Pablo’s Rhino – Act One

One, two, three. Table read, Pablo's Rhino. Yeah. Pablo's Rhino, written by Craig Goodwill and Sam Ruano, inspired by a true story. Fade in, exterior Pacific Coast Highway, California, day 2003. A sensible Volvo cruises down an open stretch of California highway. Windows are rolled down. Wouldn't it be nice plays over the stereo? We're moving closer for a look at the driver. Interior, exterior, Charlie's Volvo day. Good old Charlie Bleaker, 42. A middle-aged white guy in a short sleeve button-down collar shirt and brown tie. Handsome if he tried harder. Charlie hums along with his hands, gripped firmly at 10 and 2. That was wouldn't it be nice by our very own Beach Boys? You've got it tuned to the dial that makes you smile. Time for on this day. We look back at 1993, making headlines 10 years ago today, the Space Shuttle Endeavour launches. Notorious drug cartel leader Pablo Escobar was gunned down by the Feneries. And Canadian reggae was topping the charts with snows in former. Informer by Snow comes on. Charlie knows every word. Kinda. Yeah. I'm a player. I like it. Boom, boom, down. Boom, boom. And it is time on down to let a look at boom, boom, down in form. Did you guys learn nothing from the last thing I did here with you? Several car lengths behind him we see a cherry red convertible. The driver is a beautiful son-kiss surfer girl. Her surfboard is propped up in the passenger seat. She pulls up alongside Charlie catching and bopping along and smiles. Charlie's sunglasses flip down unintentionally, but it gets him a laugh. He plays it cool. She gestures with her hand mimicking a surfboard as if to say, do you surf? Charlie raises a coy eyebrow. Doesn't everybody? Win? An 18-wheeler pulls up behind Charlie and honks for him to speed up. Charlie crooks an eyebrow at the surfer girl who bites her lower lip and beckons him to follow. She drives off. He steps on the gas but quickly swirves to avoid the truck that just cut him off. Great. Now he's stuck staring at this jerk's giant bumper sticker that reads, move it or lose it. Charlie honks. He tries to pass, but the truck blocks him at every turn. The trucker chuckles and flips him the bird. Oh, you want to play? Let's play. Charlie fakes left, moves far right. The truck swirves to block it. Charlie yanks the steering wheel left and veers into oncoming traffic. He shrieks as the car is about to crash. Interior, exterior, Charlie's Volvo day. Charlie opens his eyes. He is not about to die. The red convertible passes in without incident. More honking cars pass as Charlie realizes his daydreaming is holding up traffic. Offscreen. Charlie checks his rear view mirror. Oh Christ, now what? A cop car is pulled up in front of him. Behind the wheel is a no-nonsense female cop 38. We will come to know is Audrey, Charlie's ex-wife. She exits and approaches. Charlie curses his life. Unbelievable. Were you following me? License and registration. What? Seriously? No. What am I going to say? I have no idea what you're going to say. Then why'd you roll your eyes? Why were you following me? She lowers her mirrored sunglasses and peeks in the back seat. We see a pile of accounting for dummy's type of books with Charlie's nerdy face on the cover. Is this how you drive winter with our son? Slowly, cautiously, of course. So where are we off to so slowly? Well, to see my publisher if he must know. So if we're done. Fine. I'll let you off with a warning. Oh, so magnanimous. Charlie rolls up his window but Audrey blocks it. See, saying shit like that is the reason we got divorced. Really? Because I thought it had something to do with, oh, I don't know, you suddenly discovering that you were a lesbian? The warning is this, Charlie. Stay in your lane or you might get hurt. Are we done? Oh, we are so done. Don't forget about Ben's career day. He's expecting you. Charlie salutes her and drives off. Cut to, interior, Terrence Coleman's mansion day. A wall of mounted animal heads stare down at Charlie. They've all been stuffed to look like they're smiling. Charlie stares at a mount that has a mirror in place of a head. Beneath it is an engraved plaque that reads, You could be next. Charlie turns to meet Terrence Coleman, 70s, an imposing man in a smoking jacket with a rifle tucked under one arm. Hello, Terrence. How's my number one author doing, huh? Another best seller in the works? Oh, yeah, yeah, I got loads of new ideas. Terrence holds up a finger to gesture he's on a call. We notice he has an earpiece in. Charlie shuffles awkwardly. Splendid. Can't wait to read. Terrence hands Charlie the rifle. I'm not really into... Charlie holds it like a dead fish. 50 large for an advanced sound, okay? Terrific. All right, bye-bye. Terrence steps behind Charlie and positions his arms to show him how to hold it. You feel that cold hard steel as you grip the shaft? Slide your finger and blam! Dinner! He slaps Charlie on the back. The gun fires hitting a statue blowing off its giant cock. Aim higher next time. Okay, Terrence, on the phone you said you had some important news. Terrence turns heel and walks out. Charlie follows. Exterior cliffside terrace continuous. Terrence walks up to his butler in hands of his robe. Charlie, you were my very first client. You took a chance on me when no one else would. Which is