This was wriiten for my degree [one of the assignments in script writing] at Birkbeck University last year.
THE MISFITS
El PECULIAR
DEBT AND DECEPTION
CRIME/COMEDY/SCREENPLAY
BY THOMAS KENNEDY
ACT 1
FADE IN.
INT. EAST END WAREHOUSE - NIGHT
A grimy warehouse in London’s East End, lit by a flickering bulb. Graffiti scars the walls. Two HENCHMEN, burly and silent, drag in a MAN (30s), hands zip-tied, face pale, sweat beading. His trousers are stained dark—fear’s mark. He mutters “Mummy” in a cracked whisper, eyes darting. HECTOR PECULIAR (50), a Colombian gangster in a tailored white suit with a faint coffee stain, leans against a crate, smirking. His electric blue eyes cut like glass.
HECTOR
(taunting, accented but sharp)
Loose ends, amigo? I hate ‘em. Messy, like your pants. You think you can rip Hector Peculiar for £200? I send you to hell to cry for your mama.
He snaps his fingers—crisp, deliberate. A HENCHMAN raises a pistol—BANG! The shot echoes, deafening. The MAN flinches, a sob choking out, but he’s unharmed. Blanks. Near crates, JOSE (25), a wiry rent-boy in a tight silk shirt with a cigarette burn, sips cheap wine from a plastic cup and snorts, nearly choking.
JOSE
(grinning, nervous)
Squealing like a pig for his mummy—priceless, Master! All this for £200? I nearly lost my wine.
HECTOR
£200 is principle, Jose. Nobody cheats me. Sends a message: cross Hector, you beg for mercy. No cuts, no blood—yet. Just fear.
He rips off the MAN’s blindfold—a dirty rag—and shoves it into his mouth, muffling a yelp. The MAN trembles, eyes wild. Hector claps his cheek, chuckling.
HECTOR
(to Henchmen)
Let him tremble some more. Drop him in Hackney at dawn—alive,he shit his pants.
Hector and Jose saunter out, boots scuffing concrete. Jose trips over a crate, cursing softly. The MAN slumps, broken but breathing.
CUT TO
INT. HECTOR’S PENTHOUSE - NIGHT
Rain streaks floor-to-ceiling windows, London’s neon sprawl glinting below. Hector stands, whisky glass in hand, ice clinking. Jose lounges on a silk couch, flicking a cheap lighter, martini half-spilled. His eyes, sharp despite his slouch, track Hector.
HECTOR
(staring at the city)
They sneer at me, Jose. Think I’m just a foreigner with a funny voice. But I see them—bottom feeders, scrabbling for my scraps. Power ain’t their fancy suits or big words. It’s this.
He taps his temple, smirking.
JOSE
(nodding eagerly)
Truth, Master. You got the best product, straight from Colombia. They got nothing but debts and bad habits.
HECTOR
Exactly. Power’s knowing who to scare, who to break. When to smile, when to push ‘em off a roof. My customers? They sniff my gear, laugh at my jokes, then try to steal from me. I walk in, they freeze. That’s real.
Jose’s lighter singes his sleeve. He yelps, patting it out. Hector laughs, dark and low.
HECTOR
You’d stick a knife in me for a bottle, wouldn’t you, amigo? Right between the ribs.
JOSE
(protesting)
Never, Master! I’m loyal—swear it!
HECTOR
(grinning)
Loyal? You stay ‘cause I own you. No money, no home, no nowhere to run. You hate the chain, but you love the leash.
Jose drops his gaze, lighter clicking nervously. Hector drains his whisky, pouring another.
HECTOR
(sudden, sharp)
Enough talk. Bed, now—smooth sheets, not your sloppy shit. Sleep at the foot, keep my toes warm. Wear those silk boxers from Harrods—don’t fall asleep your master is horny. And Rodriguez? He’s got a job tomorrow. Better not screw it.
JOSE
(simpering)
Rodriguez’ll deliver, Master. I’ll make your bed perfect—ready for you.I will be biting the pillow in anticipation.
He scurries off, knocking a lamp. Hector smirks at the city, sipping slowly.
