EXT. THE BEACH
An aging CABANA BOY is squinting as he looks up at the sundeck. When he speaks, we discover that he is the NARRATOR we have been listening to. Blood trickles from a wound in the center of his forehead. He is holding a stiletto-heeled shoe.
(DABBING AT WOUND, TO CAMERA)
What can I say? She's head over heels for me.
I am Cabana Boy. At least that's what my roommates call me. All summer I have shared this beach house with three vacationing swimsuit models. Right, somebody has to. People say my life is a Bud Light commercial. Or Three's Company. Except there are four of us...
Navia, 24, slides open the deck door and pops her head into the living room, while BRANDI, 19, addresses the lazy, vain, stupid CABANA BOY below. She is clearly fed up with him. Her tone and the camera angle call to mind Mussolini speaking from the balcony.
Cabana Boy! We're out of towels!
O.K., so I'm not so much their roommate as their manservant, a professional cabana boy, beach lackey to the beautiful. My life is really like The Flamingo Kid, except I'm no Matt Dillon. No, I'm far better looking. Oh, and I'm old enough to be their oldest brother. Though that's clearly impossible, because while these ladies do come from the deep end of the gene pool, I, Cabana Boy, am...
WIDE SHOT-LAETITIA is on the sundeck and CABANA BOY is on the beach.
(IN FRENCH, WITH ENGLISH SUBTITLES)
You, Cabana Boy, are something foul, skimmed off the surface by the guy who cleans the gene pool.