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Leprechaun in the Hood Late Script Part 1 |
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3rd Draft, Blue Shooting Script
Written by Douglas L. Hall for Trimark Pictures
[The movie credits give additional screenplay credit to Jon Huffman, who participated in this version of the script, as well as giving story credits to William Wells, Alan Reynolds, and Rob Spera]
Deleted scenes and the more interesting variations from the finished movie are marked in red.
1 INT. UNDERGROUND SUBWAY CATACOMBS -- HARLEM/1973 -- NIGHT
Black. Pitch Black.
THE SOUND OF a pickaxe repeatedly slamming against a brick wall, the sound getting closer with every strike.
Finally, a tiny beam of light shatters the darkness as the pickaxe breaks through. The hammer slams again, then again, spraying bricks, dust and smoke everywhere.
MUFFLED VOICE: Move, motherfucker!
The pickaxe hits again. Finally, a hole big enough to reveal MACK DADDY O'NASSES, a bear of a man, and his sidekick, SLUG. THE SOUND OF A SUBWAY MOVING PAST, NEARBY.
They stand backlit and shrouded by smoke and dust. They pause for a long moment as they catch their breaths. The dust finally settles, revealing...
An ancient six-pack of Colt .45 Malt Liquor and a bag of White Castle hamburgers.
MACK DADDY: (disappointed) Shit! (to Slug) That map you bought was bogus, ya dumb-
SLUG: (getting worried) It's got to be here, Mack Daddy--
MACK DADDY: You see any gold here, dumb shit?
Slug looks around, sees only what's there. He swallows, knowing he's fucked up.
SLUG: (as if it's a consolation) I bet them burgers still good.
Mack Daddy grabs Slug by the throat.
MACK DADDY: Yeah? Let's see how good you hold up, buried down here a few years.
SLUG: No, please--
They both become suddenly aware of a new sound. They look down as... A BILLION ROACHES suddenly pour out of the burger bag, covering their feet.
MACK DADDY: Shit! Fuck! Piss! Goddamn, I hate roaches--
Screaming in fear, Mack Daddy backs up, suddenly, tossing Slug against the opposite wall. The wall gives way under the impact, revealing another small room.
As he stomps his feet, Mack looks at the opening Slug's head created. Something shines inside.
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) Damn...
Mack Daddy shoves Slug aside again, and looks into the small room, in which stand... a mythic Leprechaun encased in stone, standing guard over a pot of gold chains and jewels.
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) Hello, you midget Midas motherfucker...
A groggy, but excited Slug appears at Mack Daddy's side. Mack Daddy reaches into the small room, and begins rummaging through the gold. He finds a gold ring, puts it on his finger, then sifts some more. Suddenly, he finds what he's really after -- a solid gold flute.
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) (to Slug, as he moves back into the corridor) Gather the rest of the shit up!
Mack grabs a Colt .45, pops it open, and smiles at his flute.
MACK DADDY (cont'd) (fondling the flute) Jus' made my fortune...
Slug stares at the gold and the Leprechaun, absently grooming his hair with his Afro-pic. He sticks the pic in his hat, and reaches in and removes the gold chain from around the Lep's neck.
Slug examines the necklace, then tosses it out into the cellar. It lands on the bottom of a piece of wood, which rests against a pile of bricks, the top of the wood extending past the top of the bricks -- seesaw-like.
ON SLUG as he bends over to pick up gold.
ON THE LEP'S FACE in shadows -- his eyes blink!
ON SLUG, bent over, gathering gold -- a small hand removes the Afro-pic from Slug's hair.
SLUG: Yo, Mack Daddy --
ON MACK
SLUG'S VOICE: -- what we gon' do wit' all dis--
An odd sound makes Mack look up. HE SEES...
Slug half-in and half-out of the small room. Slug is still for a long moment. Then suddenly, he backs out of the room. He looks at Mack Daddy, and begins to move toward Mack.
