Dead Hostage, part 3. Before the screenplay.
[ *Dynastic note: I think this was the very first moment that I realized, with all the -building (plot, world, society, etc.) that goes on in a story, character-building was what made me utterly ecstatic.
So that you aren’t blindsided: There is profanity (not on purpose, that’s how the characters played out), adverbs, adjectives, exclamation points, cliches, and probably syntax problems (this is vintage Queen way back in the day, still learning her craft). I hope it doesn’t offend; I hope it does entertain. Thanks for giving me a read. ]
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Brad discovered too late that the woman was stronger than she looked. And slippery. With his legs clamped about her waist and hips, his free arm across her small breasts, a hand alternately grasping her thin throat and wrestling for the waving gun, he held on with all he had, right wrist fighting the handcuff. He tried to subdue her, wanted to hurt her, yelled as loudly as was humanly possible.
But then a fist struck his crotch dead on, driving his genitals up into his body, and his mind went clean. He lost his air along with his will to fight and curled onto his side like a fetus.
He was vaguely aware of her still screaming, still flailing, still kicking at him and finally crashing to the floor. Eyes watering, he felt like throwing up on the ugly bedspread. He couldn’t move.
Ivy Lipsett picked herself up, and batted the gaudy lamp on the nearest nightstand off of its perch. She kicked the thing around the room in a fit until it shattered. Then she loomed over him, her pasty face demonic.
Brad watched as the gun came down on the side of his head.
The little electric clock at the side of the bed said 9:41 when he came to. He’d only been out for a few minutes. Things had changed for the worse. He was on his back, his legs tied together and left arm tethered to the headboard with strips torn from a white bed sheet.
Ivy Lipsett barked into the receiver of the room’s brown rotary telephone, her skinny ass planted in a plain wooden chair, legs splayed. “...don’t give a shit who you are! You’re not listening to me and I don’t want to talk to you.” She slammed the receiver back into its cradle.
She saw him looking at her. “Guess what? They want to know if we’re in this together. They want to know what we’re fighting about. Isn’t that a hoot?”
Brad’s battered courage nosedived.
She chuckled, the corners of those blue eyes crinkling. “Where were we?” She laid her gun on the nightstand and bent over to retrieve his leather wallet from the floor. Sat back in the chair and rested a foot on the bed’s edge. “You look exactly like your picture. Bradley J. Edwards the Third, 2425 Bel Air Place, Los Angeles. Impressive. How old are you, Bradley?”
“Brad. Twenty-three.” His temple stung and throbbed. “Am I bleeding?”
“Yeah.” Ivy Lipsett continued studying his driver’s license. “Welcome to Faerfield. You coming, or going?”
What? The police were outside, she was a felon, and they were playing Twenty Questions. Brad closed his eyes in disbelief. “Going. Job transfer.” His limbs were losing circulation. “Think you can loosen these sheets a little?”
“Not on your life, Bradley.”
He grimaced. Wanted to strangle her. Who the hell did she think she was? His mother called people like Ivy Lipsett incorrigible white trash. His father called them worse.
He heard her flipping through the contents. “Jesus. How many credit cards does one man need?” Her tongue made a clicking sound. “Nice pictures. Lots of clear skin and blond hair. Your family, huh? Hey-she’s different. Brunette. Cool bikini. ‘Love, Beth.’ This your wife?”
Brad swallowed, and opened his eyes. He didn’t want to think about Beth. He’d all but begged for the job transfer. He’d done what was right for him. Beth was finding out that no woman controlled Brad Edwards.
No woman but Ivy Lipsett.
“This your wife?” she repeated.
“Girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.”
“Cute. She do something to piss you off?”
He scowled and said nothing.
She tossed the wallet onto the nightstand. “The reason you’re here seems simple enough, Bradley. Now I’m gonna tell you why I’m stuck here with the cops on my ass.”
Great. Now I get a bedtime story.
Ivy Lipsett’s shoulders slumped. She crossed her legs and folded thin arms across her chest. She withdrew into herself, chin lowering, as a haunting came into her eyes. She stayed that way for a while.
“I... I’m listening,” Brad heard himself say.
“You ever been abandoned?” Her lower lip trembled.
He couldn’t say that he had.
“You ever give someone your soul and one day have it thrown back in your face? My husband swore that I was all he would ever want... then a year ago told me he’d changed his mind. Did what was right for him, or so he said. My three boys figure Daddy left because there’s something wrong with them.”
A cold hand clamped down on Brad’s innards. You’ve got to be kidding me.
“My job at Double Dutch wasn’t enough. Without Eddie’s income, we lost everything but the roof over our heads. Jamey’s sick. Junior’s shoes tore up. A rat bit Dylan last week. I have to wait thirty days minimum for public assistance. My kids can’t go without food for thirty days. So here I am, just like some fugitive on the fucking teevee. I’d do it again. Rob the damn store. For my kids. Who just walks the hell away?”
“I... I don’t know,” he lied.
She quieted and stared at her toes.
The woman was desperate, had lost faith. That would make you crazy. Damn. And her kids... Good thing he’d shut his mouth when her questions got too deep. If Ivy Lipsett knew about Beth, she’d probably empty her gun into him, police or no police.
