INT. ICE KOL KUTZ – NIGHT
The neon sign outside flickers weak. Inside, the barbershop feels half-dead, chairs covered in dust, mirrors cracked. Jake paces, fired up. Denzel leans back in a chair, cool as ice, eyes on him like a wolf watching prey.
Jake:
BK had a dream, man. Studio downstairs, somethin’ for the kids. Music instead of corners. But the neighbors killed it. Now I’m standin’ here, askin’ you straight—why you love America so much? Why you readin’ Trump’s lies every day like gospel?
Jake (angry):
Ain’t no racism here in Canada, D. Canada didn’t enslave you. That Statue of Liberty? She ain’t no savior—she a cold bitch. If you wanna do somethin’ real, fix my hood.
Denzel (leaning forward, voice low, dangerous):
Jake… You think freedom’s a passport stamp? You think maple leaves and hockey sweaters wipe away four hundred years? Nah. Racism don’t need chains anymore—it just smiles at you while it starves you. Same game, different mask. Don’t get it twisted.
Jake (slamming the counter):
Man, I don’t need no history class. All I know is BK’s dream died. My block’s dyin’. And you sittin’ here talkin’ like a professor while kids out there can’t eat.
Denzel (eyes burning, whisper):
Liberty don’t feed you, Jake. Liberty’s a fight. You want somethin’? You take it. You bleed for it. Nobody’s comin’ to save you. Not America. Not Canada. Not me.
Jake (steps close, jaw tight):
Then what the hell are you here for? Huh? To tell me I’m screwed?
Denzel (pause, then a slow grin):
Maybe. Or maybe to remind you—sometimes God hides in the cracks, in the dirtiest alleys, in the ugliest corners.
Jake (confused, softer):
What you talkin’ about?
Denzel (leans back, eyes narrowing, half-believing his own words):
Heard somethin’ in East Van. Folks say Jesus walks there. Not in no church. In the dope houses, the shelters, the alleys. They say He sits with the junkies, whispers to the broken. You believe that, Jake?
Jake (hesitates, then nods):
Yeah… I believe it.
Denzel (sighs, shaking his head like he lost a bet):
Damn. You got me. You really got me.
(Denzel stands, pulls a checkbook from his jacket. He slaps it on the counter hard enough to echo in the empty shop.)
Denzel:
Alright. I’ll buy the damn shop. You run it. Studio in the basement. Ice Kol Kutz back from the grave. But you remember this—Jesus might live in East Van, but He ain’t cuttin’ your hair, and He sure as hell ain’t payin’ the bills. That’s on you.
Jake (stunned, whispers):
For real?
Denzel (smirks, Training Day menace and grace all at once):
Yeah. For real. Don’t make me regret it.