SLUG: Ain't this a bitch?
Slug falls to his knees. A shaft of light across him reveals the Afro-pic stuck in his chest. He keels over, dead. The Lep leaps from his room/tomb, snarling, laughing, advancing on Mack Daddy, who stares in disbelief.
LEPRECHAUN: Free at last, free at last, thank gold almighty, I'm free at last!
MACK DADDY: What the fuck--
Mack reaches into his belt, pulls out a pistol, aims it at the oncoming demon. The Lep laughs, waves a finger, and Mack's gun instantly turns red-hot in his hands!
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) Shit--
Dropping the gun as he backs away, Mack reaches into his huge Afro, and pulls down a big knife.
The Lep waves another finger, the knife flies out of Mack's hand and sticks in the ceiling!
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) Fuck!
Mack reaches up, again, and, from his Afro pulls a little, souvenir-sized baseball bat. He rears back to hit the oncoming Lep, but the Lep waves a finger, and Mack begins pounding himself on the head.
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) Goddamn!
Once more, Mack reaches into his Afro. This time, he can only come up with a bong. He looks at it like, "Oh great..." as the Lep advances on him.
At the last second, Mack throws the bong at the Lep and turns to run. But the little monster just watches him and laughs.
The Lep points a finger, and a portion of the bricked ceiling falls in on Mack, knocking him to the ground.
LEPRECHAUN: (he advances toward the dazed Mack) Takin me gold's a sure way to grow old. Now my little room will become your tomb!
Mack glances around, furiously. On the wall, near him, is a steam-pipe, with an ancient gauge and lever, marked PRESSURE RELIEF VALVE.
Just as the Lep gets even with the valve, Mack dives for it, releasing a shot of steam full-onto the Lep. The Lep falls backwards, and steps on the top end of the seesaw board, where the necklace landed.
The necklace is catapulted up into the air, and WE WATCH, as it flies up, up, up, and finally down, down, down, landing perfectly around the Lep's neck.
The Lep freezes to stone again. It takes Mack a moment to realize the fight's over.
Mack breathes a SIGH of relief. He glances over at Slug, then looks around. After a moment's anxious search, he finds the gold flute.
He holds it up, kisses it.
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) Motown, here I come!
He starts gathering the rest of the gold as:
SOUTH CENTRAL LA -- 20 YEARS LATER
2 INT. MAMMA JAMMA CLUB -- DAY
Three young, black adult males (roughly 20 years old each) are auditioning for a rap contest. POSTMASTER (POST) P and STRAY BULLET rock the microphones while BUTCH works the turntable and controls the mix. They don't sound bad, but they're no superstars.
Suddenly the mix console malfunctions, causing the tape to play very fast and very high pitched, giving the music a "chipmunk effect". The group panics and Stray and Post jump forward onto two bags placed onstage. There is a rather large EXPLOSION as the boys are hurled from the stage, unhurt, but disoriented.
Butch, something of a geek, runs to their aid as the smoke clears.
BERRY GRADY: (coughing, gagging) What the hell's you boys doin'?! You mo'fo's done broke the goddamn stage!
BUTCH: Damn! Too much ammonia, not enough nitrogen!
POSTMASTER P: (to Berry Grady) So waddup witt the gig, home school? We on the bill?
BERRY GRADY: On the bill? I oughta send you the bill!
POSTMASTER P: (pleading) Why you got to play us, 'G'? This is our only shot out, boy! We win this contest we gonna be in the finals at the Vegas Hard Rock Cafe. We're talkin' record deals, video promo, publishin' rights!
BERRY GRADY: Only record you boys are cuttin, is at the LAPD! You boys clean up this mess and get yo'r act straight, I might let you audition again! Now get the fuck outta here!
3 EXT. CITY STREET -- DAY
Post, Stray and Butch are walking along a downtown sidewalk of inner-city Compton.
STRAY BULLET: (looking at his burned shoes) Shit, Butch -- you fucked up my new Air Rodmans!
