Demolition Man Page #3

Spartan in stark white overalls. A beautiful, shaken

woman holding the hand of a small child. About six.

Spartan bends down to the little girl. Unclenches his

fist. His LAPD badge inside. Pins it on the little

girl, KATIE.

SPARTAN:

I'm going to be back. I'll still

be your dad. I promise.

She holds the badge, nods solemnly. Spartan kisses her

on the cheek.

KATIE SPARTAN:

I love you, Daddy.

She's young enough that it's unclear whether she

understands that her father is going away for good.

Spartan chokes back a sob. Stands back up. Kisses his

wife. Everything that can be said, has been said. They

kiss again.

Behind him, in front of two locked doors, are a pair of

prison guards in odd, heavily-insulated uniforms. Tanks,

heater batteries, guns. Spartan heads towards the far

doors. They follow. Spartan steps through the doors,

the guards now at either elbow. And into --

INT. CRYO PRISON - MAIN ROOM - DAY

The CryoPenitentiary is a Godel-esque nightmare of

architecturally-perverse layers and levels, the

Guggenheim mixed with industrial meat locker. All still

half under construction.

Spartan is led along the middle ring to where a doctor,

two white-coated technicians and a young-looking WARDEN

SMITHERS are waiting.

Above him prisoners are encased into the ground in

massive glass hockey pucks, contracted into pained fetal

positions. Their faces are hauntingly twisted into

gargoyle expressions of tortured struggle.

The group arrives at an empty chamber. The technicians

nod to Spartan. He drops off the white overalls. Steps

free. Stands naked. Doctor injects him with luminescent

blue fluid. The techies slap on sensor pads. Head,

heart, all over... Spraying him down with Freon. Mist

everywhere... We see the temperature dropping on the

monitors. The Warden looks at a crib sheet. Clears his

throat.

SMITHERS:

John Spartan. You've done great

deeds for the city of Los Angeles,

so it is with some regret that I

hereby...

SPARTAN:

Skip it...

Spartan shivers, contemplating one of his stiffening

hands.

SMITHERS:

John Spartan. You've been

sentenced to 70 years in the

California CryoPenitentiary for

the involuntary manslaughter of

thirty...

SPARTAN:

Skip it...

Spartan is beginning to shake from the cold. His lips

turning blue before our eyes. Color just drains away.

SMITHERS:

I'm sorry, John.

(then; a smile)

Don't catch cold.

SPARTAN:

Fuh... fuf... funny.

The technicians attempt to help Spartan into the chamber.

He shakes them off to stagger down on his own. Let's not

kid ourselves, he's scared --

SPARTAN:

See ya next century...

TITLES BEGIN as...

The casing door is closed over him. MONITORS down the

lining of the circular chamber show a digital rap sheet,

a dropping thermometer, a parole date, and today's date:

November 20, 1998. A super-chilled clear goo flows in,

packing and preserving isolated Michelangeloesque

segments of the defiant statue that is John Spartan.

But he's still conscious. Still even struggling a bit.

On the arm above the chamber, inside a vacuum bell a

small vial is auto unscrewed. LOCKED and SAFETY lights

cycle. We see a tiny white chip inside. The vial is

moved into place by a tiny robot arm. Bottom vent is

opened. The chip is dumped into the chamber. It's the

opposite of watching ice shatter. Instead, the whole

hockey puck goes solid in an instant and a half. The

thermo read-out drops in an instant to a half degree

above 0 degrees Kelvin. It's done.

The VIEWER makes a GENTLY DIZZYING JOURNEY AROUND the

chamber, SETTLING FOR A MOMENT ON Spartan's contorted-

into-a-defiant-sneer face.

INT. CRYO PRISON - MAIN ROOM - DAY (2042)

The VIEWER'S VIEWPOINT KEEPS PULLING OUT to see that the

date on Spartan's MONITOR now reads August 3, 2042.

Warden Smithers, now a bespectacled, gray-haired old

man, in a peculiar uniform, shuffles past the completely

unaged Spartan.

He grumbles by in a phone headset equipped with fiberoptic

video gear, and OUT OF FRAME we see that the

prison has become vaster, stranger, with multiple grated

catwalks and more networks of artfully-engineered piping.

And heavily, heavily stocked with prisoners...

Smithers looks up at his holoset. Hovering in front of

him in the air is Lenina Huxley.

HUXLEY (IMAGE)

Mellow greeting, Warden John J.

Smithers.

SMITHERS:

(this again)

Yeah. BE well. Lieutenant

Lenina Huxley.

EXT. SAN ANGELES - STREETS - DAY (2042)

A 2042 police car glides INTO FRAME. We MOVE WITH it

as it passes by a series of austere geometric buildings.

Green, green glass. Blue, blue sky. Cleaner than

Disneyland. The future is perfect. More emissionless

cars gliding silently by.

HUXLEY (V.O.)

As it is a beautiful Monday

morning, and as my duty log

irrationally requires it...

INT. LENINA'S POLICE CAR - MOVING - DAY

Behind the wheel, the mischievously-beautiful LENINA

HUXLEY. A heads up display announces she is calling

Warden John J. Smithers. The order of business is

"Prison Population Informative Query." And future or

not, Lenina fusses with her hair. With both hands.

The steering wheel is not present at all.

HUXLEY:

I am hereby querying you on the

prison population update.

(hopefully)

Does the tedium continue?

ON HEADS UP DISPLAY

Warden Smithers gently reminds her that ---

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes