This is a silent film. The humor comes from the actions, so keep in mind that it'll be funnier when I shoot it, as oppossed to on the page. That said, I'm open to all suggestions. Anything could help. Thank you so much for your time!
BTW, it may be hard to read since I altered the format to fit in this box. Hope you enjoy...
"I SCREAM"
FADE IN:
EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET - MORNING
The sun's rays shine through the blue sky and thick layer of smog.
A flock of birds flies over the Los Angeles palm trees and townhouses that line this peaceful road.
CIRCUS MUSIC FADES UP AND PLAYS THROUGHOUT.
A white, compact ICE CREAM TRUCK cruises down the block. A mini American flag and speakers sit on the roof.
INT. ICE CREAM TRUCK (MOVING)
Small and crowded. BILLING STATEMENTS are strewn across the passenger seat. The rest of the truck is stocked with coolers, soda packs, and candy bar boxes.
MUKUL SHURDUL, 40s, petite, big dark eyes, wears a turban. One hand on the steering wheel, the other grips a half eaten ice cream cone.
TWO TEENAGE BOYS, sporting FUBU, sit on the curb and drink from plastic cups. A Vodka bottle rests beside them.
Mukul bites the Vanilla Gelato. Then holds it out the window. Suddenly, white SLOP spatters onto the ice cream. The colors blend in.
Mukul bites into it. His eyes squint, his face scrunches up.
A CROW SQUAWKS.
Mukul looks up. He notices a flock of birds flying over the truck. As he chews, his face morphs into that of disgust.
He vomits GOO out the window. Then glances out the side mirror and sees the muck smeared across his door.
A blonde plastic SLUT prances by. The boys turn their heads to check her out.
The wind blows the goo off the door. It lands in the teenage boys cups. They’re too distracted by the bimbo’s scantily clad bod.
They sip the vodka, then turn to each other simultaneously. They nod their heads and raise their cups in a toast.
Still tasting residue, Mukul instinctively grabs the billing statements from the passenger seat. He furiously wipes his tongue to them.
He looks down at the papers, half-folding them. He does a double take.
C.U. - TOTAL CHARGES: $1,075.
Mukul rubs his forehead. He peeks inside the red bucket that sits on the dashboard. Nothing but dimes and quarters. His eyebrows slant in despair.
Suddenly, he notices a TEENAGE COUPLE. He slams on his brakes.
EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS
The teenagers flinch. Mukul pokes his hopeful face out the window, passing the disinterested couple ever so slowly.
As they turn the corner, Mukul pouts. He slowly sticks his head back in the truck, and drives away.
INT. TRUCK/ EXT. STREET - INTERCUT AS NEEDED
He turns onto another street to follow BILLY, 8. He carries a backpack and holds hands with his MOTHER, 30s, dressed in a business suit.
Mukul speeds toward them, TURNS UP his music.
He presses a button. A menu drops over the side door. It displays various ice cream pictures.
The boy nudges his mom, points to the truck. She reaches into her purse. Mukul's delighted.
He parks the truck. Billy points to a picture. Mukul retrieves the selected ice cream, and collects the cash.
He restarts the truck, drives off, proudly dropping two dollars in the bucket.
Suddenly, the truck SINKS to one side. Mukul glances around, confused.
As he pulls to the side of the road he sees his tire rolling away. Bolts everywhere.
Mukul jumps out. Chases the tire. It careens down a hill, toward an OLD WOMAN in a wheelchair, who rolls through a crosswalk.
Mukul races after it. He turns red, waves his arms motioning her to move.
The old woman freezes. Her eyes widen with fear. The tire is about to collide into her. It STOPS, inches away.
Mukul, sprawled on the ground, barely hangs onto the tips of the wheel. He breathes violently. The woman simply raises an eyebrow and proceeds crossing the street.
EXT. STREET - DAY
The sun shines brighter. Traffic busier.
Mukul lugs the tire. Sweat drips onto his unibrow.
EXT. STREET - DAY
The truck rests on a jack. Mukul rises from his knees, dusts off his hands.
He grins confidently with arms akimbo as he admires the reattached wheel.
He glances at his windshield. A yellow paper rests under the wiper.
He snatches it, furrows his brow. Glances around for violation signs. Nothing.
He examines the surrounding, un-ticketed cars. He scratches his turban.
As he wanders toward the car behind his, he TRIPS.
When he rises, he glares at the FIRE HYDRANT directly in front of him. He bites his lip and nods.
The sun shines above Mukul, the glare blinding him. He gazes down at his watch and immediately hops back in the truck.
He drives down the street and turns a corner.
He spots an ITALIAN MAN, in a business suit, interacting with two MAFIA MEN.
By the man’s side stands a GIRL, 6, with pigtails and a fluffy purse.
She chews gum and jump-ropes. Her DOG by her side.
