| "THEY RIDE HARD AS HELL" CONTINUED |
RAILBREAK
[Sequence Director: Guy Ritchie. Audio track: Rattling, rumbling sounds of a train moving rapidly
along railway tracks. No music.]
Vince Neil and Eric Stuka are stuck in a small steel rat cage on a Cassandra Crossing prison
transport train bound for glory. Back seat in the limo to the show. They sit face to face on a metal
bench, handcuffed and shackled at the ankles. Their knees are almost touching, their sullen heads
sunk low as they wait. The travel compartment isn't even a room, it's a tin can, a grungy tin can
with no windows. Nothing to look at but each other. They've seen enough of each other. This
shit's getting stale. A couple of badboys with their backs against the wall, these jaded hardcore
hardtimers have been confined in a frigid box for three days. Three days. Gotta be a human rights
violation, Stuka'd said. Call the United Nations and file a grievance, Vince Neil replied.
They're quiet now, got all the talking done on the first day of the move to Kingston. The ultimate
Texas chili recipe (“the secret lies in the peppers”; “nah, it's the cheese garnish that makes it”) and
the merits of the 7-Eleven menu. They spoke of rock. What if Werman'd produced a Ratt album
when both were in their prime, Stuka'd said, and Vince Neil said how when he was out he'd listen
to at least one AC/DC track a day, every day, no matter what. A sacred service in his religion of
rock, the altar of Angus and Malcolm Young. And Stuka revealed a surprising entrepreneurial flair,
telling Vince Neil of his dream to export cannabis to the Chinese in the empty containers of goods
already imported into the country. A contact at the port in Vancouver gave him the idea. They
send those containers back empty you know. A golden opportunity for profit. It's an empty
shipping line to Asia waiting to be filled up with goods. Stuka, keep on dreamin', dude.
The chitchat done, not much else to say. They wait. Stuka's been in this jail before, Vince Neil
hasn't. Stuka told him about life in Motel Hell. You'll love it. You can get anything you want
brought in, good food, porn, chicks even. Just don't give too much away. You show 'em every
little thing all at once they'll expect it from you every time. Been through the ringer too many
times. Never let them know what your inner core is made of. A little here, a little there. Let's see
the first reel and the last reel. That's all we need. Save some of your soul for yourself. There's
dope if you need it, should you want it. Damn it man, you will.
Vince Neil looks up and yells, “Yo boss, where the hell are we?”
“Outside Orillia,” the French-Canadian guard says.
“I gotta go to the boys room.”
“You'll wait till we get to Kingston.”
“Can't hold out that long bro,” Vince Neil groans. “I'm about to burst n' empty out all over the
floor in here.”
“You are not going to burst and you are not getting out of there while this train is moving.”
“Oh man,” Stuka complains. “Come on, boss. Let him go to the crapper. Please.”
The guard relents and unlocks the door. Vince Neil winks at Stuka. He gets up and shuffles out of
the compartment. “Thanks boss,” he says. There's another guard there too. Both have C9
automatic machineguns slung low around their necks. The guard locks the cage and follows the
prisoner down the shaking narrow corridor. The other screw stands at the cell door. Outside the
windows of the noisy corridor rural farmland rolls by. The sky is cold and cloudy and gray but it's
not raining. This could be the landscape of rural France, Vince Neil assesses, having once traveled
from Calais to Paris. But it's not, it's just Ontario. Shame.
Vince Neil enters the washroom and closes the door. The guard waits in the hallway. Vince Neil
sees the garbage basket right away. He lowers his orange prison jumpsuit pants, pulls out his cock
and takes a piss. The arrangement stipulated it would be in the waste bucket. Nowhere else to hide
it, only place it could be. He doesn't flush the toilet. Instead he pulls up his trousers. He picks up
the plastic garbage pail and turns it upside down. Paper towels and toilet paper fall out. It isn't
there. Damn it. Shit, the payment was made. I was assured it'd be here. Where the fuck is it?
Where else could it be? In the toilet? He kneels down in front of the toilet basin and puts his
cuffed hands into the water and reaches as deep into the drainage pipe as it'll allow. He feels
nothing. Then he feels something. He grasps the object and pulls it out. A watertight plastic bag.
Sealed inside are several metal and rubber components. That's my baby. Salvation is imminent.
Thank Christ I didn't flush.
[Music: Can't Live Without You by Scorpions.]
