The script for The Outsideman is 116 pages long. The following is the opening scene to the movie, constituting a sample of about 8 script pages.
INT. DARK ROOM – NIGHT
A COIN flips, meets the palm of a hand.
A gun COCKS. It’s leveled at the forehead of VEGAS JACKMAN, 25. There’s a whisper of smugness to him, even when bound to a chair by duct tape.
He stares down the barrel at CRAVEN, 30, a Russian terror. Menacing as hell except for his hair, a pure white puffy perm with jet black roots.
… you lose. Guess it just not your lucky night.
Vegas mumbles beneath his gag. Craven rips it off.
What was that?
I don’t believe in luck.
Believe you gonna die tonight?
Vegas looks at the gun.
Best two out of three?
Derisive chuckles. FIVE GOONS litter the room, dressed with expensive clothes that exhibit little taste. Two of them flank a wooden table with a METALLIC BRIEFCASE on top.
This ain’t Atlantic City, Vegas. This is the ‘Lou. Think you just come to Craven’s town — Craven’s TOWN — and rob him? Well, Craven don’t fall for the Jamaican Switch. Craven smarter than you think!
Craven pushes the gun to Vegas’s temple. Hard.
So, you don’t want to know where your money is?
Don’t care. Get it back one way or the other. Either you tell Craven, or Craven take the money you swindled from him out of your ass… with his foot!
Vegas isn’t sure what he’s getting at. Neither is Craven for that matter.
I don’t get it…
Quiet! Bad enough you make Craven look like fool! But even now, with your life in Craven’s hands, you don’t even have decency to show him proper respect!
Don’t take it personally. I don’t show anybody the proper respect.
Craven SMASHES Vegas across the face with the butt of his revolver.
Okay, that hurt…
Perhaps you “respect” the ungodly period of time Craven will take hurting you. Yes, that’s right Vegas-man. You will be hurting. Killing would be too quick, too easy, too… painless. Mongo! Give me chainsaw.
MONGO, a man as much fat as he is muscle, waddles up.
Uh, we didn’t bring the chainsaw.
We got a regular saw.
Enough! Give Craven knife, then.
The big knife or the little knife, boss?
Craven’s eyes narrow.
Of COURSE the BIG KNIFE! Stupid monkey bitch!
Craven slaps Mongo upside the head. He hands Mongo his revolver as Mongo gives him an ugly looking serrated six inch steel HUNTING KNIFE in return. Craven looks at it wistfully.
Craven miss his chainsaw…
Vegas slips a gold Zippo lighter from his back pocket.
Look, I’m sure if —
(pointing to his hair)
Should kill you for this alone! See what you do to hair? Take months for perm to go away and natural color to come back!
It’s a good look for you —
Silence! Want to start with the hurting. Hope you enjoy choking on your balls… ball-boy.
Yeah, probably enjoy it more than having money removed from my ass with your foot.
Craven turns to Vegas, pointing the knife at him.
You think you some kind of comedian? Tell Craven fucking joke, dickwad.
Vegas lights up his Zippo, holding the flame up to the tape on his wrists.
Uh, okay… five jacked up meatballs and their psycho boss tie a guy to a chair. The psycho boss says, “Where’s my goddamn money, asshole? Look what you did to my hair!”, And the guy says, “I think the haircut suits you, but I don’t have your money. Guess you guys’ll all have to go fuck each other.”
The five goons start laughing. Craven whirls around.
IS NOT FUNNY!
The goons stop laughing.
You all want joke? You all want laugh? Craven have joke — “Knock, knock.”
Craven’s goons all exchange uneasy glances. They answer, not exactly all that the same time.
Who wants their ass-rammed!? Craven swear to God, he will ass-ram every single one of you with big knife if you don’t shut the hell up! The ass-ramming will never cease! ASS-RAMMING FOREVER!
The men go somberly quiet. The duct tape binding him starts to melt under the flame. Craven turns to him, eyes wild, the knife fiercely gripped in his hand.
Should’ve done this long time ago… *sniff*, what is smell?
Know what else you should’ve done?
Kept a shorter leash on your by-any-standard-obese toady there. Right now we’re surrounded by members of the North Side Gang compliments of Mongo, the human flotation device.
Guns are drawn. The Goons peek out the boarded-up windows, looking for trouble. Craven turns to Mongo.
What you talking ‘bout? What he talking ‘bout?
I don’t know!
Wanna find your money? Check the fat-rolls on the Abominable Blow-man here.
Boss, I —
He’s doing business behind your back, Craven! Selling you out to your competitors! I can only assume they’re here for that briefcase of yours…
Craven glances to the metallic briefcase on the table.