why I wanted to tell you this in person. Beneath the robe he's wearing a full leather body harness with a studded codpiece and nothing else. His nipples are pierced with large bull rings. Common publishing has decided to drop you. What? Why? The butler holds out gloves and marksman sunglasses on a tray. Coleman puts these on. Well, there comes a time when a man needs to let go and let God. Okay, I don't know what that means. It means people aren't buying accounting books anymore. No one wants to be called a dummy for something they can have well. Someone like you do for them. Well, okay, but you know what? That's actually a good thing because I was thinking of switching things up. You know, maybe write a thriller. Charlie, Charlie, come on. You're an accountant. There are many words to describe you, but thrilling? Hmm, really? I never said it was an autobiography. Exactly my point. People these days crave romance, adventure, danger. Coleman steps to the edge of a cliff. Charlie peeks. It's a long way down. I could do danger. He recoils at the height, clenches his heart. Charlie, when I first started out, I was living in a basement apartment selling zines I printed on a dot matrix printer. Remember those? Yes, yes, I remember. Now look at me. Much of it I owe to you. I took your advice and invested. I invested? The royalty, sure. Probably got it squirreled away and all sorts of low risk, low kind of return hidey-hoes. It's called fiscal responsibility. Coleman gives a nod to the butler who hands him one of Charlie's books. He flips to a marked page. This is from the forward of your very first book, Accounting for Druelling Imbeciles. The most important investment you will ever make is in yourself. What's your point? Well, I'm gonna do for you what you did for me all those years ago. I'm gonna give you the chance to invest in yourself. So you're not dropping me? Oh, I'm still dropping you. But with a first look promise of whatever you write next, dare to be different. That's it? Life doesn't come with a safety net. Pull! The butler yanks the skeet lever shooting off a disc. Coleman falls backwards off the terrace and fires, smashing the clay pigeon to bits. Good luck, Charlie! The bungee cord snaps back. Minus Coleman. Charlie and the butler casually peer off the ledge and cringe. We see a parachute open up. Cut to, Exterior, Alta, California Public School Day. Charlie pulls up to the front of the school, hits a drive carefully sign. He gets out in a rush to stand it back up. His cell phone rings. Charlie fumbles to answer it. Intercut with Exterior, Tropicoli Club, Allie, Day. Marcus 42. Every part the hairy-chested gold chain-wearing club owner is on the other end supervising a delivery of kegs being unloaded. Marcus, I can't talk right now. Marcus, how's my oldest bestest friend? I'm fine, Charlie. Thanks for asking. Listen, I'm late for Ben's career day. Oh, Ben needs a job? Why didn't you say so? Can he tend to Bart? Uh, he's nine, so I'm thinking no. Charlie hurries into the school. Men's room attended then. Anyway, listen, I need your input on a business thingy. What kind of business thingy? Investment opportunity, you love it. Okay, Marcus, I'm pretty swamped these days, working on a new book. Uh, uh, yeah, remind me again, who saved you from drowning back in third grade? Sam did. Only because I pushed him in too. Allie way. A car pulls up at the other end of the alley. Two burly Latino guys get out. One holds a bat. Back on Marcus. Oh, fuck. What? What's the matter? No, nothing, nothing. We'll discuss it at Sam's party, so do not bail. Marcus walks away slowly at first, then briskly, the guys follow. Oh, God, is that tonight? Marcus takes off running. Okay, gotta go talk later. Charlie hears heavy panting on the line, so he hangs up. Interior, out the California Public School, hallway, day. Charlie stops in front of a classroom and peeks in, spotting his cherubic son, Ben, eight. He waves. Ben looks up like he's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The teacher, 28, comes over and opens the door for Charlie. Hi, am I too late? Too late for... Career day. I'm Charlie Bleeker, Ben's dad. Oh, you must be the donor. Ben's other mom said you might stop by. Of course you're welcome to sit in. Donor? A very confused Charlie is led inside to find... Interior classroom, day. Carla, 42, an attractive, albeit hulking woman in a security guard uniform, addresses the class beneath a banner that reads, Career Day. Okay, as head of the stadium of security rose, jade through Al, I've been in the shit. Shit. Sorry. I said the shit word. The kids giggle. Charlie's about to protest, but he looks over at Ben, who begs him with his eyes to keep quiet. Anyway, where was I? Shit. Right, shit. That's why I carry this bad boy. Carla lifts a pant leg to reveal a taser. She takes it out of its ankle holster and holds it up for everyone to see. 50,000 balls of piss your pants justice right here, kids. Oh, sweetie. Pass it around. Teacher scrunches a no smile. Carla shrugs and holsters it. Last bit of advice before I go? Carla leans in like it's a secret. The class leans in too. You ever find yourself under some tweaker quickest way to get him? Or hair off? Jamma thumb right up the pre-tour, no matter the size of that. That sum of a bitch will pop right off every