EXT. BEACH PARKING LOT — DAY

An UNCONSCIOUS SURFER with a PISTOL (with the safety on) jammed in his mouth lies slumped out of the sliding door of a van. TWO OTHER SURFERS lie in fetal positions on the ground.

In their wet suits, they look like baby seals in a PETA clip.

CHON roots around in the console of the van and comes up with a plastic-wrapped QUARTER POUND of dope, which he jams into his jacket pocket.

Then he steps over to a fourth surfer, BRIAN, who is on all fours, trying unsuccessfully to get to his feet.

Chon kicks him in the ribs.

Several times.

Then grabs him by the collar and drags him over to the van.

CHON

Brian, let the word go forth from this time and place: It is not okay to steal our product. It is especially not okay to lay hands on our people. And one other thing Chon stretches Brian’s right arm over the edge of the van’s bumper, then picks up the baseball bat and

CRACK!

Brian screams.

CHON

— next time I’ll kill you.

15

Time to go.

O’s trying to get out of the fucking house.

Very expensive house in the exclusive gated community of Monarch Bay.

Except Paqu is, like, on it.

“What are you going to do with your life?” she asks.

“I dunno.”

“Are you going back to school?”

“I dunno.”

“Are you going to get a job?”

“I dunno.”

Check Paqu out Blonde hair, perfectly coiffed.

Chiseled (not metaphorically) features.

Makeup perrrfect.

A couple of gr worth of clothing on her perrrfectly toned, sculpted body that features TTDF.

Tits To Die For.

(Many male ships have been wrecked on those cliffs, my friend. Crashed and broken apart. Y chromosomes flailing the crazy-bad whitewater waiting for a jet ski that ain’t coming.)