POSTMASTER P: Air Rodmans? The shoes made from poker chips and breast implants?
STRAY BULLET: (directed at Butch) Damn! Almost get my ass blown to bits by the unavirgin!
BUTCH: (looking around to make sure no one can hear) Man, shit up wit' that! I shoulda never tol' you!
STRAY BULLET: Butch, you may not know nothin' about no pussy, but I thought you knew what you was doin' with that nitrogen... trimesteride.
BUTCH: Nitrogen triiodide, fool! Triiodide! It's an iodine, ammonia compound--
STRAY BULLET: You gonna wind up in a compound! Hell wit' it! We fucked that up!
POSTMASTER P: See, Stray, you're thinking with a spirit of failure. You need to hook up some Tony Robbins.
STRAY BULLET: That big, white goofy-lookin, mo'fo'?! Always talkin, 'bout "if a tree fall in the bathroom, an' take time to smell the forest an'--"
POSTMASTER P: (interrupting) Man, that ain't even right! See, our unconscious beliefs control our behavior. Only through daily positive affirmation can we overcome!
STRAY BULLET: Yeah? Well, affirmate on this, mo'fo': if we don't get this equipment fixed, we ain't getting no audition, ain't goin to no Vegas -- we ain't ever leavin Compton! Know what I'm sayin'?
POSTMASTER P: The man said we could audition, again! Butch! What it take to get our shit fixed?
BUTCH: What it take is money for new shit.
STRAY BULLET: See? We fucked! How we s'posed to get money?
Suddenly, Post gets a thought and halts in his tracks.
POSTMASTER P: Got to think positive.
4 EXT. PAWN SHOP -- DAY
The boys enter JACKIE DEE'S PAWN SHOPPE
5 INT. PAWN SHOP -- DAY
ON an old, beat-up electric guitar, obviously unusable. On its face, scribbled: "JIMI 1971."
The owner, JACKIE DEE, inspects the guitar, suspiciously.
JACKIE DEE: (to Post) Boy who give you this guitar?
POSTMASTER P: It was my... Uncle Junior's.
BUTCH: And he got it from Jimi Hendrix.
STRAY BULLET: Yeah, when they played together.
JACKIE DEE: Yo' Uncle Junior play wit' Jimi?
POSTMASTER P: (nodding) At... Psychadela-Pallooza in 1971.
STRAY BULLET: Yeah, that's right. This was Jimi's guitar!
JACKIE DEE: Psychadela-Palooza? Hmmm. I never heard 'a that one.
STRAY BULLET: So?
JACKIE DEE: '71? Didn't Jimi die in 1970?
BUTCH: That was Paul McCartney!
JACKIE DEE: (suspicious) This be the same Uncle Junior spent twenty years upstate?
BUTCH: No -- that's his other Uncle Junior.
POSTMASTER P: So what you give fo' this piece o' music history, Jackie?
Jackie makes a show of thinking about it.
JACKIE DEE: Hmmm... I'll give you... bout five seconds to get yo' asses outta my store! Comin in here, tryin to bullshit Jackie Dee with this trash.
STRAY BULLET: Ain't nobody bullshittin you--
JACKIE DEE: Frontin motherfuckers, wit' you' silly-ass names. Stray Bullet. Boy, you ain't no gangsta. And Postmaster P -- what kinda shit is that? You ain't in no military!
POSTMASTER P: It's Postmaster P, 'cause I deliver the positive message, man!
JACKIE DEE: Positive message?! Punk ass mo' like it! an' Butch, you better get yo' self some pussy, 'fore you blow ya dick off wit' them chemicals! Ya'll jus' take yo' cheap-ass hustle somewheres else!
Jackie thrusts the guitar back at them. Stray is about to explode, but Post stops him.
POSTMASTER P: Look'a here, Jackie. Forget the guitar! We can win that rap contest in Vegas -- straight up! But we got to have new equipment. How 'bout this? We play our next gig, we give a big shout out to Jackie Dee's Pawn Shop? Now whaddup?