CUT TO:
INT. RODRIGUEZ’S FLAT - DAY
RODRIGUEZ (late 30s), a scruffy Brazilian with a beer gut, slumps on a stained couch in a cluttered flat. A gay porno flickers on a cracked TV, volume low. He rewinds, chuckling, until—BANG! BANG!—the door rattles, dust falling.
RODRIGUEZ
(muttering)
Shit, I no can watch in peace?
He yanks up his trousers, stumbles to the door, and peers through the peephole. HECTOR looms, unlit cigar in his lips, fists clenched. Rodriguez sighs, opening the door.
HECTOR
( shoving past)
Where’s my money, Rodriguez? You think I’m playing? Jerking off while I wait for my fifty grand? I’ll feed your balls to my dogs!
RODRIGUEZ
(stammering)
Boss, I—I got a lead. This Irish guy, Sean, he’s got your kilo money, but—
HECTOR
(cutting him off)
No buts, amigo! Sean owes me fifty grand for my product. You get it, or I ship you back to Brazil in a box. You’re my runner, not my problem.
RODRIGUEZ
He’s tricky, Boss. Always drunk, got this woman with him—Sadie. Too many eyes.
HECTOR
(snorting)
Sadie? That slut? I don’t care if he’s got the Queen watching. Find him, get my money. Deadline’s tomorrow, or you’re fish food in the Thames.
RODRIGUEZ
Why me, Boss? You got guys for this!
HECTOR
My guys are busy. You’re cheap and desperate—perfect. Fuck this up—
He slices a finger across his throat, grinning.
HECTOR
Clean this pigsty. Smells like your dick died here. Money by tomorrow, or you’re a wax figure in Madame Tussaud's.
Hector storms out, cigar dropping. Rodriguez slams the door, grabs a beer, chugs it, and crushes the can. He stares at the tv, the porno still looping.
RODRIGUEZ
(to himself)
Kebab shop. Should’ve done it years ago. No guns, no Hector.
CUT TO:
INT. RODRIGUEZ’S FLAT - KITCHEN - NIGHT
Rodriguez digs through a drawer—keys, a stale cigarette, a crumpled note: Sean—Knightsbridge Casino, nights. He pockets it, tossing the cigarette into a sink of greasy plates.
RODRIGUEZ
(muttering)
Better be there, Irish bastard, or I’m done.
He grabs a jacket—curry-stained, reeking—and slaps on Old Spice, wincing at the sting. He kicks a chair, heading out.
EXT. LONDON STREET - DAY
Rain spits on East End streets—kebab shops, pawn shops, flickering neon. Rodriguez trudges past a BUSKER (50s), an ex-army vet with one arm, strumming a guitar off-key. Rodriguez tosses a lint covered brass button; it lands in the Busker’s cap.
RODRIGUEZ
Play something lucky, amigo. I need it.
The BUSKER nods, switching to a brighter tune. Rodriguez smirks, moving on.
ACT 2
INT. KNIGHTSBRIDGE CASINO - NIGHT
A haze of lights and clinking chips. Rodriguez enters, jacket reeking, scanning the crowd. He spots SEAN O’BRIEN (late 30s, 6’3”, broad, loud), laughing at the roulette wheel, pint in hand. SADIE (30), a sharp Scouse prostitute in a red mini skirt, sips champagne beside him, green eyes flicking over the room. Rodriguez approaches, tense.
RODRIGUEZ
Sean O’Brien?
SEAN
(grinning)
Who’s this? You smell like a whore house, mate.
RODRIGUEZ
Rodriguez. Hector’s man. Fifty grand, now, or you deal with him.
SEAN
Hector’s lapdog, eh? Back in Brazil, you’d be scrubbing my shoes. Tell your boss I’ll pay when I’m ready.
RODRIGUEZ
He don’t wait. Where’s the money—drunk it already?
SADIE
(through a smirk)
Sean’s good for it, la. Always pays—eventually.
She accidentally tips her champagne onto Rodriguez’s chest. He flinches, patting it down.
SADIE
Oops, clumsy me. Looks better wet, soft lad.
RODRIGUEZ
(angry)
Watch it, bitch!