As the girl hears the MUSIC, her eyes glisten. She stops jumping, and runs to the corner. Her dog follows, sniffs the ground in search of the “right” place.
Mukul pulls over. He presses the button, but this time the menu doesn't drop.
He hops out. His four-foot-ten body can't reach the rolled up menu. He continuously jumps up to tug it.
Finally, the menu drops and smacks Mukul in the head. He falls on his face, a millimeter away from the dog dropping.
Disgusted, he quickly jumps up and hits his face on the menu. The dog tilts his head, bewildered.
A big bump has formed on Mukul’s forehead. He pats it and caters to the little girl, who points to the CHOCO-TACO picture.
Mukul reaches into the cooler, hands it to her. She tears open the package and bites the taco. Chocolate outlines her lips.
Mukul holds up three fingers. She reaches into her purse, hands him a pack of gum and proceeds to jump rope.
Mukul stares at the gum. He eyes her purse. The dog GROWLS. Mukul smiles nervously.
He rubs his fingers together, motioning "money." The dog runs to him, sniffs the fingers for food. Mukul pushes the dog’s face away.
He crouches down beside the girl, points at her purse. The dog BARKS. The Italian man turns around.
ITALIAN MAN'S POV: Mukul, doubled over, seems to fondle the girl's crotch.
BACK TO SCENE
The Italian man marches over and swings at Mukul.
Mukul flies back. Hits the back of his head against the truck.
The Italian man picks up the girl and storms off, a red thong sticks out of his slacks.
INT. ICE CREAM TRUCK - DAY (MOVING)
Mukul softly presses what looks like a BEER BOTTLE to his black eye. The condensation drips onto his eye lid. He SIGHS.
The sound of a muffled SIREN overrides Mukul's circus music. A motorcycle COP chases after him.
Mukul presses the bottle to the closed eye and glances in his rear view with the one working eye.
MUKUL’S POV: No car on the road.
BACK TO SCENE
Mukul shrugs and TURNS UP his music.
The SIREN wales louder. Mukul BLASTS his music to filter out the noise.
The cop drives up to his side window. He motions to Mukul to pull over.
Mukul WAVES back and dances to his own music.
The cop flashes a police badge. Mukul does a double take. He slams on his breaks.
As the cop strolls up to the truck, Mukul stares blankly ahead. He breathes heavily.
The cop sees Mukul holding the glass bottle. He bursts open the door, smirks at Mukul, and grabs the bottle. He pops it open. Takes a swig. Mukul's hands tremble.
The cop's cheeks swell up. He SPITS the beer into Mukul's face. Mukul cringes.
The cop gazes down at the bottle. It's covered with INDIAN PRINT.
ENGLISH SUBTITLE: "ROOT BEER."
The cop tosses it out the window. It soars through the air, above the trees hits the CROW, who falls into the road. The bottle SHATTERS nearby.
The cop fiddles with handcuffs. Mukul's eyes widen. He grips the cop’s waist, fold his hands together, and pleas, while accidentally stepping on he gas pedal, REVVING the engine.
The cop laughs at Mukul’s old fashioned speedometer. He ponders a moment as he stares at a sign: “BEVERLY HILLS - 1/2 BLOCK”
EXT. STREET - MOMENTS LATER
Mukul in his truck, gears up the engine. The cop on his motorcycle, glares at Mukul as he REVS his engine.
The cop counts down from three, then speeds off. Mukul in full throttle, races at 30 miles.
A group of NUNS cross the street. The cop stops, anxiously turns around. He sees Mukul turn a corner.
AROUND THE CORNER
Mukul races down the bike lane, bypassing the traffic. Mukul BEEPS his pathetic, squeaky HORN. A team of BIKERS dart out of the way.
ON ANOTHER STREET
The cop presses the gas. He stops suddenly, nearly crashes into a group of Hari Krishna’s who follow the nuns, flaunting “JESUS FOR PRESIDENT” signs.
AROUND THE CORNER
Mukul passes a speed limit sign: “30 MPH.” He looks at his speedometer, smiles proudly and drives toward the sign: “WELCOME TO BEVERLY HILLS.”
The cop see Mukul in the distance and finally weaves between the never-ending Hari Krishna line. He races toward the sign, running over the dead CROW.
Mukul reaches the sign only a few seconds before the cop. Mukul churns butter in celebration. The cop furiously hops off his motorcycle.
He writes Mukul a speeding ticket.
Mukul shrugs his shoulders, baffled. The cop throws him the ticket and drives off.
Mukul stares down at the ticket, grimaces, then shrugs his shoulders and turns left.
Suddenly, an abrupt JOLT. A sharp CRACK. Mukul's mouth opens.
He jumps out of the truck, leaving the engine on.
The SOUND of escaping air. He beholds the punctured tire.
