My Own Private Idaho Page #13

Inside Hans' hotel bathroom. Night.

Mike lies in a bathtub in sudsy water. There is a pounding on the

bathroom door.

MIKE:

I just got in the tub! Wait your

turn.

HANS:

But Mike! Don't you want anything

to eat? We are ordering room

service. Ya?

MIKE:

Ahhh. Room service? Ya! Let me

see. Two hamburgers, with cheese,

onions, lettuce, tomato, no

pickles. A Coke and french fries.

HANS:

O.K. That's hamburger wiz

everything, no pickles, Coke,

french fries.

MIKE:

That is correct.

HANS:

Thank you.

MIKE:

You're welcome.

As Mike and Scott eat their hamburgers, Hans sits across from

them next to a small desk light on a double bed in his Holiday

Inn room.

HANS:

How are the hamburgers, boys?

MIKE:

They're okay, Hans.

SCOTT:

Good, Hans. I don't think that

I've tasted a hamburger as fine as

this Holiday Inn hamburger.

HANS:

I'm glad that you like it.

The boys eat approvingly.

HANS:

How did you boys get so far? I

only left you in Portland a few

days ago.

SCOTT:

We rode on our trusty motorcycle.

HANS:

And what brings you to the Holiday

Inn?

SCOTT:

Business.

HANS:

What kind of business?

SCOTT:

We're selling motorcycles.

Still images of Mike, Scott and Hans having sex in the motel.

Hans rides his newly purchased motorcycle across the plains from

Boise to Picabu, Idaho. A local policeman pulls him over doing 95

mph in a 45 mph zone.

At the Boise Airport Scott and Mike stand in a ticket line. The

ticket taker stamps their tickets.

TICKET TAKER:

Do you have any baggage?

Mike and Scott shake their heads no.

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