BOI's POV. Any time someone else has narration, it will be marked as such with their name and if it's a caption. --EXT. SIP 'N PIK CONVENIENCE PARKING LOT Things are blurry. The almost unintelligible shape of humans and lights try to come into focus. CAPTION They say the hustle is in you from the start, it just needs a little help comin' ta light 's all. Things clear up a bit to see a MAN winding back for a punch. CAPTION (CONT'D) Some people find they hustle in the ashes of tragedy, others find it at bottom of the barrel called necessity. Our vision is krystal clear as the fist connects with the camera. CAPTION (CONT'D) And others find it repenting in the graceful and forgiving arms of God. Angle on KOUNTRY BOI’s tattooed and BLOODY face hitting the cracked, trash-littered parking lot hard. SFX KRAK! CAPTION This is where I found my hustle. [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
face has come down to KB's ground level: This is RALLY MALLY. Slightly grinning, he chastises KB. RALLY Don't get up just yet, kid. I want you to feel just how low you got right now. On Kountry as he spits blood on the ground before him. SFX SPTHOK! Rally stands up full, Kountry stays hugging pavement. RALLY You been working for me for too long now to come back empty handed. I ask you to sell 50 CD's a day, you fuckin' sell 50 goddamn CD's that day. He puts a foot on Kountry's stomach. RALLY (CONT'D) Every. Fuckin'. Day. On Kountry, wincing at the weight of the foot on his gut. RALLY (CONT'D) (off panel) Ya heard? KOUNTRY (pained) Yeah. I gotchu. [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
whole scene. The SIP 'N PIK CONVENIENCE STORE PARKING LOT. It is a typical, for the area, half-run down halogen hell of blinking lights and crushed BIG SIP cups. Standing amidst the used condoms, needles, and losing scratcher tickets we find RALLY MALLY and his STREET TEAM (of which BOI is one of) circled around Kountry, still laying on the ground. RALLY One a you! Pick his ass up. One of the other members helps Kountry to his feet as Rally continues. RALLY (CONT'D) Now. How many CD's you gon' sell tomorrow? KOUNTRY 50. Rally punches Kountry hard in the gut. Kountry doubles over. RALLY How many? KOUNTRY (in pain) 100. Rally smiles as he walks away from the group to his VERY NICE car. RALLY Attaboy. [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
top of both pages. This house is unreal. Cobble-stone, half-circle driveway going up to the columned front entrance. Manicured bushes and trees... Oh, and cameras. Lot's of fucking cameras. We see an ESCALADE pulling into the gated drive. (We'll get you ref for this). Bottom tier of panels: We see them (in the car) nodding to the guard at the gate. CINDY We're back, Worm. The muscled Worm relaxes his brow. WORM Glad to see it, Miss Cindy. Congrats on the finishing the tour Mister Kountry. Kountry doesn't acknowledge this. CAPTION No one in my life wanted this house. I didn't even want it They pull up to the front of the circle drive, next to the front door. CAPTION (CONT'D) I bought it as a "Fuck you" to everyone on this block and in Nashville who said I wouldn't make it. [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
his family (CINDY AND GATOR) shuffle into the great FOYER of the house. (We'll get you some ref for this). It's high-ceiling with chandelier job, stairs circling up to the second floor. CAPTION Sometimes I think the "Fuck You" was to myself. CINDY You tell your mooch-ass friends to get the fuck outta my livin' room! KOUNTRY Fuck, Cindy, you tell 'em. I just got off tour, I'm fuckin' exhausted as all livin' hell-Cindy forces her brother to look at her. CINDY I'm your sister, not your mother, and I'm for sure not they fuckin' mother. Get. Them. Out. KOUNTRY Okay. Okay. Damn, not like I paid for all this. KOUNTRY walks into the living room and we see, aside from the 85-inch TV, leather couches and chairs, every gaming system known, crazy speaker setup, that it's also littered with dozens of empty beer cans, whisky bottles, and cigarette butts. There's traces of every kind of drug paraphernalia (bongs, tin foil, small glass pipes, razor blades, and it goes on) littering the landscape. Amidst all this are OL' KOUNTRY ROAD CREW, Kountry Boi's makeshift street team. KOUNTRY (CONT'D) Jesus and Mother fuckin' Mary. Y'all are goddamn animals. KOUNTRY SCREAMS at them. KOUNTRY (CONT'D) Get the fuck up and out, you dirtwater, gutter feeding sons of worthless bitches! [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
but it's time to get your stank-asses home and in a goddamn shower! Kountry kicks one of the dudes sitting on a GIANT bean bag. KOUNTRY (CONT'D) Cyrus, you're my boy, but get the fuck up and get gone. CYRUS Damn, Kountry. We just got in this morning, we're all run ragged from the tour! [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