Floundering for a plan, he paces back and forth, hands in pockets.
He pulls out the GUM pack the girl had given him. Stares at the deflating tire, then back at the gum.
Mukul tears open the package, chewing piece after piece. He sticks the chewed glob in the hole.
It's not quite large enough. Mukul rips open more wrappers, ferociously gnaws on what is now a huge wad. It’s so huge it falls from his mouth, onto the dirt.
Mukul flicks off a COCKROACH, plugs his nose, continues chewing.
He shoves the leftovers into the hole. The air STOPS. He stands with arms akimbo, admiring his work.
Mukul sits on the curb to take a breather.
He pulls the billing statements from his pocket, adds "TIRE COST - $99 and the SPEEDING TICKET - $30" to the total charges.
His face slowly morphs into hopeless desperation. He bites the pencil tip. Drops his head to his palms, gazes down.
From the side of his eye he sees the truck rolling away. He scurries after it.
He finally catches up. The TWO TEENAGE BOYS from earlier are flooring it. The cheap truck runs at a steady 30 miles.
As Mukul chases after it, his midgety body leaps up to the passenger window. He angrily WAVES at them to pull over.
The boys smile and wave back. Mukul struggles to keep up with the truck as it sideswipes a FAT MAN on a scooter.
Mukul turns corners, runs down a secluded path. He makes a right and catches up to the truck.
The OLD WOMAN in the WHEELCHAIR crosses the street.
Mukul grabs the wheelchair, jumps directly in front of the truck, holds the woman as a hostage.
She continuously smacks Mukul’s face in defense. Mukul takes the punches like a woman.
The boys don’t stop.
SLOW MOTION: They boys nearly collide into the old woman. Mukul pushes aside the woman and her wheelchair, and skids across the road on his stomach.
Mukul instantly gets up and continues. The boys anxiously turn look back at Mukul following close behind.
The boys swerve down the streets. Finally, Mukul grabs his heart. He breathes heavily and stops running.
He longingly watches his truck ride away. He stands alone, gazing after it in the distance.
The truck suddenly come to a HALT. The CIRCUS MUSIC STOPS.
The boys jump out and sprint off into the industrial neighborhood.
Mukul scratches his head. He hesitantly wanders over to the truck, peers inside.
Everything is in place. Relieved, Mukul climbs in, restarts the engine.
The circus music PLAYS, but the motor GRINDS.
Mukul forcefully turns the key. A harsh SCREECH. He flinches.
He stares at the gas gauge. It's empty!
Mukul swallows. His eyes well up. He gazes up to the heavens, uttering his first words...
MUKUL
Jesus damned bat sheet! Of ass!
He throws his arms over the steering wheel, and SOBS. He glances up again. A red, wrinkled, pathetic face.
MUKUL (CONT'D)
Goat suck whore face!
He TURNS OFF the circus music, slips in a CD.
Hard-core Indian music BLASTS, knocking over the American flag on his rooftop.
Mukul whacks the red bucket. Coins spill out.
He tears the billing statements into shreds, throws them above his head, gazing up at the pieces fluttering down.
EXT. CHURCH
The NUNS outside a decorative chapel gaze up as the INDIAN MUSIC flows through their ears. They sway to the beat.
EXT. ICE CREAM TRUCK
The FAT MAN on the scooter speeds past the truck.
He slows down, turns around, removes his helmet as he grooves to the BLARING RHYTHM.
EXT. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL
Throngs of CHILDREN lug their backpacks as they head out of a symmetrically rectangular building.
The music BOOMS from Mukul's speakers, capturing their attention.
They scurry toward the truck. At the front of the herd, Billy holds hands with the LITTLE GIRL from earlier.
INT. ICE CREAM TRUCK
The truck is now a mess. Mukul drowns in drool and tears.
Mumbled CHATTER momentarily distracts him. He looks up, slurps his tears.
A long line of customers eagerly await his service.
Mukul opens the passenger window and observes the crowd of patrons waving dollars.
He dishes out ice cream bars to various consumers.
The TWO TEENAGE BOYS reach the front. They shamefully hand Mukul a bundle of cash as the OLD WOMAN in the wheelchair grips their ears.
At the back of the line, the motorcycle COP arrests the two MAFIA MEN. The cop WINKS at Mukul. Mukul winks back as he tosses more money into the red bucket which is now OVERFLOWING with BILLS.
A true smile wipes over his face.
Satisfied adults and children lap their cones, while a line of customers extends down the block.
The line is comprised of punks, hippies, construction workers, Sumo wrestlers, Rabbis and Gurus, all dancing to Mukul's music.
The SLUT from earlier approaches the front of the line. Mukul refuses her money and hands her a Popsicle which she sucks.
Mukul nods ecstatically. He invites her into his truck, and drapes an Indian flag over the window.
FADE OUT.
THE END
