FADE IN:

EXT. RIVER -- DAY

JACK SMITH, 52, and ORIN HOLBROOK, 37, stand knee-deep in the water near a rotted fallen log, backs to one another. They work their fly-rods with expert ease.

Birds cackle. The sun trickles through the dense pine canopy.

Super: "1987"

JACK

...so I says to her, I says, look Margo, I can't be thinking about that shit, what with sellin' the store to that whatshisname prick from New Jersey, and-

ORIN

Uh-huh.

JACK

-all the business with that cocksucker over at'n the bank on account of them mortgage payments, so I says to her, I says-

ORIN

Yeah, you said.

JACK

-I says to her, I says look Margo, I just can't be worryin' about your no account brother, I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to do, right? Is it my goddamn fault he's a drunk who can't go five minutes without his hands shakin' and who's pissed off every goddamned honest employer in Costilla County?

(beat)

I didn't put it quite like that, but that was the gist, you know? And she gets all ... awe fuck...

ORIN

What?

Jack tugs on his rod, reels in. He picks a long, snotty-looking string of grime from the end of his line.

ORIN

What?

JACK

Anyways, so she turns to me with them eyes a hers, and-

ORIN

Hey Jack-

Jack recasts.

JACKIE

-she gets that upper lip workin', you know, like-

ORIN

(excited)

Holy shit, Jackie, look at this-

JACK

-like, what, I dunno-

ORIN

Shut up about your goddamned crybaby wife and your goddamned brother-in-law and look at this!

Jack shuts up, turns.

Orin has dropped his fly-rod; it floats away across the surface of the water, forgotten. Orin digs into the muck of wet leaves that has collected around the log.

JACK

What the hell're you goin' on about?

Orin stands, holding something small and pink in his hand.

ORIN

Oh, Christ....

He turns, face ash, and holds up the pink thing:

A tiny human finger.

Boondocks

A Trifecta+ Production

Look for it soon!