Heist Genre Script

By
David Lyev
INT. DARK WAREHOUSE - DAY
The warehouse is dark and disused, filled with dust-covered
crates that don’t look as if they’ve been touched for
centuries. The only area free of dust is a small clearing in
the center of the warehouse.
The clearing has obviously been specifically cleared of
dust, and it contains a simple folding table surrounded by
equally simple plastic chairs. The table is covered by
papers, mostly blueprints. At this table sit two men,
ALISTER and BUTCH.
Alister looks very much ill-at-ease and out of place in the
dingy surroundings. His suit is immaculate despite the dust,
and his slender pianist’s fingers are clasped together at
the table. His expression is mild, betraying only the barest
hint of loathing and disgust.
Butch, by contrast, only avoids looking as if he lives here
by the lack of dust on his person. He’s wearing a suit, but
it’s a scruffy-looking thing that hasn’t been worn, ironed,
or even washed in a decade or so. His face is propped up by
his fist, his elbow on the table, and he’s more interested
in his nails then in Alister.
ALISTER
I suppose you know why I’m here?

BUTCH
Yup.
There’s an awkward pause.
ALISTER
And?
BUTCH
Hm?

ALISTER
(annoyed)
You said you know why I’m here. So,
tell me the plan.
BUTCH
Why didn’t you say so?
Alister’s jaw clenches for a moment before answering.
ALISTER
Just tell me the plan.

(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 2.

BUTCH
Yeah, sure.
Butch straightens up and leans over the table. As he
shuffles some papers around, his expression becomes more
focused, as if waking up from a nap. He jabs a finger down
on a blueprint.
BUTCH (CONT’D)
Alright, see, here’s the front’a
the casino. I though about other
ways in, but they all suck. Mostly
just employee entrances, and they
all need ID cards.
ALISTER
Surely stealing one would be simple
for a man of your... talents.
BUTCH
Sure, but even if we got a uniform
for the guy, all it’d need is one
guy checking the ID and seein’ that
the picture don’t match the face.
An’ even if we get it altered,
there’s a chance he’ll run into the
owner on the way to the VIP room.
ALISTER
So?
BUTCH
Big man’s got a rep for knowing
every face that works for him.

Butch shakes his head.

BUTCH (CONT’D)
It’s doable, but it’d need a
helluva lot of prep work. I was
told you ain’t the patient sort.
ALISTER
True. Carry on.
BUTCH
Right. So. We go in the front way.
No guns, ’cause they check. I was
thinking knives, but Jerry figures
garrote wire might be better.
Easier to hide, anyway. So I’m
thinking a couple’a small knives
just in case we gotta scare
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 3.

BUTCH (cont’d)
someone, but garrote wires for the
main job.
ALISTER
Are the knives neccessary?
BUTCH
I don’t reckon we’ll need ’em, but
I’d rather have and not need then
need and not have, y’know?

ALISTER
I suppose.
BUTCH
Anyway. So we go in one at a time.
Me with Laura on my arm, then
Jerry, then Little Tommy. I go in
first, so I can start making waves.
You’ve got the seed money, right?
Alister holds out a wallet, which Butch takes and examines.
It contains a drivers license with Butch’s face, a few
hundred-dollar bills, and a silver credit card.
ALISTER
The card is to a bank account that
should contain all the money you
need to draw the eye of the
establishment’s owner.
Butch pockets the wallet.

BUTCH
Excellent. So I throw money around
like a good little whale. Me’n
Laura get invited to the fancy room
for drinks. Laura makes eyes at our
guy, goes to ’freshen up’ and gets
the guy to follow. They go to the
bathroom, Laura kills the guy, she
comes back. I text Jerry to let ’em
know we’re done. He starts a fire
and books it outta there. Everyone
panics, we run out and by the time
we’re done, nobody’ll remember our
faces.
ALISTER
And ’Little Tommy’?

(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 4.

BUTCH
Backup, in case things go south.
Little Tommy’s better then a gun.
ALISTER
I see. Well, it seems you have
everything well in hand. Good luck
to you, sir.
BUTCH
Yeah, thanks.

Alister stands, brushes himself off, and leaves. Butch pulls

his cellphone phone and dials a number.
BUTCH (CONT’D)
Jerry? We’re on.