This is the opening of my first script. "Waiting Room" is the working title, actually more of a faux title. I'm a little prone to paranoia, so while I don't fear the work itself is apt to be stolen, I do worry about the real title, which I am fond of. It fits the story well, but could also work for any number of other things. If anyone can convince me that it's safe to disclose (which, deep down I know it is) please give it a shot.
Please let me know what you think.
INT. BACK ROOM OF DIVE BAR IN BUMFUCK, KANSAS. DAY. JUNE, 1986.
On the bill this afternoon is Mongrel Skull, a local punk rock band. ROACH, a nervous looking 19 year old with an orange mohawk and shifty, darting eyes grabs the microphone and begins screaming into it. Behind him, the band begins pummeling their guitars.
They have what appears to be seven loyal fans, the rest of the audience is composed of hangers on, scene sheep, and horrified bar patrons who have wandered in from the front of the bar.
EXT. BUSY ROAD, DAY
CRAIG MILLER, nineteen, is walking down the road, a busy stretch of fast food joints, strip malls and car dealerships. Nearly six feet, lanky, his black hair is a chaotic hurricane of spikes. beneath that, a one-size-too-small leather jacket over a tight, faded Carpenter’s t-shirt, cheap leather spiked belt and ripped Wrangler jeans. His mud caked Doc Martens navigate a series of roadside puddles. Beneath the sound of roaring traffic, we can still the music of Mongrel Skull (off)
Perilously close to traffic, Craig walks along the curb, pinwheeling his arms for balance. A truck careens by, splashing him with a wave of muddy water. Craig hold up his middle finger and the trucker responds in kind with a blast of his deafening horn.
A local bus pulls up about fifty feet ahead of him. He races to it and hops on. Almost immediately, the bus driver begins yelling at him. Perhaps he hasn’t paid his fare, or just maybe, it’s because of his appearance. It would be at least ten years until corporate appropriations of Craig’s wardrobe would hit the malls, but for now, he’s clearly out of place, especially in this rural midwestern town.
Craig makes his way to the back of the bus, but annoyed passengers begin to shout at him as well, and he is ejected through the back door by a middle aged dude in biker gear.
The bus roars off. Generously, Craig holds up both middle fingers.
INT. BACK ROOM OF DIVE BAR, DAY
Still pounding on their instruments, Mongrel Skull seems to have garnered a bit more enthusiasm from the crowd. On guitar is BIG-O NOTE, the oldest member at 24, 6’3’’ and heavyset with a mop of curly brown hair. Roach continues to holler-sing, dodging half filled beer bottles which launch in appreciation from a slowly forming mosh pit. On the drums is BRETT, his skinny arms barely visible as he plays. TIM LEARY is on bass. Nineteen, with the obligatory buzzed hair and dirty white T-shirt, plucks his bass studiously, occasionally looking up for incoming flying objects. Pay attention to Tim..this is his story.
EXT. BUSY ROAD, DAY
Busless Craig continues on. Turning off the main road, he comes across three or four local redneck jocks who begin to heckle him.
JOCK #1: Hey Punker fag, your mom know you got loose?
JOCK#2: Nice hair, Johnny Rotten.
JOCK#3: Where you going, asshole?
Knowing he’s outnumbered, Craig moves on, but not without taking a swing at one of them. They converge on him, backing him out into the street, where he is clipped by a passing car. Knocked down but unhurt, Craig gets up quickly. The driver, a middle aged man, sticks his head out the window.
CAR DRIVER #1 Fuckin’ asshole kids!
Laughing dismissively, the jocks veer off toward a Billiards Hall on the side of the road. Craig picks up a can of soda off the road and hurls it at the car, but it’s too far off, and a fountain of orange soda splashes up over and down onto his spiky head. He notices a long tear on the sleeve of his jacket.
INT. BACK ROOM OF DIVE BAR. DAY.
Now somewhat loosened up, Mongrel Skull continue to play. Tim and Big-O begin to make eye contact, playing harder as they move toward the front of the stage, which is really just the floor in the corner of the room. Roach begins to thrash back and forth as if neurologically stricken, as Brett loses control of one of his sticks, which goes hurling off into the crowd, unnoticed.
CUT TO
6. EXT. SIDE ROAD. DAY.
Frustration and rage visible in his gait, Craig continues his trek, turning into the parking lot of the Moon Bar, and marching through the front door. We can hear the music of Mongrel Skull louder now, as it becomes apparent that this is the bar where the band is playing.
CUT TO
7. INT. DIVE BAR. DAY
Craig makes his way through the bar toward the back, his face angry and set. He storms into the back room and through the small crowd as if they don’t exist, approaching the band.
Tim sees him and he watches tensely, his mouth opening slightly with an “Uh-oh” expression.
Roach, fully engrossed in his singing, does not notice as Craig walks directly up to him and plants a 25mph left hook directly into the right side of his face. Roach goes down, the microphone airborne for only a second as Craig deftly grabs it and continues the vocals without missing a syllable. Exasperated, Tim and Big-O stop playing. Sounds of surprise and laughter and outrage rise from the crowd, as Craig continues to sing, his face screwed up in customary punk rock rage.
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But again, it's is unnecessary. I was trying to show why he would get so angry, but I suppose getting splashed with mud, kicked off a bus, harassed by hicks and clipped by a car is more than enough. 
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