Point Break Page #10

PAPPAS:

When you two are done makin' out, I

need to talk to you.

"PSYCHO-STICK" T-SHIRT

Hey, I ain't no butt-bouncer, dude.

We're from the valley. Mall babes

'n sh*t.

The kids proudly high-five.

PAPPAS:

I just want to know if you surf here

a lot.

"PASSION FOR SLASHIN'" T-SHIRT

Sh*t yeah, like totally everyday

when it's jammin'. What is this,

f***ing narco entrapment or what,

dude?

Pappas flashes his FBI star. He whips out a pair of

scissors.

Brandishes them like some over-the-hill "Jason".

PAPPAS:

Not exactly, dudes.

EXT. COUNTY LINE - DAY

Row of SURFMOBILES parked along a cliff, facing the ocean,

doors open, stereos blasting, SURFERS hanging, sitting on

hoods.

Utah moves along the cars, looking surfed-out.

He's tanned, relaxed. Hair starting to bleach out. One

of the tribe.

UTAH:

Whoa, brah, easy now... Don't move!

(Utah bends close,

reaching for Surf-

Rat's ear)

Got some huge sucker crawling into

your--

(he plucks at a tuft

of hair)

Got it! Uuuughhh.

SURF-RAT

Leave some f***in' hair, man!

Utah squashes, then inspects the mysterious creepy-crawler

hidden in his palm. He wipes his hand on his towel, which

he keeps balled up in his other hand.

SURF-RAT

What was it?

UTAH:

Saved your butt, bro. Close one.

Utah shivers in disgust, then coyly turns and walks away.

The surf-rat desperately pats his ear for traces.

CUT TO:

INT. FORENSICS LAB - NIGHT

A long series of ENVELOPES are displayed on a desk. Each

has the name of a Southern California beach and is

attached to a forensic printout.

HALSEY inspects each envelope.

HALSEY:

Naw, this isn't it.

UTAH holds up an envelope with a skinny woven ponytail

sticking out.

PAPPAS shrugs.

PAPPAS:

He moved.

Halsey picks up an envelope marked "Latigo Beach".

HALSEY:

PCBs, selenium, titanium, arsenic.

The percentages look right. Here's

a match.

UTAH:

Latigo Beach.

Pappas grabs the envelope, studies it, crooks his head.

PAPPAS:

Surf's up, ace.

CUT TO:

EXT. LATIGO BEACH - DAY

EXTREME LONG LENS scans the beach from a height. A gray,

miserable day. Beach crowd thin except for diehards.

The image drifts across faces, BODIES. Surfers walking

with boards.

Talking, sitting with pubescent girls.

The image settles on Johnny, astride his board, bobbing

beyond the break.

ON PAPPAS, scanning with powerful binoculars from his car.

CLOSE ON UTAH, out among the flock of hardcore surfers.

Ostensibly waiting for a wave, his eyes search the others

around him, clicking methodically from face to face.

Finally he swings his board around and awkwardly catches a

ride.

The modest wave carries him toward the beach as he

balances, tense and style-less.

He passes someone we've seen before. The RAZORHEAD from

the first day. In concentration, Johnny doesn't see the

guy.

But Razorhead definitely sees him.

JOHNNY reaches the beach and jogs up the sand. He picks

up a towel and talks into it as he dries his hair. A

glimpse of the walkie-talkie hidden beneath.

UTAH:

Big zippo so far. How about you?

PAPPAS (RADIO)

Patience hotshot. Patience. It'll

be subtle, if it's here at all.

PAPPAS WATCHES as Johnny crosses toward the outside shower

next to the public restroom.

LONG LENS view of Utah passing OUT OF SIGHT behind the

building.

AT THE SHOWER Johnny sets down his gear and opens his

wetsuit to the warm, salt-free jet of water. TRACKING

SLOWLY IN on him as he lets it pour over his face.

A HAND ENTERS FRAME, shutting off the water suddenly.

TIGHT ON UTAH, his eyes opening.

REVERSE, revealing RAZORHEAD and THREE OTHERS.

They are powerfully built SURF-NAZIS.

Scalps shaved on the sides. Hair military short on top,

lengthening into pigtails in the back. Tattoos. Wrist

chains.

TONE, ARCHBOLD and WARCHILD. The one who socked Utah

before is BUNKER. They spread out flanking him.

WARCHILD:

This the guy?

BUNKER:

Yeah.

UTAH:

(good natured)

Okay, so this is where you tell me

all about how locals rule and yuppie

insects like me shouldn't be surfing

your break and all that, right?

BUNKER:

No.

TONE:

Waste of time.

WARCHILD:

We're just going to f*** you up.

UTAH:

Oh.

As they lunge, Utah grabs his board and swings it in a

whistling roundhouse. Its edge slams Warchild in the gut

and folds him double. The bad news is... Warchild gets an

arm around it and brings a pile-driver hammer-punch down.

The board splits into two pieces.

Utah drops his end as the others close. A flurry of

punches and kicks, most of which he blocks. But he's lost

the offensive.

Bunker takes him to his knees with a vicious karate-style

side-kick.

TIGHT ON Utah's towel, talking with Pappas' voice.

PAPPAS:

Johnny? You there?

ANGELO gets out of the car fast. He jogs twenty feet and

raises the binoculars. Catches a glimpse of the carnage

around the edge of the building. Breaks into a run,

massive legs pistoning.

JOHNNY HITS THE GROUND hard. He rolls and comes up fast.

The razorhead brothers are a little surprised.

ARCHBOLD:

The dude can fight!

Warchild grabs Utah from behind. Gets him in a headlock.

Archbold and Tone pin his arms. Bunker starts working him

like a practice bag. At this moment, Johnny is getting

the proverbial sh*t beat out of him.

SUDDENLY, a new figure blurs INTO FRAME.

BODHI seizes Bunker and flings him aside. He spins with

remarkable agility and drives his heel into Warchild's

face.

Utah breaks free, staggering back on the sand. The fight

is still there in his eyes.

Bodhi is at his side -- holding the others at bay with a

raised hand and an evil look.

BODHI:

Back off! Now!! Just let it go!

BUNKER:

Stay outta this, Bodhi!

BODHI:

He's with me. Now back off.

Seriously.Just do it!

(they relax slightly)

You alright Warchild?

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