Alex & Frankie Forever

This story is a novelization of an outline that is registered with the WGAw. All rights reserved. A screenplay version is being written simultaneously.

If Bonnie & Clyde were crossed with Robin Hood and had a Face Book page they’d be

ALEX & FRANKIE FOREVER

Forward:

This story is being written in a particular style for particular reasons. The intent of the Author is to define the characters through the story telling process, with a minimalist approach to description. For example, we’ve all been to a mall, and to dwell upon the general appearance of the mall is useless. Further, Alex herself is physically described minimally, (not even the color of her hair), as it is the Authors purpose to engage not only the readers attention but imagination. What does Alex look like? That is for the Reader to decide as s/he comes to know Alex for the dynamic person she is.
At the same time, the writing itself is relatively simplistic, as reading should be flowing and enjoyable. But simplicity can hide complexity, and Alex & Frankie Forever is a story of complex characters striking back against a complex society in the simplest way they can.

The story takes place over the period of one week. Following is mid-afternoon of the first day.

(Bare with me while I Post 4,600 words. And please, feel free to hammer away at every weak spot. All feed back welcome.)

 

PRELUDE

“Bonnie & Clyde” the Media called them. Inevitably.
So Alex quickly came to accepted it, indeed, on occasion glory in it. But “Bonnie” never, not for one second, stopped thinking of herself as Alex. Not Alexandra Elizabeth Smith— Just Alex. She had long ago parted ways with —andra Elizabeth Smith.
Over the years, Just Alex had proven to be an adept at living on the road. She stole when she had to, worked when she could, and, when she was lucky, effectively combined the two.
But after nearly a decade, life among the road kids and hippies had grown stale. So Alex had ventured to take up residence in Devil’s Bowl, California, as small and unimportant a town as there ever was. Logic said a place in the middle of nowhere that barely existed was the perfect place to fade back in.
And Just Alex took great pride in her logic.
So Just Alex became Alex-the-counter girl-slash-store clerk-slash-gas station attendant at the Diary Queen combination gas station/convenience store next to the justification for Devil’s Bowl’s existence, the Interstate. It went OK at first. She worked hard, she made OK money, never stole more than 5%. The truckers were sexist but harmless— almost friendly. Not the quid pro quo friendly she was used to, but genuinely nice. In a few months, when she was ready to move to a real town, surely a ride would turn up. Of course, in the meantime, it was all kind of boring… But, if she kept trying, she knew something better would come along.
Then came the day when her boss, Mr. Bode, stopped pretending. It had been dead all day. All the cleaning and stocking was done; Alex didn’t have anything else to do. Neither did Mr. Bode.

FRIDAY, JUNE 1st

1.

Classic Rock was blaring from the radio. Alex was at the register with a customer. Only the third all day. Not that she had any complaints. The customer was leaving and Alex was just going back to her pilfered copy of the latest issue of Vogue when Mr. Bode called out from the backroom, “Alex? Would you come back here?”.
Even more bored, Alex put down the magazine, crossed to the double doors leading to the store room just as the radio identified itself, “You’re listening to the highway station, K-Desert one-oh-seven point nine FM, K-D-E-S-T, Devil’s Bowl, California. Classic Hits in the desert. And now, another three way for the freeway”.
Alex disappeared into the back as the music resumed.
That’s why Frankie didn’t see anyone when he looked in through the window. If he had, maybe things would have turned out differently. Probably not.

