SCENE: A sunny morning on the island of Phuket, Thailand. Our protagonist, CHAD, lies in a hammock inexpertly strung between two palm trees, next to a now-deserted beach bar. He is deeply asleep – his head awkwardly to one side, arms dangling off the edge of the hammock, his bottom jaw sagging and with a stream of saliva running down his stubbled cheek. In the sand beneath the hammock is a bucket full of now-melted ice with a dozen empty bottles of Chang in and around it, along with three or four tall plastic vessels with bendy straws and the dregs of lurid cocktails. CHAD smells like he looks.
The distant thrum of a helicopter rises above the gently-lapping sound of the waves, becoming steadily louder. CHAD blearily opens one eye, squints in the bright sunlight and lets out a guttural groan. With a cacophony of wind and rotors, the helicopter comes in to land in a clearing next to the beach. It is black and unmarked, other than a small crest with a winged skewer on the door and an Italian flag next to its tail number. The door opens and a suave man with slicked-back hair, MATTEO, steps out. He is wearing tightly fitted chinos, a pair of tasseled loafers, a black shirt with the top four buttons undone, and a crimson cardigan knotted around his shoulders. As the helicopter powers down, he prowls across the sand toward CHAD’s hammock.
MATTEO: [taking in Chad’s dishevelled appearance with a sneer] Che cazzo, Chad.
CHAD: [glares at Matteo] What the hell do you want? I said I was done.
MATTEO: [waves a hand dismissively] You’re done when we say you’re done. We’ve been keeping an eye on you – the drugs, the partying, the women …
CHAD: [wearily] Spare me the lecture. I got out of the game for a reason.
MATTEO: [icily] Bullshit. You might think you’re happy but all this [gestures at the bottles around Chad] is a waste of your talent. You’re not going to find happiness at the bottom of a Full Moon party K-hole.
MATTEO’s voice softens and he squats elegantly down so his face is at CHAD’s eye level.
MATTEO: Marketing is inside of you. Always has been. There’s no thrill like sending out an embargoed press release, and you won’t find that here. [He looks around contemplatively for a beat] Now tell me you don’t miss it.
CHAD: But [voice cracks] I’ve been burnt, man …
MATTEO: We all have, Chad. The bike industry takes no prisoners. But we need you. I need you. [reaches out a hand] One last job?
CHAD: [squints at the sun, takes in the gently rustling palms and the longtail fishing boats bobbing in the ocean, his expression softening as he fidgets with his shark-tooth necklace] This better be one hell of a product.
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