JACKIE DEE: You next big gig is like Butch's next piece a' ass! You first! Ya'll go on outta here! This ain't no charity!
The Phone rings. Jackie answers it.
JACKIE DEE: (cont'd) Jackie Dee's... How much I give you for what?... Oprah Winfrey's panties? You got Oprah Winfrey's panties?! Fat Oprah or skinny Oprah?!
6 EXT. CONVENIENCE STORE -- DAY
Close-up of a sign, something written in Vietnamese. Below that writing: "Proprietor: Chow Yung Pi."
As the boys enter a convenience store:
STRAY BULLET: If we can't pawn it, we fence it!
7 INT. CONVENIENCE STORE -- DAY
The store is filled with security video cameras and mirrors hanging everywhere. Surprisingly, the store's shelves are almost completely bare.
CHOW YUNG PI, the proprietor, is looking at the inscription on the guitar.
STRAY BULLET: So how much, Chow?
CHOW: Dis Jimi sig-na-chuh fo' real?
POSTMASTER P: Who else spell his name like that?
CHOW: I look stupid?! Ev'ybody know, Jimi die in 1970! You get the fuck out!
Chow begins to push them out.
STRAY BULLET: (looking at the empty shelves) Chow, you never have shit up in here! Riots are over, fool. Time to re-stock!
CHOW: You go! You too loud! You too loud!
Stray picks up one of the few items on the shelf. A jar, containing, much to his horror, a dead cat.
CHOW: (cont'd) Fresh cat! Fresh cat! Today's special! Killed 'dis morning!
STRAY BULLET: Hell no! I ain't eatin' no pussy.
Chow reclaims the feline delicacy and ushers the boys out.
CHOW: You leave Chow's store! Hip and hop yo'r black ass home! Make like Michael and beat it!
8 EXT. CONVENIENCE STORE -- DAY
The boys stumble out, pushed by Chow, and look around, helplessly, for their next option.
Post drops the guitar in a trash can.
STRAY BULLET: Damn! What we sposed to do now? Rob somebody?
POSTMASTER P: We ain't robbin nobody!
A black limousine pulls up, nearby and stops.
STRAY BULLET: There's Mack Daddy O'Nasses.
BUTCH: Why do they call him O'Nasses? He don't look Greek to me.
STRAY BULLET: No, boy. Mack Daddy was the primo pimp before he was reppin' talent. Mack Daddy Owned Asses! Now he got it goin' on in hip-hop.
POSTMASTER P: Gangsta hip-hop.
STRAY BULLET: (ignoring Post) Bitches and ho's ain't all my man knows! Come on!
Stray starts to run over to the limo. Post grabs his arm.
POSTMASTER P: Wait up! Mack Daddy only reppin' groups singin bout bangin and drive-bys and shit. That ain't what we about.
The window of the limo rolls down, revealing Mack Daddy O'Nasses, now twenty-five years later, a Suge Knight-style hip-hop impresario, decked out in athletic gear and shades, and the Mr. T gold chain collection around his neck. Around his wrist, on a short chain, is the golden flute.
He's on the phone in the back of his car. He glances over at the boys.
STRAY BULLET: What we about then, bro? We bout getting new equipment? We bout getting some gigs, getting that audition, getting to Vegas? Mack Daddy the ticket -- less you got something else we can sell...
MACK DADDY: (calling to them) If it ain't the Milli Vanilli of Compton hip-hop. Is it true you boys is samplin' Chipmunk tracks?
Mack laughs.
POSTMASTER P: That wasn't no Chipmunks! The tape machine broke!
MACK DADDY: Be cool, Post. Be cool. Ain't nothin' but a hip-hop thang.
STRAY BULLET: Yo, Mack. We got a new sound! You should hear it.
MACK DADDY: What's in it for me?
