Terminal Page #2

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pretty undiagnosed to me.

We're all dying, you realize.

Slowly, painfully.

Just a matter of time, friend.

See now, that's the spirit!

Are you scared?

I try not to think about it.

How's that working out

for you?

Not very well.

Are you being survived?

I have no idea

what that means.

Wife, kids?

Okay, you can't say that.

It's "survived by."

It has no other

grammatical context.

Jesus, what are you,

a dying English teacher?

Yeah.

Oh.

That's fair enough, I suppose.

Conjugate me

to your heart's content.

- Conjugation's different...

- Shut up.

Okay.

Are you sure

we haven't met before?

I don't know. Have we?

One shouldn't answer a question

with a question.

One shouldn't be such

a pompous prat, but here we are.

[laughs, coughs]

I think I would definitely

remember you if we'd met before.

You would think so,

wouldn't you?

[sirens blaring]

[groans]

What the f*** is going on?

Who the hell are you?

Untie me.

Now!

[exhales]

Listen to me.

You've made a mistake.

A big one.

But it is a redeemable error.

You're gonna put on

the rest of your clothes,

you're gonna

gather your things,

you're gonna give me the key,

and then you're going

to run for your life.

You've no idea who I am,

what I do,

or who I work for.

Au contraire,

Mr. Nigel Illing.

I know exactly who you are.

I know exactly

what it is you do.

And I know exactly

who you work for.

I also know that you're 44,

5'11", 12 stone,

AB Negative,

a drinker and a smoker,

and you have a healthy appetite

for young hookers

in kinky suspenders.

And when you combine

the information

I have gathered on you

and your habits,

one can deduce exactly

how many drops of laudanum

it requires to render you

unconscious

and relatively docile.

I need a teeny-weeny bit

of information from you

and a small donation.

Okay, what do you want?

You want money?

You want the car?

Listen, you can take it.

You can take it.

Take whatever you want.

Oh, that's a very poor

choice of words.

Help! Help!

Help!

[muffled screaming]

[rock]

Bless me, Father,

for I have sinned.

So there's this guy, right?

He's creeping

through this house.

It's dark, sinister, creepy.

You get the picture.

Pulls out his gun,

and he goes into the room

with it

held arm's length

in front of him, Vince.

I don't know what to tell you.

It's the pictures.

Right. You walk

into the room, right?

In like a shot.

You clear your corners.

Cleared.

The room is yours, easy.

You don't f***ing ease

your gun into the room

without being able

to see anything,

waiting to be shot.

It's stupid.

It's a film, Alf.

It's make-believe.

It's factually inaccurate.

They actually make it up.

It's not as though they've got

some hit man consultant

talking them through

the finer points

of assassinating

other fictitious people.

Yes, but why not?

It would be factually accurate

if they did.

I just realized something.

You're a f***ing moron.

Two teas, love!

Oy, bottle blonde!

Two teas.

What's the magic word?

To be fair,

you didn't say "please."

Please, could we have

two tea cups of lovely tea,

a little bit of milk,

two sugars, both builder's,

please, if you don't mind?

Thank you very much.

It will be my pleasure.

Wanker.

Watch this.

Excuse me.

Could I have one of your...

lovely-looking

sticky buns, please?

It's dinner and drinks

at the very least

before you get your hands

on my buns, handsome.

I mix a mean martini,

sugarplum.

In that case,

I'll even butter them for you.

Alfred, would you mind terribly

rejoining me at the table,

pretty please?

Before I break

your f***ing neck.

Duty calls.

On the job, are you?

Is there the remotest chance

that you could possibly

calm down a bit?

And what kind of a shithole

is this then, eh?

You said somewhere quiet,

off the beaten track.

So you find the only

late night cafe

open this side

of the precinct.

It's genius.

I thought it might be nice

if we had a cup of tea

while we talked.

Enjoy my buns.

[laughs]

Are you f***ing drunk

or something?

ALFRED:
No. Why?

VINCE:
Just shut the f*** up!

That's why.

ALFRED:
What is

so cloak and dagger

that you couldn't just

tell me over the phone?

A job's coming.

Yeah?

Guttering, is it?

Window cleaning?

Yeah, keep up the cheek, son.

You know, you're gonna

get clipped round the ear.

In fact,

you're gonna get a clip

straight in

the f***ing forehead.

Understand?

All right.

I'm listening.

So there's a message

on the answering service.

VINCE:
It tells me,

"Go to the terminal

and open locker 125."

- ALFRED:
Is there a key?

- VINCE:
No, there's no key.

ALFRED:
So what was in it?

"La Lapin Blanche."

What's that?

Well, it's French.

Yes, I know, thank you.

I simply don't understand

the relevance of it.

Are you going

to ruin this for me?

Are you going to suck

all the f***ing alluring mystery

out of this f***ing

situation for me?

So it's a clue.

- A trail of breadcrumbs.

- Yes, apparently.

Someone has a pen-chaunt

for the amateur dramatics.

It's pronounced penchant.

It's pronounced

shut your f***ing mouth

is how it's pronounced.

Hang on a second.

Black briefcase.

Mm-hmm.

In a locker.

A clue.

A trail of breadcrumbs.

Vince, that's the touch, mate.

That is a job

from Mr. Franklin.

VINCE:
A Mr. Franklin job?

This is massive!

All right.

Don't get moist.

I thought

he always used Illing.

[slicing, screaming]

Apparently not.

Now, have I whet your appetite?

I'm salivating.

Let's go rabbit on him.

We've got to play our cards

right on this one, Vincent.

No one fucks

with Mr. Franklin.

It is a once in a blue moon,

once in a f***ing lifetime

opportunity.

It's keys to the kingdom.

All right, Alfred,

it's Mr. Franklin,

not the f***ing second coming.

ALFRED:
Well, I guess

this is the place.

VINCE:
What gave it away?

Was it the 20-foot neon sign

with the f***ing rabbit on it?

[techno]

Pinch me, I'm dreaming.

VINCE:
I bet they charge

a good-priced cover.

[continues]

I made myself

look good for you

Dressed up real nice

Oh, baby,

this is all for you

I'm like the perfect

little wife

Hello, handsome,

dangerous men.

Hello, beautiful,

semi-clad girl.

Business or pleasure?

Is the real question

do I want to pay you

to writhe around on top of me

for a couple of songs,

get me hot all under the collar

and take me into the back room

for an overpriced hand job?

'Cause if it is,

the answer's no, f*** off.

You are no gentleman.

But you, on the other hand...

I'm Conejo. Welcome.

What is it you seek?

We're here to meet someone.

- Who?

- We don't know.

About what?

- We don't know.

- Oy!

You need to see Bunny.

Follow me.

So where's this Bunny then, eh?

You'll see.

Conejo.

What a beautiful name.

I bet it means "waterfall"

or "sunset"

or something exotic like that.

It means "rabbit," tit.

Oh, yeah.

Get your head

in the f***ing game, mate.

You're becoming

a f***ing liability.

And part of my job is to

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