Demolition Man Page #22

HUXLEY:

Oh, thanks...

INT. LENINA'S POLICE CAR - DAY

Lenina holds up her new sweater with a tickled blush.

Spartan determinedly presses buttons to get the CAR

HUMMING off.

HUXLEY:

What a lovely...

SPARTAN:

I don't know what they put in my

Cryoslush, but I thaw out and the

first thing I want to do is...

knit. How come I know what a

zipper foot is, a shuttle, hook

and bobbin, petitpoint. I could

weave a throw rug right now with

my eyes closed.

HUXLEY:

(chuckling)

It was your rehab training. For

each inmate the computer draws up

a skill or trade which best suits

their genetic disposition. It

implants the knowledge and desire

to carry out whatever training

was assigned.

SPARTAN:

I'm a 'seamstress?' Seamstress.

Great. How come I come out of

cryoprison and I'm Betsy f***ing

Ross and Phoenix comes out and he

can access computers, operate all

vehicles, find the locations of

every damn thing in the city?

(he has a thought)

Can you get me Phoenix's rehab

program?

Huxley punches madly away. An ACCESS DENIED sign flashes

on the screen, cutting her off. Lenina gets into a

little more furious COMPUTER playing until she gets a

violent BEEP.

A SWEET FEMALE COMPUTER VOICE CHIRPS along with

corresponding printed information.

SWEET FEMALE COMPUTER (V.O.)

Phoenix, Simon. Rehabilitation

skills; Urban combatkill, torture

methodology, computer override

authorization, violent...

SPARTAN:

Who develops the rehab programs?

Attila the Hun?

HUXLEY:

(disquieted)

Cocteau Industries of course.

But why would Cocteau want to

provoke madness? He's always

been obsessed with one thing...

SPARTAN:

Yeah... control. The success of

his favorite restaurants. The

end of kissing... I've gotta talk

to this a**hole.

HUXLEY:

But, John Spartan, you must be

mistaken. You can't accuse the

savior of the city of being

connected to a multi-murder-

deathkiller like Simon Phoenix.

It's... rude.

SPARTAN:

I'll be subtle. I'm good at

subtle.

Lenina looks anything but reassured.

INT. COCTEAU COMPLEX - COCTEAU'S LOBBY - DAY

ASSOCIATE BOB:

I am ever so sorry, John Spartan,

but Dr. Raymond Cocteau is not

here for your unannounced visit.

I don't think I can access him at

this time.

Spartan grabs him by the throat. Pulls him inches away

from his own face.

SPARTAN:

Think again.

ASSOCIATE BOB:

(choked)

I'll give it my utmost efforts,

sir.

Spartan shoves him back. Bob drops to a keyboard. His

fingers fly madly.

ASSOCIATE BOB:

Oh wonder of wonders, I have him

on FiberOp in the conference

room.

INT. COCTEAU COMPLEX - CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY

Cocteau appears on a dozen swiveling VideoHeads.

COCTEAU:

(condescending)

Mellow apologies for my lack of

physical disposition, Detective,

but I do have an entire city/gov

to run.

Spartan wastes no time with pleasantries.

SPARTAN:

Run this. You programmed

Phoenix's rehab to turn him into

a terrorist. Now that you wussed

out this entire society in a

tribute to yourself you needed

Phoenix to handle the cast-offs

who wouldn't listen to your

bullshit.

Huxley cringes. The MORALITY BOX BEEPS. Cocteau stares

at him with that weird hypnotic serenity.

COCTEAU:

Phoenix's rehab. Now.

Half the screens scroll into Phoenix's rehab file. This

time completely innocuous:

SWEET FEMALE COMPUTER (V.O.)

Phoenix, Simon. Rehabilitation

skills; Decorative Gardening,

Retail Floral Arrangements...

COCTEAU:

What are you speaking of, Detective?

My only interest in Simon Phoenix

was in that of the creation of an

expert Florist.

SPARTAN:

Florist? Phoenix wouldn't know a

prickly pear from a pair of pricks.

Spartan yanks out the Beretta. Associate Bob backs

away while glancing furtively at a closed door. BLAM.

BLAM. BLAM. Shoots out three of the screens.

SPARTAN:

Try again.

Even on video, Cocteau flinches visibly.

SPARTAN:

Outside the museum, why didn't he

blow your brains out? I saw the

security disc. Phoenix had a

full ten seconds to think about

where to put the hole in your

head.

COCTEAU:

(a little shook)

John Spartan, this display of

barbaric behavior was not

acceptable even in your time.

SPARTAN:

Yeah. But it worked.

BLAM. BLAM. BLAM. Shoots out three more. Associate

Bob faints dead away.

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