Mulaget and Nukilar Use Mother Nature
(Check the challenges of writing this movie script)
Synopsis. There are crooks, crooked minds, and evil people behaving like viruses, spreading and feeding on a tolerant society-the juicy host. The association of such people fuels a virulence that could damage society on a large scale. And while such viruses evolve to strike first and kill, the host can only react, coming in second. This sets the first engagement rule: the one who acts wins over the one who abstains; unless God rolls the dice, and depending on whose God it is.
The movie begins with an “once upon a time” key sequence that ties in with the contemporary immigration topic and the present-day Los Angeles.
THE FORTRESS OF ANGELS
Once upon a time, in The Fortress of Angels’ surroundings, the KING and his SON were riding their horses on a narrow path by the river. Behind them, the turrets of the castle and churches rose above the thin streaks of the morning mist.
The serenity of their ride is suddenly interrupted by many agitated VILLAGERS running on the other side of the river. Two of them cross the bridge towards the King and his son, pointing at the river. “He’s drowning, he’s drowning,” they shout “poor beggar, look over there, there!” A man struggles to fight the river’s torrent. The King and his son dismount in a hurry. The son starts running along the river bank, taking his shirt off, then diving to save the drowning man. The King follows the action as the villagers run back and fro shouting either “he’s drowned, he’s drowned!” or “he’s saved, God bless!”
Moments later, the drowning MAN, 30 years old, dark, Middle Eastern complexion, bearded, with a mole on his cheek, near the nose, is brought on the villagers’ arms to the King. A WOMAN is loudly bewailing what seems to be the drowning of the King’s son, who perished to save the life on the poor man. Emotionally distressed, the King offers to the poor man to become his step son. While the poor man accepts with humility, and the villagers praise the King’s magnanimity, new shouts from downstream the river announce that the King’s son has actually escaped the raging waters and is alive.
DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES
Centuries had passed. The turrets of the castle and churches are now the Los Angeles skyscrapers enveloped by the morning mist.
In downtown, on the street following a dry aqueduct, at the top of the hill, a 60-YEAR-OLD MAN, somewhat resembling the King, the top of his head bold and the back still holding gray streaks of long hair, hands out dollar bills to poor MEN and WOMEN. The waiting line is long, and Father Dollar exchanges small talk with the people, some standing by carts filled with clothing and plastic bags, other sitting in wheel chairs. Everybody in line knows him; he had done this for a while now, the money coming from small donations of caring people.
In a small alcove of a building with broken windows, a smashed violin lies at the feet of a fiberglass Angel statue plastered with counterfeit, peeling dollar bills.
Further away, on a Skid Row street, homeless PEOPLE roam around with their carts, talk to each other or accost passers-by for a dime. Some of them joke about getting some cleaner bills from Father Dollar, instead of the rusted little coins they get here.
In the Pershing Square, illegal IMMIGRANTS rally with banners asking for US citizenship. A couple of them want to cut through the police cordon, guarding the rally, but they’re not allowed to, and a small brawl develops.
A group of GANG MEMBERS watch the rally while exchanging glances. They nod at each other and get into the brawl to help the immigrants.
A car drives by, the DRIVER apparently looking for somebody on the street. He spots a GYPSY WOMAN about 60 years old sitting on the pavement and begging. Her miserably shaking leg draws the compassion of some PEOPLE who throw coins or bend over to give her a bill.
When the gang brawl with the police gets too close to her, the woman panhandler shouts in a rage at a policeman while bagging her money, then limping away gesticulating. After turning a corner, she sees the car following her and starts running, obviously not hindered by any handicap. She points to the car driver towards a little driveway ahead. When the car reaches her, she gets in and animatedly recounts, with a heavy accent, the rally and brawl to the driver. On the radio station there is a commentary about the conflicting interests of poor homeless American and immigrant people.
MULAGET APARTMENT, LOS ANGELES
In the evening of the same day, RICH POCKITT sits in the back seat of the limo driving on the Avenue of the Stars. He looks like a scientist, 40-year-old dork, his clothing a little bit flashy. He is engaged in a conversation through the car’s speaker phone with a woman; and he wants to know whether or not she is ready, and if he is to go up or not. Yes, he is to go up to the apartment.
The car arrives at an upscale condominium building and Rich gets off through the door open by the chauffeur, through the door held open by the doorman, through the lobby, in and out through the opening doors of the elevator and there he is, through yet another opening door, in the apartment. All doors just happened to open by magic in front of him, with a variety of soothing rings. One can tell from his face that he is soothed to the bone.