SEAN
C’mon, Sadie—: Let’s split before he cries to Hector.
Sean grabs a wad of cash from the table. Sadie’s eyes narrow, suspicious. They slip into the crowd. Rodriguez swears, shoving after them.
EXT. KNIGHTSBRIDGE CASINO - ALLEY - NIGHT
Rodriguez corners them in a damp alley, panting, jacket dripping.
RODRIGUEZ
No running. Cash now, or Hector’s not chatting.
SEAN
(laughing)
You gonna drag me, shorty? Money’s in the casino safe. Give me a sec—I’ll get it.
A black BMW screeches up. KILLA (40s), lean and lethal, steps out with THREE YARDIES, one chewing gum loudly.
KILLA
(in Patois)
Sean O’Brien. You owe me thirty grand from Brixton, bredda. Pay, or bleed.
SEAN
Killa, I was just—
KILLA
(pointing at Rodriguez)
Who dis pussyhole? Look like he’s drowning in sweat.
RODRIGUEZ
(lying)
Hector’s man, Crazy loco! Back off!
He grabs a bin lid and slams it—BANG!—echoing. The Yardies pause, hands on knives.
SEAN
(whispering)
Now, Sadie—go!
Sean and Sadie dart past a YARDIE, who fumbles. Killa yells.
KILLA
You nah escape, Sean!
Rodriguez swings the lid—CLANG!—hitting a YARDIE’s shin. He bolts the other way as the Yardies split, one chasing him.
EXT. QUIET STREET - NIGHT
Rodriguez ducks into shadows, bin lid clattering. Yardie shouts fade. He dials Hector, hands shaking.
RODRIGUEZ
Boss, I found Sean, but Killa’s crew—
HECTOR
(on phone)
No excuses! Six hours, or you’re dead.
The line cuts. Rodriguez kicks the lid—BANG!—then remembers a casino tip: Sean’s at the Sloan Square Hotel when flush.
RODRIGUEZ
Sloan Square. Better be right.
He trudges off, rain soaking him.
INT. SLOAN SQUARE HOTEL - BAR - NIGHT
Sean and Sadie sip gin at a polished bar, chuckling. Sean’s tipsy; Sadie’s heels tap.
SADIE
Sean, that Brazilian’s on you. Where’s my cut from the tables?
SEAN
He’s a mug. Hector’s the problem. Your cut’s coming— then maybe we head to Brighton.
SADIE
And Killa? He ain’t joking, la.
SEAN
Money’s safe. Just gotta grab it.
Rodriguez bursts in. Sean groans.
SEAN
Christ, Roddy! What now?
RODRIGUEZ
Money, or Hector kills us. Five hours!
SADIE
He’s skint, soft lad. Spent it on booze.
SEAN
It’s in the casino safe—couldn’t grab it with you tailing me. Killa spooked me.
RODRIGUEZ
Bullshit! You ran from the safe!
SEAN
Had to lose you. Swear it’s there—fifty grand.
SADIE
Kill him, and you get nothing. He’s too thick to lie well.
Rodriguez hesitates.
RODRIGUEZ
Fine. Back to the casino. No tricks.
They head out.
EXT. STREET - NIGHT
They wave down a cab. Killa’s BMW rolls up, weapons glinting.
KILLA
Sean, you little battyman! You nah slip me!
SEAN
Taxi, now!
Rodriguez dives for the cab, but Sean shoves him out, slamming the door. Killa fires—BANG!—pinging the bumper. The cab screeches off.
DRIVER
What is this, a gangster flick?
SEAN
(shouting)
Good luck, Roddy!
Rodriguez ducks into an alley, fuming.
EXT. ALLEYWAY - NIGHT
Rodriguez trips over a bin—lids crash. A YARDIE’s boots close in. He flattens against a wall as the YARDIE slips on rubbish, cursing. Rodriguez exhales.
RODRIGUEZ
Sean, you bastard.
He heads to the casino.
INT. KNIGHTSBRIDGE CASINO - NIGHT
Rodriguez spots Sadie at a slot machine, sipping champagne. Sean’s gone.
RODRIGUEZ
Where’s your man?
SADIE
Ditched me, la. Said good luck—slipped out back.