time. Go ahead and try it on a friend. A few kids in the back are already trying it. Oh, okay. That was insightful. Class, can we all say thank you to Mrs. Bleeker? No, she's not. Thank you, Mrs. Bleeker. Carla sits and gives Charlie the old finger guns. Charlie stands and coughs expectably. Oh, okay. We have a final surprise speaker. Benjamin's um, paternal figure? Ben's actual dad. Charlie nods and walks up to the front awkwardly just as the bell rings. The kids dash out before Charlie can even say hi. Carla swats Charlie in the back as she leaves. Hey, Chuck, looks like I stole your spot again. Sorry, dad. She kind of just showed up. I tried stalling. You really should have been here sooner. Ben runs off after his friends leaving Charlie alone. Cut to exterior, Tropicalli club, night. A bouncer lets a few people in through the double doors past a sign that reads closed for private event. Oh, Stacey and I are well, we're just so happy to have our friends and family here. Interior, Tropicalli club, night. Sam 41, stylish with boyish good looks, gives a speech while Stacey 38. His frisky and perpetually drunk new fiance keeps fondling his ass, making it even tougher for him to speak. To help us celebrate our engagement, like this and well, we look forward to seeing you. Stacey sloppily nibbles on Sam's ear. Get a room. Get a room. Get a room. Get a room. Get a room. The crowd cheers for the story until he relents. Well, okay, we were walking back to my place, a little tipsy and exhausted. So I turned to Stacey and I said, will you carry me? People in the crowd snicker. Stacey flashes a devil's side. Before I knew it, Stacey had planned this party and booked a caterer. Sam's husky dad steps in and grabs the mic as Sam hands a drunk Stacey after one of her friends. Who'd have thought after all these years, my boy walking down the aisle, man and wife, man and fucking wife. People cheer. A voice from the back calls out over the crowd. The crowd turns to see Philippe 30s, a flamboyant, albeit tiny French man storming in from the back. Philippe? Charlie and Marcus exchange looks. Oh shit. The crowd turns back to, sorry, was it Philippe or Philippe? Do you have a preference? I don't think you should try to define it. And quite honestly, I like if you're calling him one thing. If he's calling someone else? Okay. You're just not doing about that to me. I'll keep calling him Philippe then. Yeah. Okay, great. Charlie and Marcus exchange looks. Oh shit. The crowd turns back to Philippe, then to Sam, then to Stacey. You said you love me. I, I, I, what I meant was. Sam marinates and everyone stares. Takes a deep breath. Oh fuck it. We most sure we, we, we, I love this man and I'm going to. Drunk Stacey smashes Sam with the right hook. Philippe jumps. Oh dude. Smashes with the right hook. Yeah. Justin, can you go take a look? Drunk Stacey smashes Sam with the right hook. Philippe jumps on Stacey's back. She swings him around, knocks Charlie in the gut. He goes crashing into the drink table. Marcus tries to intervene and gets smashed in the face by Stacey. People stand back and go. That's my boy. Dissolve to interior Tropicalli club later. Everyone's gone. Balloons deflated in the banner torn. Charlie and Marcus sit at the bar flanking Sam, who holds a bottle of wine over his swollen eye. They all look like they've been through the ringer. So, uh, that went well. Charlie pats Sam on the back. I guess you were bound to find out sooner or later. I've been living a lie. Charlie and Marcus exchange a look. A beat, they crack up. So you guys knew? How? I only figured it out a couple of months ago. Who told you? Uh, well, let's see. Your parents, teachers, mailman. Co-trially, pastor Tim Shalomba, that foreign exchange kid back in eighth grade. A bar man comes over and whispers into Marcus' ear. He downs his drink and makes his way towards the kitchen. You know how hard it was for me to admit? Ah, relax. Gay is a new black. Just ask Charlie's gay black wife. Yeah, the only reason we never said anything was because it seemed like such a big deal to you. So wait, this entire time I could have been just... Proud and loud. Refill? Sam holds up two fingers. Okay, I better go see where Marcus ran off to. Charlie makes his way to the kitchen. He's about to push through the swinging doors when he sees Marcus through the portal window in a heated discussion with two South American, 40 mob guys. One of them sheds Marcus up against the wall before exiting past Charlie. Marcus sucks in his gut and follows them out. Sure, yep. I'll call you. What was that all about? That? Pfft. Just one of my backers telling me he's, uh... He's back. Sam walks up to them waving an empty glass. Hey, there's the man of the hour. Marcus throws an arm around both of them. What's with the long faces? I thought we were celebrating. Celebrating what exactly? Our collective midlife crises. Sammy coming out, you being canned? Whatever. Listen, I got three words for you. Kill me now. All inclusive vacation. Oh, please don't tell me this has something to do with your investment opportunity. Gentlemen, a little investment opportunity has fallen into my lap. And there it is. I would like the two of you to join me on a Sun-filled getaway too. Yes. The answer is yes. Oh, sorry, go on. Columbia. Yes! Columbia? Are you insane? No, no, no, no. Count me out. Fuck you, mean you're out. Charlie shrugs like it's common knowledge. Counts on his fingers. Ah, okay, let's see. Kidnapping. Drug cartels. Salted pork. Pick one. The only people who go to Columbia are drug mules and guys with hairy chest named Rico. Okay, first off, racist. Secondly, you just described half the Bay Area. Sam nods in agreement. Charlie looks back in the direction of the kitchen and crooks an eye at Marcus. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. This wouldn't have anything to do with your backer by chance. Marcus waves off the thought. He whips out a pamphlet and hands it to Charlie. Ah, forget him. Check the sound. Pareso, better deep though. Oh, please tell me you did not buy a vacation resort. Better. I bought it. Okay, well, not yet, but my buddy Mann is making an incredible deal. Marcus, you are insane and I have prison man love for you. Well, well, I'm sorry. Did you just say us? It's the deal of a lifetime. Why wouldn't I want to cut my best friends in? Because I thought we agreed you were going to run these kind of things by me from now on. I am right now. We're taking five glorious days of coma inducing fun in the Caribbean, son. Columbia is not in the Caribbean. Whatever, common savior. Marcus, you do not know the first thing about running a resort. So we hire people to run it for us. You keep using this word us. All right, look, if it wasn't for me, all you'd ever do is stay home, play with your dolls and cry over your failed marriage. They are reenactment figurines. Besides, you need this. It's time to get back on the whore. Ssss. With an S. Plural. Exactly. Wouldn't you rather be an action figure instead of play with them? Charlie considers this before coming to his senses. No, no, no, I can't just up and run off to Columbia. I've got responsibilities. Charlie picks up the empties and walks off. The old Charlie would have jumped at a chance like this. Well, let me know if you see him. He's got some explaining to do. Off Sam and Marcus watching him go, cut to exterior Audrey's house day. Charlie parks his car and steps out, shocked by what he sees in the driveway. Ben, in full goalie gear, is duct taped to a hockey net like a drill dummy, while Carla takes slap shots. One ball hits Ben in the chest. Ben winces. Dad! Benny, what the hell is this? Carla turns to see Charlie approach. Oh, hey Chuck, still cruising around in that old vulva I see. Carla, why the hell is my son tied up? Well, little guy wanted to learn how to man up and take a slap shot. He hears someone had to teach him. Yeah, come on dad, hit me. Carla offers Charlie the stick expecting him to back down. No, no, no, this ends now. I don't be such a milk dot, Charlie. Do it for the kid. Charlie can feel Ben's eyes on him. He grabs the stick, feels the balance of it in his hands. He winds up for the shot. Carla, next time an eight year old tells you to tie him up. Charlie releases, top left corner, nothing but net. Think like a grown up and don't... Another shot, nothing but net. Just as Charlie goes to release his third shot, Audrey comes out of the house. Charlie, what the... are you insane? The ball flies and hits Ben square in the groin. My balls. He grunts. He grunts and falls forward with the net falling on top of him. Hey Kevin, have you ever hit the balls before? Hey Justin, can you take care of that? Charlie, are you insane? The ball flies and hits Ben square in the groin. He grunts and falls forward with the net falling on top of him. Charlie drops the stick, they rush to Ben. Jesus, Charlie, he's just a kid. Ben, sweetie, maybe are you alright? Oh, Benny, I am so sorry. Audrey rips through the tape. Mom, did you see it? I took it in the pills like a... like a champ. What the hell were you thinking? Charlie is flummoxed. Really irresponsible, Chuck? You could have seriously hurt the boy. Charlie seethes but decides not to turn it into a thing. I'm sorry buddy, are you alright? Yeah, I'm alright. Double back, you just like Carla taught me. You wanna see? Better check his coin purse just in case. Charlie throws Carla a look. What are you doing here anyway? Well, I can't buy to tell Ben I won't be able to take him to the Civil War reenactment this weekend. Turns out I need to work. This is... okay. So first you almost killed our son and now you're bailing on him. That's pretty low, even for you. Charlie takes a knee. Ben doesn't wanna show he's really not all that disappointed. No. That's okay. I understand. I mean, since it's for work. Well, yeah, the pressure's on me, but look, I'll make it up to you. Alright bud? So, I mean is it okay then if Carla chaperones a camping trip with the other dads from school? This one cuts deep, but Charlie concedes for Ben's sake. The camping trip. He forgot. Yeah, absolutely. I just want you to have fun. Just don't let her tie you to any trees. Ben nods and they hug before Charlie heads back to his car. Love you, dad. After another exciting eight-content convention, Chuck? She cackles. Charlie walks off, set to blow. Voices swirl in his head. There are many words to describe you, but really... Stay in your lane. Would you rather be an action figure instead of play with him? Bang! Charlie turns back and walks right up to Carla, projecting all the swagger a man in cargo