In the living room, the TV runs a panel discussion on people abusing the resources of the lenient society. There is nobody in the living room, but a WOMAN is singing somewhere in the apartment. Rich voices his presence and exchanges pleasantries with the woman in the bathroom, trough the open doors. She is talkative and changes topics fast, while Rich looks around, discovers the tray with alcohol bottles on an armoire and serves himself a drink. His attention is briefly drawn to the TV show, but he is not interested and continues to scan the room. On the wall by the armoire there is a photo of a young girl, with black, and a white hair strand. The living room has a boudoir-like decoration, a round table in the middle with some psychic paraphernalia above it, sort of a funny hi-tech wiring.
MULAGET enters the room, a 30-year-old gypsy woman with long, black, and a white hair strand, sexy but not really good-looking. On high heels and in a colorful dress, still talking, she advances hands extended towards Rich for a hug. She is much taller than him and has to bend a little to rest her chin on his shoulder. Right then though, she stops talking as her attention is drawn to the TV. The panel discusses now the court case of a Shaky Lady, a panhandler who is using kids in begging schemes, under the cover of a child care, home based business. She does pay a “commission” to the parents.
Rich feels that Mulaget is about to disengage from the hug, pulls away and starts to compliment her sexy body, while she reaches for the TV remote control laying on the armoire. He is about to turn towards the TV, but Mulaget switches it off, grabs his coat’s sleeve and gaily compliments him for being a scientist and having rich pockets on top of it. “But we have to hurry, some interesting people are eager to meeting with you!” says she while dragging him towards the door.
SHAKILAD PARTY, LOS ANGELES
At the party place, the door is opened by SHAKILAD, the old woman panhandler, looking much younger, with her hairdo, lipstick, dress and all. After vociferous happy birthday wishes and extended compliments on their good looks, Mulaget introduces Rich to Shakilad, her adoptive mother, calling her Mamo. They all advance in the kitschy decorated living room, shining with confetti and “Happy Birthday” banners. On the walls there are reproductions of naïve paintings with water melons, grapes and gypsy women with exposed breasts.
The loud conversation of about 20 mature Caucasians, Middle Eastern and Afro-American PEOPLE drinking and talking, some of them mouthfuls, competes with The Gypsy King song. Few KIDS swarm around giggling, running around or bumping into guests. It is a crowded place.
Rich gets a little dizzy and disappointed by the class of the gathering. He even forgot to hand the big flower bouquet to Shakilad. He does it now and after getting them effusively, Shakilad grabs his hand, yells something in his ear, then elbowing her way through, introduces him to a group of four Middle-Eastern looking PEOPLE. He smartens up in their presence.
One of the Middle-Eastern people is TOPAID, a very ugly, 35-year-old man, wearing high sole shoes compensating for his short stature. His physiognomy however is in total contrast with the pleasant voice and manners bordering the effeminate. Another one is SATRAP, a stocky man of 30 with a dark face of a rough stupidity, the OTHER TWO older and dressed in ethnic robes.
Rich starts chatting with them, while Mulaget, somewhat impatient, pulls Shakilad away on a corridor.
Mulaget is furious about the public exposure that the court case gets through the TV broadcast. “It was not supposed to get that ugly,” hotly argues Mulaget, “the horse shit now’s all over, and what’s gonna happen with our friends, the fundraiser, the money well is gonna dry out!”
A young girl of 12 and ethereal beauty, with white skin, dark eyes and black, with a strand of white hair, silently approaches the two of them and listens. She is the girl in Mulaget’s living room photo.
“MEME, go back and play with the other kids!” roughs her Mulaget.
The girl gives her a long stare while backing up slowly and disappearing into the living room.
Shakilad and Mulaget conversation is interrupted quite frequently by the guests squeezing their way through the corridor. The women stop and go, switching from angry to smiling faces; but it seems to come natural to them.
Shakilad is waving away Mulaget concerns, cursing the bastard parents who turned her in for pecuniary reasons. “These people want too much, I’ll have to give it to them, to shut them up” says she. But she’d rather talk about Meme: why is Mulaget not sending her to her school. “I can teach her useful things, the way I taught you. You are my adopted daughter, she is your natural one. A rebel, like you! But she has to follow the tradition!” argues Shakilad, getting in Mulaget’s face.
Mulaget makes a grimace while withdrawing from Shakilad: “Didn’t I tell you to brush your teeth at least once a day?” and briskly turns to walk away. But still, she has to argue her point, half annoyed-half angry. “I can’t beat her up the way you did me, not with what they learn nowadays in schools. And it was you,” pointing her finger at Shakilad, “who introduced me to this “gifted kids” people,” says she making a face. “She’s getting away from me! And I can’t force her to go to three schools!” she snaps pointing three fingers in Shakilad’s face.
Shakilad slaps her hand, angry: “Your fucking Nukilar went to all the schools he could go to, including Stanford, you stupid! By the way” jumps she to a related topic, “is he giving you any money for Meme?”
