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THE KHE SANH BROS by Mike Colonna Synopsis: The Battle of Khe Sanh was a 77-day siege in 1968 during the Vietnam War where U.S. Marines and their allies defended the Khe Sanh Combat Base from a massive North Vietnamese Army offensive. The battle involved intense artillery bombardment, air power, and a disrupted supply line, eventually leading to the relief of the base in April 1968 and the later abandonment of the base. The strategic significance of the battle remains a topic of debate, with some believing it was intended to distract from the Tet Offensive, while others see it as an attempt to seize a strategic area. Five Marines led bThe 5 Marines served out their time, retired were considered heroes, but as time would have it all became homeless, and reconnected on the Pacific Coast Highway, 7th Street and Bellflower. Each manned a traffic light panhandling and sharing their “wealth” at the corner Jack N The Box on Bellflower Blvd. Their lives would change after witnessing a road rage accident and a murder that resulted. FADE IN: EXT. LONG BEACH — SEVENTH & PCH — DAY Heat halos vibrate off asphalt. TRAFFIC chokes the intersection. A MILK CRATE. A cardboard sign: ARMY VET — ANYTHING HELPS. BOB PURNELL (60s), lean, sun-cut, eyes like rangefinders, posts up beneath a lamppost. He scans lanes the way a sniper scans tree lines. A BLACK DODGE CHARGER weaves, bass THUNDERING. The windows rattle. In the adjacent lane: a SILVER SEDAN, pristine, ribbon on the rearview. JOSEPH PARKIN (58), Marine posture, suit, boutonniere, white knuckles on the wheel. ON BOB — head tilts, listening. BOB (V.O.) Hear the jungle before you see it. Always. The light turns RED. The Charger skids. TIRES SCREAM. JAMES GONZALES (24) explodes out, ink up his neck, a TIRE IRON in hand. INTERSECTION — CONTINUOUS Gonzales SLAMS the sedan hood — BOOM. PARKIN steps out, palms raised. PARKIN Take it easy, son— WHACK! The tire iron arcs. Parkin STAGGERS. WHACK-WHACK! Ugly, wet impacts. Screams. A BABY cries. A PHONE lifts, filming. BOB half-steps forward... stops. He locks on the plate. INSERT — LICENSE PLATE: “7XR-L92” (OR SIMILAR) Bob MOUTHS the plate, rhythm like a radio check. WHACK! Parkin crumples. Gonzales breathes hard, eyes VACANT. He jumps back into the Charger. PEELS OUT. A crown STICKER flashes on the rear glass. ROAR of ENGINE fading EAST. Bob’s jaw sets. BOB (semi-salute at Parkin) Hold fast. SIRENS swell. EXT. INTERSECTION — MOMENTS LATER OFFICER STEVE FOLGER checks Parkin’s pulse — grim. OFFICER STANLEY CHAVEZ pushes the crowd. BOB I got the plate! OFFICER CHAVEZ Back up, sir— BOB (precise, firm, calls it out) Seven. X-Ray. Romeo. Lincoln. Niner. Two. The officer FREEZES, keys mic. OFFICER CHAVEZ (INTO RADIO) Broadcast: 7XR-L92, black Dodge Charger, eastbound Seventh. EXT. INTERSECTION — LATER Crime scene tape. YELLOW. Humming. DETECTIVE LARRY AMBROSE (40s), suit defeating the heat, studies Bob. AMBROSE You read it or you kept it? BOB Both. AMBROSE You drinking? BOB Not yet. AMBROSE almost smirks. Noted. AMBROSE Anything else? Bob’s gaze tracks the lane where the Charger fled. BOB Passenger. Small shape. Long hair. And a sticker — white crown. Back glass. Driver wore a silver lion ring. Index finger. AMBROSE clocks every word. AMBROSE You just gave me a second camera angle. He tears a card, presses it into Bob’s hand. AMBROSE You sleep where? BOB Under PCH. Sea turtle mural. AMBROSE Stay close, Mr. Purnell. Local TV Station Van’s arrive on the scene. One reporter approaches BOB. RUSSEL PORTER I’m RUSSEL PORTER KNBC can you tell me what happened? BOB That detective over there told me not to discuss this with anyone. RUSSEL PORTER Did you tell the officers what you saw. BOB Absolutely, everything! After the live interview Bobs face was all over the news. Detective AMBROSE was Police Headquarters Downtown piecing all the details of his conversation with BOB, and looks up from his desk at the TV. RUSSEL PORTER This is a KNBC News Bulletin. A Homeless Viet Nam Vet has witnessed an alleged murder cause by road rage in Long Beach. Bob what did you see? BOB I saw it all, gave Police all the information they requested, hope they catch these guys. RUSSEL PORTER Sending it back to you at the Studio. DETECTIVE AMBROSE Dammit, I told BOB not to talk to anyone. Now we’ve got a problem. Officer Chavez walks into the room half way through the TV interview and hears AMBROSE talking