pants can muster. Matter of fact, Carla, I am headed to a little country called Columbia. Only one of the deadliest places on earth. Jungle so dense, even the trees will kill you. 24-anaconda ready to swallow you up. Ben's mouth drops. This is the coolest thing ever. A cesspool of cutthroat gorillas and drug pushers armed to the teeth with automatic weapons looking to rip out your tongue and use it for its stamp liquor. That's where I'm going. And if you ever time I get up again, I will come back and show you how it's done. We clear? Carl? Carla is stunned. Charlie puts his shades back on, surprised with himself. He walks back to his car. Audrey catches up with him. Hey, hey, Charlie. Listen, about career date. Don't mention it. You know, I kind of felt bad for Carla. So awkward. She smiles. There's still some sweetness left between them. So Columbia, really? Research my new book. It's a thriller. Audrey is impressed. She tries to hide a smile and laugh. What? Just for a second there, I thought about when we first met. And how excited you were to write the great American novel. Maybe it's time to change lanes. Charlie smiles, turns to walk to his car. Hey. Charlie looks back. Check your blind spot, okay? Charlie winks and turns as confidence descends into dread. Pre-lapse screaming jet turbines take us to Exterior Cartagena Airport runway day establishing. The plane screeches down onto a heat-blurred tarmac over traditional Cumbia music. Exterior Cartagena Airport arrivals exit day. Slow-mo. Marcus swagger's like Don Johnson. Hair slicked back. Sam sporting a neckerchief. Struts like a peacock. Charlie straggles covered in sweat, looking green. The front of the airport fossils with fruit vendors, beggars, and touts pushing taxis and brothels. Not the village people I was hoping for. Through a camera map from a distance. The guys are oblivious. They are being photographed. Click. Photo of Marcus. Keep your eyes peeled, man. He said there'd be a driver. Click. Photo of Sam. I need a phantom. Anyone else? Click. Photo of Charlie. How about a ten-minute shot? Shots. Yeah, now you're thinking. All right, let me see if I can find our ride. Do bring the car around, Marcus. There's a good man. Marcus flips on the bird as he walks off. Exterior streets of Cartagena continuous. A couple big sweaty men standing around an old van snicker at Marcus' approach. Hola, amigos. I'm looking for a car that's supposed to take me to... Takes out brochure. Carrezo Perdido. Bring any bells? Escuchas eso. Esto hijo de puta quiere ir a pareíso. They all laugh. Marcus, not kidding, the joke, laughs along. Sure. We take you there, Marika. The second trucker reaches behind his back for a pistol. Excellent, excellent. Did a senior rojas send you? See? Many rojas? He said he'd send a car, but I guess... Just say Manolo Rojas. Oh, great! So you don't care. The trucker's getting their truck and apologetically drive off. Wait, don't... Guys! Exterior streets of Cartagena, convenience stand continuous. Charlie glumly watches a few street kids playing soccer while he waits. The ball rolls over Charlie's way. He stops it and passes it back to a kid. The kid arcs the ball back to catch it in the nape of his neck. Charlie nods, suitably impressed. The kid smiles and rubs his index finger and thumb together. All right, kid. That's worth a peso. Charlie takes out his velcro wallet. The kid kicks the ball right at Charlie's nose. Stunned, he drops the wallet. The kid grabs it and takes off. He gets about 10 feet when he's yanked back hard seconds before a speeding truck almost hits him. Charlie comes running to find Lucia, a stunning Colombian woman, 34, dressed like a female Indiana Jones with no nonsense attitude. A police badge dangles from her neck. Let me go! Let me go! Charlie, still seeing stars, looks up and gets a glimpse of her, backlit by the sun. Looking like an angel. Oh, that was amazing! La Catera, ahora? The kid unwillingly hands her the wallet. She lets him go and he runs off. Lucia opens it and checks Charlie's ID. Charlie, bleaker, if you insist on being a target, at least be a moving one, huh? Thanks. I'll remember that. Marcus and Sam come running up to them. Lucia eyes them all, tosses back the wallet. Colombia can be a dangerous place, Charlie Bleaker. Be more careful. She walks off. But what's your name? Can I call you? En tus sueños. What a beautiful name. In your dreams, Charlie. Definitely. Sam shakes his head and leaves Charlie staring off, smitten. Exterior, Cata Jena Street's day. We follow the street kid as he walks past a man, 40s, gobbling a hamburger at a curbside cantina. The man sticks out his foot and blocks the kid. This is Agent Knowles with the DEA, a Miami Vice-Throwback with Permistubble. Where's the wallet? Some lady just taught me. The kid tries to grab a fry. Knowles pulls them away. This guy? Americano? Si, si. And the woman who stopped you? Did they know each other? Amino, thanks, si, por la silla. Knowles slides the plate of fries back with 2,000 pesos under it. The kid grabs it all and takes off. A thin man on a straw hat comes out of the cantina. The camera slung around his neck. This is Agent Martinez, 40s. And a useful... More toriistas in search of paradise. Courtesy of Manny Rojas. Exterior, Catahania Airport, day. An El Dorado convertible