PAGE FIVE – 6 PANELS.
Wide panel. We are on the side of a long dirt road in the Australian outback. The sun is just setting. Two dead bikers lay dead next to their rides. A third rider, LOBO, stands next to his hands raised high in the air.
This last remaining biker, Lobo, wears a dirty pair of black jeans, leather biker boots, a vest top that may have been white a long time ago, but is now a grey mess with holes in, and a leather waistcoat over the top. A badge stitched onto the waistcoat bears the symbol of a pichfork. With his arms raised his hairy beer belly hangs out. The shit-eating grin on his faces reveals that he only has a handful of teeth left and they are rotten and yellowed.
These men were/are the Pitchfork Pricks. A biker gang so vile they make the Vikings look like the Brady Bunch.
Haha. Well hot damn son.
Close up on LOBO. He tongues a gap in between his teeth as he speaks and wipes sweat off his forehead just above his eye.
It’s a fair cop mate. Ill bloody give ya that.
I’ll come along quite like.
Still close on Lobo. He is putting a big fat cigar to his lips. Holding a zippo lighter in the other hand close to the tip as he tries to light it.
Shame you had to kill me boys. But better them than me though, hey?
Lobo’s eyes have gone wide, his mouth a gasp. The cigar and zippo fall away.
Full body shot of Lobo. He clutches at his stomach trying to hold his guts in as blood pours from the shotgun wound in his torso.
Reveal of KILLEROO. He rests his shotgun like so on his shoulder. A small smile plays across his face.
Seems you pissed off the wrong people Lobo.
Bounty’s tripled if I bring you in dead.