Find Magdalena

FADE IN: two surfers.

“I found this note on my phone that I never wrote.”

“What do you mean?”

“A notepad-note-thingie that said, ‘Things are getting interesting.’ Like, what the fuck?”

“Ok…”

“I feel like I’m getting my identity stolen.”

“You would know if that was happening. You also get shit-faced a lot, so there’s that.”

“Yeah. There’s this guy in the music business who sent me an email with a legal document attached that said, ‘You better get yourself a good lawyer, see you in court.’ Like, what the fuck did I do? It haunted me. I got off Facebook, Twitter, everything.”

“Don’t let ass-fucks like that get in your way. Fuckin’ idiots, the lot of ’em.”

“I don’t know. There’s like, some darkness inside, you know.”

He rubs his chest.

And then: “Do you believe in Jesus?”

“As a religion?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Jesus seems like he was a cool dude. Not sure about his father. Look man, you might need to speak to someone.”

“Yeah. You think that’s stupid though?”

“Not in the least. I’m sure Jesus had someone to talk to, wasn’t it that Magdalena chick? Hot redhead at the table? She looks like she could’ve listened to some heavy shit.

“Yeah. I try to deal with it myself but sometimes it feels like surfing and running don’t cut it.”

“That’s cuz you’re running away.”

“Yeah. And it’s catching up to me.”

“Then find a Magdalena, dude.”

FADE OUT.