Frankie was a bit beat-up beyond his not-quite 25 years, but that only served to offset his boyish handsomeness with a bit of manliness. Good thing, too. Life in prison was hard; “cute” didn’t cut it. Currently, with a blue Dodger cap on his head, pink sunglasses perched on his nose, and wearing a green t-shirt proclaiming “GIVE PEACE A CHANCE”, Frankie looked like an idiot. But rest assured, he was not. Careful not to disturb the cow bell hanging from the handle, he slowly opened the door—
Frankie looked around as he entered. Nobody. He turned, carefully and quietly, and closed the door. His right hand went to the .22 caliber Single Six Revolver in his pants. The gun was fully loaded when he stole it. Frankie hadn’t shot anybody yet, but he’d vowed that he would if that’s what it took.
Still nobody.
Frankie’s attention fell on the cheap sunglasses display sitting on the check-out counter. He could see his reflection in the little mirror. He definitely looked ridiculous. Taking off the pink glasses, Frankie put on a pair of gaudy black plastic ones. He shrugged, satisfied enough. He looked around.
Still empty.
Frankie stepped behind the counter—
Still nobody.
He removed something from his pocket, placed it on the counter. It was a Scrabble timer, an egg timer, a three minute hour-glass. Another reason Frankie couldn’t go back; the rest of the inmates would likely kill him for messing up their game. On the other hand, Frankie figured that three minutes per robbery sounded about right. Plus, maybe the media would give him a cool nickname like “The Hour Glass Robber”, or maybe, “The Scrabble Bandit”— yeah, that’d be cool.
The nickname “Clyde” never occurred to him.

When Alex walked into the store room, she knew it was coming. Her boss, Mr. Bode, was a big guy, no doubt an ex- something, who thought considerably more of himself than he should have. “Have I told you you been doing a great job, sweetheart?”
Alex smiled skeptically. Even if he hadn’t been to old for her, the guy was an asshole. “Slow today, ain’t it?” the big man ventured. “Maybe you could stay back here and help me out?”
Alex looked around: the store room was in perfect order. “Looks like everything’s already been taken care of.”
Bode closed in, invading her personal space. “Not everything.”
This was old news for Alex. She stood her ground. Knowing it was useless, she said, “No, thanks. I’m not interested.”
“Now sweetheart… Didn’t I give you a job when you walked in here with nothing but an empty belly and that old backpack? I helped you out. Time to return the favor…” He tried to put a hand on her breast, but she brushed it away, still standing her ground.
“I said ‘NO’.”
“You owe me girl.”
Alex was having none of it. “No sir. I don't owe you nothin'. I put in a good days work for my money. I always do my best.”
Bode inched in. “That's true. It'd be a shame to have to fire you. But that little girl come looking for a job the other day… Bet she wouldn't mind doing a little overtime.”

 

Frankie didn’t have a clue how to open the register. He glanced at the scrabble timer. The falling sands were clearly mocking him. Then Frankie noticed something he hadn’t before; muffled voices coming from the store room. He stopped messing with the closed register, drew his revolver and crossed to the double doors. Maybe they can open the register. Cautiously, Frankie opened one of the double doors—

Bode tried again to grope Alex. Bad move.
Enough! Alex grabbed a small can off the shelf and bounced it off Bode’s forehead as hard as she could at point blank range. Bode howled and his groping hands flew to his head. “Damn that hurt!”
Alex was a little too proud of herself. “No means no.”
WHACK! Bode slapped the shit out of her, grabbed her with both hands by her yellow and red polyester Dairy Queen smock—
“I was just gonna rob ya, but now I can see I'm gonna have to kill ya, too.” Frankie was standing in the doorway, brandishing his pistol.
Although Bode held Alex tight, for her part, she was alert and ready to fight. The big tough guy spoke with as much incredulity as authority, “Who the Hell are you?”
If Frankie wanted to answer to anyone, he’d wouldn’t have been there. “When I was in prison, there was lots a boys like you. They did it 'cause they could. Well—”, Frankie pulled the hammer back on the pistol, “you can't”.
Bode let go of Alex and stepped toward Frankie, holding up his hands, “Wait a minute—”
Alex stayed put and spoke with conviction, “Don't kill 'em, Mister. He ain't worth it.”
Frankie was unconvinced.
Bode was starting to sweat as he spoke, “Com’on, buddy. Just take the money and go.” Then, being a self-convinced genius, Bode got a bright idea and decided to sweeten the pot, “You can take the bitch, too”.
“Well, maybe you could just shoot him in the leg,” said Alex, slightly annoyed.
Frankie raised his gun to head level. Bode practically shit himself when Frankie spoke. “You sure? They say three eyes are better’n two.”
Alex abruptly picked up an extra large can WHACK! She bounced the big can off the back of Bode’s head, knocked him cold. When he hit the floor, a satisfied Alex looked at Frankie. “Now who'd say a dumb thing like that?”