STRAY BULLET: You could be reppin' us, man. We win that contest in Vegas, we gonna be the hottest act around.
Mack is curious. He thinks a moment.
MACK DADDY: Alright! Get in! This better not be a waste of my time!
He opens the door. Stray looks at Post and shrugs, like "Well?". Post sighs and shakes his head, but he and the boys get in.
9 INT. MACK-DADDY'S CRIB -- DAY
Mack sits behind his large desk. His muscle-bound bodyguard stand by him, in a show of intimidation. His office adorned with cheap velvet paintings. Gold albums line the walls as well. Post sits in a low chair in front of Mack's desk. Stray stands behind him. Butch looks around the office.
The boys' demo is blasting away.
POSTMASTER P: See, we trying to send out a positive message with our music. (on Mack's bored look) This shit is sellin, now!
Mack looks them over.
MACK DADDY: (Re: the music) Ain't much. But ain't as bad as mos'. An y'all seem hungry 'nuff... Maybe I can do somethin' wit' you boys.
The boys all begin celebrating -- high-fives, etc.
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) 'Course we gon' have to make a few changes.
POSTMASTER P: Like what?
MACK DADDY: Like this here.
He takes their music tape and drops it in the trash can.
POSTMASTER P: But that's our music!
MACK DADDY: Not if you with me, it ain't. None o' that be-kind-to-yo-bitch, get-a-job-and-clean-up-the-hood bullshit round here, y'understand. We all about Uzi's, and ho's, an' shootin motherfuckers in the head -- we bout keepin it real! Dig?
POSTMASTER P: But tha's not what we do--
STRAY BULLET: Post! This is our dream! The man says we got to change, we got to change!
The phone rings. Mack picks it up.
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) (into phone) Whaddup?... Uh-huh... Uh-huh...
Mack puts his hand over the receiver and speaks quietly and apologetically to the boys.
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) Sorry, I'll just be a sec.
STRAY BULLET: (to Post, while Mack listens to the phone) Whassa matta wit' you, man?
POSTMASTER P: You wanna jus, change eve'ything?
STRAY BULLET: Man, who gives a shit, if we makin it?
Butch stares at a stone Leprechaun idol, a gold chain around its neck, in a locked glass and metal case.
MACK DADDY: (into the phone) You listen up, you ungrateful little skanky-ass piece o' shit motherfucker! I hope you got laid last night -- cause I'm comin over and cutting yo' dick with dull, rusty scissors, feedin to my dog, then burnin his dick turd when he shits it out! You hear me, bitch?
Mack slams down the phone -- he's clearly pissed. No one speaks for a moment, then Butch tries to break the tension.
He stares at a roach, crossing his desk. His bodyguard springs into action, pounding the roach to smithereens with his fist.
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) I hate fuckin' roaches!
No one speaks for a moment, then Butch tries to break the tension.
BUTCH: (re: the Lep) Yo, Mack, shouldn't this be out on your front lawn, man?
MACK DADDY: (upset, jumping up) Get away from that!! Don't ever go near Leprechaun, goddamnit! (to Post and Stray) Well?
POSTMASTER P: (still not convinced) I don' know...
MACK DADDY: Don' know?! don' know?! Y'all get the fuck outta here!
STRAY BULLET: (panicking) No, Mack Daddy! Just let me talk to my boy--
MACK DADDY (interrupting) Up in here, wastin my time! I got chumps lines up around the block. You don' get no second chance! Go on!
STRAY BULLET: Please, Mack! Just give us a minute--
MACK DADDY: Motherfucker, you deaf? Or you just stupid, like yo' Mama? I got to bitch-slap you like I used to do her? Get the fuck out!
Stray stares at him dumbfounded.
MACK DADDY: (cont'd) (to his boy) Throw these losers out on they ass!
The bodyguard man-handles the boys out.
10 EXT. BUTCH'S RAP STUDIO/APARTMENT -- DAY
The boys walk angrily, resolutely and quickly to Butch's, a building with loft-type apartments.
