WIN-LOSE by Matías Caruso matiascaruso32@gmail.com
OVER BLACK A young woman's voice. Cold, yet sexy. No reply. An impatient sigh. Pick up the phone, you coward. I know you're there. You know why I m calling. Pick up. Be a man. Fine, I'll leave a message then, but it's gonna hurt even more. FADE IN: A BOXER'S GLOVE The tight FIST slices the air like a missile - WHAM! - smashes against a rival's face with wrecking ball force... The rival's cheeks RIPPLE... His face a mask of pain... Blobs of spit and blood coming out from his swollen lips... We are at: Didn t want to hit you with this just before the fight but -- fuck it, actually I did. INT. BOXING GYM - - NIGHT MARCEL (30s) hits the mat like a sack of shit, destroyed by the finishing blow. Handsome face no longer handsome, beaten to a bloody pulp. This isn t working. A bright spotlight pierces the darkness, bathing the small ring in white light.
2. If you think we can go on like this forever, then you need to wake up. Dazed, Marcel opens his eyes, blinks. Tries to get up, but fails miserably. I m done yelling at you. Cigar-chomping GAMBLERS standing outside the ring shout CURSES at Marcel amid a cloud of nicotine smoke. I m done being mad at you. With clenched fists and tense jaws they berate Marcel to get up, tempers burning like the fiery-red tips of their smokes. I m done with you. EXT. APARTMENT CORRIDOR - NIGHT A lone FIGURE stands in a shadowy hallway, barely visible. Don t call. Don't come knocking at my door. THUD! - the figure s FIST knocks on a door HARD. THUD! - the REFEREE's hand HITS the mat. One... CORRIDOR THUD! - the fist KNOCKS on the door. Two... THUD! - the ref's hand STRIKES the mat again. Three... WADE (30s), built like a tank, raises his TATTOOED ARMS in victory. It's over.
3. Money changes hands as a shady BOOKIE pays some gamblers. I m seeing someone else. With the help of his COACH (40s), a bloody Marcel gets down from the ring. I think you know who. Marcel turns his head to Wade, staring at him through blood and sweat. JUSTINE (25) emerges from the shadows. Black dress, satin elbow gloves. Cold blue eyes, thick red lips. Stylish beauty. Dangerous beauty. Marcel watches as she approaches the ring from the side. His eyes follow every step she takes... Every sway of her hip... Every silky swing of her hair... It just happened. It seems she s approaching Wade... but then she walks right PAST him... And stops by Marcel s side. She dabs blood off his split lip with a handkerchief and CARESSES his hair. Wade watches, his gloves grip the ring s rope tighter. CORRIDOR THUD! - another hard KNOCK -- It s Wade the one who s knocking at her door. Wade and Marcel lock eyes: Pain and loss clouds the winner s face. The loser s bloody lips flash a victorious smile.
4. I think I love him... Wade stares in disbelief as Justine and Marcel walk away together, disappearing into the shadows....like I used to love you. INT. WADE S APARTMENT - NIGHT POP! - a champagne cork goes flying. Bet you ll still win the fight, though. Wade s COACH (50s) and a couple of GROUPIES celebrate. Drinking. Smiling. Laughing. The cheerful mood contrasts with Wade s somber visage as he sits alone on a couch. You train hard. Training is all you do. That s why you never had time for me. The coach drops a small BAG on Wade s lap. That s why you ll get the money. Wade ZIPS the bag open, revealing wads of cash as... Marcel ZIPS Justine s dress open, revealing her sexy back. But he ll get the real prize. In the darkened living room, Marcel is about to KISS her lips when: WADE S APARTMENT Wade takes a SWIG from the champagne bottle - a long, angry pull. The way I see it...
5. Half-dressed, Marcel and Justine fuck hard against the wall. He thrusts -- THUD! - her back bounces against the plywood. THUD! - the REFEREE's hand STRIKES the mat. One... THUD! - her ass HITS the wall. Two... THUD! - the ref's hand STRIKES the mat again. Three... Marcel RAISES his arms - like Wade did back in the ring - so Justine lifts off his shirt. He wins. WADE S APARTMENT Now alone and passed out from the booze, Wade slips off the couch -- HITS the carpet like a sack of shit - lies there like Marcel did on the ring s mat. You lose. OVER BLACK You lose. CLICK.