Michael arrives home, gets a bottle of whiskey, goes to the lounge, sits down on the couch, pours himself some whiskey and turns on the TV to watch a black & white detective movie. Time passes, Michael is asleep, and his son Jimmy has already arrived home. Meanwhile, the TV is playing a fitness commercial. |
Michael: |
(wakes up) What? What? (notices Jimmy) Oh, hey. |
Michael turns off the TV. |
Jimmy: |
I'm sorry I spiked you, okay? I just, I get so mad and I can't control things, and then, you know, shit just falls on top of me, my life sucks right now and I don't know what to do except I want to say I love you and hug it out, but all that wimpy shit is just... well, I'd say gay, but I have some friends who are gay, so that's not cool anymore, and the ones that I don't really like it's not 'cause they're gay, so... lame! Alright? You are just lame and angry psycho sometimes. You do bad shit and things, and I don't know if I love you and I'm pretty sure I hate you a little bit, but I'm just so fucking upset that we can't even see each other. You're just a drunk lame dad. |
Michael: |
You know what? That might just be the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me. |
Jimmy: |
(sigh) So will you buy me a car? |
Jimmy: |
I mean, not in the "So will you buy me a car?" kinda way, in a completely off-topic "Can you buy me a car?". I mean, firstly, I'm a fat shit that you ruined, and, and secondly, I will get a job and I will stop smoking pot in that sorta way, okay? |
Michael: |
I love you too, son. Now, go, get a job, 'cause I don't have the money to buy you a car. Besides which way, I'm probably gonna be dead in a couple of weeks, anyway. |
Jimmy: |
Please don't die, okay? Y'know, it's great catching up with you too, Dad. |
Michael: |
Yeah. Hey, how's your mother? |
Jimmy: |
Oh, she's great...(sigh) No she's not, she's bored! I mean all this mesmerizing, tantric sex she's been having with a much younger, better built, caring and compassionate man is good and all, but what's she gonna do for the other six hours of the day? |
Jimmy: |
I'm just winding you up, you miserable bastard. She's mad at you. She's scared that you're gonna die and she wants you to go over there and prove that you give a fuck. |
Michael: |
Alright, alright, alright! I can take a fucking hint. Let's go. We'll get Tracey on the way. |
Jimmy: |
Tracey, on the other hand, she's a star... sort of. |
Michael and Jimmy head outside. |
Jimmy: |
*I think Mom's at Bean Machine. *Mom said she was at the Bean Machine. |
Michael: |
So, (sigh) what's been happening? |
Jimmy: |
You know, I dunno, s-stuff. |
Michael: |
No, I don't know. |
Jimmy: |
Well, what's been happening with you? |
Michael: |
Um, things, it's been, it's... |
Jimmy: |
It's anyone's guess. |
Michael: |
Yeah. Yeah, I get it. |
Jimmy: |
You were out of the city? |
Michael: |
Sure. You guys were gone, so I thought I'd, you know... |
Jimmy: |
Let's maybe not pretend it was anything to do with us. Those beast Hispanic dudes with automatic weapons and blacked out windows? They kinda made me think it was an involuntary exodus. |
Michael: |
Yeah, okay. That'll work. |
Jimmy: |
Not to, like, lay it on you, but are you going to tell me why some beast Mexicans were parked outside of the crib for a couple of weeks? |
Michael: |
Probably because this is the only house in the neighborhood someone refers to as a "crib". |
Jimmy: |
Serious answer, please? I don't want to persuade my mother and sister to move back in just in time for the arrival of the drug cartel death squad. |
Michael: |
Oh, don't worry. Me and the drug cartel death squad have made our peace. Your Uncle Trevor, on the other hand, that's a disaster just waiting to happen. |
Michael: |
Hey, let's not talk about Trevor. |
Jimmy: |
One reconciliation at a time? |
Michael: |
The only reconciliation I'm concerned with right now is you guys. |
Jimmy: |
There they are, outside. *Fabien, too. Oh, what a treat! *Come on, let's say hi. |
