Oh Kat.
Give it up - TV is dead.
if you want to be a maverick you gotta do it in your own medium, I think.
Porn pulp fiction with Matt?
I knew I loved you for a reason.
INT. HAWTHORNE GRILL AND DINER - DAY
Two surly men sit at a diner booth, each nursing a cup of black coffee and smoking a pack of Apple Brand cigarettes. They gaze around nonchalantly at the drabby, 1970s era decor---orange booths, patterned carpet, faux stone walls.
The younger of the two looks looks into his cup of coffee pensively before finishing the entire mug in one triumphant gulp. He sighs, pleased with himself. It looks as though he hasn't shaved in several days. This man is MATT MACHAO.
Matt takes a long, grubby index finger and wipes it slowly across the vinyl surface of the diner seat.
He speaks with a thick Texan drawl.
MATT
Hey, how'd you think this orange would look in the living room?
He glances across the able at his companion, MR. A---middle-aged, mysterious, visibly jaded.
Mr. A takes a long drag of his cigarette, eyeing the bright orange booths around the diner.
MR. A
You're fucking kidding me, right?
MATT
Why would I be fuckin' kidding you when I asked you a fuckin' serious question, asshole?
MR. A
Because you know damn well that Wyatt ain't gonna go for no goddamn fuckin' orange in his goddamn living room!
He angrily extinguishes his cigarette on the booth. The vinyl smokes and hisses beneath the heat of the now spent cigarette.
MATT
I don't think you know Wyatt's taste very well then, A. I know Wyatt and I---
Mr. A slams his fist down on the table, rattling the cups of coffee, salt shakers, empty flower vase on its surface.
MR. A
Fuck it, man. You don't know shit 'bout Wyatt and where he came from and what he's done---let alone his motherfuckin' decorating taste!
MATT
I didn't spend no fifteen hours retiling the motherfucker's bathroom to not learn nothin' about his taste in interior design.
MR. A
I can't believe we're havin' this fuckin' argument again, MaChao.
MATT
We're only havin' in because you fuckin' started it.
MR. A
Ok. I fuckin' started it. But are we gonna do this now, or what?
Matt runs his hands nervously through his hair.
MATT
Not unless you agree that Wyatt's living room will look damn fuckin' good with fuckin'...
He struggles to find an appropriate phrase.
MATT (CONT'D)
Construction Cone Orange all over the goddamn walls.
MR. A
Fuck no.
Matt shakes his head and laughs.
MATT
You motherfucker.
MR. A
Damn straight.
Unexpectedly, Mr. A and Matt leap up onto the diner tabletop, brandishing two 45's each. They wave them manically around the diner as they scream at the top of their lungs.
MR. A (CONT'D)
Everyone put your hands in the fuckin' air!
MATT
Sit still you fuckin' assholes or I'll blow your goddamn fuckin' heads off!
*rereads the original post*
Porn pulp fiction with Matt?

Dammit! I got the "Pulp Fiction" but I forgot the porn!
*fails as a screenwriter*