Alex managed to still look bored as she opened the register, stepped back and leaned on the counter next to a three minute egg timer with all the sand on the bottom. Frankie, gun in his belt, took what little cash there was, counted it. “Sixty-seven dollars?”
Alex shrugged apologetically. “Maybe there's a safe?”
“Yeah. A safe.” Frankie started to search behind the counter, knocking over the sunglasses and all the other sundries displayed in the process and pretty much wrecking everything. Alex watched, amused for a minute, then moved away unnoticed.
Eventually, Frankie wised up. “Wait. That uniform—” He looked around for the girl. “Where’d you go?”
Alex was already standing at the double doors. She held up a hand and waved him over.
“You work here. You probably know where the safe is?”
Alex held the door open, “Probably.”
Frankie put a hand on the door. “Ladies first.”
Alex, amused, smiled and nodded graciously. “This must be your first armed robbery.”
When Frankie followed Alex back into the store room, that was the moment he took his eye off the ball.

Bode stirred groggily on the floor. As Alex walked past, she casually reached up, knocked a can off the shelf. BONK! Bode’s head. Back down he went.

An office is an office. But still, there’s a first time for everything and Frankie hadn’t a clue where a safe would be. On the other hand, he didn’t see any reason to admit that, so he went for the filling cabinet. It least it had a lock.
For the first time all day— Hell, in all-a-long-ass-time— Alex was having a little fun. “That’s a filing Cabinet.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “The safe’s behind it,” Frankie stated with certainty.
With false confidence, he tried to move the filing cabinet. It was bolted down, but Frankie didn’t know how much a filling cabinet weighed, and besides, he was no quitter.
Alex admired his effort for a moment before she broke into a smile. “It’s under the desk, Sugar.”
Frankie, relieved, grinned at her and moved to the desk, pushed it aside. Sure enough, a floor safe. Big old combination lock and everything. Looked like something from a movie. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? “How do I open it?”
If Alex knew then what she learned later about Frankie, she probably wouldn’t have said what she said. “You could shoot the lock off —”
Frankie whipped out his pistol with lightning speed and BANG! tried to do just that. The bullet bounced off and ricocheted around the room while he and Alex frantically ducked. When it was safe to hold her head up again, Alex gingerly took the gun from Frankie’s unresisting hand and set it on the desk. “This is definitely your first armed robbery.”
Frankie managed to be both apologetic and indignant. “I'll get it figured.”
Alex’s pained smile was sympathetically doubtful. “Looks to me like you could use some help.” She pointed at the wall. “The combination's on the back of the calendar.”

RING!-CLATTER! rattled the cowbell as the front door of the Dairy Queen/Convenience Store/Gas Station opened and the forth customer all day came in. Well, fifth, if armed robbers count.

Back in the office, Frankie tensed up and looked frantically for his pistol. Alex nonchalantly reassured him, “Relax. It’s just somebody wants some gas or something”.

 

The customer was busy surveying the wreckage around the check-out counter, no doubt with larceny in his heart, when Alex emerged from the double-doors. “What the hell happened?” he asked as Alex stepped behind the counter.
Alex looked him right in the eye. “Earthquake”.
The Customer looked around the store. Empty but orderly. “I didn’t hear anything about any earthquake.”
Alex smiled, seemingly sincerely (something she was very, very good at), “Can I help you?”
“Ah, yeah. Twenty on six.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Anybody working the Dairy Queen?”
Alex took his money. It went straight in her pocket. “I am sorry. Dairy Queen's closed today. The man who usually works there, he just had to lie down. Came on this terrible headache real sudden.” Leaning on the counter with sincerely mocking concern, she continued, “Looked contagious to me.”
As the customer warily left, Alex followed him, putting the closed sign in the door.