Jacked on an adrenalin rush shooting through his body, Vince Neil bites the dripping plastic package
and rips it open with his teeth. He spits out the plastic and takes the pieces out of the bag and
places them on the top of the toilet's porcelain reservoir tank. Beautiful. A chambers cylinder, a
barrel, a stock, a trigger, a hammer and a firing mechanism. He checks the contents of the
chambers cylinder. Five bullets. Fully loaded. Sweet. He snaps the pieces together. In his hand
is a compact little S&W snub-nose double action .357 Magnum. My fifty-thousand dollar pistola.
Dynamite. He looks at himself in the mirror.
Let's turn this motherfucker loud, baby.
He turns and opens the door. Shit-for-brains stands there in front of him smoking a cigarette
looking very bored. Vince Neil takes dead aim at the screw's head, his forehead between his eyes,
and pulls tight on the trigger. CRACK! The noise of the train sufficiently covers the gunshot's
decibels. The dead bull falls like a two hundred pound sack of jasmine rice to the floor. Vince Neil
smells the burning scent of gun powder. He kneels, puts the pistol down and reaches into the
guard's pockets, fumbling for the keys with his chained hands. He finds the keys and puts them in
his pocket. Then he pulls his T-shirt off his own back. His chunky torso is splashed with a tattoo
of the Judas Priest Screaming for Vengeance Hellion. He picks up the guard's still-burning cigarette
and puts it in his mouth and then he takes the dead screw's machinegun.
Vince Neil jumps round the corner, surprising the other guard. With the cigarette dangling loosely
from his mouth he says, “Say hello to heaven, boss.”
ACKACKACK! Machinegunner Vince Neil cuts the guard in two with automatic machinegun fire.
The guard falls. The walls are bloodied. He steps over the stiff screw to the cell. Stuka looks at
him anxiously through the hole in the door.
“The gun was there?” asks Stuka.
“Money well spent.” Vince Neil begins inserting the various keys on the keyring in the lock.
“We're on the bullet train to freedom.”
“Lethal. Get me the fuck out of here.”
“I'm trying.”
Vince Neil frenetically inserts key after key. They don't turn in the lock mechanism. Then the
sixth key turns and unlocks the door. Stuka steps out of the small cell and picks up the other
machinegun. My leg. My fucking leg. Stuka's leg suddenly feels like it's caught in a grizzly bear
trap. The screw lying on the ground has Stuka by the leg, holding onto him like a vice. He's not
dead. Let go of me. Get your fucking hand off me. Give up. In the guard's other hand is a
pistol. Stuka points the C9 at the bleeding, expiring man and pulls the trigger. Nothing. The trigger
won't pull. The guard raises the firearm, taking aim at Stuka.
“Hey. How do you fire one of these goddamn things?”
The guard lying almost dead, his eyes lifeless, fires off a round. It misses Stuka, shattering the
window behind him. Vince Neil steps forward and puts the tip of his rifle barrel on the guard's
temple and--BANG!--fires into his head, blowing it to pieces and finishing him off.
“Your safety's on. That switch there.”
“Oh. Where'd you learn to shoot one of these things?”
“Army.”
The violent professionals make for the exit as rapidly as they can tempered by the shackles around
their ankles. They crank the door open. Cold gusts of wind cut into them. The ground is moving
fast. Stuka glances at Vince Neil. Vince Neil leaps and Stuka follows imminently behind him off
the speeding train. They smash into the ground and roll through the grass. The train races along
the track and doesn't slow, eventually disappearing in a turn. They stand up, checking themselves
for injuries. Neither are seriously injured, superficial scrapes and bruises, nothing broken, no
twisted wrists or snapped collar bones. Looking around they find themselves standing in a large
field with blades of grass as high as their waists.
Vince Neil still has the keys he took from the guard. He releases Stuka's cuffs. Then he releases
the shackles around Stuka's ankles. He hands the keys to Stuka with a slight touch of hesitation.
He looks at Stuka. Stuka could walk with the keys and leave me stranded, Vince Neil realizes. But
Stuka doesn't, he doesn't run. He unlocks Vince's chains. Some faith in your partner, Vince Neil
thinks.
[Music: Stranglehold by Ted Nugent.]
They sigh with relief. They did it. They're free, they've freed themselves. They retrieve the
machineguns and walk like grazing deer through the long grass in the direction of a line of telephone
poles at the edge of the field. There's a barbwire fence along the side of the field. On the other
side of the fence is a dirt road. They scale and hop the fence and walk down the gravel street.
Two escaped psychos on the loose, they're crazy and they're dangerous.
These two are the living dead.
[Crane shot from behind them of Vince Neil and Stuka jumping the fence and walking down the
road. Fade into the next scene. The Ted Nugent song plays into the following scene.]