But this is just another subject making Mulaget even angrier. “Can’t do anything about right now, he’s in Carolina. And that’s something I don’t want to talk about!’ says she turning to leave.
“Slap Meme in the head,” returns Shakilad to the previous subject, which shortly arrests Mulaget. “We need to learn what they learn” concludes she with a malicious laughter escaping through her bad teeth.
FLASHBACK IN TIME, GIFTED KIDS SCHOOL, LOS ANGELES
In an office furnished as a small class, the PSYCHOLOGIST and few KIDS sit crouched in the middle of the room. The kids are ages eight to twelve and one of them is Meme. The walls are covered with maps, schemes of games and shelves with books. There are also Rubik cubes, a big Menger sponge, a Moebius surface, a DNA spatial model, a telescope and few old scientific devices.
The psychologist teaches them that the big world is made of many tightly connected tinny things that continuously move between order and chaos. “The game is to spot them, then find a way to switch one into the other. “We’re going to play this game now with the help of a butterfly. And we’re going to play it as a team over the next few weeks” says the teacher, “let’s call this a long shot game.” He directs the kids’ attention to a colorful world weather map with isobar lines, air flow areas, arrows and temperature zones.
SHAKILAD PARTY, LOS ANGELES
Back at the conversation on the corridor, Shakilad still laughs delighted by her own wit.
Mulaget is irate at her adoptive mother’s guts. “Better than laughing, teach yourself how to get out of this court case mess you’re in. These guests of yours,” she says thumbing towards the living room “will run away like rabbits if they’ll learn about the case. It’s like your cow will be dropping dung in the milk bucket!” she concludes, leaving the corridor, and having the last word on the subject.
In the living room, Rich recovered his chutzpah and is now entertaining the Middle-Eastern people, as he smells money. So far, he does not get much of a reaction from them, just blank stares and little nods. He boasts now about his diversified hi-tech interests, to name the least his own company and latest invention, the Laser Car Chase Stopper.
Topaid seems to be interested and steps forward to get Rich on the side for a private conversation. One of the running kids bumps into Topaid, the man loses his balance and, in falling down, the high heel of his shoe slides open.
Shakilad notices the commotion and rushes towards the group becoming a scuffle between people attempting to help Topaid up. Rich succeeds, comforts the man and pulls him over towards a small den.
Topaid wants to talk about worthy things like investment opportunities and philanthropic fundraising. Actually he has two philanthropic events coming, one small in the Hollywood Hills, and one major in Manila, Philippines. He needs to advertise support from both political figures and celebrities. “I hear that you are well connected with top officials in the state” says Topaid, “would you be able to invite some to our fundraiser in Hollywood Hills? I will make sure that our honorable Ethenik community leader will be present.”
Rich actually can do his part; he knows too well the fundraising challenges, he himself being the reelection campaign fundraiser of the White Land County Sheriff. And there are some interesting investment opportunities associated with that. As it looks like they have to get into the details of their mutual interests, they agree on an extended meeting next week.
POLICE INTERNAL AFFAIRS QUARTER, LOS ANGELES
On the third floor of the Los Angeles Police, Internal Affaires building, in the cubicle tagged NORM SAWL, a man of 40, eyes closed, meditates in yoga position. He looks like an older sibling of the King’s son. On the divider walls of his cubicle there are SWAT combat photos, a couple of sports awards and a black belt. He suddenly opens his eyes looking at a computer file form titled White Land County Sheriff and his photo. He gets up in a fluid motion and clicks on a minimized desktop window revealing a list of campaign donors’ names and dollar amounts. “Query this against felons” says he typing a query and, when the results are displayed, gets surprised, then mumbles: “Son of a gun, a crook, between 1974 and 1982!” He walks out, limping from one cubicle to another, looking for colleagues and chanting in a low voice “felons and stars”.
It is lunch time and all cubicles are empty, except one tagged WALT WARREN. Norm is asking Walt to run a “wild card” search on any connections between a Rich Pokitt and political or business celebrities. The colleague kind of excuses himself for running “only” movie actors and the crowd surrounding them, since many crooks tend to take advantage of these connections.
Walt runs a query while Norm is looking out of the window, the Los Angeles downtown place where Father Dollar was handing money on Sunday. On the empty street, the wind is blowing paper cups and newspapers by the dilapidated building. Rich murmurs fragments of his thoughts:”…the broken window theory…” then loudly to himself:”C’mon man, forget about it!”, then to Walt: “Are we going to eat, like all these normal people do, or what?”
His colleague is already laughing at what he found in his search and starts telling that funny story.
Universal Studios
FLASHBACK IN TIME, LOS ANGELES
On the movie set, a take is on.