11 EXT. BUTCH'S RAP STUDIO/APARTMENT/ROOF -- DAY
They sit on the roof, right outside Butch's top-floor loft, the window into the apartment behind them. Butch is trying to fix the mixing console.
STRAY BULLET: Motherfucker! Who he callin' a loser?
BUTCH: (sighs, throws the console down) This shit is broker than we is. Unless someone wins the lotto we can forgit the contest.
STRAY BULLET: Now you talkin', mo'fo'. The lotto hangin' around that lawn jockey's neck at Mack's. I been thinkin'! Everybody know Mack be partying every night! Let's bust in there and grab that gold necklace off that little yard jockey!
BUTCH: Ha! Bus' into Mack's...
POSTMASTER P: (high-fives Butch, laughing) Yeah, why don't we just bus' up in there?
BUTCH: (laughing) Stick 'em up, motherfucker!
STRAY BULLET: I'm serious, goddamnit! That necklace got to be hot! No way he gon' report it! We pawn that shit, get some new gear!
The others are sobered by Stray's outburst.
POSTMASTER P: Damn, Stray! We can't do that!
STRAY BULLET: Why not?
BUTCH: He kill us, for one thing...
STRAY BULLET: Fuck him! He ain't gon' find out!
POSTMASTER P: We do that, we ain't no better'n him!
STRAY BULLET: Oh -- it's O.K. to play yo' little bullshit scam on Jackie Dee an' Chow. But now you all high and mighty when it come down to the real deal, huh? Where you draw the line, Post?
Post has no answer.
STRAY BULLET: (cont'd) How you think that motherfucker got where he is? He done a lot worse than us. And he been keeping brothers like us down too long, controlling who gets out and who don't. Time somebody took somethin' back! Took some action!
BUTCH: Kinda like Robin Hood.
STRAY BULLET: Only with Uzis an' AKs!
POSTMASTER P: Guns?!
STRAY BULLET: You tell me, Post -- what else we gon' do?
POSTMASTER P: (pause) I'll see ya'll on Judge Judy.
He begins to leave.
STRAY BULLET: We meet tomorrow at MacKenzie Park. Six-thirty. Yo' Post!
Post turns back.
STRAY BULLET: (cont'd) We just playin' the cards we dealt! Like Mack said, "ain't nothin' but a hip-hop thang." Business in the hood!
Post shakes his head and leaves.
12 INT. LONNIE COCHRAN'S OFFICE -- DAY
Lonnie Cochran, attorney-to-the-hood, is staring directly into the camera. He is smartly dressed.
LONNIE COCHRAN: Were you erroneously injured in a drive-by? Has someone busted a cap in your ass? Were you unlawfully detained while driving in Beverly Hills? Then you need to call the law offices of Lonnie Cochran, attorney to the hood. That's right friends, pick up your phones and call 1-900-555-2121. It's only ninety-nine cents a minute and you don't need to be eighteen to call. Or come down to 451 Martin Muhammed Abdul Luther Rahid Elijah King Blvd., above Roscoe's rib joint. Ladies, don't know who your baby's daddy is? Then come down to receive your in-house DNA paternity test. It's only $99.95 when you order a large bucket of Roscoe's Southern fried ribs. And remember, you don't need a case, to win based on race. Because at Lonnie's, you're not just a friend, you're a defendant. Assalam Alaikum! (pause) Cut!
Behind the camera is MATTY, his beautiful, black receptionist.
MATTY: That was great, Lonnie.
LONNIE COCHRAN: (smiling broadly) Yeah, I was wasn't I? Now you edit that and get it to B-E-T.
Matty looks at her watch.
LONNIE COCHRAN: (cont'd) You expectin that little hood to show up on time? Better let me give you a ride home.
MATTY: He's not a hood, Lonnie. He's my boyfriend.
The DOOR OPENS and Postmaster P comes walking in.
