Blade II Page #5

WHISTLER:

Daylight. Son of a b*tch.

CUT TO:

INT. SCUD'S WORKSHOP - DAWN

Blade wakes up, lifts his head. A shaft of sunlight shines

directly down onto him, reflecting back at us from his now

adult eyes. Blade hasn't moved. He sits in the chair in

front of the cell door which is now silent. He stands,

unlocking the cell door. He heaves the cross-bar away. The

door GROANS as he opens it.

INT. SCUD'S WORKSHOP - CELL - DAWN

Blade enters. It's dark. We can just make out Whistler's

figure huddled in the corner like some kind of caged animal,

his lanky, gray hair obscuring his face.

Whistler doesn't stir. Blade crosses over to the steel

shutters. For the briefest moments, he hesitates. Then he

hits the switch, readying his shotgun. With a HUM, the

shutters rise, throwing a SHAFT OF BLINDING SUNLIGHT over

Whistler.

Nothing happens. Blade lowers his shotgun. Whistler slowly

raises his head, fixing Blade with a bloodshot eye.

BLADE:

How do you feel?

WHISTLER:

Like a f***ing heifer took a dump in my

mouth.

INT. SCUD'S WORKSHOP - BATHROOM AREA - LATER

Whistler stands bare-chested before a corroded mirror,

splashing water from a sink over his face, rinsing off

shaving cream residue. He inspects his features -- he's

cleaned himself up a bit, trimmed his beard, etc.

He pulls on a fresh shirt, then turns to face Blade, who

stands behind him.

WHISTLER:

You came back for me.

BLADE:

Did you think I wouldn't?

WHISTLER:

Took you long enough.

Blade smiles. That was as close to a thank-you as this old

junkyard dog is ever going to give.

INT. SCUD'S WORKSHOP - BACKSTORAGE AREA - DAY

Whistler has fired up a Lucky Strike. He's moving through

the storage area where much of his old equipment has been

shelved, pulling tarps off, checking things. Blade follows.

BLADE:

Let's just hope you've kicked the Thirst

for good. I'll be watching you close.

You start to back-slide --

WHISTLER:

You put a bullet in my brain. Wouldn't

expect anything else.

Whistler takes a long drag, expelling the smoke slowly,

studying the cigarette in his hand.

WHISTLER (CONT'D)

I'll say one thing for doing time as a

suckhead. Seems to have knocked that

cancer of mine back into remission.

Blade nods. Then Whistler stops, obviously frustrated.

WHISTLER (CONT'D)

Where the hell's my lathe?

Just then we hear the SOUND of an industrial lathe firing up.

Curious, Whistler exits into --

INT. SCUD'S WORKSHOP - DAY

The workshop proper. Scud is working at Whistler's old

lathe, bopping his head along to MUSIC which is playing on a

nearby TV. The them song to SPEED RACER. Now he's wearing a

Ron Jeremy T-shirt that says "Daddy".

TV (O.S.)

Here he comes, here comes Speed Racer!

He's a demon on wheels. He's gaining on

you so you better look alive. He's busy

revving up the powerful Mach Five --

Whistler c*cks an incredulous eyebrow at Blade, who has

fallen in beside him. Scud kills the lathe and approaches.

SCUD:

Whistler. Cool beans. Nice to meet

you, man. Heard a lot. I'm Josh

Frohmeyer. You can call me Scud,

though. That's what most people do.

Scud offers his hand. Whistler doesn't take it. Scud shoots

an uneasy glance at Blade, raising an eyebrow in question.

Is Whistler okay, or not? Blade nods. Whistler moves over

to the Charger which has its hood up.

WHISTLER:

Tell me something, Skid --

SCUD:

Scud.

WHISTLER:

Whatever --

(checking the motor)

What'd you do to the Charger?

SCUD:

The pimp-mobile? Just made a few after

market modifications. Nitrous-oxide

injection system, forged aluminum

pistons and crankshaft, higher flowing

fuel pump.

WHISTLER:

Gave it a more aggressive exhaust

profile ramping.

SCUD:

F*** yeah. Whole package'll crank this

betty up another three-hundred

horsepower.

WHISTLER:

(cutting him off)

And you'll burn the damn thing out

before your next f***ing oil change.

Whistler just looks to Blade and shakes his head.

WHISTLER (CONT'D)

Where'd you dig up this sh*t-bird

anyway?

SCUD:

Look, what's your problem?

Whistler gets in Scud's face. Scud looks to Blade for help,

but he just watches, letting the two of them sort things out.

WHISTLER:

My problem, shitbird, is that I tried to

blow my f***ing head off and wound up

sucking blood clots for the last year

and a half! Now you're standing there

choking your chicken like we're all

walking around some f***ing candy-ass

vampire sitcom!

Scud attempts to show some balls, but stammers all the same.

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