The ACTRESS, 20, screams as cockroaches roam at her feet. She crushes one when stepping on the side. The movie DIRECTOR cuts the scene and loudly laments that there wasn’t supposed to be any cockroach squashing, she just has to stay on her block.
A bald MAN elbows his way through the CREW towards the actress while yelling at her about the inhumane treatment of the cockroaches. Killing one now comes on top of them not being fed at the right time, per the contract.
Rich Pockitt comes to the actress’s rescue by pushing the man away from her and a light brawl ignites. While pushing back on Rich, the animal rights person vociferates his power to intervene on the basis of the license from the American Humane Association. Rich cusses the cockroaches and manages to land the animal handler a punch and now everybody else gets into the melee to stop the fighting.
POLICE INTERNAL AFFAIRS QUARTERS, LOS ANGELES
Walt concludes his laughter while Norm smiles. “I can’t believe we cater to these bugs!”
“You better do. The little bugs could be very well connected with the big buggers?” replies Walt throwing a meaningful stare at Norm. “Think about it as a Cockroach Connection”, then changing the subject back to Norm’s interests, “This is your man and I know the actress, I’ll get you invited to one of her events” says Walt. “Your guy may be there. Get your son as well, there are other kids!”
As they walk along the buildings on the street now, Norm gets high again on the “Broken Window” theory. “You see”, he explains to Walt, “a broken window today, a trash left on the street tomorrow, if you don’t fix them, they spread. Every time you postpone a fix, you incur a debt. Mayor Guiliani was tough on little things, like jaywalking, graffiti, panhandling. And he did cut the major crime rates in half. It was coming down to showing that you have the guts for it.” Norm takes a breather then concludes his demonstration: “Because there is a connection between blight and fear, hate, crime! You have to do something in spite of economics, or maybe in defense of it.”
“Hey man, don’t forget that I bought a loft here, that’s where I live!” says Walt.
“Good for you, but make sure that the dept is being paid off.”
NUKILAR APARTMENT, LOS ANGELES
Few days later, in the room of an apartment building, Mulaget, in a long gypsy skirt, whispers a gypsy song while snapping her fingers and holding few tarot cards in the other hand. She distractedly watches the street through the window, then more intensely at the cards. She sweeps with her glance the barren walls of the room then the stack of colorfully braided pillows, the samovar and a richly ornamented tea service on the middle of the floor.
Topaid, and two of his MEN, ages 18 to 25, sit crouched, eating with their fingers from a couple of plates. With a sleepy face, Satrap enters the room while pushing his shirt in the pans. He holds his hand for a fraction inside his pans while looking at Mulaget with a willing, stupid face. She sees him and shakes her head in an annoyed dismissal. The others make fun by asking about his dreams, but Topaid stops the fun; he wants to get down to business, the surveillance and readiness level at each of the sites displayed on the laptop’s photos. It appears that all is in place except for the money needed to pay few key people. Topaid will bring them from Manila, where the coffers will be filled by the fundraiser.
The cell phones keep ringing and short chats about meeting places, names and things to do are carried out loudly over the continuing background conversation.
“But what’s NUKILAR’s story, his site doesn’t look like much?” asks Satrap, licking his fingers before punching few key strokes on the laptop. He points at the small construction site photo, looking up at Topaid then again at Mulaget. Hearing Nukilar’s name she becomes interested.
“That’s a new card in Nukilar and Viral’s hand, they call it Joker. We play all the cards in one hand if Joker shows up in time” responds Topaid, thinking just for a couple of seconds. “Otherwise we don’t”, concludes he decisively looking at his people’s faces.
There is a long silence after they lower their heads, in what seems to be a moment of solitary prayer.
Satrap snaps out of it first, with a dumb grin, and addresses to Mulaget, pointing to the laptop. “Here our cards had been turned, hard objects. How about yours? Are they dealing with big money or one dollar bills?”
All other laugh now, while Mulaget is visibly annoyed by Satrap’s guts.
“I am the only one making the milk, big-smart money” she retorts, making a move to slap Satrap in the head, but the door bell buzzes and she stops in mid air.
The men clean their hands on white cloths pushing the plates with leftovers on the side in a hurry. Topaid points to two of his people to get the laptop and the rug in the adjacent room. “Play your cards woman, now!” he tells Mulaget. The two other tidy the room by re-arranging the pillows and the tea service set. Mulaget switches the mood for the occasion and, in a mildly provocative manner goes to open the door. She affectionately greets Rich and draws him into the room.
The men shake hands and exchange back patting, like they knew each for a long time now. They are to sit on the floor but Reach hesitates because he’s not used to it. Few pillows are stacked high for him and, sitting on them, he looks like presiding over the audience.