RODRIGUEZ
This ain’t a game! Hector’ll kill us!
SADIE
Sean’s got the safe key. Left me high and dry. I’m done with him.
His phone buzzes—Hector.
HECTOR
(on phone)
Where’s my money, idiot?
RODRIGUEZ
Sean’s got it—vanished.
HECTOR
Five hours, or you’re Thames bait.
Click. Rodriguez slumps.
INT. CASINO BAR - NIGHT
Rodriguez downs a lager. Sadie slides in.
RODRIGUEZ
Still here?
SADIE
Sean nicked my cut. I know where he’s at—Limehouse docks, midnight. I’ll help, for five grand from Hector.
RODRIGUEZ
Deal. Let’s go—before Killa shows.
INT. LIMEHOUSE DOCK WAREHOUSE - NIGHT
Rodriguez and Sadie creep behind barrels. Sean haggles with TWO MEN in leather jackets, handing over cash for a briefcase.
SEAN
This better be good—Hector’s fifty grand’s gotta stretch.
He opens it—a taped package inside.
SEAN
Mick’ll pay big for this. Keeps me alive.
MAN 1
Pure, mate. Done.
BANG! Killa storms in with THREE YARDIES, guns drawn.
KILLA
Sean O’Brien! Where my money, bredda. And who dem fools?
He jabs his gun toward MAN 1 and MAN 2. They stammer, hands up.
MAN 1
We’re just—business, mate! No trouble!
KILLA
(SNARLING)
Business? Run, or I paint dis place red!
He fires a shot—BANG!—into the ceiling. Dust rains down. MAN 1 and MAN 2 bolt, scrambling over crates, their footsteps echoing as they vanish into the dark. The briefcase teeters on the crate, cash spilling.
SEAN
(backing up)
Killa, I was just—
KILLA
Shut it! You nah slip me again.
RODRIGUEZ
(whispering)
Your plan, Sadie?
SADIE
Didn’t plan Killa, la. Improvise.
Killa snatches the briefcase, eyeing the package.
KILLA
This cover my thirty grand, bredda?
Sadie hurls a wrench—CRASH!—crates collapse, pinning TWO YARDIES. Rodriguez swings a crowbar—CLANG!—knocking a gun away. Killa fires—BANG!—dust falls. Rodriguez clocks Killa’s temple—THWACK!—dazing him.
RODRIGUEZ
(shocked)
Shit, I did it!
SEAN
(grabbing the briefcase)
Run, you lunatics!
They sprint, a bullet—BANG!—ricocheting off a pipe, steam hissing.
EXT. LIMEHOUSE DOCKS - NIGHT
They pile into a rusty van, keys dangling. Sean floors it as Yardies fire.
SEAN
You two saved my arse!
RODRIGUEZ
This ain’t over, amigo.
SADIE
Drive, la!
Hector’s Mercedes idles nearby, watching.
RODRIGUEZ
Hector’s here. He don’t trust us.
EXT. BERMONDSEY STREET - NIGHT
The van sputters, dead. Rodriguez yanks Sean out.
RODRIGUEZ
Open the case!
Sean reveals £50,000 and the package.
RODRIGUEZ
This goes to Hector—four hours left.
SEAN
Cash is his. Package is for Mick—my bonus.
Hector’s GUNMEN block the alley. Sadie flirts.
SADIE
Alright, lads?
Sean slips away with the package. Hector steps out.
HECTOR
Rodriguez, you test me.
Rodriguez hands over the £50,000.
RODRIGUEZ
Sean’s debt, Boss.
HECTOR
Good work, amigo.
SADIE
My five grand, la?
HECTOR
Who’s this?
RODRIGUEZ
She helped, Boss.
Hector tosses her a wad. Killa staggers up.
KILLA
Sean owe me thirty grand!
HECTOR
(to Rodriguez)
Killa wants Sean. I got my money—your call.
Hector fires a warning shot—BANG!—and leaves. Rodriguez grabs Sadie, bolting.
SADIE
Slow down, la—heels!
RODRIGUEZ
Ditch them!
EXT. DODGY LONDON STREET - NIGHT
They reach a Vauxhall Astra. Rodriguez hotwires it.
