Fox Remington goes incredibly hard.

Screenplay draft

Title: Fox Remington goes incredibly hard.
Credit: Written by
Author: A. Screenwriter
Draft date: 10/01/2024
Contact: 

FADE IN.

INT. FOX REMINGTON'S LIVING ROOM - DAWN

Beige walls glow under sodium-yellow lamp light. A single fox-etched coffee mug rests on the side table. The sagging curtain rod above the window already bows in the middle. FOX REMINGTON, early 30s, stands in a threadbare oxblood bathrobe. Corded forearms and a 20-inch neck fill the terry cloth. He clips a chalk bag to the belt, the metal clasp snapping loud in the quiet room.

He reaches up, grips the rod with one hand, and begins one-arm pull-ups. His body rises in strict, controlled reps. Chalk dust drifts down onto the carpet.

FOX
Forty-seven... forty-eight...

The rod creaks. His neck veins stand out. Sweat beads along his forehead and drops onto the beige carpet.

FOX (CONT'D)
Forty-nine... fifty...

The rod bends further. Fox completes the rep, releases, and drops into a perfect tactical crouch. Knees absorb the impact without sound. He pivots immediately to the yard broom braced against the drywall.

He plants the broom handle against the wall, grips it one-handed, and starts one-arm rows. The bristles scrape the plaster with each pull. His bathrobe belt swings. The chalk bag clicks against his thigh.

Fox pauses only to check his reflection in the blank television screen. He nods once, short and deliberate. Then he resumes the rows, counting under his breath, each scrape of bristle against wall marking another rep.

The curtain rod above the window sways slightly from the earlier strain, still holding for now.

INT. FOX REMINGTON'S LIVING ROOM - DAY

Beige walls catch the flat morning light through half-drawn curtains. A single fox-etched coffee mug rests on the table beside the sagging curtain rod. Chalk dust lingers on the carpet where Fox Remington dropped during the pull-ups. The yard broom still leans against the drywall, bristles scraping faint lines into the plaster.

Fox stands in the oxblood terry bathrobe, chalk bag clipped at his belt. Matte black tactical boots cover his socks. He lifts the mug, takes a slow sip, and turns toward the blank television screen. His reflection stares back: early-thirties face, 20-inch neck corded from the morning's work, forearms still pumped.

He sips again. The mug lowers. He nods once, deliberate and final.

Fox sets the mug down exactly where it began. He adjusts the chalk bag with a short click, then walks to the front door. His boots thud once on the threshold. He pauses, checks the knob, and steps through without looking back at the room.

EXT. SUBURBAN STREET - DAY

Fox Remington power-walks the sidewalk in his threadbare oxblood bathrobe, chalk bag clipped to the belt, matte black tactical boots over white socks. A fox-etched coffee mug swings from one hand. The sodium-vapor streetlights still hum overhead in the early daylight.

He reaches the first lawn, plants a boot on the low picket fence, and vaults cleanly. His free arm stays level, mug steady. The neighbor's sprinkler ticks across the grass behind him.

Second lawn. He clears the hedge in one stride, landing in a low tactical crouch that sends a plastic flamingo toppling. A curtain twitches in the bay window. Fox does not look.

Third lawn. He accelerates, boots thudding across the beige concrete driveway, then launches over the final chain-link section. The chalk bag clicks with each impact. He lands on the far sidewalk, checks his watch, and nods once.

FOX
Fifty-eight seconds. New personal best.

He resumes the power-walk without breaking stride, boots scraping the pale siding of the next house as he passes. The street stays quiet except for the soft rasp of broom-bristle echoes still caught in his robe.

INT. INSURANCE OFFICE CUBICLE - DAY

Beige fabric walls close in around a metal desk. Fox-etched coffee mugs line the back edge, handles aligned to the millimeter. A single Remington calendar hangs above the monitor, open to a page showing bolt-action rifles in cross-section. Sodium light from the ceiling panels flattens everything to the same dull tone.

FOX REMINGTON sits upright, threadbare bathrobe replaced by a pressed button-down that still smells faintly of chalk. Tactical boots rest under the desk, socks pulled tight. His 20-inch neck stays rigid as his fingers move across the keyboard in precise, measured strokes.

Spreadsheets fill the screen. He types claim numbers without error, each entry followed by a short nod only he can see. A mug sits at his right hand, half-full, the fox etched on its side staring forward.

He pauses. Rolls his shoulders once, then locks them square again. His right hand drifts down to grip the underside of the desk. He applies steady pressure, veins rising along his forearm, while his left hand continues entering data. The desk frame creaks once, softly.

A phone rings on the far side of the cubicle wall. Fox answers without looking up.

FOX
Remington. Policy 4782 dash 91. Damage assessment is complete. (beat) Front-end collision, driver at fault. No coverage on the aftermarket modifications.

He listens, still holding the desk lift. The caller speaks. Fox’s cadence never changes.

FOX
Understood. I’ll file it now.

He releases the desk. The creak stops. He types the final line, saves the file, and nods once at the screen. The Remington calendar flutters in the recycled air from the vent above. Fox reaches for the mug, lifts it, and takes one controlled sip without breaking posture.

EXT. FOX REMINGTON'S FRONT YARD - EVENING

Sodium-vapor light pools yellow across the identical driveways. A single fox-etched coffee mug sits abandoned on the porch rail. Through the living-room window, FOX REMINGTON stands in his threadbare oxblood bathrobe, chalk bag clipped to the belt. He grips the sagging curtain rod above the glass and begins one-arm pull-ups. The rod bows under his 20-inch neck. His tactical boots scrape the carpet with each rep.

QUINN BAXTER watches from behind lace curtains in the house next door. Her paint-stained overalls are streaked with primer. She holds a measuring tape in one hand, the metal tongue extended an exact three inches.

Inside, the rod cracks louder on the forty-ninth rep. Fox drops, lands in a tactical crouch, and immediately resets for another set. Sweat darkens the terry cloth across his shoulders.

Quinn steps out onto her porch. She lets the screen door close without a slam.

QUINN
You don’t have to break everything to prove you’re alive.

Fox pauses mid-rep. He lowers himself slowly, releases the rod, and turns toward the window. His voice carries through the glass, low and deliberate.

FOX
Forty-nine. The rod is rated for thirty.

He nods once, then faces the rod again. The bristles of the yard broom scrape the drywall as he braces it for rows.

Quinn crosses the lawn, tape measure clicking shut. She stops at the edge of the sodium light.

QUINN
The curtain rod is three-eighths inch steel. Your neck is twenty inches. Basic arithmetic says stop before the drywall follows.

Fox completes one perfect row, bristles rasping. He checks his reflection in the blank TV screen inside, then steps onto the porch. Chalk dust coats his forearms.

FOX
The manuals say repetition under load builds the tendon. I’m testing the load.

Quinn’s eyebrow lifts exactly half an inch.

QUINN
Your father’s manuals also said the Remington 700 kicks left on cold barrels. You still used it to hang Christmas lights last year. The neighbor’s cat hasn’t forgiven you.

Fox looks at the rod, then at the chalk bag on his belt. He unclips the bag, weighs it in his palm, and sets it on the mug. The evening stays quiet except for the faint click of the tape measure as Quinn retracts it another inch.

FOX
I’ll replace the rod.

QUINN
With what?

FOX
Garden hose. Rated for two hundred psi.

Quinn studies the window. The rod hangs crooked now, a pale scar of exposed drywall behind it. She lets the silence stretch three full seconds.

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