Demolition Man Page #17

SPARTAN:

(then; changing

subjects)

So, what's with this Cocteau guy?

He thanks me for saving his life --

which I'm not sure I did --

invites me to dinner, and where

does he take me... Taco Bell. I

mean, hey, I like Mexican but

come on...

HUXLEY:

Your tone is quasi-facetious. You

do not realize Taco Bell was the

only restaurant to survive the

Franchise Wars. All restaurants

are now Taco Bell.

As they pull up in front --

EXT. TACO BELL - NIGHT

It is unlike any Taco Bell we will ever see. Holographic

images hover in the air in front of the marble entrance.

A row of jacketed valets stands ready. One rushes up.

As they enter, a periscope pipe pops up, looks around,

disappears. No one notices it.

INT. TACO BELL - FRONT COUNTER AREA - NIGHT

Sparse, elegant and Melrose-dark. As Huxley and Spartan

enter a mariachi band takes their place in the corner.

Huxley and Spartan walk up to a sultry future version of

a Taco Bell order counter. Spartan is trying to

assimilate it all when the COUNTER-GIRL breaks the ultra-

cool character of the restaurant to give him a typical

fast food happy face.

COUNTERGIRL:

Hi! May I help you?

SPARTAN:

Uh, I'll take a Burrito Supreme

and a shake?

COUNTERGIRL:

Will that be for here or to go?

SPARTAN:

Ah. The eternal question... Here.

She does a perky fast food spin to the station behind

her and whips back a silver tray holding an ornate china

set.

COUNTERGIRL:

Burrito Supreme. Shake. BE well.

Spartan looks down to a miniscule cylinder of pressed

kelp topped with a dab of salsa and small sesame-seed-

type bits. The tiny shake is in a thimble-sized frost-

covered glass.

SPARTAN:

Oooh. Yum... Good thing I'm

hungry.

INT. TACO BELL - COCTEAU'S TABLE - NIGHT

The mariachi band launches into the Mexican hat dance

song as Spartan and Lenina, carrying their trays, are

escorted by a maitre d' to a table set in a secluded

section of the restaurant. Cocteau and Associate Bob

wait for them. Cocteau stands --

COCTEAU:

John Spartan, the hero of the

hour. I congratulate you.

ASSOCIATE BOB:

Greetings and salutations, I am

Associate Bob. We met before,

ever so briefly but I was

groveling in fear in the humus at

the time. You have had quite the

exciting first day in San Angeles.

Imagine, chasing a real criminal.

SPARTAN:

(sitting)

Imagine. Could someone pass the

salt?

HUXLEY:

(whispering)

Salt is not good for you. Hence

it is...

Spartan glares her quiet, pokes at his "Burrito Supreme."

A beat. Cocteau muses --

COCTEAU:

So, John Spartan, tell me, what

do you think of San Angeles, 2042?

SPARTAN:

I guess, considering the way

things were going when I went

in -- I thought the future would

be a sick, decaying pit of

suffering and hate with a thick,

foul stench.

Cocteau gloats.

COCTEAU:

You should consider visiting New

York/Jersey after this.

SPARTAN:

(brightening)

You mean nothing's changed?

Associate Bob roars in appreciative empty laughter.

Think Ed McMahon. Spartan looks at him. It wasn't

funny. Pokes at his burrito. Ugh...

COCTEAU:

Look at you, John Spartan, pouting

for the old cheeseburger -- the

flesh of dying animals covered

with cholesterol laden butterfat.

You miss the bad old days.

SPARTAN:

Yeah, maybe.

(then)

Look, I like vegetables. I even

ate tofu a couple times. But I

got to choose when I wanted it.

COCTEAU:

You think we've gone too far? You

weren't here for the fourth and

fifth riots.

(harsh)

Civilization tried to destroy

itself. People just wanted the

madness over. And when I saw

the chance to make things right,

I grabbed it. San Angeles would

not be here. It would be your

pit of stench.

SPARTAN:

Yeah? Maybe you can book me a

flight to New York when this is

done.

Lenina's shocked. Cocteau's not thrilled with his

attitude either.

COCTEAU:

For your crimes, John Spartan,

you would have surely rotted and

died in jail by now. Even you

have to appreciate the

persuasively tranquil humanity of

the Cryo-Prison system...

SPARTAN:

I don't want to piss on your

parade, pal, but my 'cryo-

sentence' wasn't a sweet lullaby.

I had feelings -- I had

thoughts -- a 44 year-old bad

dream about thirty people in a

burning building -- about my wife,

beating her fists against an ice

bucket. It woulda been more

humane to stake me down and leave

me to the crows.

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