mostly young men, all wearing different styles of wrinkled and stained Kountry Boi Merch, as they stand wearily before him. GROUP (various mumbles) Damn. That's fucked up. Let us sleep! We just got in! Kountry softens. KOUNTRY Aight. Damn. One round of Call of Duty and then you get the fuck out. The group reacts with joy. GROUP Fuck yeah. This why you the king, Kountry! Kountry, sitting on the couch, lights up a bong, while Cyrus clicks the TV REMOTE. NO CAPTION / DIALOG We shoot past the group as the giant-ass TV lights up, and immediately they are bombarded with an AMERICAN FLAG with a MAN IN A BLACK COWBOY HAT in front of it. This is our antagonist, RALLY MALLY, who we met a younger version of in the opening flashback, On the TV in big letters is "VOTE RALLY MALLY". TV --and I'm proud to serve you all and bring this great state back to the values-KOUNTRY Fuck that asshole. Turn Call a' Duty on. I'ma dip some goddamn toes. You best watch your fuckin' six, shitheels. Cindy comes in, cell phone in hand. CINDY Dylan, it's your manager, for the billionth time. I'm not your dang receptionist. (MORE) [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
MALLY, complete with BLACK COWBOY HAT as the veins pop on his forehead and spittle flies out of his mouth, passionately yelling: RALLY Y'all ain't here cuz the world outside wants to help you! We see daily, the markets crashing, how these wall street and government handout fat-cats are lining their pockets as the banks get bailed out while they foreclose and run you outta your houses! Cut wide to see he's speaking to a group of about 12 young men, all standing demurely in a small warehouse room, boxes of MERCH surround them as RALLY stands in front of a garish VAN bearing his likeness and name vinyl-wrapped all over it. RALLY (CONT'D) You see, I been you. That's what the others in your life don't understand. (CONT.) I been every one a you at every point each a you is at now. (CONT.) They be all "Why you picking up to go sell CD's at gas stations in podunk towns?" I don't blame 'em. I really don't (CONT) But I'll tell you why. Rally points at a STACK OF MERCH BOXES just next to the Van with his face on it. RALLY (CONT'D) I made more money sellin' five hundred thousand of those than any a the Wall Street Banking assholes made stealing from your families the last few years. (CONT.) They took your hard-earned houses while I was buyin' 'em. (CONT.) And pretty soon, YOU'LL be buyin' them, kicking those assholes out! This elicits a WHOOP from the group. [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
a way too big cowboy hat. RALLY What's your name, friend? ETHAN Ethan. RALLY How'd you end up here, Ethan? Ethan starts to tear up as he talks. ETHAN In an' out on some drug charges, mostly nothing but cops fuckin' with me, but I got cases and... I got a girl knocked up, an' need to make money for formula. [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
on Ethan's shoulder, looking intently into his eyes. RALLY (quietly) I feel you, Ethan. And thank you for sharing your story. The Lord has lead you here, to me-Rally stands back, spreads his arms to gesture at the group of young men. RALLY (CONT'D) --to this group of God-fearing young men who believe in the power of Jesus and music to heal, to bring them out of the darkness. Wide on the various faces of the men he's speaking to. GROUP Amen! Fuck yeah! Praise Jesus! Rally reels it in. RALLY Now, you're gonna get out in these vans, and while they have my name on them, they're YOUR vans. They're your home for the next four weeks. (CONT.) If you ain't brothers now, you will be by the time you come home, and if you sell the way we teach you, you'll be rich brothers, at that. Something has caught Rally's eye. RALLY (CONT'D) What's your name? We angle close-up on a younger KOUNTRY BOI. KOUNTRY Dylan. [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
but PRESENT DAY. CAPTION I don't know that I've written a song sober since I was a kid. Same angle but he's brought a HUGE BLUNT to his lips. CAPTION (CONT'D) There's this fear that the thing you use to get your creativity out, be it drugs, booze, heartbreak, once it's gone? You won't be able to create ever again. Same angle, but he's blowing smoke at the camera. CAPTION (CONT'D) I don't use to create so much as keep the demons at bay. Especially the ones that want me to throttle this fucker. PRODUCER (off screen) I'm fucking sick of this shit, Kountry! RECORDING STUDIO - EVENING Wide to see Kountry sitting on a couch in the CONTROL ROOM of a RECORDING STUDIO (we'll get you ref for this). The PRODUCER sits at the console, but is facing Kountry, who is flanked by a couple of dudes in his crew (TBD). CAPTION My last single with this dude got a million streams in a week. He can chill the fuck out-KOUNTRY Do I not pay you enough? PRODUCER ... (CONT) That's not the fuckin' point, Kountry, and you know it. It's about the time you waste. My time is worth-Kountry, taking another hit-- [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
pay your ass. So if I'm a few minutes late-On the frustrated Producer. PRODUCER A few?! You're FIVE HOURS LATE. I coulda ran a whole other session in that time-- [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
hand. KOUNTRY So why didn't you? You coulda made money on top a what you're charging me and I'd been none the wiser. The Producer has slumped back in resignation. PRODUCER Fine. Fuck. Whatever. On Kountry, exhaling a BIG cloud of smoke. KOUNTRY So whatchu got for me? The Producer leans forward in his chair, silent for a beat as the smoke settles in the room. NO CAPTION / DIALOG He reaches over to the console, smiling big at Kountry as he taps something on the laptop that resides on the ledge just before the rows of channels. PRODUCER I ain't sayin' my shit's fire, but you might wanna have one a your boy's grab an extinguisher. [email protected] www.kevinmellon.com
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