Michael: |
*Guess we better walk up to 'em. *Let's walk up and be civil. |
Fabien: |
No caffeine? Come on, your colon has been sluggish for weeks. |
Amanda: |
A little bit less lifestyle guru, and a little bit more boy toy, please. |
Laptop Woman: |
Uh, excuse me, I'm trying to write a screenplay here. |
Michael and Jimmy walk up to Fabien's table. |
Michael: |
Hey, Amanda. Fabien. |
Fabien: |
These two. A picture of holistic wellbeing, I don't think. |
Fabien: |
Maybe they shit once a year between them. |
Amanda: |
Hey! That's my son. |
Fabien: |
Amanda, come. I have a new unitard on hold. You must pay for it. |
Fabien attempts to leave, but is stopped by Michael. While the two are arguing, the woman with the laptop shushes them. |
Michael: |
Hey! Buddy! I'm going to ask politely that you show my wife a little respect. |
Fabien: |
Red meat has been blocking your chi as well as your digestive tract. |
Michael: |
I ain't even gonna go there. I'm gonna ask you one time, nicely. |
Amanda: |
Michael, just hit him, please. |
Michael: |
Anything for you, sweetheart! |
Michael snatches the laptop from the woman and hits Fabien on the head with it, before dropping it on the floor. |
Laptop Woman: |
What?! What are you doing?! (screams) I had some really good work there, you dick! |
Jimmy: |
There's a lot more where that came from, homes. (laughs) |
Michael: |
Yeah, he's fine. Listen, Amanda, I wanted... I've been meaning to say to you... Look, I just... |
Jimmy: |
What he's trying to say, Mom, is that he's a pathetic, old, drunken mess and he needs you, and you can do a lot better than a prima donna yoga instructor with an anal fixation. |
Fabien: |
Did someone say... |
Jimmy kicks Fabien on the head. |
Amanda: |
I guess we could try. |
Michael: |
All I'm asking for is a shot. |
Amanda: |
Neutral ground. Dr. Friedlander's office. |
Michael: |
It's perfect, all of us. I'll pick Tracey and bring her there. Meet you? |
Amanda: |
Fine. Alright, you. Come on, get up, you idiot. |
Amanda lifts an injured Fabien from the floor. |
Michael: |
Alright, you know where your sister is, right? |
Jimmy: |
Wait, wait, wait, but what about that sugar-caffeine-and-emulsified-pig-fat flavored beverage I want? |
Jimmy: |
(disappointed groan) |
Michael: |
Come on, I want one too. Later. |
Jimmy: |
*Tracey's meant to be at the tattoo parlor. *I think Tracey's over at the tattoo parlor. |
Michael: |
What? Tracey's getting another tattoo? |
Jimmy: |
No, oh God no. That Lazlow guy's there. |
Michael: |
Lazlow, that asshole? What's he want? |
Jimmy: |
It's Tracey that wants something. She wants to get back on Fame or Shame after you and Uncle T cut her cameo short. |
Michael: |
Well, maybe we oughta help her out with that. |
Michael: |
Hey, let me ask you... Back there with your mom, that went okay, didn't it? |
Jimmy: |
Anything that ends with Fabien's burst eardrum is more than okay with me. |
Michael: |
I mean with me and your mom. |
Jimmy: |
I think it's an important first step in, like, the direction of okay, if you know what I mean. |
Michael: |
Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean. |
Jimmy: |
Where's what? The tattoo parlor? |
Michael: |
No, the tattoo. The one Tracey's getting. |
Jimmy: |
She's not getting a tattoo. |
Michael: |
Well, what the hell is she...? |
Jimmy: |
She's with Lazlow. From Fame or Shame? She's trying to persuade him to give her another shot. |
Michael: |
At humiliating herself? |
Jimmy: |
Look, I'm her harshest critic. She's a terrible dancer, she can't sing, or even really speak properly in a camera, or, like, form her thoughts into sentences, but there's a certain, like, childish honesty about the way she expresses herself that an audience might really respond to, or at least respond to for long enough for her to get on the z-list celebrity circuit, which is at least a step-up from her other career prospects. |
Michael: |