When Alex got back to the office, Frankie was still fumbling with the combination lock on the floor safe. She brushed him aside and opened it, stepped back. Frankie grabbed the money - several hundred in small bills - stood, turned to leave, hesitated, turned back to Alex. “Ah, thanks for your help, ma'am.”
And then Frankie did something that, as far as Just Alex was concerned, sealed the deal. Frankie actually tipped his hat. It’s the little things that count.
Alex smiled sincerely sincere. “You’re awful polite. My name’s Alex.”
Frankie seemed a bit discombobulated when he answered. “Ah… Pleased to meet you, Alex. My friends call me Frankie.” He hesitated, offered her his hand.
With all the dignity she could muster, Alex shook it. “The pleasure is mine, sir.”
Frankie beamed like a laser pointer.
“So, Frankie, where're you headin’ now?”
“Well, I thought I'd make my getaway and all… So, if you'll excuse me…” He turned to leave.
“Aren't you forgetting somethin’?”
Frankie looked back. Alex was holding his pistol. Frankie smiled apologetically and took it, stuffed it in his pants, turned to go—
And then Alex said what she’d already known she was going to say, “One more thing—”
Frankie stopped.
“I'm going with you.”
Frankie broke into a grin and headed out the office door without looking back. Alex grabbed a small, ratty old backpack, and, almost as an afterthought, a set of keys off the desk, and followed him.

On the way out the door, Frankie pocketed his Scrabble timer off the wrecked counter. The last grain of sand had long since found it’s way to the bottom.

Special Agent Eliza Wilkins, F.B.I., was heading to a late lunch just about then. Special Agent Wilkins, F.B.I, was as professional as they came— straight out of the F.B.I. cliché machine. Eliza, on the other hand, was a 45 year old American black women with an extraordinary amount of patience. She didn’t take much pride in that patience; it seemed to go with the territory.

Mojave County Sheriff John J. Lawless was many things besides one mean bastard. He was an insulting, conceited, prideful, home grown sexist redneck racist with seven in-the-line-of-duty kills, a huge penis and an ego that matched. And, for the last 15 years, he’d been Undisputed King of Mojave County. He was also a lazy prick, and sleeping soundly behind his desk when Alex took that first step toward infamy.

Alex and Frankie had just reached the parking lot when an enraged Mr. Bode, bleeding from his head wounds, came out the door of the Diary Queen wielding a fire axe. Alex looked around the parking lot for Frankie’s getaway car, but saw only Bode’s Jeep Cherokee 4x4. Thankful she’d had the foresight to steal her former bosses keys, Alex turned to Frankie, “Come on!”.
They ran to the Jeep. As Alex opened the driver’s door, axe wielding Bode approached within a few feet of Frankie. “I’ll kill you, you sonofabitch!”
Frankie spun, lightning fast on the draw BANG! But his shot missed by a mile and SMASH! unwittingly shot out the store window that had once proudly proclaimed “Dairy Queen”. Dotted the “i” perfectly. Bode seemed to have a change of heart, turned around and ran back toward the building.
Alex, in the drivers seat by then, fired up the engine as Frankie jumped in. “This your car?” he asked.
All apology, Alex answered, “Nope,” nodded over her shoulder, “His.”
Frankie looked through the rear window just in time to see Bode, back in the middle of the parking lot, screaming indecipherable obscenities and hurling his fire axe violently at the Jeep. Alex, punched it.
To Bode’s credit, the axe gouged out a sizeable chunk of asphalt when it hit the ground where he used to park his Jeep Cherokee 4x4.