RODRIGUEZ
We find Sean—Killa’s hunting.
SADIE
Or hospital when Killa catches us. Drive.
INT. VAUXHALL ASTRA - NIGHT
Rodriguez drives, Sadie smoking. The radio plays “Hey Big Spender”—he smacks it off.
SADIE
Where’s Sean?
RODRIGUEZ
You know him best—where’s he hide?
SADIE
The Flea Pit, Bermondsey. Mick’s pub. Selling that package I bet.
RODRIGUEZ
We go—or Killa kills us.
The car breaks down, steaming.
RODRIGUEZ
British junk!
EXT. LONDON STREET - NIGHT
They ditch the car as a bus approaches. Rodriguez flags it.
INT. DOUBLE-DECKER BUS - NIGHT
They slump upstairs, soaked. A PENSIONER glares.
PENSIONER
Trouble, you two.
RODRIGUEZ
Mind your own, old man.
SADIE
Easy, la—he’ll call the cops.
INT. THE FLEA PIT PUB - NIGHT
A dingy pub, smoky and loud. Sean haggles with MICK (50s), briefcase open.
SEAN
Forty grand, Mick—pure gear. Keeps Killa off me.
MICK
Hector’s stuff? You’re dead. Twenty.
SEAN
Hector’s paid. Forty, or I go to the Albanian.
Rodriguez and Sadie burst in.
RODRIGUEZ
You slimy bastard!
SEAN
Roddy! Pint?
Rodriguez grabs Sean’s collar.
RODRIGUEZ
Where’s the package? Killa’s coming!
SEAN
Right here—my ticket out.
SADIE
(to Mick)
Worth a lot. Move it fast.
MICK
Twenty, or piss off.
SEAN
Forty.
RODRIGUEZ
Killa wants thirty—we’re screwed!
SADIE
(to Sean)
Mark it—buy time.
She scrawls “£40,000” on the package.
RODRIGUEZ
Or we’re dead.
MICK
Get out, all of you.
EXT. THE FLEA PIT PUB - NIGHT
They step out. Killa’s BMW screeches up.
KILLA
My thirty grand, Sean!
SEAN
Got something better than cash!
Killa tastes the package, spitting.
KILLA
Baking powder? You dead, bredda!
Rodriguez tackles Killa—BANG!—a shot shatters glass. Sadie kicks a YARDIE. They flee.
EXT. BERMONDSEY ALLEY - NIGHT
They hide behind a skip, Killa’s crew gone.
RODRIGUEZ
Baking powder? You idiot!
SEAN
Dock bastards scammed me!
SADIE
Killa won’t let thirty grand go.
RODRIGUEZ
Hector’s paid. We’re clear of him.
SEAN
We split—lay low.
They part—Sean to the river, Sadie to a cab, Rodriguez alone.
EXT. H Hector’s PENTHOUSE - NIGHT
Hector counts £50,000, sipping whisky. Rodriguez stumbles in.
HECTOR
You pulled it off, amigo.
RODRIGUEZ
Sean’s debt, Boss.
HECTOR
Killa’s problem now?
RODRIGUEZ
After Sean—package was fake.
HECTOR
Not my circus. You’re lucky.
RODRIGUEZ
N (to himself)
Kebabs. Clean life.
ACT 3
EXT. LIMEHOUSE DOCKS - DAWN
Sean leans against a bollard, fag out, staring at the Thames. A gull cries. He spits.
SEAN
(to himself)
Baking powder. Never again. Next score’s mine.
A shadow moves—Killa? Sean tenses, hand on a knife, then relaxes.
SEAN
Bring it, mate.
EXT. HEATHROW TERMINAL - MORNING
Sadie struts through, five grand in a pink purse. She slaps cash on the counter.
SADIE
One-way, somewhere hot.
The CLERK nods. Sadie smirks, imagining Sean’s face.
SADIE
(to herself)
Ibiza, baby. London’s done.
EXT. QUIET STREET - MORNING
Rodriguez stands in a kebab shop, handing twenty grand to a TURK OWNER.
RODRIGUEZ
Shop’s mine, amigo.