Alright then, I think we should do what we can to help get her that gig. |
Michael and Jimmy arrive at the tattoo parlor. |
Jimmy: |
*Here's the tattoo shop. *I think they're in here. |
Michael and Jimmy eavesdrop on the conversation between Tracey and Lazlow. |
Lazlow: |
I'm looking for something... hip, that you know, says I'm capable of violence, but I'm awesome in the sack. So listen, babe, if you want to make it in Vinewood, you gotta do whatever it takes. Even if whatever it takes is a depressed borderline alcoholic who hosts the third most popular talent show amongst the 40-year old female demographic. |
Tracey: |
So, you'll let me on the show if I blow you?! |
Lazlow: |
Yes, and if you could wear some black lipstick, the little guy loves the goth vibe. |
Michael and Jimmy enter the tattoo shop. |
Lazlow: |
Dude, that was entirely out of context, bro. |
Michael: |
Jim you find the ink slinger, sit on him. Lazlow here's gonna have a little cosmetic work done. |
Tattoo Parlor: |
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa... |
Jimmy: |
Stay put, you lame-ass mark. |
Tattoo Parlor: |
Sure, kid. |
Michael puts Lazlow on the chair and grabs a piercing gun. |
Lazlow: |
You're not going to give me a Prince Albert, are you? *Come on, just not the tongue, I need that for my work. *Just not my junk, okay? I'm already scarred down there. *I'm bicoastal, I can't have metal on my fuckin' face. *C'mon, my punk days are long behind me, man. (If Michael pierced Lazlow) *Owww! Just when I thought I was bigger than radio, Jesus! *Ugh, make-up is gonna have a field day. *How does it look? I mean, be honest. *Great, now I'm a fuckin' asshole vegan. Fuck! *Come on, you've got to disinfect that. *You didn't even wash your hands, asshole! Fuck! *Ahhhh! Fuck, the paparazzi are gonna love this. |
Michael pierces Lazlow's various body parts. |
Lazlow: |
(if Michael pierces his brow) Owww! Are you poppin' a fuckin' tent over here? You fuckin' psycho. (if Michael pierces his nose) Ahh, you made me a pouty fuckin' hipster? Ah, oohh. (if Michael pierces his ear) Ah! You fuckin' prick. Jesus. |
Michael pierces all three body parts. |
Michael: |
(chuckles) That looks purty! Here, let's get rid of this. |
Lazlow screams as Michael rips his shirt off. |
Lazlow: |
My God! Poppa Bear, what's daddy number two going to think about this? |
Michael grabs a tattoo gun. |
Michael: |
Let's not get him involved. |
Lazlow: |
Let's do. *I always thought tramp stamps could be classy. *Are we going to match? *Just to be clear, I'm not paying for this, right? *If I knew I was getting this much work done, I would have brought a camera crew. *Th-that's a clean needle, right? I don't need more hep C. |
Michael draws a tattoo on either Lazlow's chest or his back. |
Lazlow: |
*Please don't put a gang symbol on me! *Please, don't tattoo a cock! *No, don't! *Look, are you going to tell me what you're drawing, or is it a surprise? *Dude, you're on the wrong meds! *This is gonna make my man tits look enormous! *Just so you know, I've got a beachwear photo shoot next week. *You butcher! *Stop. *Prison rape! *Daddy! *Mommy! *Look, I didn't mean it. *Ow, shit that fucking hurts! *Please, not a fuckin' tramp stamp! *Arghhh. *Please. *I said I needed security! *You're about to make me your bitch, aren't you?! *Let's solve this like men - we'll use the same position! *Ah, jee, that fucking hurts. *Hey, hey! *Come on. *Would you just cool out? *Ugh! |
Michael: |
*Ahh, let me get to work. *Don't move! *Just relax, okay? *Now hold it! *Don't fucking squirm. *You move, and I will knock you into next week. (If Michael finishes with Lazlow's tattoo) *How 'bout I draw those three little pubic hairs on here too? *Should I draw his three pubic hairs? |
Michael finishes drawing a cock tattoo on Lazlow. |
Michael: |
There we go. (if tattooed on the chest) Nice. (if tattooed on the back) Oh, that's nice. |
Lazlow: |
Have you got, like, a camera phone or a mirror I could see? |