[Sequence Director: Guy Ritchie. Audio track: Rattling, rumbling sounds of a train moving rapidly
along railway tracks. No music.]
Vince Neil and Eric Stuka are stuck in a small steel rat cage on a Cassandra Crossing prison
transport train bound for glory. Back seat in the limo to the show. They sit face to face on a metal
bench, handcuffed and shackled at the ankles. Their knees are almost touching, their sullen heads
sunk low as they wait. The travel compartment isn't even a room, it's a tin can, a grungy tin can
with no windows. Nothing to look at but each other. They've seen enough of each other. This
shit's getting stale. A couple of badboys with their backs against the wall, these jaded hardcore
hardtimers have been confined in a frigid box for three days. Three days. Gotta be a human rights
violation, Stuka'd said. Call the United Nations and file a grievance, Vince Neil replied.
They're quiet now, got all the talking done on the first day of the move to Kingston. The ultimate
Texas chili recipe (“the secret lies in the peppers”; “nah, it's the cheese garnish that makes it”) and
the merits of the 7-Eleven menu. They spoke of rock. What if Werman'd produced a Ratt album
when both were in their prime, Stuka'd said, and Vince Neil said how when he was out he'd listen
to at least one AC/DC track a day, every day, no matter what. A sacred service in his religion of
rock, the altar of Angus and Malcolm Young. And Stuka revealed a surprising entrepreneurial flair,
telling Vince Neil of his dream to export cannabis to the Chinese in the empty containers of goods
already imported into the country. A contact at the port in Vancouver gave him the idea. They
send those containers back empty you know. A golden opportunity for profit. It's an empty
shipping line to Asia waiting to be filled up with goods. Stuka, keep on dreamin', dude.
The chitchat done, not much else to say. They wait. Stuka's been in this jail before, Vince Neil
hasn't. Stuka told him about life in Motel Hell. You'll love it. You can get anything you want
brought in, good food, porn, chicks even. Just don't give too much away. You show 'em every
little thing all at once they'll expect it from you every time. Been through the ringer too many
times. Never let them know what your inner core is made of. A little here, a little there. Let's see
the first reel and the last reel. That's all we need. Save some of your soul for yourself. There's
dope if you need it, should you want it. Damn it man, you will.
Vince Neil looks up and yells, “Yo boss, where the hell are we?”
“Outside Orillia,” the French-Canadian guard says.
“I gotta go to the boys room.”
“You'll wait till we get to Kingston.”
“Can't hold out that long bro,” Vince Neil groans. “I'm about to burst n' empty out all over the
floor in here.”
“You are not going to burst and you are not getting out of there while this train is moving.”
“Oh man,” Stuka complains. “Come on, boss. Let him go to the crapper. Please.”
The guard relents and unlocks the door. Vince Neil winks at Stuka. He gets up and shuffles out of
the compartment. “Thanks boss,” he says. There's another guard there too. Both have C9
automatic machineguns slung low around their necks. The guard locks the cage and follows the
prisoner down the shaking narrow corridor. The other screw stands at the cell door. Outside the
windows of the noisy corridor rural farmland rolls by. The sky is cold and cloudy and gray but it's
not raining. This could be the landscape of rural France, Vince Neil assesses, having once traveled
from Calais to Paris. But it's not, it's just Ontario. Shame.
Vince Neil enters the washroom and closes the door. The guard waits in the hallway. Vince Neil
sees the garbage basket right away. He lowers his orange prison jumpsuit pants, pulls out his cock
and takes a piss. The arrangement stipulated it would be in the waste bucket. Nowhere else to hide
it, only place it could be. He doesn't flush the toilet. Instead he pulls up his trousers. He picks up
the plastic garbage pail and turns it upside down. Paper towels and toilet paper fall out. It isn't
there. Damn it. Shit, the payment was made. I was assured it'd be here. Where the fuck is it?
Where else could it be? In the toilet? He kneels down in front of the toilet basin and puts his
cuffed hands into the water and reaches as deep into the drainage pipe as it'll allow. He feels
nothing. Then he feels something. He grasps the object and pulls it out. A watertight plastic bag.
Sealed inside are several metal and rubber components. That's my baby. Salvation is imminent.
Thank Christ I didn't flush.
[Music: Can't Live Without You by Scorpions.]
