Blackthorne Episode 117

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 117

.50 Caliber

“A .50 caliber bullet can knock down an elephant,

and it can tear your arms or head off.”

--Ernest Hemingway

1(overhead crane wide shot.) Buck and the Indian

were on the floor. Buck was almost to the low 

walled cubicle. The Indian crouched behind an over-

turned table by the door. He commanded a good view

of the room.

2(sound cue) saxophone and banjo.

3(cut to medium close-up) Thor was on his knees

behind the bar. He was wild-eyed and short of breath.

His bloody .38 was in his left hand. His right hand was

wrapped in a blue bandana.

4(medium close-up) Buck was reloading his sawed off 

shotgun, patting  the row of green & red shotgun shells

that marched across his chest.

Wait a goddamn minute! cried out a thin voice from the

green sea of overturned tables.

5( voice over ) Buck: Wait for what?

I’m the banker’s nephew. Christ, there are a lot of

innocent people in this room. You bastards quit your

blasting long enough for some of us to get the hell

out of here.

Buck: My advice is to keep your heads down.

NO, nooo...I’m getting out! the voice wailed, as a slight

man in a black derby and a gray vest jumped up from

the right side of the room and began running for the

door. A dozen heads and guns bobbed up to watch.

   Thor started the dance, standing up and firing his

Colt, and the slug ripped a hole in the table top near

Buck’s head. Thor got off another shot, his .38 barking

from across the room. Buck answered with the

Thunderer, firing twice just as the banker’s nephew

entered their line of fire. Thor’s bullet passed through

the man’s left leg, and he skidded forward onto the

beer-soaked floor. 

6(sound cue) blues slide on guitar over harmonica.

7(medium wide-shot) One of Buck’s shots shattered 

the huge mirror behind Thor, showering the gunman 

with glass shards, and the other caught Thor in

the shoulder, spinning him off balance. He slipped

and fell, first against the wall, breaking a shelf, as

fifty shot glasses and two dozen dun brown bottles

of rotgut started their descent, as he dropped out of

sight, following all those glass corn flakes to the floor.

   The wounded man squirmed along the floor, and as

he reached the door, a couple of men pulled him out

from beneath the swinging doors. 

8(medium close-up) Buck reached the guard’s cubicle.

He pushed the dead man aside, holstered his sawed 

off, and picked up the dead man’s pump shotgun. 

9( medium wide shot) One of the shooters upstairs 

behind the broken railing, made a rush for the safety of 

one of the rooms. The Indian nailed him before he got 

half-way, slamming a rifle slug between his shoulders. 

The brigand went to his knees, and slumped over, his 

carbine clattering on the hardwood floor.

10(sound cue voice over) Buck: That’s some damn

Indian .

11(medium wide shot) as the room erupted in gunfire.

The two men upstairs had Spencer .52 caliber buffalo

rifles, and they pinned down the Indian with terrible 

.56-56 Spencer rimfire cartridges. Three men to Buck’s 

left all had rifles. Two of them opened up on Buck, while

the third one slithered along the floor, between the table

tops trying to get a position of advantage. 

12(sound cues) big guns discharging in a small room,

their firing crackling out into the street.

13(medium close-up) Big hunks of wood were blasted

off the table tops, off the sides of the cubicle, and off the

wall. The massive front window disintegrated and glass

blew all over the walkway. Buck wormed his way to 

behind the gut-shot table, He caught sight of the gunman

on the floor, now thirty feet from him.He pumped three full-

load shells in that direction.

14( jump cuts) One hit the floor, coughing up splinters, 

one hit the edge of a table, spinning it, and one hit the

gunman in the arm.
15(medium close-up) The man rolled over, his eyes

shocked, staring at an artery spurting blood down his 

sleeve. Quickly he crawled away, seeking safety.  Buck
shot the man in the neck, and the gunman pitched over
onto the boards, his face buried in bloody poker chips.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub OLN