Michael: |
Oh yeah, I'll get you a mirror, smash you over the head with it. |
Lazlow attempts to flee, but is stopped by Michael, who grabbed a pair of scissors and gets a hold of Lazlow's ponytail. |
Lazlow: |
This is a real one-stop shop. *When I get nervous, I evacuate my bowels. It's seeping out. *Look, we can work this out... like men, you know, if you catch my drift. *You fuckin' asshole, I'm a celebrity. *What are you doing? |
Michael cuts off Lazlow's ponytail. |
Lazlow: |
Oh, no, that's my... that's my signature, my ponytail. Now I gotta get extensions. |
Michael: |
No, what you gotta get is my daughter whatever she wants. |
Jimmy: |
Yeah, without sucking on your piddle stick. |
Lazlow: |
Look, okay, guys, that was a joke. I'm a clown, I'm a sad, lonely, little clown. |
Michael: |
Hey! You're gonna put her on your show and you're gonna make sure she looks good. |
Lazlow: |
Look, okay, I've got a lot of juice in this town, but I mean... I'm not a miracle... |
Michael: |
Alright, Trace, let's go. We gotta get to the therapist. |
Tracey: |
So...I'll like, call you or something, okay? Bye! |
Lazlow: |
If there's ever a family that needs therapy... my ponytail... |
As Michael, Tracey and Jimmy leave the store, the tattoo parlor takes a look at Lazlow's "makeover". |
Lazlow: |
How do I look? It's not good, is it? |
Jimmy: |
Who knew you could use a tattoo gun? |
Michael: |
It's one of those skills you pick up in prison, you know, inking your name on your cellie's ass. |
Jimmy: |
Eww, are you serious? |
Michael: |
Come on, no! Not quite. |
Tracey: |
Not to be difficult, dad, but your therapist hasn't exactly been transformational to your mental health, so I don't know why he'd be better positioned to help four dysfunctionals. |
Michael: |
Hey, this was your mother's idea. |
Tracey: |
Well, I guess it beats yoga. |
Jimmy: |
Pop, now he beats yoga, literally. Like Fabien, around the head with a laptop, oh yeah, like pow! Our old man released the dude's inner tranquility all over the Bean Machine patio. |
Tracey: |
To be honest, and I know it's karmically bad, but yeah, I fuckin' hate that dude. |
Jimmy: |
Yeah, I know, right? So up his own ass. You're a fucking contortionist, woopee! I contort my junk all day long, and I don't act all superior about it, just a little ashamed and empty inside. |
Michael: |
Hey, guy was talking smack to your mother. |
Tracey: |
Well, I applaud you, Pop. |
Jimmy: |
Hear, hear. You're like, finally, like, using your powers of selfishness and rage for, like, good. Not an objective, universal "good"; but like a subjective, what's in our best interests kind of "good". |
Tracey: |
Fuck yeah, awesome! Let's rob somebody. |
Jimmy and Tracey: |
Do it! Do it! |
Michael: |
Enough, okay? I love that we're getting along, but knock it off. |
Tracey: |
Yeah, don't, like, actually rob a liquor store. That might, like, kill the mood. |
Jimmy: |
Fuckin' therapy, let's do that shit. |
Michael: |
Hey, how about you just let your mom and me talk, okay? We got some issues we gotta iron out, and seeing as you two aren't into it, you can just sit there and be quiet. |
Jimmy: |
That's cool with me. |
Tracey: |
I got all the prescriptions I need, at least for the meantime. |
Tracey: |
Oh no, it's not Dr. Friedlander, is it? |
Michael: |
He's a fine therapist and a brilliant mind. |
Tracey: |
He overcharges and under prescribes. |
Michael: |
Yeah, I can attest to that - the charging part. |
Tracey: |
He wouldn't even give Marissa anxiety medicine when she was having panic attacks. |
Jimmy: |
She was having panic attacks 'cause she'd blast yay all weekend. |
Tracey: |
Oh, what are you, the cops? |
Michael: |
Yeah, what the fuck? I raise a rat, boy? |
Jimmy: |
What, you going to fit me with some concrete boots now? |
Michael: |
Just gimme your size. |
Jimmy: |
I'm not judging. I mean, who am I to judge, right? All I'm saying is that Mr. Shrinkage mighta seen through the sister's skeezy-ass friends. |