pulls up in front of the guys. Ernie, a skinny kid, 20s and cheap sunglasses flashes a wide grin. Well, I want you guys don Marcus. Oh yeah, Marcus. Marcus is my first name. This is Charlie and that's Sam. Oh, con mucho gusto, ay? Emernesto, your driver. Call me Ernie. Ernie pops the trunk, hops out and opens the doors. Ah, what'd I tell ya? First class all the way. I hate to see last class. Ernie grabs their bags and throws them in the trunk. Que hermanos, pero les ojo. As Charlie gets in, he spots Lucia across the street. Hey Charlie, isn't that your dream girl? Oh yeah, what did you say her name was? It was something exotic sounding. En tu sueño? Something like that. Ernie laughs as they pull out and drive off. En tus sueños. In your dreams, Charlie. In your dreams. Exterior Colombian countryside driving day. Ernie switches on some reggaeton music as the guys take in the colorful Colombian cityscape. So is Colombia as dangerous as everyone says it is? No, no, no. It's much safer these past ten years. Don Pablo left us. Don Pablo? What was he like, your president or something? They all look back at him. Are you kidding? Escobar, you tit. I knew that. Who's Pablo Escobar? They all look at Sam like he's got nipples for eyes. Only the richest, most notorious drug lord in history. Ernie's megawatt smile is momentarily replaced by a haunted expression. Mira, escuche. Sam said the patron was the cancer of Colombia. Many call him the patron saint of pain and the warden of agony. Rumors persist he never died and wasted the shadows so that one day he may rise again. He crosses himself. Sam is still confused. Okay, so not your president. Cut to exterior, think a hideaway, day establishing. Angle on an idyllic pastoral scene of a country farmhouse until we notice the armed guards in full on camouflage. Interior, think a hideaway, front hall, day. Maria Chung, 42, a 5 foot nothing, spunky, big-haired bald buster of an Asian woman, carrying her yappy lasso opso like a clutch handbag, and a rolled up newspaper in the other hand. She opens the front door, pushing aside an armed guard. Move, where is he? A henchman comes out to greet her smiling nervously. Donya Maria, we did not expect you back so soon. How was your vacation? Don't give me any of that shit. Where the hell is my husband? Oh, Don Pablo. He's in the kitchen preparing lunch for the children. She shows the paper to Rudy. Did you know about this? Donya Maria, I am not privileged to such things. Smack! Maria swats in with the paper and then storms down the hallway. What's the sound of you getting smacked by Maria? Can you do that again, Tess? Sure. Smack! Maria swats in with the paper and then storms down the hallway. Interior, Escobar hideaway, kitchen, day. Pablo! Pablo 54, the instantly recognizable mustachioed bear, wears a frilly apron over his safari shirt. He stands in front of a hot stove chomping on a cigar making grilled cheeses. I know you can hear me! Pablo's eyes go wide. Uh oh. He takes the cigar out of his mouth, chucks it out an open window and waves his hand to clear up the smoke. Shit, he's coming early. That better not be smoke, Iceman. The door pushes open and walks Maria, fit to be tied. Maria, me, Angel, you're back! What am I going to say? What am I going to say? I have no idea what you are going to say. Then why do you roll your eyes? What has gotten you so upset, mi amor? Explain yourself! She slams the paper down on the counter. Angle on front page. The headline reads, Escobar dead or alive. Above a grainy photograph of Pablo in a ball cap and sunglasses, walking through a forest like Bigfoot. Mi vida! This is Salacious Castle of Mongering. Why you pay attention? A better question is, why would a dead man visit the fucking zoo? He grimaces the word stuck in his throat. Then... Okay, fine. It was me, I did it. But, querida, I need to see my animals. Next to you, they are my everything. What about your children? What about them? Ten years, ten years you have been dead and you come out to feed the fucking animals, idiota! Maria, my hippos, my rhino, they're out there in the wild, cold and alone, they need me. I swear, if anything were to happen to them... Pablo, Pablo, who is the head of this family now? He waffles, technically on paper. Who? You are? Correcto, yo. I am the one who's wearing los pants. I control the production and the distribution. You control the grilled cheese. Got it? Maria storms out of the kitchen. Pablo tastes his grilled cheese. Not bad. Okay, bad. Cut to exterior front gates. Pariso perdido de. The car drives to security station flanked by armed guards. Ernie waves and the car is allowed to pass. Exterior, Pariso perdido de. As the sun dips below the trees, we arrive at an old colonial villa, framed by exotic floral topiaries. Woo, yep. As the sun dips below the trees, we arrive at an old colonial villa, framed by exotic floral topiaries and fountains, framed by fruit trees and palm fronds. There we go. Woo. Rope bag. Interior, Pariso perdido villas de. Ernie opens the doors to an enormous room. The guys are dumbstruck. The luxurious suite is decked out in a tropical motif with marble floors and gold fixtures. It screams money. Do you like it, huh? Señor Rojas forgets he cannot be here to greet you personally, but he has instructed me to extend every