Mulaget brings in a tray with drinks, then stands by Rich’s shoulder while explaining how UNIK could benefit from the investment returns of Rich’s firm and her own psychic stock picking sessions. She’s slightly nods at Satrap, showing off her importance.
Rich takes over by getting into some technical details of his Laser Car Chase Stopper innovation, pending patent and the motions filed by a law firm lobbying for him at Government level in Washington. The Government contracts will flow in, nothing can go amiss, and thus he has the market cornered on a national scale. What he will do, say, for an investment of $100,000K he uses just 1% as a donation from the Ethenik community to the Sheriff’s re-election campaign. He pulls two brochures from the leather case, one with his company and the broker through whom the investment could be made, the other with the accomplishments and the future political agenda of the Sheriff. He is sure that he can get the attention of the Sheriff about the Ethenik community initiative with UNIK. “Such an honorable cause and a lot of movie celebrities, who can resist on participating?” concludes he joyously.
Topaid is flipping through the brochure pages deeply impressed and commits to forge ahead with the investment, the Sheriff’s participation definitely being a good foundation for their future partnership.
During the conversation, cell phones continue to ring but nobody picks them up. However, Topaid’s people do get tense when a police car with the siren on drives by. They furtively look at him, then somewhat calm down appeased by his relaxed demeanor.
The meeting is adjourned with farewells until the Hollywood Hills event on Sunday.
HOLLYWOOD HILLS ESTATE FUNDRAISER, LOS ANGELES
Colored balloons, flags and small banners reading UNIK, festively wag in the fairly strong wind, on this mixed sunshine and clouds Sunday afternoon, in a Hollywood Hills estate. In the background of the party noise, a female speaks about money earned since last year, and how much their stock investment brought to the cause.
The lawn is full of PEOPLE seating on chairs, standing and nibbling along the row of tables loaded with food, seeping drinks. Discussion groups continuously form and break, people exchanging opinions on movie deals, immigration and charities, some of the topics seasoned with jokes and laughter.
The actress who played in the cockroach scene greets her hosts, some arriving in groups. A PHOTOGRAPHER seems to catch one of them on the right spot, under the UNIK banner, and takes a photo.
Norm and Walt mingle with the crowd and chat until their attention is drawn to the arrival of the SHERIFF, 50, dressed in high-ranking officer uniform and accompanied by two MEN in gray suits; he is the White Land County officer that Norm is investigating. Walt congratulates Norm for his luck on having all the “search actors on the set”. “Let’s split though for a while, the Sheriff’s monkeys should not see us” says Norm and turns away. Walt follows suit.
The Sheriff and his entourage are greeted by the actress then by Rich who leads them to Topaid and his party. Two in this party are ELDER MEN with white beards and dressed in ceremonial ethnic clothing. One of them, apparently an ethnic leader, receives most of the other’s attention. Rich introduces the Sheriff to Topaid who in turn introduces the ethic leader to the Sheriff. After smiles and light conversation, the discussion touches on the mutual benefits of the ethnic communities supporting the police and both supporting charities such as UNIK. Topaid praises the Sheriff, looking at the ethnic leader who leans over to one of his men for a translation and keeps nodding in agreement. Through his translator he assures the Sheriff that the Ethenik community will substantially support his re-election campaign. As the Sheriff nods in turn, Rich seizes the opportunity to propose a photo session; he jokes about them prospectively looking like stars in both Manila and Hollywood Hills newspapers. Topaid would like to know if the Sheriff’s office would give them the clearance to use the group photo at the UNIK event in Manila. The Sheriff is honored and he doesn’t see a problem with the clearance.
One of the men in gray suits escorting the Sheriff picks up the ringing cell phone and steps on the side to talk, while the others get organized for the photo shot. The more he listens the more frequently he watches towards the Sheriff. He moves now towards the group already in smiling stage for the shot, and bumps as by accident into the photographer. A burst of hot words is quickly quenched by some apologies. The man in the gray suit has the Sheriff’s ear while gently pulling him away from the group.
Mulaget speech ends with thanks to the audience with applauses from it. The actress joins her at the podium and they hug. A 70-year-OLD LADY joins them and conspiratorially asks whether a psychic stock picking session will take place or not. The actress confirms that there will be one in the library, in about an hour, and tells her how to get there.
Mulaget steps down from the podium, watching knowingly the Sheriff’s party, who is now leaving. She curses under her breath and heads toward Rich, hesitates between appeasing Topaid’s disbelief at the sudden departure or run after the Sheriff. He decides to run after the Sheriff but Mulaget intercepts him:”Too bad you didn’t wanna talk to me this morning!”
“I had already two phone calls going on, what’s bad?” asks Rich.