Tracey: |
Uh, at least I got friends. |
Jimmy: |
Is that what you call them? |
Michael: |
Hey, hey, hey! Friendly, alright? |
Tracey: |
Ugh, Jimmy's only friendly through a headset and a haze of pot smoke. |
Michael: |
If that's as personable as he gets, I'm fuckin'-A worried. |
Jimmy: |
Why are you ganging up on me? |
Tracey: |
'Cause you're an easy target! |
Michael: |
It'd be hard to miss! Oh, I didn't mean it like that, that you're fat. I just meant... you're not fat, I meant... you're... you know... |
Tracey: |
Nice one, Dad, pick on our insecurities on the way to therapy. |
Michael: |
Hey, I just got it wrong. |
Jimmy: |
Actually, screw both of you. You're only here because I decided to get us back together. |
Michael: |
(scoffs) What are we? A 90s boy band? |
Tracey: |
For the record, I was about to come see you, Dad. |
Jimmy: |
Sure you were. And Mom was about to serenade this drunken oaf from outside his bedroom window. |
Tracey: |
Does little Jimmywimmy feel neglected? Awwwww, maybe Jimmywimmy should tell the doctor about his horrible childhood! Waaah! |
Michael: |
Hey, Jim, I'm grateful. Someone needed to do it, and you were the bigger man. I mean... not that... |
Tracey: |
Thank you, little brother. You're not an absolutely completely useless zit. |
Michael: |
You're a good kid, Jim. |
Jimmy: |
Does that mean I can have a car? Because then I can get a job, and some real friends, and this probably would have happened sooner if I didn't have to bum a ride over to the house. |
Michael, Jimmy and Tracey arrive at Dr. Friedlander's office. |
Amanda: |
Michael, kids, let's go inside. Okay. |
The De Santa family goes to a session with Dr. Friedlander. |
Dr. Friedlander: |
Good to see you again. Michael. I'm so glad. Isn't this great? |
The family sits down on the couch. |
Amanda: |
Michael, be positive. |
Michael: |
I am being positive. This is me being positive. |
Amanda: |
Give it up, Michael, the sarcasm. It's one of the few reasons I moved out. It's beneath you. |
Michael: |
No, it's not, Amanda, trust me, nothing's beneath me. |
Amanda: |
No, normally there's a whore benath you. |
Michael: |
You know, for someone who spends every waking moment working on themselves "inside and out", I gotta tell ya, the progress has been really fucking slow. |
Amanda: |
How would you know what progress is like, you stupid murdering shit!? |
Michael: |
Uh, gee, because all you do is whine at me! |
Amanda: |
Oh, all I do is whine? Michael, could you please stop murdering people? Michael, could you please stop endangering me and the both of your children? You kill people and then you sit in the sun and drink and feel guilty about it! That is not work! |
Michael: |
I don't see you complaining on the way to the fucking bank! I mean, let's face it, Amanda, we're trailer trash, you and me. We were taught to do this. |
Amanda: |
Get a center, Michael. You have no center. |
Michael: |
How about you suck my cock? Huh? No, wait, we'll both get a center before that ever happens! |
Amanda: |
You are such a fucking animal, a deranged animal! |
Michael: |
You're fucking A-right I'm deranged! How could I not be? |
Amanda: |
I should have had locked you up years ago, you stupid shit. |
Michael: |
Do it! Do it. I'll put you in the fucking ground with the rest of 'em. |
Dr. Friedlander: |
And that's really all the time we have. |
Jimmy, Tracey and Amanda leave the office. |
Dr. Friedlander: |
I think we made some real progress there. Oh, ah, Michael, I hope this goes without saying, but family work is a little more expensive. |
Dr. Friedlander: |
Squared. |
Michael: |
(chuckles) Of course. |
Michael leaves the office. |
Dr. Friedlander: |
Take care now! |
Michael: |
Hey, so are you gonna come home with me or what? |
Amanda: |
I guess we'll give it a try. |
Jimmy and Tracey walk up to the family car. |
Amanda: |
*Are you gonna take us home, then? *So, will you drive us home? |