Vegas is almost loose.
Boss, I didn’t meet with Sullivan, I swear!
Is okay, Mongo, I believe you.
I never mentioned anything about Sullivan.
Traitor! Craven pay you good money for you to ASS-RAM him like this?! Prepare to die!
Mongo screams in rage at Vegas. He PUSHES Craven out of the way, drawing the revolver that was given to him.
Bastard! I kill you!
Vegas BREAKS LOOSE and charges Mongo — BANG!
Mongo gets off a shot as Vegas SLAMS into him.
Mongo tumbles to the floor, unconscious.
Vegas grabs the gun.
Vegas FIRES at Craven — BANG! BANG!
Craven DIVES for cover.
The other Goons turn towards Vegas and OPEN FIRE.
Vegas DIVES over the table with the briefcase on it, tipping the table as he does so. He hits the ground as bullets fly around him.
The Goons gather together and UNLOAD, turning the table to swiss cheese. Cowering behind his flimsy cover, Vegas raises the gun up over the table and FIRES blindly.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!
He brings his arm back and readies himself for the next onslaught of gunfire…
But it never comes.
Vegas peeks around the table to see THE GOONS lying on the ground — DEAD. He looks at the gun in disbelief.
I’ll be dipped.
A knife RIPS through the table an inch from Vegas’ face. Vegas screams, stumbles back. Craven SHOVES the table aside.
Now, you made Craven mad.
Don’t come any closer! I’ll fire blindly again. Apparently I’m a crack shot.
Craven makes a move. Vegas pulls the trigger — CLICK!
Craven hurls the knife, EMBEDDING itself in the floor close enough to Vegas’s crotch to make his unborn kids yelp.
Craven DIVES for Vegas, tackling him.
The two roll around on the floor.
Craven PUNCHES Vegas, over and over.
Vegas GRABS the STAINLESS STEEL BRIEFCASE nearby and SWINGS it, knocking Craven across the face.
Craven REELS from the blow.
Vegas HITS him again. Craven goes down, limp.
Vegas gets to his feet, looks down at his unconscious adversary. He’s out of danger. Vegas heads for the door.
A bullet GRAZES his shoulder!
Vegas turns to see Craven on the floor, gun in hand.
Craven lets out a PRIMAL SCREAM and begins to UNLOAD —
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Vegas RUNS for the door, holding the briefcase like a SHIELD, bullets sparking off it! He DIVES for the door, CRASHING through —
EXT. ST. LOUIS – STREET – NIGHT
Vegas emerges — WHAM! A tricked out 1970 Monte Carlo RUNS into him and SCREECHES to a stop. Vegas rolls to the ground. HAMMERHEAD, a thug all tattoos and attitude, leaps out.
Nigga what! You didn’t just hit my baby! If she’s scratched, I’m gonna take it outta yer ass… with my foot!
Vegas sits up. He’s bleeding from the head.
I’m fine, thanks.
BANG! A BULLET hits the ground.
Craven comes charging down the alley like a madman.
Hammerhead dives for cover as Vegas scrambles inside the car.
I’m not fine! I’m not fine!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Vegas THROWS the gear into REVERSE and SLAMS on the gas! Craven DIVES back, narrowly avoiding the car as it BARRELS by. As it passes, Craven chases after it, FIRING away.
Bullets RIP through the WINDSHIELD! Vegas ducks behind the wheel.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, please don’t let me FUCKING DIE!
HOLES rip into the car’s hood. Headlights are KNOCKED OUT. TIRES go limp. Vegas SPINS the car around, THROWS it into gear, and PEELS OFF as the rear windshield SHATTERS!
VEGAS! You can’t escape Craven! He hunt you down wherever you go! You hear? Long as Craven alive, you never be safe! NEVER!
Hammerhead comes out of hiding, running up beside Craven.
Craven shoots him a rather pissed glance.
EXT. ST. LOUIS CITY – STREET – NIGHT
The mangled car putters down the road, leaving St. Louis behind. A gear SCREECHES, and that’s all she wrote.
INT. CAR – NIGHT
Out comes a crumpled pack of CAMELS and with shaky hands, Vegas puts a non-broken one in his mouth. A mangled silver Zippo gives off nothing but sparks.
And the hits just keep on comin’…
He looks over and sees the STEEL BRIEFCASE.
At least I got the money.
Vegas opens it and peers inside as a waft of refrigeration hits his face, emanating from the briefcase. A look of abject disbelief washes over his face. He shuts it.
Dad’s gonna kill me.