First draft is done... thank-you, thank-you.
Inspired by awesome 80's Action flicks, I present to you:
A disgraced former motocross champion becomes a weapon on two-wheels trying to save the girl he loves from a sadistic band of murderous road warriors!
Here we go...
EXT. MOUNTAIN HIGHWAY - NIGHT
Dead strip of road shot with snow.
A Lone Wolf breaks from its cover -- wild, majestic. Its ears prick. Something in the distance. Approaching.
A Snowmobile rips around the bend, its RIDER leaning into the road, full-fucking-throttle.
The Wolf escapes under a curtain of pines AS...
SNOW SPLASHES the black, soulless windshield of a running hot 1968 Olds, 442 Police Interceptor, in pursuit.
EXT. INTERCEPTOR - SAME
The Interceptor skids dangerously close to the precipice of a ditch. Its tires rabid with rage. Its cherries going nuts.
The front tires catch a patch of asphalt and sling-shot the Interceptor up the ass-end of the snowmobile. The bumper nips at the snowmobile’s track. Licking, teasing its prey.
EXT. MOUNTAIN SLOPE - NIGHT
BOULDER-SIZED CHUNKS OF SNOW EXPLODE as the snowmobile blasts off a cliff, the track WHIZZING through the air...
A hundred feet down, the machine lands hard, bottoms-out. Stalls.
EXT. MOUNTAIN HIGHWAY - SAME
The Interceptor RAMS into a bank of snow, nails a sign that reads BEARTOOTH PASS, and CRASHES into a buried guard rail. Its lights go dim.
The Rider is givin’r on the pull cord, looking nervously up as smoke rises from beyond the distant, blasted-out snow bank.
The Interceptor wakes. Its headlights sear the white snow.
It rumbles. Reverses. Its tires spinning, tail pipe bellowing. The bumper locked under the goddamn guard rail!
The Rider reefs on the pull cord and the snowmobile ROARS back to life. The Rider jumps on the seat, opens-up the throttle, and whips up a fresh tail of pow...
A few hundred feet below, the highway returns.
The Interceptor bucks violently. Tires SQUAWKING. Its bumper, pulling painfully loose, rattles to the ground and the Interceptor clamors over it -- a thick cloud of vapor left in its wake.
The chase is back on.
The Rider ducks behind the snowmobile’s shield and races between trees, over exposed boulders. But he’s going fast... too fast.
The Interceptor howls around the bend. Its cherries lit up, flashing between the pines.
The Rider is punished by relentless bumps -- almost launches ass over ears -- but across the highway’s gap he SEES the perfect getaway: a mountain trail!
Over the lip and through the air, the snowmobile launches into the path of...
The Rider’s gobbled up by the monster’s grill, the snowmobile's chewed up and spit out from the last of the transport’s eighteen, deadly wheels.
The Rider’s helmet wobbles to a stop. The visor POPS open to reveal his decapitated head inside... Blink-Blink!
The Interceptor splits the helmet like a bloody egg.
The white, searing light of an afternoon Sun.
A bird’s CAW.
It’s a glorious American Eagle, soaring. And shitting...
EXT. MOUNTAIN HIGHWAY - SUMMER - DAY
On the windshield of a passing SUV towing 2 kick-ass fucking Dirt Bikes and one tricked-out motherfucking ATV.
Ewww... that’s sick.
I'd appreciate your comments. Later.
Jane Austen's FIGHT CLUB
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