courtesy. His house is your house. Hey, me casa su casa. I just got that. The guys drop their bags. Marcus pulls out a fiver for Ernie. Oh, please. I will consider it an offense. Marcus pushes it back into Ernie's pocket. Winks. Okay, now, if you got a yellow, excuse me, I must confer with the chef about dinner. Ernie turns, pulls out the dirty bill like it's a used tissue. Now this is living. Screw living. This is heavy. Charlie opens the door to an adjoining identical suite. Check it out. Adjoining rooms. You see, I told you guys, many is the real deal. Yeah, well, I will reserve judgment. Oh, crazy shit is gonna go down. I can feel it. Speaking of, Sammy needs to drop a double, so I'm off to find the little Machacho's room. Sam steps into the en suite and starts humming. Charlie's room. Charlie and Pax, putting everything away neatly while Marcus grabs a swan towel off his bed and pretends to hump it. Oh, oh, are you time to wank? Oh, fuck, let me try that again. I think. I'm almost there. I'm almost there. Just let me finish. Just let me finish. Just let me finish. Oh, God. Oh, oh, oh. Time to wank, Chunk, Columbian style, Poppy. What do you think? I think you're gonna catch swan herby. About buying the place, man. I mean, you're the investment guru. Okay, Marcus, we've been here less than an hour. Okay, I get it. You wanted a free trip and everything, but you're not seriously considering buying this place, are you? Admit it. You don't think I have the business smarts to pull this off to you? Okay, look, it's not like running a nightclub. The hospitality industry is a major commitment and no offense. Sam walks back in fanning himself. You should buy this place for the bidet alone. It's liberating. Charlie doesn't think I'm smart enough to run a resort. Because you're not. But you could pay someone to be smart enough like you do for the bar. Marcus is satisfied with that. Okay, look, putting aside the monumental risk factor, the finance and the liability, do you even know what's around here? Or anything at all about this country for that matter? It's called due diligence. Marcus grabs three beers from the mini bar and tosses them out. Sam screams, completely missing the bottle. It smashes through a window. Marcus pulls out another. I thought you might say that, which is why I arranged for us to go on a little fact-finding mission. You know, taking some of the local culture. How local? Cut to exterior Jungle Mountain roads moving Jeep Day. Ernie and the guys ride in a Range Rover through the winding countryside. The Jeep pulls into a clearing in front of a small, thatched hut with a satellite dish. They all hop out. Exterior Mamos Hut Day. Okay, chicos. To fully appreciate the beauty of Colombia, you need to purge yourself of all impurities in order to be born again as true Colombianos. I thought impurities were the whole reason we came. Well, consider this, your spiritual rebirth. Okay, listo! Not in the listo. And for the record, I was told we were going to a day spa. Charlie pokes a wind chime of tiny skulls hanging off a tree. Okay, remind me again why you thought this was a good idea. For one, this will help you unclench. Or at the very least, it'll make it just so glitched, it'll totally forget your name. Charlie shrugs. Good point. Interior Mamos Hut Day. The guys walk into the beaded curtain as a fire pit in the center surrounded by log benches. They sit. Holy fucka duck, it's like Satan's fainter in here. Hey, hey, hey, don't be rude. This is somebody's house. Enter Mamo 80s, very muscular for a man his age. He's naked except for a loincloth and feathered headdress. Okay, now we're talking. The Mamo chants in his mountain language as he reaches into a pouch and blows a handful of cocaine dust at them. Charlie lays a very wet old man's sneeze right in Marcus' face. Dude, seriously? Charlie wipes his nose, looks around for something to wipe his hand on, but there's nothing, so we wipe it on Sam. On Mamo, he takes out a clay bowl and blows some cigar smoke into it, letting the fumes waft over him. He takes a sip and passes it to Marcus. When in Rome, I guess. Sweet Jesus, he's already forgotten where we are. Marcus takes a swig and passes it to Sam, who gags from the smell. He drinks and passes the bowl to Charlie. Uh, feeling anything? Sam and Marcus exchange looks and shrug. Neither feel a thing. Charlie resigns himself to the moment. Why do I let you talk me into this stuff? Charlie takes a giant gulp, everyone watches him, and then slowly a smile comes across his face. Uh, that actually tastes kind of... Kind of... He falls to his knees and wretches violently. No! No! Marcus and Sam laugh maniacally in slow motion. No! Then two join in the puking. Exterior, Shaman's hut later. Marcus and Sam run a water pump trying to wash the shit stains off their underpants. Charlie emerges, born again. Marcus and Sam go to him. Charlie! We thought you were dead! Gentlemen, I am alive and ready to... No, I lied. He wretches. Pre-lap, cue wild Columbian party music. Party montage, night. Gambling pit. Charlie, Sam and Marcus in a boozy haze, hunch over a dirt pit surrounded by gambling farmers all clutching bills. Across from them, a ranchero pulls the drawstring on a burlap sack, and a cobra sliders out. Charlie scoffs. He whistles and a monkey jumps into the