TURK OWNER
Yes I am happy. Good luck my friend I retire back to my beloved Turkey.
Rodriguez takes a greasy apron, grinning.
RODRIGUEZ
(to himself)
No Hector, no guns. Just meat.
EXT. HECTOR’S PENTHOUSE - ROOFTOP - MORNING
Hector sips whisky, city gold below. Jose, in silk boxers, offers a sandwich.
JOSE
Master, your sandwich.
HECTOR
(spitting it out)
Poison? you try to kill me slave.
JOSE
(smiling thinly)
You’ll miss me, Master.
HECTOR
(laughing)
Miss you? I’ll bury you first.
HECTOR
(to himself)
Rodriguez, Sadie, Sean—they run, but I’m king. Always.
A plane cuts the sky. Hector smirks, glass glinting.
EXT. KEBAB SHOP - NIGHT
“Rodriguez’s Kebabs” flickers in neon. Rodriguez slices lamb, sweaty. A DRUNK PUNTER (20s) sways, sauce on his chin.
DRUNK PUNTER
More chili, mate—don’t skimp.
RODRIGUEZ
(grinning)
Burn your face off, amigo.
A MOTORBIKE roars past—Rodriguez flinches, nicking his finger. He wraps it, glancing out. A SHADOWY FIGURE lights a fag across the street. Rodriguez shakes it off, handing over the kebab.
RODRIGUEZ
(to himself)
Just meat. No trouble.
He pulls a photo—younger Rodriguez, Rio beach bar. He smiles, wiping the counter.
CUT TO:
EXT. IBIZA BEACH BAR - NIGHT
Sadie sips a cocktail, purse stuffed with euros. A SLEAZY PROMOTER (30s) slides in.
SLEAZY PROMOTER
New girl, sí? VIP parties—big money.
SADIE
(scoffing)
I run my own show, la. Try someone else.
She flicks her straw, splashing him. He retreats. Sadie scans the crowd, eyes sharp.
SADIE
(to herself)
Ten grand by Christmas. This is my game.
She beckons a YOUNG HUSTLER (20s), slipping him cash.
SADIE
Know any big players? Real gear.
YOUNG HUSTLER
Costs more.
SADIE
Talk, or I’ll make you cry, la.
He whispers names. Sadie nods, raising her glass.
CUT TO:
EXT. LIMEHOUSE DOCKS - NIGHT
Sean hides behind a container, breath fogging. KILLA emerges, pistol out, TWO YARDIES behind.
KILLA
Baking powder, Sean? Thirty grand, or you float.
SEAN
(grinning)
Dock scam wasn’t me! Albanians—fifty grand’s worth. Split it?
KILLA
(sneering)
Albanians laugh at you. Show me something.
Sean tosses a £5,000 casino chip.
SEAN
All I got. Square for now?
KILLA
(pocketing it)
One week, bredda. Then I carve you.
A YARDIE punches Sean’s gut—OOF! They vanish. Sean gasps, eyes hard.
SEAN
(to himself)
Albanians better deliver.
He limps off, docks silent but alive.
CUT TO:
INT. HECTOR’S PENTHOUSE - NIGHT
Hector stands by the window, whisky glowing. Jose polishes a tray, trembling. The £50,000 briefcase sits open.
HECTOR
(smirking)
I have spies everywhere, Rodriguez thinks kebabs save him. Sadie thinks Ibiza’s safe. Sean thinks he’s clever. Fools. This city’s mine.
JOSE
(nervous)
You’re the king, Master.
Hector grabs Jose’s chin.
HECTOR
I see you, slave. Counting my cash? Try it—I’ll gut you.
JOSE
(stammering)
Never, Master!
Hector laughs, shoving him. He dials a phone.
HECTOR
(into phone)
Watch Rodriguez’s shop—any tricks, torch it. Find Sadie in Ibiza—shake her. Sean? Let Killa hunt, but he lives till I say.
He hangs, tossing the phone on the cash. The city hums below.
HECTOR
(to himself)
Run, hide, dream. Hector wins.
The wind howls. Jose cowers. Hector sips, untouchable.
FADE OUT.
THE END