“You and your While County Land Chief are making the morning news”,
says she ironically. “Say, you were in the slammer, hah?! Didn’t know you are one of us” mocks him Mulaget.
Rich is open mouthed while still looking towards the gate through which the Sheriff had just disappeared. Following his stare, she has a fit of anger and turning her back to him, walks towards Topaid. Meme, dragging by hand a 12-year-old BOY, paces along with her to introduce Dan. Mulaget is still distressed by the situation and hesitates on whether to stop or not. She decides to stop and listen to Meme introducing the boy as a colleague in the “gifted shop”.
Topaid just finished a hushed, agitated conversation with his companions, and looks around to spot Mulaget’s head above the crowd. While joining her he sees the kids and holds off on what he wanted to say. He manages to smile and befriend with the kids by inviting them to the Manila event, expenses paid of course. The kids are excited but Mulaget is dismayed at his awkward proposal. She decides to move away from him with a stare, without a word and devote her attention to the kids. She asks the boy about his parents and learns that he is with his father only.
“He must be somewhere around” continues Dan scanning the crowd. He finally spots his father Norm at the edge of the lawn and points at him.
The kids would want to flee but Mulaget grabs Meme by the arm, on the fly. “Stay close, I need you in the psychic session.” Their mute confrontation is on again, in their eyes and posture, and Mulaget decides to let her go. She recovers from yet another flush of anger and tries hard to relax by breathing and practicing smiles while walking towards Norm.
Norm stares at downtown Los Angeles afar, a magic view in which the cluster of sky scrappers resembles the King’s fortress glittering in the setting sun.
Mulaget makes him turn around with her: “So, your kid is also a gifted one?”
After small chat, in which Norm introduces himself as a martial arts trainer, they chat while strolling down a narrow path meandering through blossoming trees, stone benches, statues and gazebos. Norm stops once in a while to admire them while Mulaget has launched a diatribe about universal consciousness, life after death and supreme spirit, sprinkled here and there with some parapsychology terms, a complete garble. She stops once in a while to look at him, just enough to gauge his reactions.
He is listening and, amused but polite, points the conversation with light mockeries. She keeps talking though about how her stock picking sessions are based on remote viewing experiments published by scientists at SRI or International and the Armenian Academy of Sciences. Does he know anything about them?
“Well, no,” responds Norm after giving it some thought, then showing signs of genuine curiosity continues to ask if some of the Middle Eastern people are from Yerevan, and whether the high ranking officer is a parapsychology supporter or not.
Mulaget gets a hunch that his mockeries and questions are about things that she may not want to talk about and becomes suspicious. She pretends to having to stop now, to catch her breath. Norm doesn’t see her stopping and keeps climbing the stone steps, limping.
“Hey, what happened to your foot?” asks Mulaget happy to change the subject.
“I tried to save someone” replies Norm looking down at her, smiling.
“So then you are a hero, hah?” replies Mulaget with a mixture of admiration and mockery, in turn.
They climb the few steps back on the lawn searching for Dan and Meme, finding them engaged in an animated conversation about downloading ring-tones. Unfortunately, they’ll have to farewell soon.
On their way out, in the lobby, Norm winks at Walt telling him that since they didn’t sign-in the guest list, they’ll have to sign-out. While Walt is blocking the view towards a group of people in the foyer, Norm signs the guest book and flips nonchalantly through the pages. In the same time, he sweeps the guest book with a small scanner hidden in his palm. Dan winks at Norm.
POLICE INTERNAL AFFAIRS QUARTERS, LOS ANGELES
In an office, Nick pushes a thick folder towards the boss on the other side of the desk. The boss picks it up slowly, shifting his attention from the computer screen with regret. There is small chat and jokes between the boss, who speaks somnolently and with a distinct guttural voice, and Walt. They seem to know each other on a personal basis. Norm watches them impatiently. The conversation continues while the boss flips through the folder’s pages.
A police officer opens the door and, from the doorway, asks the boss whether he made his decision or not. The phone is ringing and after picking the receiver and exchanging greetings, the boss listens while browsing the file distractedly. He mutters to the officer in the doorway: “Tomorrow! “The pace of everything is slow.
Walt is obviously bored while staring again at the familiar graphs on the walls displaying crime statistics and photos autographed by entertainment celebrities.
The boss’s face displays a growing disbelief as he listens on the phone, asks short questions and keeps repeating “unbelievable”. He ends up the call with a promise to make few phone calls. “What a weird coincidence!” says he, more to himself, hanging up. “The White Land County Sheriff just called. He didn’t know anything, he learned about it from the newspapers”.
“Learned about what?” asks Norm.
“His re-election campaign fundraising guy!” responds the boss pensively, then springing to life and streaming his emotions into admonishing Norm.
