DOWNTOWN UPCHUCK (A Short Pulp Noir Script based on true events from this morning)

IAN: (inner exposition monologue) We were headed to work. Like always, the town was'nt cuttin' anybody no slack. We were late. As usual. The weather was a bone-shattering 67 degrees farenheit. Little kiddies were skippin' off to school, and I had my girl, Aubrey, by my side, but I could tell from the red sweatshirt on the ground with yesterday's lunch from some dog on it that today was not all roses and sugar cubes. It was like an omen. A sign. Only time could tell what would be the sweatshirt and what would be the poo. Poo that looked like a pile of rotten fingers. I know. Disgusting. The resident bum that usually inhabits the corner wasn't there this morning. Foul play? Not mine. Maybe another sign.
AUBREY: Sorry about the delay, but my hair needed fixing, and you know I'm only comfortable when I'm late.
IAN: (to her) It's alright. Besides, dames were made to look pretty. You wouldn't want the bum competing for my attention would ya'?
AUBREY: Makes since if he did I guess. Your both the same species.
IAN: (inner) Aubrey was a firecracker. In more ways than maybe she knew. (to her): You better watch that mouth sweet-cakes. One a' these days it's gonna' give something back to you.
IAN: (inner) The train finally arrived. The R train. R for rescue. R for refuge. Or maybe, R for regret. We got on and it was crowded and smelly and just generally no good. That wasn't a sign. That was just the R train. Everyone looked like they'd had all there problems and worries surgically attached to their faces. The kind of crowd that if things got ugly you wouldn't be able to tell.
AUBREY: This wagon had better pick it up, my stomach's tellin' me stories I don't want to hear.
IAN: (to her) Then you better plug your ears baby, 'cause this bullet 'aint outta' the barrel yet. (inner): We got off to switch to a 5 train. 5 for five times the smell, five times as crowded, and, even though I didn't know it yet, five minuetes to disaster. I was standing in between broads, broads, and more broads. Not including the prissed up guys that oughta' be called broads. Still, it wasn't quite as crowded as normal. A blessing. Or a sign.
AUBREY: Listen tough guy, I got somethin' to say and your'e not gonna like it.
IAN: Oh yeah? What's that?
AUBREY: I'll tell ya', but first, hold my gum.
IAN: Your gum? Alright there. Now bark, before I swat you with a paper.
AUBREY:Alright. Here goes. BLUGHHWHAAH!
IAN: (inner) And there it was. Like St. Patricks Day orange juice. It was similar to a slot machine. You could see it in her face and something green came out, but brother, if that's the jackpot than I'll keep my dime for a rainy day. I give her her share of credit though. She kept more down than she let loose. It was an unfortunate turn of events but we coul........
AUBREY: BLEEGOOWAHAH!!
IAN: (inner) And there it is again. Like a two and a half year old egg yolk. We had to think; and fast. My hand served as goaly for both rounds but St. Patty was thin and quick on his juice.
BROAD 1: Are you alright?
BROAD 2: You should sit down.
BROAD 1: Heres some tissue.
FAT GUY: Would you like some cold water?
BROAD 3: You can have my seat
IAN: (to broads and fat guy) We got it under control. Thank you though.
(inner): We got off at Grand Central. We left a little "note" to the good folks on the five and made a B-line for the B-rooms. Lathered up, took a breather, made some calls, and it was back home for a costume change.
AUBREY: It's alright I didn't really want to wear this old thing anyway.
IAN: (inner) Yeah, she's a firecracker.