O Mutha Fucka Where Art Thou?

ROLLING HILLS

From high on a ridge we see the three chained men running toward us.

In addition to their clanks we hear a distant chugging sound.

TRACKING

Laterally with the clanking, running feet.

The chugging sound is very loud.

RUNNING

Next to a freight train. A boxcar door is open.

INSIDE THE BOXCAR

The lead convict hooks an elbow in and starts hauling himself
up, his two clanking friends keeping pace outside.

Six hobos sit in the boxcar, lounging against sacks of
O’Daniel’s Flour. They impassively watch the convict clamber in as his two confederates run to keep up.

The convict hauls himself to his feet. In spite of his stubble he has carefully tended hair and a pencil mustache. He is Michael Vick.

As he dusts himself off:

VICK

Say, uh, any a you niggas smithies?

The hobos stare.

Vick gives an ingratiating smile as, behind him, the second convict starts to haul himself into the boxcar, the third convict still keeping pace outside.

VICK

Or, if not smithies per se, were you
otherwise trained in muthafuckin’ shop class
before straitened circumstances
forced you into being fuckin’ bums?

The convict running outside the boxcar door stumbles and disappears and the middle convict is yanked out immediately after. Vick, just finishing his speech, flips forward in turn, smashes his chin onto the floor and is sucked out the open doorway, his clawing fingernails leaving parallel grooves
on the boxcar floorboards.

The hobos impassively watch.

OUTSIDE

The three men tumble, clanking, down the track embankment.

Squush – they come to a rest in swampland at the bottom.

They shake their heads clear, then rise to their feet in the muck and watch the train recede.

Its fading clatter leaves the baying of hounds.

VICK
Jesus – can’t I count on you niggas?

The second con is TANK JOHNSON.

TANK

Sorry, Mike.

Vick looks desperately about.

VICK

All right – if we take off through that bayou-

The third con, Pac-Man Jones, bald but also with beard stubble, angrily cuts in.

PAC-MAN

Wait a minute! Who elected you head nigga a this muthafuckin’ outfit?

VICK

Well, nigga, I just figured it should be the one with capacity for abstract thought. But if that ain’t the muthafuckin’ consensus view, hell, let’s put her to a muthafuckin’ vote!

PAC-MAN

Word! I’m votin’ for yours truly!

VICK

Well I’m votin’ for yours truly too!

Both men look interrogatively to Tank.

He looks from Pac-Man to Vick, and nods agreeably.

TANK

Okay – I’m with you niggas.

Vick makes a sudden hushing gesture and all listen.

The baying of hounds is louder now, but through it we hear a distant scrape of metal against metal, like the workings of a rusty pump. The men turn in unison to look up the track.

A small, distant form is moving slowly up the track toward them.

As it draws closer it resolves into a human-propelled flatcar.

An ancient black man rhythmically pumps its long seesaw handle.

The three convicts look out at the swampland which begins to show movement, the bowing grass trampled by men and dogs.

The flatcar draws even and slows.

VICK

Mind if we hop on yo’ ride, ol’ timer?

OLD MAN

Join me, my sons.

The three men clamber aboard and the old man resumes pumping.

The three men exchange glances; Tank waves a clanking hand before the old man’s milky eyes. No reaction.

TANK

You work for the railroad, grandpa?

OLD MAN

I work for no man.

PAC-MAN
Got a name, old-ass muthafucka?

OLD MAN

I have no name.

VICK

Well, that right there may be why you’ve had difficulty finding gainful employment. Ya see, in the mart of competitive commerce, the-

TANK
If you ain’t got money take yo’ broke ass home!

OLD MAN

You seek a great fortune, you three who are now in chains…

PAC-MAN
Got that shit right, Uncle Ben. I needs to get me some new chains.

TANK
I could go for some of that damn rice ’bout now.

The men fall silent.

OLD MAN

And you will find a fortune – though it will not be the fortune you seek…

VICK
I just lost a muthafuckin’ fortune.
I sure as shit needs to find another.
The three convicts, faces upturned, listen raptly to the blind prophet.

OLD MAN

…But first, first you must travel a long and difficult road – a road fraught with peril, uh-huh, and pregnant with adventure. You shall see things wonderful to tell. You shall see a cow on the roof of a cottonhouse, uh-huh, and oh, so many startlements…

PAC-MAN
Mike, you ever try to get cows to fight?

VICK
Shut the fuck up, nigga.
The cloudy eyes of the old man stare sightlessly down the track as the seesaw handle rises and falls through frame.

OLD MAN

…I cannot say how long this road shall be. But fear not the obstacles in your path, for Fate has vouchsafed your reward. And though the road may wind, and yea, your hearts grow weary, still shall ye foller the way, even unto your salvation.

The old man pumps – reek-a reek-a reek-a – as all contemplate his words.

Loud and sudden:

OLD MAN

IZZAT CLEAR YOU STUPID MUTHAFUCKAS?

The men start, then mumble polite acknowledgement.
The railroad tracks wind to the setting sun. Reek-a reek-a reek-a – the flatcar rolls, in wide shot, toward the golden horizon.
FADE OUT