“Why do I remember telling you to leave this alone!?” pointing at the folder, “How did you get to the fundraiser?”
“Walt took me there to his cockroach connection, it was on my own time, Sunday!” responds Norm confused and with an edge in his voice, “He knew nothing about what, about this?” asks he slapping the file with his palm. And as his boss nods, his puzzlement reaches the apogee: “How did this get in the news? When?”
“Yesterday for when and have no clue for how, responds the boss, then again, more to himself: “There must have been a leak” says he looking at Walt then Norm.
Norm disregards his boss’s confusion and moves on impatiently pointing to the photos in the file. “So, the Sheriff was there yesterday, together with his fundraising guy, mingling with these people: the speaker, a psychic stock picker; her stepmother, a panhandler faking a handicap on the pavement and using kids in begging schemes. And look at these people on the guest list” forges Norm on by flipping more pages for the boss to see.
“I’ll tell you what!” says the boss after a while. The phone is ringing again and the boss postpones a conversation through his secretary. He looks back at Norm and Walt saying “Names on a guest list don’t mean anything to me.”
“They do” argues Norm, “these small parasites could become virulent if we don’t separate them from the lethal ones”.
“You’re too much on lethal stuff Norm, the SWAT tunes are still ringing in your ears” rebuffs the boss. “I can’t afford to take you off Sullivan’s case, you’ll stay with that. Walt will be following up with his actress; she’ll tell him what she knows.”
Throughout the conversation, Walt kept looking intently at his watch. “I’ll be on my honeymoon the next two weeks, remember?” says he.
“Get your back up to make the phone calls” says the boss.
Another officer opens the door and looks at the boss.
“I’ll be right over!” says the boss then stands up ushering the detectives to the door. “Your cockroaches are after crumbs, can’t go too far” says the boss and closes the door behind them all.
MOBILE RADIOACTIVE UNIT, DEVIL DUST HILLS, FLORIDA.
The gloved hands move to stretch and probe their mobility. The gloves are heavy, made from a metal mesh and their openings are sealed into the thick gray-greenish glass marked with the standard radioactivity sign, “Lead Oxide 62%”, “Lead equivalency 3.6-.4.2mm”, and “Rad-Tait Radiation Safe™”.
“OK now, I’m ready, get the source moving” says the bearded man facing the glass containment. His voice is partially covered by the outside noises of gushing rain, wind and faraway thunders. The whole space around him slightly shakes at times. From the voice on the Walkie-Talkie he learns that the source is going now and that it’ll be beeping soon. And it does so with a low frequency, together with a red light flashing in the corner.
Protected by the radioactive containment equipment, the man uses a couple of tools to remove a small ball at the end of a flexible tube. A close thunder snaps and the person stops for a little, his concentration high. Beads of sweat form on his front and he whispers: “Stay put Aurora, you Goddess of Light!” says he slightly laughing. He places the little ball on a grinding wheel, starts another disk above it, and lowers it together with sort of a skirt covering the whole setup. A thick yellow duct connects the grinder to a cube made of steel container.
In the meanwhile, right after the thunder struck, a wormlike flash of light slips in through the small window opening. After a slight vibration, it becomes a globular lightning, slowly floating towards the containment glass. The man starts the grinding at the same time the little ball of plasma rests on the glass’s surface and he winches at the sight of it; his astonishment grows as the ball penetrates through the glass, forming on the other side of it. The globular lightening now floats just for a second towards the grinder, then blasts the containment to pieces with a heavy thud. The man is thrown back and through the van’s rear doors, into the night’s storm. A lightning highlights the contours of a construction site and the bearded man on his back and elbows, in the mud. He is soaked by the pouring rain and roars with an angry laughter.
A high frequency beeping and flashing red light comes from the van. The hook of a bobby cat’s crane, by the side of the van, dangles in the strong wind and a thick yellow hose between the top of the van and a small concrete construction 30 feet away, wiggles like a snake.
“What was that?” asks an anxious man on the Walkie-Talkie.
“Stupid bitch!” snaps Nukilar in anger, “Stay away. The containment is blasted. Start the vacuum pump right now! I’ll move the dust box into the pit.” Nukilar is 30, bearded, with a dark Middle Eastern completion. With a mole on his cheek near the nose, he resembles the poor man in the ancient story.
He now quickly climbs the van’s ladder to the top and opens a large hatch, the width of the van. His contours glowing in the red flashing safety light, he looks inside the van and murmurs: “Oh, my God!”, then extends his hands wide apart, looks up at the clouds stabbed by lightening and wows with an exalted voice: Oh my God, I will not fail you, I’m thirsty for Thy Love, the promised land I held as Treasured Trove.”
CONSTRUCTION SITE BUILDING, DEVIL DUST HILLS, FLORIDA.