The De Santa family drives back home. |
Michael: |
You know, there was a moment there, I thought... |
Michael: |
(sighs) I dunno, like maybe we still had a ways to go, you know, like... maybe we need more time. |
Michael: |
Time to move beyond screaming at each other. |
Amanda: |
That was cathartic. |
Jimmy: |
Catharsis all over my face. |
Tracey: |
Ohhh, I got a warm fuzzy feeling. |
Jimmy: |
Probably just the meds you raided. |
Michael: |
Okay. Cathartic... alright. I just don't want it to be more of the same. |
Amanda: |
Now you're the one making the demands? |
Michael: |
No, no, no, not demands. I'm saying you're right, something was broke, and we gotta work at fixing it. |
Amanda: |
We do, all of us. |
Amanda: |
'Cause I started to understand something in there. No one else gets this family. Not Dr. Friedlander, or my yoga teacher, or our tennis coach... or the juice guy, or the dog walker, or... |
Amanda: |
Or Jimmy's 3rd grade teacher... |
Tracey: |
Or Dad's proctologist. |
Jimmy: |
Or the guy that thinks he's Jesus on Vespucci Beach. |
Tracey: |
Or the hippy bum who thinks the world is ending. |
Amanda: |
We're stuck with each other. I mean, how do you explain faking our deaths, changing our names, all the lying to the FIB, that monster Trevor? |
Jimmy: |
There's no explaining Uncle T. |
Tracey: |
Hey, is he coming to the next therapy session? |
Michael: |
What?! N-no! Jeez. |
Amanda: |
Just one thing, Michael. Don't get us killed, and don't get killed. Can you do that? |
Michael: |
I'll give it my best shot. With every fiber of my being, I will do whatever it takes to make sure it doesn't happen. Promise. |
Amanda: |
And no more hookers, or other women. |
Tracey: |
Yeah, Dad. Gross. |
Jimmy: |
You're better than that, Pop. |
Michael: |
Guys, I'm not really comfortable having this conversation. |
Amanda: |
Just keep it in your pants, okay? |
Tracey: |
Yeah - it's so demeaning how you treat women. |
Amanda: |
Unless you moved some hooker in, in which case... |
Michael: |
It's just the way you left it. Maybe a little dusty, is all. |
Jimmy: |
With a few tear stains. |
Tracey: |
And a whiff of bitter loneliness. |
Jimmy: |
That's just natural old man smell. |
Tracey: |
Also known as whiskey, cigars and takeout. |
Michael: |
No hookers and no murder... not in the house. Enough already, look, we got any ground rules? For the brand new shiny healthy family dynamic? |
Tracey: |
Uh, 3.0, dickball. Townleys would be 1.0, then the De Santas were more like 2.0. This is like 3.0. |
Jimmy: |
You're right. Does that mean we need a new name? 'Cause we could just take, like, one of yours from the cam. Remind me, do you spell it with two X's, or is is three? |
Michael: |
Ground rules. Now where are we? |
Amanda: |
I got one I can think of. |
Michael: |
What's that, baby? |
Amanda: |
Don't get killed. |
Michael: |
(chuckles) That's kind of out of my hands. |
Amanda: |
And don't be a smart-ass, and don't get us killed, either. |
Michael: |
Hey, that ain't happening. I'll do everything I can to protect you. I promise. Things are starting to fall into place, baby, and the safest place you can be is right here with me. |
Michael: |
Yeah. Yeah, I'm telling you. I've totally figured the whole thing out. I'm going legit. Responsible. |
Amanda: |
Right, and Jimmy's getting a job, and Tracey's going to college. |
Jimmy: |
I just paid this dude to write my résumé, so I'm, like, basically there, Mom. |
Tracey: |
And I'm, like, definitely doing the test again, I've started filling in the form. Uh, but Dad hooked me up with this audition, so... |
Michael: |
And I'm a movie producer. |
Amanda: |
Being a movie producer is not a legitimate or responsible career option, but I guess it is better than being a killer or a bank robber. |
The De Santa family arrives back home and enters the house. |
Amanda: |
Kids, rooms! If you find dead bodies, cheap women, or Trevor Philips, we're checking in to the Rockford Hills Hotel. |
|