POSTMASTER P: Hey, baby.
He gives Matty a kiss.
Postmaster P: (cont'd) Am I late?
MATTY: You're right on time, sweetheart.
She shoots a look at Lonnie.
LONNIE COCHRAN: (under his breath) Probably had someone chasin' his little ass.
MATTY: I'll see you tomorrow, Lonnie. The commercial looks great.
LONNIE COCHRAN: Wait. Tell me what you think of this. (pause) Concerned about Y2K? Then inquire about Lonnie Cochran's millenium insurance policy. Remember, if it does not boot, I will file suit!
13 EXT. STREET -- DAY
Post and Matty are walking along.
MATTY: So how did the job search go?
POSTMASTER P: Job search. Yeah, job search.
MATTY: Don't even start, Post. You didn't look for a job, did you?
He sighs.
POSTMASTER P: Matty... We been through this. I just ain't no nine to five brotha'. You know that.
MATTY: Nine to five? I'd settle for nine to one, Post. You gotta start somewhere.
POSTMASTER P: I got dreams, Matty. Big dreams!
MATTY: (interrupting) Post, positive thinking is good, but it only works if it's followed with action.
POSTMASTER P: Action... yeah.
MATTY: I graduate from paralegal school in two months. We had plans, Post. Plans we can't keep if you don't contribute.
They walk along quietly.
MATTY: (cont'd) Why are we going this way?
POSTMASTER P: Ain't we goin' back to my place? I ain't seen you in two days, baby.
MATTY: Post, what are we going to do at your place? What about your grandmother?
POSTMASTER P: She be fallin' asleep early now. Now that I put Nytol in her Ensure.
MATTY: Post!
14 INT. POST'S BEDROOM -- NIGHT
The bedroom door is closed, and the room is largely bare except for some rap and sports posters on the wall, and a small dresser. Matty is checking out the posters. Post lays on the bed, which is just a mattress that sits bare on the floor.
Matty turns to him.
MATTY: So is your grandmother asleep?
POSTMASTER P: Yeah, I think so. Bring y'or fine self on over here. I'm gonna put in on you real good, girl.
She turns, smiles, and unbuttons her shirt, seductively slipping out of it and letting it fall to the floor. Her bra is barely able to contain her heaving breasts. Then she un-does and slips out of her jeans, revealing a beautiful ass, framed in thong panties.
Matty gets down on her hands and knees and crawls seductively to one side of the bed. She reaches the head of the bed, still on her hands and knees, and just as they are about to kiss, the door opens!
In walks Post's grandmother with a cold beverage in one hand and a plate, which she holds with an oven mitt, in the other. She wears shades. She is blind.
GRANDMOTHER: Baby, you awake? I thought I heard you talkin' to someone.
POSTMASTER P: Yeah, grandma, I'm up. Ah, I was just rappin' to myself.
His grandmother starts coming towards the side of the bed with Matty. Post motions for her to stay quiet and don't move, but his mom is moving closer.
GRANDMOTHER: I brought you some dinner. It ain't much, but I know it be more'n you ate today.
She comes closer and now bumps into Matty, still on her hands and knees.
GRANDMOTHER: (cont'd) What's 'dat, baby?
POSTMASTER P: Ah, ah, I bought a night-stand, grandma. From the Salvation Army.
GRANDMOTHER: Oh, you coulda' had the one in my room. Let me put this food down on here.
Matty's face says it all. Post doesn't know what to do except watch his grandmother put the ice-cold glass on Matty's back. Matty makes faces, putting her hand over her mouth to avoid crying out.
GRANDMOTHER: (cont'd) This plate is a little warm so you be careful.
Now Matty's eyes are reall bugging, and when the hot plate is placed on her back it is unbearable. Still covering her mouth with her hand, she can't help but buck the plate from her back, sending it to the floor and causing a commotion.
GRANDMOTHER: (cont'd) Lordy, what is goin' here?