Alex, seemingly out for a Sunday afternoon’s drive, pointed her new Jeep down a well worn desert dirt road. “I didn’t see your getaway car?”
Frankie winced, “Don't worry about it”. He never did tell her about the moped with the gas can strapped on the rack parked out back behind the Dairy Queen.
As she drove, Alex mischievously prodded her new partner-in-crime. “That's some nice shooting. Hitting that big old window and all.”
Frankie covered unconvincingly, “I was just trying to scare ‘em”.
“And you did a fine job.”
Frankie was about to retort when something told him to look behind, so he did. Through the rear window he saw a Mojave County Sheriff’s Deputy’s car pull off the Interstate. “Uh-oh. Trouble.”
Alex was not an easy girl to impress. “Only if he catches us.” She smiled reassuringly at Frankie, “He won’t”.

 

The cop car pulled in the parking lot and Bode came running up to it. Bode talked a second, pointed, and the cop turned on the siren and took off.
Mojave County Sheriff’s Deputy Todd Grisham was sick of writing traffic tickets. That was all he ever did. When it came to real crime, well, there just wasn’t any. Not in Mojave County. Nothing unsanctioned, anyway. Grisham longed to be a real cop, like Sheriff Lawless. So when the chance came to nail those two punks, he jumped at it.
The cop car with Deputy Todd Grisham driving tore off down the dirt road, siren blaring and lights flashing, in hot pursuit. Too hot to handle.

Alex casually turned on the radio and a very un-typical sounding male DJ was speaking, “— with Mojave Manx. It’s Friday, the Manx Man is in for the long haul, and all you desert cats know what that means. The weekend’s here so take it and run!”
Steve Miller began to sing advice from the car speakers: “Go on, take the money and run.”
Alex and Frankie exchanged grins before Frankie said what they were both thinking, “Awesome”.
In the review mirror, Alex could see the cop catching up. She pushed her backpack toward Frankie. “My pack. There’s a blue T-shirt inside.”
He dug in the backpack, pulled out a blue T-shirt. As she drove along like a bat out of Hell, Alex took the T-shirt from Frankie’s hand. “Hold the wheel.”
Frankie didn’t know how to drive. They don’t teach that particular skill to kids doing life without parole. “I don’t think that’s—”
Alex let go without slowing down and Frankie grabbed the wheel. What else could he do? “Whoa!”
Alex pulled off her Dairy Queen smock. Frankie was too busy trying to keep the Jeep on the road to peek— but he did anyway. She was wearing a bra, but, nevertheless, Frankie nearly drove off into the desert. Alex smiled demurely. “You might want to try and watch the road…”
In the rearview mirror, Alex saw the cop car coming up rapidly behind them. She held the smock out the window, and, with deliberation, let it fly.

Deputy Grisham was deep into when I catch those punks I’m going to… when a little piece of Dairy Queen landed on his windshield, stealing his vision and nearly causing him to lose control of his vehicle before it blew off and he regained the road. What Deputy Grisham was thinking at that point is probably best left to the censors.

Frankie was starting to get the hang of this driving thing when Alex slipped the T-shirt on, smiled and took back the wheel. She was so, so— She was too… cool. He had to know, “Why are you doing this?”.
Alex was having fun now, and that’s what mattered. She knew there’d be consequences later, but she didn’t care. There were always consequences later. Even for little girls who had done nothing to earn them except for being little girls— She floored it and looked at Frankie, her response set in innocence, “What?”.

There’s always a Dead Man’s Curve, and Mojave County had one of the best. Deputy Grisham knew all about it, having grown up there. Trying his best to ignore the fact that he was being out driven by a girl, he focused on the curve not far ahead. She’ll never make it at that speed. So naturally, Alex choose that moment to floor it. Grisham knew better, but a cop’s ego is a big part of his uniform, so he followed suit.