to himself. OFFICER CHAVEZ This guy just signed his death warrant. DETECTIVE AMBROSE Come with me CHAVEZ. I’ve go an idea. EXT. UNDER PCH — NIGHT TENTS, palle fires. The hum of freeway like distant rotors. WALT PURNELL (50s) — Bob’s younger brother, charming wreck — drops onto the curb, new backpack still wearing its SPIDER SECURITY TAG. WALT Heard you went siren on ‘em. Bum Alarm, baby. Bob stares at the darkness. BOB A man died. Walt’s grin falters. He nudges Bob’s shoulder. WALT Got a line on a door gig. A guy with a big watch needs statues. Two hours. Cash, sandwich. You and me. Bob listens past Walt. Beyond the freeway hum... a SCOOTER with a rattly chain passes above. BOB Chain’s off pitch. WALT That a yes? Bob doesn’t answer. EXT. BOB’S CORNER — DAY AMBROSE arrives with COFFEE. Hands it over. AMBROSE We popped your plate. James Gonzales. Debt to a local set. Word is, he’s been doing hits dressed as “rage.” There’s a name behind him — TÍO. We’ve never seen his face clean. Bob sips, watching traffic. BOB You want ears. AMBROSE And a mouth no one notices. You in? A beat. A light turns green, the whole block exhales. BOB I’m in. AMBROSE slides over a beater flip phone. AMBROSE One number. Me. You feel heat, hang up. I’ll hear it anyway. EXT. LONG BEACH — VARIOUS — LISTENING MONTAGE — Bob on his crate. CROWN STICKERS on beaters glide by. — A kid in a DODGERS CAP whistles the same bar every day. — A HONDA CIVIC with a blown speaker taps 3-2 bass knocks at the donut shop. — A HAND with a LION RING raps change: ting-ting-ting... pause... ting. — Bob’s thumb brushes the PHONE. He DIALS. Short intel drops. AMBROSE’s WALL fills with map pins and strings. EXT. UNDER PCH — NIGHT Walt bounces on his heels, wired. WALT Door gig’s tonight. Warehouse by the river. Dude called “Tío.” You coming or what? Bob’s eyes narrow. He turns away, dials. BOB (INTO PHONE) Warehouse. River. “Tío.” Tonight. AMBROSE (V.O., FILTERED) Be a witness and live. Bob pockets the phone. Faces Walt. BOB I’m coming. EXT. RIVER WAREHOUSE ROW — NIGHT A slit of moon. Sodium lights buzz. A corrugated door half-open like a jaw. Inside: STRING LIGHTS sag. A dead forklift. Spray-painted CROWN, six feet tall. Men haul UNMARKED BOXES. A boy flips a KNIFE open-shut-open, CLICK-CLACK metronome. TÍO (50s?) emerges from shadow. Tie too formal, watch too heavy, face forgettable by design. On his INDEX: LION RING. He measures Bob and Walt. TÍO You stand. You see. You say if anything wrong comes. (to Walt) Face the street. (to Bob) Face me. Bob’s eyes catalog exits, head height, tool racks, footfalls. Vietnam muscle memory lights up. The BLACK CHARGER slides in. Engine idles low, like a growl swallowed. GONZALES climbs out. The PASSENGER door eases — a GIRL (19), bruised eye, hair curtaining shame. TÍO Where you been? GONZALES Here. TÍO You made music. Now uniforms know my song. Gonzales swallows. The girl stares at the floor. TÍO (to the girl) Go home. Not his. Yours. She slips past Bob. For a breath, their eyes meet. She’s counting exits too. TÍO (to Gonzales) You will fix what you broke. By dawn. Gonzales nods like a boy promised detention. He starts to go, cranks the stereo reflexively — BASS SWELLS — catches Tío’s look, kills it. The Charger ghosts out. Tío turns to Bob and Walt. Soft voice, harder message. TÍO Come. INT. WAREHOUSE OFFICE — NIGHT Peeling calendar of a beach. Metal desk scarred with cigarette burns. Tío sits. Bob remains standing. TÍO If uniforms come because of you, you disappear. No song. Understand? BOB I hear you. Tío’s eyes flick to Walt — the leverage. Back to Bob — the fulcrum. TÍO Good listener. He gestures — dismissed. EXT. WAREHOUSE — DAWN First birds. River breath. Walt trembles as adrenaline drains. WALT We can’t— BOB We can. We will. Bob dials. Low, quick: BOB (INTO PHONE) Cars. Boxes. Crown. Lion. Gonzales out hunting witnesses by dawn. Office southwest corner. Loader bay chained. Third window painted shut. AMBROSE (V.O., FILTERED) Copy. Sit tight. Don’t be a hero. Bob kills the call. Looks at Walt. BOB Be alive. EXT. SEVENTH & PCH — PRE-DAWN Gonzales’ Charger creeps along the curb — predatory. The corner is empty. He frowns. Floors it. INT. GONZALES’ CHARGER — MOVING — DAWN Phone BUZZ. Unknown text: a CROWN EMOJI + a CLOCK. He grimaces, U-TURNS. EXT. WAREHOUSE ROW — NIGHT LATER. Unmarked units black out. BOOTS hit gravel. A RAM pops the office door — CRACK! LAPD SWAT floods in. FLASH-BANG — BANG—WHUMP! Light