pit, flips up on a switchblade, the crowd goes wild. Scorpion Den. We make our way through a crowd of onlookers to the front of the crowd. At the front, a shirtless Marcus is in a chugging contest with another man, as the crowd cheers them on. We pan down to reveal. Scorpions clamp to each of their nipples. The other guy swells up horribly, making Marcus the winner. Fight Cage. Sam, bare-chested and spent, sits on a stool in the corner of a chain-link fight cage. The crowd shouts his name. He does another rail of blow. The bell dings and a horde of masked midget luchadoros pour in. Sam howls and bats each one away. Neon Love Motel. Marcus's door opens and out-walks two gorgeous women followed by a satisfied Marcus. Next door, a terrified Charlie runs out, followed by a humongous, sweaty woman. Sam's door opens and out comes three gorgeous men. Eight masked midget wrestlers. The switchblade monkey and a couple of chickens followed by Sam doing up his robe. Dissolve to exterior truck moving through the jungle next morning. Ernie drives over bumpy terrain. Marcus, Sam and Charlie are dressed in suits, looking very hungover. My head feels like I was shot out of a ferret. Remind me again, what part of waking up at the ass crack of dawn was a good idea? Waking up? This is real? Quiet, Meryl. You said you wanted the full cultural experience. Distant POV. And again, they are being watched. Exterior Jungle Road Night. Knowles and Martinez sit in a parked Jeep. Knowles hands Martinez a pair of binoculars. Scope mat. The Jeep stops and our weary travelers pour out. Ernie and his helper Louise unload a duffel bag of AK-47s. What do you think? Could be arms dealers? Back to scene. It's possible. Whoever these guys are, they're no amateurs. My guess? Rojas is making a run for the throne. Knowles smiles, throws an armor at Martinez. This is the one we've been waiting for, Marty. We do this right, we finally get out of this shit-hole country. How do you want to handle it? We waited this long. Let's see how it plays out. Exterior Deep Jungle Day. Charlie shuffles along, his head is pounding. Marcus plays quick draw with an oozy. Sam is busy fileting a large cigar. Okay. I'm starting to see the appeal of these things. Whose idea was it to wear suits in the middle of a rainforest? On last day, I thought it'd be nice to class things up. Plus we look super dupe. Marcus practices his quick draw. Because we are dopes. Shouldn't we at least have safety vets or goggles or something? Will you quit worrying? These guys are professionals. Ernie and his helper, Luis, approach. Ernie carries a rifle. Okay, amigos. Today we go through one of the most dangerous places in the world. But out here, hombre-man rules. Jess? So what do we have? Vaca de la Selva. Jungle cow. I know, right? Trudging through the jungle, Luis holds up a fist for all the stop. He goes to the edge of the tree line and looks in. Something big approaches. We hear snorts. Debería ser tu vaca. Es el más antiguo que pudimos encontrar. Ernie laughs and shakes his head. What is he saying? Luis says he finds a ferocious wild cow to shoot. Very, very dangerous. He asks if he can get out of this way. Okay? He can get out of this way. Luis makes noises to attract the beast. Woo, woo, woo! Snorting followed by more rustling. Ernie turns to Charlie. Okay, Charlie. Here's your chance. What? Me? Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I do not want to shoot a cow. Charlie don't insult them. Kill the fucking cow. I can get it! The snorting gets louder. Luis pokes his head into the brush. The beast tears out of the forest. It's definitely not a cow, but a charging four-ton rhinoceros. The rhino butts loose, sends him flying. Now it's headed straight towards the guys. Run, run, you guys, run! The rhino butts Ernie out of the way. Sam and Marcus die for cover. Charlie is frozen. Time slows. His heart pounds like a kettle drop. The rhino charges. Charlie takes a deep breath, grips the shaft, slides his finger to the trigger, and blammo! The rhino skids to a stop barely a few feet away. Dead. The shot echoes through the trees. Everyone is speechless, a long beat, until they erupt, elated. Oh my fucking god! That was insane! Ernie slowly takes the gun out of Charlie's hand. What just happened? Charlie, you saved us! Charlie faints and falls to the ground. Marcus rushes to his side and slaps Charlie to wake him up. Charlie awakens and slaps him back. Devolves into an early slap fight. What? Okay, you kidding me. Alright, then don't go. You stupid. Fuck you. Fuck you. I could be wrong, but this doesn't look like a cow. They turn their attention to Ernie approaching the dead beast. On Ernie. He cocks his pistol and carefully approaches the carcass. That's because it's not a cow. Dios mio, es el rhino cerro! You shot a fucking rhinoceros! Oh, that is so baller. All three move in for a closer look. Ernie checks his head and confirms it. One clean shot right between the eyes. Aw, poor little guy. Ernie notices a tag on the rhino's ear and stumbles back. It does the sign of the cross. Santa Mario venido de Dios. Marcus reads the tag. Propriada de Pablo Escobar. Holy shit, dude. Not just any rhino. You just killed Pablo Escobar's rhino. Is that bad? I would say that is in a whole other fucking time zone from bed. In devact one.