The dirt road appeared to turn into a big rock dead ahead. Frankie freaked, “Look out!”.
Alex had already assessed the situation. Those two years working as a Merch Girl on the NASCAR circuit we’re finally paying off. The curve hair-pinned hard to the right. Too hard to make at 70 mph. So Alex didn’t try. Instead, she steered hard to the left, grabbed the emergency hand brake with everything she had and PULLED!
Frankie lost it, “Shiiiiiiiiit!”.
The Jeep Cherokee spun to the left and back the way it came, skidding to a stop with it’s rear bumper inches from the boulder Frankie had thought was his headstone. Alex laughed with delight and said a silent prayer to Gerry, just in case there was anything to this life after death stuff. R.I.P. My Love.
Alex stepped on it and Frankie hyperventilated as the Jeep tore off down the dirt road.

Deputy Grisham couldn’t fucking believe it! Some driving. Even as he turned the wheel and realized he was going too fast to make the curve, he had to admire what he’d just seen.
When the squad car inevitably slammed sideways into the 100 ton boulder, Mojave County Sheriff’s Deputy Todd Grisham died knowing full well that his death would be avenged.

Just as the song was about to end, Alex saw the dust cloud in her rearview mirror and slammed on the brakes. Frankie was immediately alarmed. “What the hell are you doing?”
Alex whipped the Jeep around and spoke with genuine concern, “I don’t think he made it.”
The radio spoke: “The Manx feels a disturbance in the desert calm my kittens. Hard choices are yours to make. Sometimes the cool cats have just got to eat the dirty rats. But you gotta do what you gotta do, so choose your side and take the ride.”
Tom Petty began to declare in stereo, firmly and undeniably, “I won’t back down”.

 

What was left of the wrecked cop car smoked a little. Amazingly, it was still upright, although pieces were missing. Frankie found the driver still strapped in, Aviators askew upon his face. Already knowing the answer, Alex asked anyway, “Is he dead?”.
“Oh, yeah.” No doubt. Frankie turned to Alex.
Alex seemed oddly at peace with herself. When she spoke, she confirmed Frankie’s assessment. “The Law's gonna say we're responsible for this, Frankie. They're gonna say we killed this policeman.”
Her words bounced off Frankie. He didn’t give a crap about a dead cop. “Alex, I'm almost twenty-five years old. Until three days ago… or maybe four days ago, I was incarcerated my whole adult life. More’n that. Before that… well, I ain’t got no home to go back to. And I ain't going back to prison. No matter what.”
Alex absorbed Frankie’s revelation for a moment before she spoke. “My life ain't been no picnic, neither. But I always did my best. I ain't never prostituted myself… If men like Mr. Bode weren’t always…”
Frankie turned away. “I should've killed him. Wouldn't a caused me any trouble I ain't got anyways.”
Alex let silence be assent. After a moment, she approached Frankie closely from behind, “What's your Christian name, Frankie?”.
Frankie smiled wryly to himself and turned to face her. “Francis Albert Sinatra Polanski.”
“Your mama named you after Frank Sinatra?”
“That's right. She was his biggest fan. She met him once, when she was a kid. He told her she had pretty eyes.”
Alex could feel the sorrow when Frankie talked about his mama. “Where is she now?”
Frankie got something in his eye but answered anyway, “I know what you're thinkin'. But I'm not my mama's fault. She tried her best. She's dead now…” Frankie suddenly found balance. “How ‘bout you? What's your whole name?”
For a bare instance, Alex’s coolness cracked. “Just Alex.”
With a convicts patience, Frankie accepted this. “OK, Just Alex. I reckon if you want, you can go back and blame all this on me. Tell 'em I took you hostage or somethin'.”
Alex was having none of it. Although Frankie may have detected a hint of sadness, he couldn’t miss the total lack of regret— almost contempt. “Go Back? Ain't no going back for me, neither. Nothin’ to go back to. All that time you was in prison… Longer than that… I was runnin’. I been runnin’ my whole life. Seems like every time I try to stop— well, trouble has a way a catching right up.” She smiled softly, “Besides, this workin’ for a living ain’t workin’ for me. Guess the logical thing to do is to get back to runnin’”.
Trying to contain the growing excitement inside, Frankie respectfully put a hand on Alex’s shoulder, “I’m a wanted man”.
Alex full on grinned, “Must not be for robbery. You’d a been caught by now”.
Frankie’s hands went to his hips as he feigned outrage. “Very funny.” All serious, “I’m an escaped convict. Life without parole. I got no reason to stop”.
Alex lit up with resolve. “Then let’s run.”
“Together?”
Firmly, “Together”.
“And we don't stop.”
Frankie wasn’t asking a question and Alex knew it when she answered, “Not ‘till the end”.