Post gets up to steer his grandmother out, while Matty writhes on the floor from the pain.
POSTMASTER P: That table done busted already! You know you can't get quality from the Salvation Army like you used to!
Matty still writhing, hand over her mouth.
GRANDMOTHER: What? Baby, you okay? You actin' mighty funny. You sure 'dere ain't nothin' wrong?
But he hustles her out of the room.
POSTMASTER P: It's cool, grandma. It's cool. I'll cleanup. You go to bed, grandma. Goodnight!
He closes the door and locks it.
MATTY: Post, why didn't you do something? My God, I'm branded for life!
She jumps up and begins dressing.
POSTMASTER P: Aw baby, don't go! She'll be asleep in a few minutes.
MATTY: That's it, Post. We're finished.
As she dresses up.
POSTMASTER P: Finished? We never got started.
MATTY: I mean, we're finished as a couple, Post. I can't do this anymore. I don't want a boyfriend who lives off his grandmother -- who can't take care of himself. I'm not a nightstand, Post.
She finishes dressing and walks out.
Postmaster is left alone in his room, the setting sun casting shadows over the empty room. He watches a roach climb the wall, the SOUND OF A HELICOPTER circling somewhere nearby.
15 EXT. MACKENZIE PARK -- DUSK
Stray and Butch are huddled in the park. Each carries a gun.
STRAY BULLET: Take whatever's valuable and can't be traced. And make sure we get that fuckin jockey's necklace! Who's that, coming up in here?
They look off to see a figure approaching. It's Postmaster P, silhouetted against the setting sun.
BUTCH: Post?
He stops, and they anxiously await his decision.
POSTMASTER P: We gon' do this thing, or what?
16 INT. MACK-DADDY'S CRIB -- NIGHT
KABOOM!! The door implodes, kicked by Stray.
The boys rush in. They start to go through his stuff. Stray finds a few gold pieces.
STRAY BULLET: Check this! Cha-ching!
Stray begins to gleefully wreck the place, knocking shit over, smashing things.
POSTMASTER P: Careful, Stray!
STRAY BULLET: Post! Grab that gold necklace off that lawn jockey!
Post takes the necklace from the statue and puts it in his pocket.
Butch affixes an explosive to the Lep's case.
BUTCH: Post, check the desk.
Post reluctantly begins rummaging through Mack's desk drawers. He finds a gun. Picks it up. Suddenly:
MACK DADDY: (O.S.) What the fuck?
Post looks up.
Butch's explosive blows the case, causing a startled Post to accidentally shoot Mack directly in the chest. Mack stumbles forward, and Post, shocked by his own actions, squeezes another round. Mack's huge girth falls to the floor.
POSTMASTER P: Shit! Shit! Oh, shit!
STRAY BULLET: You killed that motha-fucker, Post! You killed Mack Daddy!
Post is too stunned to do anything. He just stands there, horrified. He drops the gun.
STRAY BULLET: Take all his shit! (re: Mack's chains and necklaces) Post -- grab the gold off that bastard!
Stray and Butch continue to ransack the place. Butch finds the pot of gold in a drawer.
Post looks down at Mack's body. In a daze, he reaches down and pulls the gold flute from its chain around Mack's wrist. He looks at it, then slips it in his other pocket, just as:
The LEP comes to life. The boys are about to leave with the booty.
LEPRECHAUN: (O.S) Un-hand me gold you thieving hoods! You've got more loot than Tiger Woods!
The boys stop dead in their tracks. They turn to see the little green varmint advancing on them.
POSTMASTER P: What is it?
STRAY BULLET: It's Chuckie on crack! Shoot that mutha-fucker!
They empty their guns on the Leprechaun, cutting him to shreds. Pieces everywhere.
STRAY BULLET: (cont'd) Shit! Let's go man! Let's go man!
17 EXT. MACK'S CRIB -- NIGHT
The boys run like hell to Stray's clunker car, and pile in.
