Alien Nation Page #11

QUINT:

What's that mean?

KIPLING:

Duty-bonded. His allegiance to

Strader is above pain or life.

QUINT:

You tellin' me this guy would die

before he'd screw his boss and work

for us? Nobody's that dumb.

KIPLING:

It is something you couldn't

comprehend, Quint.

Harcourt approaches Watson, kneels beside him, careful to

keep the knee of his designer pants out of the sand.

HARCOURT:

I understand you have been resisting

my offer Mr. Watson. Your sense of

duty to Mr. Strader is noble, but --

no longer an issue, I'm afraid...

Harcourt signals and the two Thugs drag an alien body from

the back if the van: a middle-aged alien, Strader, shot

twice through the front of his silk suit. Watson's eyes

widen in fear.

HARCOURT:

(continuing)

I will not make this offer again. I

want you to work for me, to manage

the nightclub as Strader's successor.

If you do, you will know a wealth

and comfort our people never dared

imagine...

Watson stares at Harcourt, scared but defiant.

WATSON:

Sss'k'a ta'!

Harcourt studies Watson a moment, perhaps even admiring

his resolve. Then--

HARCOURT:

It is such a pity to die for an

outmoded value.

(rising)

Mr. Quint, I believe it's time for

our friend's swimming lesson.

Watson freaks out, howling and lashing against the chains.

HARCOURT:

(to Watson)

It's important to learn new skills.

Essential to your growth as a

person.

Quint and the Thugs free Watson from the bumper. He bucks

and lunges as they drag him toward the surf. Quint

addresses one of the Thugs, a new guy.

QUINT:

You never seen this before, have

you, Billy? oh, man, you ain't

gonna believe it... seawater is like

battery acid to these guys... I

don't know what it is, some kinds

chemical reaction. Whatta you think

it is, Watson? Whoa, hold him.

(a wave breaks

outside, the foam

rolls in)

What I love about the surf is you

can never tell how far up it's going

to come until it... whoops, got a

little wet there.

The wave just sloshes over Watson's lower legs. He

screams. Flailing, one of his hands dips below the

surface of the water. He howls and yanks out his hand.

We see the alien hand dripping seawater... then a thousand

droplets of purple alien blood begin to bead all over the

hand. The Thugs get Watson swinging.

QUINT:

Last call, sucker. One... two...

THREE!

Watson is flung into the surf.

ANGLE:

Harcourt and Kipling have walked down almost to the

waterline. We HEAR Watson's GURGLES and SCREAMS... then

nothing. Kipling is very nervous this close to the water.

Harcourt seems unperturbed.

KIPLING:

When we picked him up, he was

talking to those two cops -- the two

who came to question you about

Hubley.

HARCOURT:

This is getting out of hand. I want

you to deal with it. Immediately.

A wave rushes up the sand. Kipling quickly steps back.

Harcourt stands firm, staring it down, and the foam stops

six inches from his dress shoes.

HARCOURT:

(continuing)

We must learn to embrace the things

we fear... and from that grow

strong.

A moment, then he turns and starts back toward the limo.

He motions to Strader's body and the surf. The Thugs grab

the body and heave it into the waves.

CUT TO:

INT. SYKES' APARTMENT - NIGHT

Jetson is talking rapidly in the alien language on the

kitchen wall phone. Sykes, foreground, takes the bottle

of vodka from the refrigerator, throws some ice in a

glass, pours himself a shot. As Jetson is talking, he

spots the carton of milk that Sykes inadvertently left out

of the refrigerator two nights ago.

He sniffs it... his eyebrows do an involuntary movement.

He finishes with his wife and hangs up. He watches Sykes

take a long pull on the vodka.

JETSON:

(holds up milk

carton)

Would you mind?

Sykes shrugs, tosses him a glass. Jetson pours the semi-

lumpy milk and takes a big swallow. Sykes grimaces.

Then--

SYKES:

(indicates phone)

So, she keeps you on a pretty short

leash, does she?

JETSON:

My wife? She worries about me.

Sykes leans against the counter, getting comfortable, his

voice more weary then bitter.

SYKES:

Yeah... I know the routine.

JETSON:

You are married?

SYKES:

Was. Divorced.

JETSON:

We mate for life. Divorce... is a

strange concept to us.

SYKES:

It's like having an eleventh finger

removed. It hurts like hell, but

you never really needed the damn

thing in the first place.

Jetson nods -- even though he doesn't really understand

this. They drink... Jetson gazes around.

JETSON:

Your home is quite disordered. I

thought perhaps you had been

burglarized when I walked in.

SYKES:

(growling)

I appreciate your honesty, George.

He smacks his glass against Jetson's. They drink.

INT. SYKES' APARTMENT - LATER

Sykes has his wallet out... showing Jetson a dog-eared

photo.

SYKES:

Ignore the b*tch on the left, that's

Edie. I call her Edi Amin... This

is Kristin, my daughter. It's kinda

an old picture... she's twenty now.

Getting married, in fact... on

Sunday.

Jetson sitting across the table from Sykes, looks at the

proffered photo. They're both a little drunk now.

JETSON:

Human children can be very

beautiful.

(then)

Getting married? Congratulations.

You will be taking Sunday off,

then...

SYKES:

(uneasy)

Maybe not... I don't know. I'm not

sure I'm gonna go.

(mumbles)

She doesn't need her burn-out of a

father there...

Jetson looks at him. Sees something he never thought

possible in Sykes. Vulnerability. Trying to break the

melancholy mood, Jetson reaches for his wallet.

JETSON:

(upbeat)

I must show you...

(flips open wallet,

shows four crisp

photos of his wife)

And this is Richard. My son. He's

four years old. We named him after

the former President, Richard Nixon.

Sykes looks at all the photos sprawled out on the table...

and has to laugh. He looks up at Jetson's sincere face.

He may be starting to like this guy.

SYKES:

You open to a piece of advice? Tell

people you named him after Richard

Burton, the actor. Just take my

word for it.

And he clacks his glass against Jetson's sitting on the

table, and--

INT. SYKES' APARTMENT - LATER

They are quite a bit drunker. Jetson has doffed his

jacket and tie, leans in, listening intently to Sykes.

SYKES:

... and so, and so the doctor says,

"If this is the thermometer, then

where'd I leave the pen?"

(laughs raucously,

Jetson doesn't

react)

You're not... you don't think that's

funny? George, work with me, I

always get a laugh with that one.

Look, if the doctor's got the

thermometer in his hand, then

where's his pen gotta be?

JETSON:

(straight-faced)

In the other man's rectum.

SYKES:

(laughing)

Sticking out of his ass... yeah!

See, that's what makes it a joke.

There's like a surprise, and your

mind fills in the funny picture.

Here's this guy with a pen stuck in

his ass and he thinks it's a

thermometer.

(Jetson just blinks)

Nada, huh?

Jetson shrugs apologetically. Sykes pours them each

another round.

SYKES:

(continuing)

Your health...

JETSON:

Ta ss'trakyona'...

They CLACK glasses, and--

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