Down to business. Frankie began dragging the dead cop, Aviators still perched on his nose, out of what was left of the police car. Alex almost had a second thought. “What’re you doing? You aren’t some kind of ghoul are you? What’d you say you were locked up for?”
Frankie was all business. “We're gonna need some weapons.”
He took the Deputy’s pistol and extra shells, then, as the car began to burn in earnest, Frankie stood and kicked the shot gun loose from it's mount while Alex took the cop’s stun gun and mace. She pulled the wallet from the dead man’s pocket, emptied it. “Sorry about this officer. I mean the robbin' part. The dyin’ part was your own fault. You can't drive worth a damn.”
Frankie stood there, two pistols in his belt and a shotgun in hand. “Ready?”
For Alex, that was when the rush really began. She answered with wanton abandon, “Yes… But you're not.”
As the squad car burned behind them, Alex took the dead cops Aviators and traded them for the plastic frames on Frankie’s nose. She leaned in, kissed him a quick peck. “That's for luck,” She stepped in, “and this is for later.” Alex kissed Frankie for real. “Now you're ready.”

You can stand me up at the gates of Hell
But I won’t back down.


2. That's it for now

 

Enjoyed it. Good beginning to what could be a good road picture.

 

An I could see it going many ways--surprise DNA exonerates Frankie --an abandoned car full of money with attendant complications--rescue of someone important but that someone is bad-ass,but helps them-ect. Sorry if you didn't want this kind of input.

 

I always welcome notes.

Think Thelma & Louise, Dirty Mary & Craz Larry, Vanishing point.
Judas has yet to enter the story.

The ending is pre-ordained by the nature of the story. One of the pitch lines is:

A love born of violence could end only one way...

I wish to muddy the line between good and evil beyond redemption.

What really interest me is simply this: what if in the days of outlaw-folk heroes, the internet had existed?
Bonnie Parker was a poet-- published during her robbery spree-- surley she would have had a Face Book page.
What if The Dalton gang, or the James brothers had been able to get thier side of the story out there? They were considered Heroes by many Americans; imagine had they had direct communication to the public.
Or take it further-- Malcolm X, Dr. King Jr, Eldridge Cleaver, Abbie Hofman, Tim Leary, etc.

What might've beens might have been had individuals access to world-wide communications at earlier times in history? taking internet access to the past is hokey SciFi; repeating past events as modified by the current world is art.

Fascinates me!

 

Like "run,Bambi,run"? I may see where you're going with it.

 

I thought the dialogue was a little exaggerated. The accents, I mean. I think they were too stereotypical, especially considering they're supposed to be in California. I don't know if you live in California, but I do, and I don't know anyone who talks the way these people.

Keep writing though, by all means, it's an entertaining story.

 

I do live in California (Hollywood), and actually, out in the desert sticks, they do indeed talk more or less that way.
However the characters are not from California. In no way do either of them behave like young people from California. That is the point, and it will continue to become clearer as revealing thier respective backgrounds is what drives the story. I did mention that Alex had stopped there while on the road, and the NASCAR mention is a hint that she's a southern girl. And after all-- everybody knows californis girls can't drive! (I'm Joking!)
And let's not forget, stories are about people not events. In a good story, one comes to know the characters and their background through the reaction to events, not through wordy explanations by the author.

Plus I'm a screenwriter, and I think of this as a "Novie". That was the the hook.