EXT. SAN FRANCISCO MARINA — AFTERNOON

Gorgeous, sun-soaked day. Swanky, million dollar yachts line the harbor. At the end of the pier, a ragged sailboat. From inside, the gurgling sound of weed being smoked out of a can.

VOICEMAIL: … Hi, you’ve reached Chas. Not in the casa right now, but leave a mesh, I’ll hit ya back. Peace.

INT. CABIN OF SAILBOAT

Cramped. Messy. Someone actually lives here? Beep.

KEITH V.O. (pleasant): … Hey, Charles. Keith here, Department of Education. Just wanna give you a friendly heads-up: your student loan’s a month overdue…

Floor’s littered with dirty clothes, unopened bills and stacks of self-help books. A fraternity paddle and photos of smiling, drunken college kids hang on the walls. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Hey. Keith again, Department of Education. Haven’t heard from ya, buddy. Been a few months, gettin’ a lil’ worried. Gimme a call…

CHARLES ‘CHAS’ CHANDLER (27) straggles to his feet, groggy. Wearing a frayed ‘SAUCY STATE #1 PARTY SCHOOL’ T-shirt, he scuffles a few feet over to the ‘kitchen.’ Beep.

KEITH V.O. (no longer pleasant): … So, what, think you can just hide away? Huh? Pretend I don’t exist? Like I’m a figment of your fucking imagination?…

Chas grabs a box of generic kid’s cereal. Opens the dorm room fridge… all that’s inside is a near-empty carton of milk.

Goes to dump the rest in his cereal, when he notices a saucer on the floor… pours the milk into the saucer instead and whistles. His cat (SAUCY) sashays over and laps it up. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Know this is gonna fuck up your credit, right? Shit, you won’t even be able to get a Discover card- and they hand out those to the fucking homeless…

Chas plops down at the small, wobbly table. Powers on his laptop as he munches cereal right out of the box. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Awright, listen up, dickface. I am fresh outta fucks- like decent looking whores after last call. I swear to Christ, I will HUNT your pussy ass down. Do not push me…

On his laptop, Chas opens Chaturbate, an interactive porn site; he’s bookmarked all his favorite girls. This is his lifestyle and he seems more than content with it.

His phone rings, a raunchy hip-hop ringtone. Eyes his cell: the dreaded ‘208’ number. Keith, his student loan collector.

He shudders, fear surging through his body. He declines the call, then shuts off his phone. Back to porn.

EXT. STRIP MALL, HOMEDALE, IDAHO — CONTINUOUS

Empty mom & pop shops in a dying town. On the second floor, a business: PERFECTION COLLECTION, a smiley face on the door.

KEITH V.O.: … And, oh yeah, full disclosure- did 8 years for aggravated assault. Bashed this fucker’s head in so bad, dumb shit got brain damage…

INT. PERFECTION COLLECTION

Shoddy gray cubicles. Scraggly collectors work the phones. These scoundrels reek of booze, body odor, and bad credit.

KEITH V.O.: … Now he’s a vegetable, thank you very much. And not even the smart kind. More like a… lima bean.

MANAGER’S OFFICE.

KEITH HOLMES (42) slumps in a chair. With his mullet, mustache, and Metallica tank top, he’s stuck in 1987. He’s calm now, but there’s menace lurking within his pudgy body.

KEITH V.O.: … Think I give a shit I go back? Called room and board, dickhead. And guess what? Mine’s free….

He sits across from his boss, PATRICK (50’s), a hippie with a ponytail. In stark contrast to the boiler room operation, the office is chock full of candles and incense- a mystic vibe.

They’re listening to the messages that Keith left for Chas.

KEITH V.O.: … So don’t think I won’t come out to that Saddam and Gum-whora city-

Patrick shuts off the recording, sighing.

PATRICK: How many times we gone over this?

KEITH: I dunno. How many times I told ya we gotta go alpha dog on their asses? All they understand is force- like terrorists. Why you think waterboarding works so good?

PATRICK: Well, actually…

KEITH: Shit. Hitler be runnin’ amok today, didn’t fake drown his generals.

PATRICK: It’s not the way we do business here. We talked about this.

KEITH: Fucker’s got money, too. Know he lives in a 3 million dollar house?

PATRICK: Sorry, but… this is, uh… gonna hafta let you go.

KEITH: (chuckles) Yeah, right. Pretty sure that’s the incense talking.

PATRICK: Gave you a chance after, ya know…

KEITH: Thanks. Thanks for the opportunity of a commission-only job.

PATRICK: Not everyone hires ex-cons.

KEITH: Awright, fine. Fuck it, you win. I’ll play by your stupid rules.

PATRICK: Afraid it’s too late for that. Frankly, you’ve become a liability.

KEITH: Frankly, you become an asshole. (beat) How much cash I brought into this fucking place? Huh?

PATRICK: Zero, last couple months.

KEITH: Ah, that’s… know I ain’t been right since my moms passed. (beat) Oh, and guess what? Goddamn IRS says she owes a shit ton a’ back taxes. Might lose the house.

PATRICK: Tsk, sorry to hear that. Wish there was something I could do.

KEITH: Yeah. Gimme my fucking job back.

Hating confrontation, Patrick reaches down and grabs a large, wrapped fruit basket off the floor. Sets it on the desk, proud of himself for solving the problem. Keith gawks at it.

KEITH: … Fuck’s that?

PATRICK: Gift. From corporate. Supposed to go to the top man, but… go ‘head, take it.

KEITH: (snickers) Gotta be… that’s my parting gift?

PATRICK: It’s a very nice assortment.

Keith springs to his feet, incensed.

KEITH: Know what, Patrick? Fuck you and the Hyundai you came in on.

He knocks over a stick of burning incense.

KEITH: Smells like Tibet in here.

PATRICK: Don’t make me call security.

KEITH: Call ‘em! Fuck do I care? Hell, I’d love a police escort, go out in style. Let’s OJ this bitch.

Snatches the fruit basket off the desk.

KEITH: Fuck it, I am taking this thing. Sell this shit on the street like a fucking Mexican… thank you, Patrick. You made me an illegal alien. Vaya cum dios, motherfucker.

And flips Patrick off as he stomps out of the room.

INT. PERFECTION COLLECTION

A black security guard at his side, Keith cleans out his desk: half a baloney sandwich, a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetoes and a plastic flask. The security guard eyes him quizzically.

KEITH: What, gonna judge me? You’re a fucking mall cop- strip mall.

He whips open his flip phone like a switchblade and snaps a photo of the computer screen: Chas’s info is on it.

EXT. PARKING LOT, STRIP MALL

The security guard escorts Keith as he struggles to carry the fruit basket and all his belongings.

KEITH: Could help me, ya know. Fucker.

Opens the cab of his battered, mud-caked 1995 Ford F-150. Crams his stuff next to a stockpile of shotguns and rifles.