The Ladykillers Page #9

GAWAIN:

Sh*t, man, it ain't about apologizin'!

He fired me 'cause I'm black!

PANCAKE:

He can't do that. You could sue him.

Open and shut case.

GAWAIN:

F***in' A.

PANCAKE:

This is not 1952.

GAWAIN:

Man's a f***in' bigot.

DORR:

Well then, perhaps, surely, a

chocolate assortment has been known

to warm the heart of even the most

hardened misanthrope, especially if

it's a premium chocolate, imported,

say, from Switzerland, or the

Netherlands, or some other of the so-

called "Low" countries be they Dutch

or Flemish or Walloon--

GAWAIN:

Walloon my ass, the man ain't gonna

roll over for a f***in' candy bar!

PANCAKE:

I'm afraid there's a setback on the

tunneling front too. We've run into

a pretty large rock, and--

GENERAL:

-- Rock!

All turn to look at the General. He continues to stare at a

spot in space. He slowly releases some inhaled cigarette

smoke, murmuring:

GENERAL:

...Very bad.

DORR:

Oh my my, it seems that the poet was

right:
Troubles never singly come.

PANCAKE:

Oh, we can get through the rock, no

worries there. Simplest thing in the

world. Why we blow right through it;

I've got a pyro license, we bore a

hole in the rock, pack in a little

plastique; igneous blows pretty good,

and we--

LUMP:

Is he gonna want a piece of the

action?

All turn to look at Lump.

PANCAKE:

...Who?

Lump hesitates, looking at the inquiring faces that surround

him.

LUMP:

...Igneous?

A female Voice:

MOUNTAIN GIRL (O.S.)

Hello Clark. Am I ordering the prima

cord?

The men look up at her.

PANCAKE:

Yes, Mountain, we were just talking

about that, and some plastique.

All the men are staring at her, agog.

GAWAIN:

...The f*** is this?

PANCAKE:

This is Mountain Girl. Mountain is

my right hand. She helps me with

ordnance. Helps me with damn near

everything.

The men stare.

GAWAIN:

...You brought your b*tch to the

waffle house?!

There is tension in the air. Dorr clears his throat.

DORR:

I confess myself to be puzzled as

well. I thought we all understood

that, so far as our little enterprise

is concerned, mum, as the saying

would have it, is the word--

PANCAKE:

Of course. I understand that. But

this is Mountain...

He chuckles.

PANCAKE:

...I don't keep secrets from Mountain.

That's not how you maintain a loving,

caring relationship.

GAWAIN:

...You brought your b*tch to the

waffle house?

He looks around.

GAWAIN:

...Man brings his b*tch to the waffle

house!

PANCAKE:

Look, you, I'll thank you to stop

referring to Mountain that way. She's

the other half of my life.

GAWAIN:

Everybody lookin' at me like I'm a

f***-up, losin' that sorry-ass job,

and this motherf***er bring his b*tch

to the waffle house!

Pancake lunges across the table, sending dishes clattering

to the floor as he grabs Gawain by the shirt.

PANCAKE:

You son of a b*tch punk! Shut your

goddamn mouth!

He shakes him vigorously and rears back to take a swing at

him.

Gawain draws a gun.

GAWAIN:

Come and get me motherfuck! Come on,

baby, let's get it on!

Mountain starts screaming.

People look, aghast.

DORR:

Gentlemen, please!

The other men pry Pancake and Gawain apart.

DORR:

...Gentlemen, this sort of behavior

does you no credit in the eyes of

your colleagues, or in those of the

other patrons of this waffle house!

Pancake grumbles as he composes himself and straighten his

clothes.

PANCAKE:

...Nobody talks to Mountain Girl

that way. She had an abusive family!

GAWAIN:

F*** you, man.

PANCAKE:

Little punk. I got syrup on my safari

jacket.

He embraces Mountain, who continues to sob quietly.

DORR:

Gentlemen, I propose that we consider

the matter of this woman, Mountain

Water, to be--

PANCAKE:

Mountain Girl.

DORR:

I am so very sorry. I propose that

we consider this matter to be closed,

and we shall chose to trust her,

since we now have no choice, and

since she shall share only in Mr.

Pancake's portion of the booty.

Over the shoulder of the quietly weeping Mountain Girl:

PANCAKE:

Of course. Wouldn't have it any other

way.

GAWAIN:

Damn right you won't.

PANCAKE:

Up yours, punk.

DORR:

Gentlemen! And the manner of disposing

of our igneous impediment is also

settled. That leaves only the question

of Gawain retrieving his job.

LUMP:

Couldn't you just bribe the guy?

All turn to look at Lump.

INT. MUNSON LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

Othar looks serenely down from his spot over the mantelpiece.

Marva Munson knits; G.H. Dorr sits nodding over an ancient

volume of half-forgotten lore, reading glasses perched midway

down his nose. Curtains waft lazily in the summer night

breeze.

MRS. MUNSON

...You just a readin' fool, ain't

you Mr. Dorr.

DORR:

Yes yes, I must confess, madam, that

often I feel more at home in these

ancient volumes than I do in the

hustle-bustle of our modern world.

To me, paradoxically, the literature

of the so-called "dead tongues" has

more currency than this mornin's

newspaper.

MRS. MUNSON

Mm-mm.

DORR:

In these books...

He removes his glasses and lazily twirls them.

DORR:

...In these volumes, there is the

accum'lated wisdom a mankind which

succours me when the day is hard or

the night lonely and long.

MRS. MUNSON

Wisdom of mankind, what about the

wisdom of the Lord?

DORR:

Oh yes, the Good Book, mm. I have

found reward in its pages. But for

me there are other good books as

well; the heavy volumes of Antiquity,

freighted with the insights of Man's

glorious age. And then of course I

love, love, love the works of Mr. Ed

G'Allan Poe.

MRS. MUNSON

I know who he is. Kinda creepy.

DORR:

Oh no, madam, noooo. Not of this

world, true; he lived in a dream, an

ancient dream...

Dorr himself is lost in a dream:

DORR:

"Helen, they beauty is to me Like

those Nicean barks a yore That gently,

o'er a perfumed sea, The weary,

wayworn wanderer bore To his own

native shore... "

MRS. MUNSON

Who was Helen? She wasn't a loose

woman, was she? Some kinda whore a

Babylon?

Dorr is still lost:

DORR:

One doesn't know who Helen was, though

I picture her as bein' very, very

extremely... pale.

He comes to himself, focuses on Mrs. Munson.

DORR:

...Miz Munson, I was tryin' to think

of some way of expressin' my gratitude

to you for takin' in...

He chuckles.

DORR:

...this weary, wayworn wanderer...

The Professor takes a small ticket envelope from where it

had served as bookmark, and hands it across.

DORR:

...It's just a modest little ol'

present, why it's practically nothing

at all.

Beaming, she takes two tickets out of the envelope and

inspects them.

MRS. MUNSON

Oh Mr. Dorr, why you are such a

gallant man...

DORR:

Oh no madam, I blush. I melt. No, I

just happened to hear of this gospel

concert tomorrow night, The Mighty

Mighty Clouds of Joy, and I thought

you and a friend from church,

perhaps...

MRS. MUNSON

Othar loved that music... Yes, I got

a widow-lady friend...

DORR:

The concert is up in Memphis, but I

have arranged for a car service to

transport you thither and, needless

to say, back home at the concert's

termination. My friends and I will

be rehearsing here tomorrow evening

so you needn't worry about the

security of your charming little old

house...

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