Can't FEMA face

Ripped from today's headlines!

[A seedy motel in northwest Texas. Early morning light can be seen peeping at the edges of drawn window curtains. The door rattles.]

VOICE OFF: Could you fellers just show me a badge or somethin’, because it somethin’ goes wrong —

ANOTHER VOICE: Just shut your mouth, old man.

[The door opens. The light shows FEMA Director DAVID RICHARDSON lying on the bed, naked except for his old Marine dog tags. TWO GOONS in ICE tactical gear, sunglasses and necks gaiters pulled up past their noses step into the room.]

GOON 1: That’s him.

GOON 2: Hit the lights.

[GOON 1 hits the lights. The room is in extreme disarray — liquor bottles, crack pipes, plastic bag with coke residue, men’s and women’s clothing. There is a dresser visible with THANX FOR THE WALLET BITCH scrawled in lipstick on the mirror.]

GOON 1: Hoo-whee, some party.

GOON 2: Yeah.

[GOON 2 shuts the door. They both pull down their gaiters. They sniff.]

GOON 1: Goddamn!

GOON 2: Some freaky shit went down here, tell you what.

GOON 1: C’mon.

[The GOONS step over to RICHARDSON.]

Sir? Sir? [He jostles RICHARDSON] Director Richardson!

RICHARDSON: [Mutters]

Sir, they need you at the flood zone, right away.

[RICHARDSON looks up, grabs some of the blanket he’s lying on, wraps it around him.]

RICHARDSON: The fuck’s this. Who are you jokers?

GOON 1: Homeland Security, sir, we’re to escort you to a photo opportunity for the Federal Emergency Management Service, stat.

RICHARDSON: Bullshit. I’m FEMA. I’m in charge and I say I’m going back to sleep.

GOON 1: Not how it works, sir.

RICHARDSON: Where’s Mayleen?

GOON 2: There’s no Mayleen here, sir.

[RICHARDSON sees the mirror, sits upright.]

RICHARDSON: Goddamn son of a bitch! My wallet!

[He gets out of bed, still wearing the blanket, makes for the door. GOON 1 steps in front of it.]

GOON 1: Your wallet will have to wait, sir. Our orders are to —

RICHARDSON: Orders! I give the orders! I’m FEMA!

GOON 1: Sir, DHS Secretary Noem says it’s been over a week and we need pictures of you at central command stat.

RICHARDSON: Just Photoshop me in, what the fuck, everyone’s drowned already, what am I gonna do, bring ‘em back from the dead?

GOON 1: Sorry, sir, the plan is set and we are here to effect the mission.

RICHARDSON: Now you cracker rent-a-cops listen to me. I got two grand and some percs in that goddamn wallet and there’s only two places that bitch can be at — jail or Lester’s! Now back off!

[RICHARDSON claws at GOON 1 but, enfeebled by drugs and sleep deprivation, cannot budge him; also loses his towel. GOON 2 pulls RICHARDSON back into the room.]

GOON 1: Let’s get you dressed, sir. The press team is waiting.

GOON 2: [Pulls a pair of jeans and a couple of filmy shirts off the floor.] Are these yours, sir?

[RICHARDSON grabs them. GOON 2 takes out a bottle of sanitizer and rubs it on his hands.]

RICHARDSON: Alright, I’m comin’. Tell Kristi she owes me a hand job, at least.

[He starts pulling on the shirts.]

GOON 2: [Quietly, to GOON 1] Hey. I think he needs a shower. I ain’t ridin’ in the car with this.

GOON 1: [Quietly] Roger. [To RICHARDSON] Sir, you need a quick wash before we go.

RICHARDSON: Alright.

[He heads toward the bathroom door. GOON 1 stops him.]

GOON 1: Has to be where we can see you.

GOON 2: That’s right, sir. Bathroom has a big ol’ winder.

RICHARDSON: Fuck you!

[RICHARDSON struggles with them some more.]

GOON 2: There’s a pool out front.

[They wrestle RICHARDSON to the door,]

GOON 1: Alright, sir, we’re goin’ for a swim.

[GOON 2 opens the front door.]

RICHARDSON: Fuck you!

[The GOONS hustle RICHARDSON out the door.]

Scene Two

[Some kind of impromptu situation room with a gigantic Texas flag and a map of the county. Several men in casual clothes, some in police uniforms, and a few cameramen give a wide berth to RICHARDSON, wearing the clothes from the motel, scowling and looking very shaggy, strutting around. SOME GUY in a polo shirt and chinos comes up to him.]

SOME GUY: Sir, you don’t have to say anything, just look like you’re assessing the situation.

RICHARDSON: ‘Course I’m assessing the situation, you fucking idiot, I’m the director of FEMA. Lemme look at this map.

[RICHARDSON stands in front of it, arms crossed.]

Where’d them little girls get killed?

[Someone points to a spot on the map. He puts his hands on his hips, and crosses them again.]

Hmmm. I see. Hmmm.

[He keeps looking at the map, scowling.]

Listen, there’s no sound recording going on, right?

SOME GUY: No, sir.

RICHARDSON: OK, then you tell those two guys who gave me that crank I’ll make it worth their while if they can get me some more, alright?

SOME GUY: Crank, sir?

RICHARDSON: Yeah, wouldn’t be standing upright if it weren’t for them.

SOME GUY: What guys, sir?

RICHARDSON: The ICE guys. Where are they?

SOME GUY: They’re relieved, sir. Left a few minutes ago.

RICHARDSON: Shit! Well, can you get ‘em on the radio?

SOME GUY: I don’t know how to reach ‘em, sir. They’re day laborers, mostly drifters, they just show up in the morning and we put uniforms on ‘em. Maybe tomorrow?

[RICHARDSON swaggers around, looking serious – louder:]

Alright, listen up, any of you men have any crank, meth, amphetamine or drugs of that nature? This is urgent. All responses will be confidential.

[RICHARDSON stalks the room. Cameras click. No one speaks up.]

I think we have the situation in hand. [To SOME GUY] Get someone to drive me to the Marriott. Also stop by the drugstore part of town if you know what I mean.

SOME GUY: I’m not sure I follow, sir.

RICHARDSON: [Growls] The next flood better be somewhere cool.