Jacked on an adrenalin rush shooting through his body, Vince Neil bites the dripping plastic package
and rips it open with his teeth. He spits out the plastic and takes the pieces out of the bag and
places them on the top of the toilet's porcelain reservoir tank. Beautiful. A chambers cylinder, a
barrel, a stock, a trigger, a hammer and a firing mechanism. He checks the contents of the
chambers cylinder. Five bullets. Fully loaded. Sweet. He snaps the pieces together. In his hand
is a compact little S&W snub-nose double action .357 Magnum. My fifty-thousand dollar pistola.
Dynamite. He looks at himself in the mirror.
Let's turn this motherfucker loud, baby.
He turns and opens the door. Shit-for-brains stands there in front of him smoking a cigarette
looking very bored. Vince Neil takes dead aim at the screw's head, his forehead between his eyes,
and pulls tight on the trigger. CRACK! The noise of the train sufficiently covers the gunshot's
decibels. The dead bull falls like a two hundred pound sack of jasmine rice to the floor. Vince Neil
smells the burning scent of gun powder. He kneels, puts the pistol down and reaches into the
guard's pockets, fumbling for the keys with his chained hands. He finds the keys and puts them in
his pocket. Then he pulls his T-shirt off his own back. His chunky torso is splashed with a tattoo
of the Judas Priest Screaming for Vengeance Hellion. He picks up the guard's still-burning cigarette
and puts it in his mouth and then he takes the dead screw's machinegun.
Vince Neil jumps round the corner, surprising the other guard. With the cigarette dangling loosely
from his mouth he says, “Say hello to heaven, boss.”
ACKACKACK! Machinegunner Vince Neil cuts the guard in two with automatic machinegun fire.
The guard falls. The walls are bloodied. He steps over the stiff screw to the cell. Stuka looks at
him anxiously through the hole in the door.
“The gun was there?” asks Stuka.
“Money well spent.” Vince Neil begins inserting the various keys on the keyring in the lock.
“We're on the bullet train to freedom.”
“Lethal. Get me the fuck out of here.”
“I'm trying.”
Vince Neil frenetically inserts key after key. They don't turn in the lock mechanism. Then the
sixth key turns and unlocks the door. Stuka steps out of the small cell and picks up the other
machinegun. My leg. My fucking leg. Stuka's leg suddenly feels like it's caught in a grizzly bear
trap. The screw lying on the ground has Stuka by the leg, holding onto him like a vice. He's not
dead. Let go of me. Get your fucking hand off me. Give up. In the guard's other hand is a
pistol. Stuka points the C9 at the bleeding, expiring man and pulls the trigger. Nothing. The trigger
won't pull. The guard raises the firearm, taking aim at Stuka.
“Hey. How do you fire one of these goddamn things?”
The guard lying almost dead, his eyes lifeless, fires off a round. It misses Stuka, shattering the
window behind him. Vince Neil steps forward and puts the tip of his rifle barrel on the guard's
temple and--BANG!--fires into his head, blowing it to pieces and finishing him off.
“Your safety's on. That switch there.”
“Oh. Where'd you learn to shoot one of these things?”
“Army.”
The violent professionals make for the exit as rapidly as they can tempered by the shackles around
their ankles. They crank the door open. Cold gusts of wind cut into them. The ground is moving
fast. Stuka glances at Vince Neil. Vince Neil leaps and Stuka follows imminently behind him off
the speeding train. They smash into the ground and roll through the grass. The train races along
the track and doesn't slow, eventually disappearing in a turn. They stand up, checking themselves
for injuries. Neither are seriously injured, superficial scrapes and bruises, nothing broken, no
twisted wrists or snapped collar bones. Looking around they find themselves standing in a large
field with blades of grass as high as their waists.
Vince Neil still has the keys he took from the guard. He releases Stuka's cuffs. Then he releases
the shackles around Stuka's ankles. He hands the keys to Stuka with a slight touch of hesitation.
He looks at Stuka. Stuka could walk with the keys and leave me stranded, Vince Neil realizes. But
Stuka doesn't, he doesn't run. He unlocks Vince's chains. Some faith in your partner, Vince Neil
thinks.
[Music: Stranglehold by Ted Nugent.]
They sigh with relief. They did it. They're free, they've freed themselves. They retrieve the
machineguns and walk like grazing deer through the long grass in the direction of a line of telephone
poles at the edge of the field. There's a barbwire fence along the side of the field. On the other
side of the fence is a dirt road. They scale and hop the fence and walk down the gravel street.
Two escaped psychos on the loose, they're crazy and they're dangerous.
These two are the living dead.
[Crane shot from behind them of Vince Neil and Stuka jumping the fence and walking down the
road. Fade into the next scene. The Ted Nugent song plays into the following scene.]
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