about any

jobs?

BOBBY:

What about boxing?

RICKY:

What about it?

BOBBY:

What are you saying?

RICKY:

You said if you didn't have a winning

record after eleven fights, you'd

talk to Max.

BOBBY:

So?

RICKY:

So, it was a draw.

BOBBY:

Yeah, I'm 5-5 and 1.

RICKY:

So, it's not a winning record.

BOBBY:

It's not losing record.

RICKY:

That's not what you said. You said

if you didn't have a winning record --

BOBBY:

Don't be shitty.

RICKY:

How am I being shitty?

BOBBY:

Don't be shitty.

RICKY:

I wouldn't keep bugging you, but you

said he said he would have a job for

us.

BOBBY:

I'm not gonna bring it up to him.

RICKY:

Of course I don't want you to bring

it up to him... But if it comes up...

BOBBY:

I'll page you.

RICKY:

Yeah. Page me. You know the number?

BOBBY:

Yeah. I know the number.

RICKY:

Cause if you don't know the number,

I can page you with the number so

you'll have the number.

BOBBY:

I know the number.

RICKY:

I'll page you with the number. I'll

see you later. What time you done?

BOBBY:

I got no idea.

RICKY:

Ask if he said anything to her.

BOBBY:

I will.

RICKY:

I'll page you with the number.

BOBBY:

Bye.

He drives off. Ricky checks his pager, still furtively

scanning the street.

EXT. JESSICA'S HOUSE - BLACKBURN - LOS ANGELES - NIGHT

Bobby pulls up in front of the quaint Spanish Colonial two-

flat. He bounds up the stairs to the upper unit.

INT. JESSICA'S HOUSE - CONTINUOUS

He lets himself in, searching for his girlfriend. The

apartment is Z-Gallery, with a few accents of Bobby's

HAWAIIANA.

BOBBY:

Honey?

JESS (O.S.)

Where were you?

He finds her in the bedroom. JESSICA is a knockout. Too

pretty. The pretty that makes a woman a full-time job. What's

worse is she's decked out like a whore. She's wearing slutty

lingerie covered by a bland terry cloth bathrobe. Her

ridiculously long legs are garnished with candy-apple porn

star sky high heels. Bobby watches with cultivated patience

as she applies tasteless amounts of make-up from a Mac case

the size of a tackle box. She's in a hurry.

BOBBY:

(swallowing utter

contempt)

So, what kind of gig is this?

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