devours darkness. Men cough, hands up. AMBROSE threads through chaos, eyes on targets. AMBROSE Hands! Hands! Don’t be brave! A RUNNER bolts down an aisle. AMBROSE plants, BODY-SHOTS him into a crate — CRASH! Another suspect reaches for a drawer — TASER POP. Down. Office safe yawns open — CASH, LEDGERS, a PHONE with contacts labeled in emojis only. AMBROSE Bag it. All of it. No Tío. EXT. ALLEY — SAME A SHADOW — Tío — slips into a sedan and dissolves into city glow. EXT. UNDER PCH — DAWN Bob and Walt wait under concrete ribs. Sirens far away now, like thunder on a different shore. WALT We good? BOB We’re breathing. Walt pulls out a CARBURETOR he’s been tinkering with, proud boy again. WALT Shop on Anaheim’ll teach if you show up twice in a row. Boss says I’m good with jets. Bob eyes the part, its fluted precision. Nods. BOB Make it sing. EXT. SEVENTH & PCH — MORNING The corner wakes: coffee steam, bus brakes, dog walkers. A WOMAN in a green cardigan hands Bob a BAG and a NOTE. WOMAN He taught my son to parallel park. Thank you for hearing him. She goes. Bob opens the bag — sandwich. The note in a child’s scrawl: Thank you for hearing my grandpa. He tucks it next to the flip phone. The talisman beats the tech. AMBROSE appears, bone-tired, jacket off. AMBROSE Gonzales is in a box. He sang some, choked more. We crippled Tío’s arm, not the body. But the boys running errands? They’re gonna need jobs that don’t pay in funerals. He studies Bob — really sees him. AMBROSE I can get you a bed. Counselor’s good. No pressure. BOB Sheets are loud. AMBROSE smirks, tips an invisible cap. AMBROSE You ever want quieter loud, call me. He moves on. EXT. SEVENTH & PCH — LATER Midday shimmer. A BUS idles. A KID leans out a window. KID Bum Alarm! Bob SALUTES. The bus driver HONKS twice, friendly. A PICKUP with a dust-dulled CROWN STICKER rolls by. Bob clocks it, files it, lets it go. BOB (V.O.) Not every crown wears a king. A FATHER and SON in tuxes glide through the green, arguing cufflinks. The radio hums a wedding standard. No shouts. No iron. Bob exhales. The corner breathes with him. EXT. SHORELINE — SUNSET Bob and Walt stand ankle-deep. The Pacific chews orange into silver. WALT They’re naming that corner after Parkin. Little sign. Still. BOB Good. WALT You okay? Bob watches a wave break, rebuild, return. BOB Not where I was. Walt nods, kicks surf. For once, they let the silence be a bridge, not a wall. EXT. LONG BEACH — NIGHT City lights blink awake. Somewhere: a door closes on a warehouse. Somewhere else: a badge clicks onto a hook. The freeway hum is almost a lullaby. Back at the corner, Bob settles in. He adjusts the crate, squares the sign, sets his feet like a sentry. He listens. — A SCOOTER chain now true. — A HONDA’s 3-2 bass knocks shift to 2-2 — new code, new day. — Somewhere a PHONE goes up to film, then down to help. Bob’s eyes lift to the light. BOB (V.O.) Take the first thing. Hear it. Say it. Live. FADE OUT. TITLE CARD: THE BUM ALARM OVER BLACK: SUPER: “In memory of Joseph Parkin — Marine, father, neighbor.” CUT TO BLACK. THE END “The Bum Alarm” Logline: A former Army Vietnam Veteran now homeless help police solve a petty crime that accelerates into a murder for hire investigation. A homeless man panhandling on a busy intersection in Long Beach, California helped police solve the fatal beating by a group of gangbangers over a road rage incident. Synopsis: Bob Purnell was a fixture on the corner of Seventh Street and Pacific Coast Highway in Long Beach. After his release from the Army after two stints in Viet Nam, Bob’s mental condition was questionable. His brother, also homeless, stood Bob Purnell, a homeless man, watched James Gonzales beat 58 year old retired Marine Joseph Parkin to death. Parkin a long time Long Beach resident tried to fight back but Gonzales used a blunt instrument to beat Parking to death. Gonzales got back in his car and sped off. Purnell memorized the assailants license plate and gave the tag number to police when they arrived at the scene. Police are searching for James Gonzales 24, for first-degree mur der. The road rage that day started when Parkin, who lives in East Long Beach, was traveling to his son's wedding and pulled into a speeding car driven by Gonzales going east on Seventh street past Recreation Park Golf Course. Purnell could hear loud rap music coming from Gonzales car the music got his attention. He witnessed the entire incident from his corner location.