The telephone jangled and Brad almost leapt out of his skin.
So that you aren’t blindsided: There is profanity (not on purpose, that’s how the characters played out), adverbs, adjectives, exclamation points, cliches, and probably syntax problems (this is vintage Queen way back in the day, still learning her craft). I hope it doesn’t offend; I hope it does entertain. Thanks for giving me a read. ]
_______________
Brad discovered too late that the woman was stronger than she looked. And slippery. With his legs clamped about her waist and hips, his free arm across her small breasts, a hand alternately grasping her thin throat and wrestling for the waving gun, he held on with all he had, right wrist fighting the handcuff. He tried to subdue her, wanted to hurt her, yelled as loudly as was humanly possible.
But then a fist struck his crotch dead on, driving his genitals up into his body, and his mind went clean. He lost his air along with his will to fight and curled onto his side like a fetus.
He was vaguely aware of her still screaming, still flailing, still kicking at him and finally crashing to the floor. Eyes watering, he felt like throwing up on the ugly bedspread. He couldn’t move.
Ivy Lipsett picked herself up, and batted the gaudy lamp on the nearest nightstand off of its perch. She kicked the thing around the room in a fit until it shattered. Then she loomed over him, her pasty face demonic.
Brad watched as the gun came down on the side of his head.
The little electric clock at the side of the bed said 9:41 when he came to. He’d only been out for a few minutes. Things had changed for the worse. He was on his back, his legs tied together and left arm tethered to the headboard with strips torn from a white bed sheet.
Ivy Lipsett barked into the receiver of the room’s brown rotary telephone, her skinny ass planted in a plain wooden chair, legs splayed. “...don’t give a shit who you are! You’re not listening to me and I don’t want to talk to you.” She slammed the receiver back into its cradle.
She saw him looking at her. “Guess what? They want to know if we’re in this together. They want to know what we’re fighting about. Isn’t that a hoot?”
Brad’s battered courage nosedived.
She chuckled, the corners of those blue eyes crinkling. “Where were we?” She laid her gun on the nightstand and bent over to retrieve his leather wallet from the floor. Sat back in the chair and rested a foot on the bed’s edge. “You look exactly like your picture. Bradley J. Edwards the Third, 2425 Bel Air Place, Los Angeles. Impressive. How old are you, Bradley?”
“Brad. Twenty-three.” His temple stung and throbbed. “Am I bleeding?”
“Yeah.” Ivy Lipsett continued studying his driver’s license. “Welcome to Faerfield. You coming, or going?”
What? The police were outside, she was a felon, and they were playing Twenty Questions. Brad closed his eyes in disbelief. “Going. Job transfer.” His limbs were losing circulation. “Think you can loosen these sheets a little?”
“Not on your life, Bradley.”
He grimaced. Wanted to strangle her. Who the hell did she think she was? His mother called people like Ivy Lipsett incorrigible white trash. His father called them worse.
He heard her flipping through the contents. “Jesus. How many credit cards does one man need?” Her tongue made a clicking sound. “Nice pictures. Lots of clear skin and blond hair. Your family, huh? Hey-she’s different. Brunette. Cool bikini. ‘Love, Beth.’ This your wife?”
Brad swallowed, and opened his eyes. He didn’t want to think about Beth. He’d all but begged for the job transfer. He’d done what was right for him. Beth was finding out that no woman controlled Brad Edwards.
No woman but Ivy Lipsett.
“This your wife?” she repeated.
“Girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.”
“Cute. She do something to piss you off?”
He scowled and said nothing.
She tossed the wallet onto the nightstand. “The reason you’re here seems simple enough, Bradley. Now I’m gonna tell you why I’m stuck here with the cops on my ass.”
Great. Now I get a bedtime story.
Ivy Lipsett’s shoulders slumped. She crossed her legs and folded thin arms across her chest. She withdrew into herself, chin lowering, as a haunting came into her eyes. She stayed that way for a while.
“I... I’m listening,” Brad heard himself say.
“You ever been abandoned?” Her lower lip trembled.
He couldn’t say that he had.
“You ever give someone your soul and one day have it thrown back in your face? My husband swore that I was all he would ever want... then a year ago told me he’d changed his mind. Did what was right for him, or so he said. My three boys figure Daddy left because there’s something wrong with them.”
A cold hand clamped down on Brad’s innards. You’ve got to be kidding me.
“My job at Double Dutch wasn’t enough. Without Eddie’s income, we lost everything but the roof over our heads. Jamey’s sick. Junior’s shoes tore up. A rat bit Dylan last week. I have to wait thirty days minimum for public assistance. My kids can’t go without food for thirty days. So here I am, just like some fugitive on the fucking teevee. I’d do it again. Rob the damn store. For my kids. Who just walks the hell away?”
“I... I don’t know,” he lied.
She quieted and stared at her toes.
The woman was desperate, had lost faith. That would make you crazy. Damn. And her kids... Good thing he’d shut his mouth when her questions got too deep. If Ivy Lipsett knew about Beth, she’d probably empty her gun into him, police or no police.
The telephone jangled and Brad almost leapt out of his skin.