HOTDOGS FROM RIZZO’S

lights cigarette w/one he’s just finished. chain smoking marlboros again. keeps the foil out the packs for chasing dragons. picks up receiver. feeds coin in slot. coin drops. touches finger to bridge of his mirror aviators and punches in number. hears ringtone other end of line. amidst a city of millions beneath skyfull of stars, a big sense of nothing upon the somnambulant masses. streets lit up in neon. traffic noise resounds. music emanates from bars. every time frank k. winkle blinks his eyes he’s having millisecond long 100 mile an hour amphetamine-charged dreams speeding throo his mind.

split screen.

spinks picks up (chewing gum).

winkle - i’m at rizzo’s place. i got money. they got hotdogs. you want me to bring hotdogs?

spinks - no shit?

winkle - no shit.

spinks - rizzo’s hotdogs pretty bad but a man’s got to eat, you know whatta mean?

winkle - i know what you mean.

spinks - that shit ain’t even real, they make that shit out a some sort a synthetic crap. you got to be careful, man. you eat too much a that soya meat shit or whatever the fuck it is, next thing you know you got bigger tits than wendy fucking whoppers.

winkle - you want me to bring some a these hotdogs or not?

spinks - yeah, i want hotdogs. but you got to drown em in an assload a mustard and ketchup to tek away the taste, so put on plenty a mustard and ketchup, and whack a shit ton a them unyuns on while you’re at it an’all.

winkle (lowering voice into receiver) - you want a see this rizzo’s guy watching me like a fucking hawk from under his little rizzo’s red cap. thinks i’m gunna nick summat, i think.

spinks (laughing) - how many times i gotta tell you, kid? that’s becuz you look like a dirty fucking hippy.

sweeping panoramic views of city.

in back alleys kids smacked up on psychotropic pills hotwire cars. news comes over winkle’s car radio: girl got raped in cannon hill park. kid 15 years old walked into barber shop in lozells w/glock 9mm in hand, shot two people dead for no reason anyone can see at all. over eastside aborted body of still-born found dumped down storm drain.

just violence all the time.

winkle twists screwdriver in ignition. key broke off inside. lets off handbrake. edges £80 shitbox back onto highway. blood coloured rain in current of red car tail lights shifting along inner city ring road. amped up. 3 grams of crystal coursing through frank k. winkle’s veins. 56 hours w/out sleep, chemically induced psychosis setting in. stars shining between dark clouds over high towers of palpitating city. traffic lights alternate along belgrave middleway.

frank k. winkle is 28 years old. not married. no girlfriend. no job. an only child. parents killed in car crash when he was 5 years old. sumtimes he thinks about how disconnected from the world he is and how there’s nobody in this world to understand how he’s really feeling. he’s most at peace just drinking alone, watching television. sometimes the movies make him cry. perhaps a vestige of something remaining within.

fade to black.