In the semidarkness of the room, Nukilar, lying down on a bed, sweating and exhausted, talks on the phone. “Topaid, I can’t fly, I’ll glow like a ghost at the check points! And besides, I have to get…” he pauses to ask: “Do you have the garbler on?” and upon hearing the response continues “…a professional clean-up of the van, the installation fixed. And collect more sources from El Paso and San Antonio on my way back”. He listens for a while before responding “No, I did not lose dust, just this source. But it was a big Cobalt one, and I inhaled some, I need treatment in LA”. His partner comes in, letting the noises of the storm in. He drops exhausted on a chair at the other end of the room. Looking at him Nukilar answers one of Topaid’s questions. “His overdose is one-month worth, mine is five years” says Nukilar slowly, then angry, after listening to Topaid “No, this is all mine, I am the Chosen One for it! Hello! Hello?” repeats he as the connection is fading away, then coming back. A thunder strikes again. “Tell Viral that the setback does not affect the Joker. You take care of the West first; I’ll slash the sword in the East, whenever the Joker shows up. The hurricane season did not start yet, anyway, and Viral owes me a weather man.” He listens and concedes that it all should happen after Topaid’s return from Manila. “By that time I’ll be back here. But you, you must be ready, are you?” asks Nukilar. Hello? Hello” insists he but the connection is lost. He nervously throws the phone in a corner, smashing it to pieces.
FBI TERRORIST COORDINATION CENTER, PENTAGON.
On the huge TECOCE quarters main floor, agents go back and forth, talking on their phone head sets, carrying papers, at times bumping into each other, a brisk human traffic.
At one end of the room, two men 40 and 50, and a woman of 30, all in uniform, sit in a semicircle of seats around a table, facing a big screen on the wall. On the US map, there are blue, yellow and orange dots, “Alert Level: Orange”, “Date: September 5, 2016” displayed at the top of it. The seats in the semicircle have laptops attached by a swing arm. The woman officer speaks on her phone headset and an agent with a big body approaches. The agent listens to her then starts talking in his headset while looking up at the big glass bubble at the other end of the room. One of the officers pushes few buttons on the small switchboard on the table, interconnecting their cell phones. They all then turn their seats around, towards the bubble.
Inside the bubble, an analyst looks at them while listening in the headset. “I do recommend it,” says he “it’s growing beyond the standard deviation, and we have few orange spots and one red, already.” He glances at few monitors displaying the U.S. states, statistical graphs, and rows of phone numbers slowly scrolling up and down. Once in a while a number or two become highlighted and blink. The analyst pushes few switches on the console and the big screen at the other end of the room changes from one to two sections: one with the world map, the other with the control chart of the communication traffic. He then turns his attention “The commander has a meeting, he basically knows about it”, says he turning his head towards the glass cube in the middle of the room.
Inside the cube, there are a high ranking officer in uniform and a civilian in a blue suit. The officer speaks with somebody through the speaker phone. “No, I can not listen to them.” The guttural voice of the Police Internal Affaires boss at the other end calmly complains that slow action and system limitations borders with leniency.
“Well”, the officer replies, “democracy and control do not go hand in hand very well” and looks at the civilian who nods approvingly.
The Police Internal Affaires boss insists. “Listen, we have some concerning circumstances, one of ours may be involved. Are you saying that we have to let them do something bad first, then punish them? If we catch them?”
”I can’t do much as it stands” concludes the officer. “They can raise funds, have their conventions, and we keep an eye on it. I thought that we discussed about that. Let’s have a meeting next week, bring something more tangible, less circumstantial.” He ends the phone conversation and after a deep sigh looks at his visitor. “I am too often uneasy to support a view that I do not fully share.” He passionately elaborates on how some air heads or egomaniac crooks are unknowingly sucked into terrorist designs. “Any opportunity is good for them to grow strong on us, like viruses on a juicy host” forges ahead the officer. “And in our tolerant mindset we can’t imagine how lethal they can be. Nor do we know when they become lethal, because by trying to find out, we infringe on their civil liberties. And we may scare some innocent people in the process.” The officer stands-up and looks at the agents on the floor. “The terrorists are trained to strike first while us, the tolerant society, can not because we are “too civilized”, emphasizes he. “And the one who acts wins over the one who abstains.”
The civilian remained silent for most of the tirade, showing participation only with a little nodding or frowning here and there. They are both standing by the door now and the civilian feels like responding, after thinking for a while. “We have the best democratic system in the world and can’t compromise on the civil liberties values. We have to bring these values to them, educate them.”
“Why do you think that responding to religious extremism with a social concept will work?” asks the officer.
“Because we tried to level our Gods in the past, and it was bloodshed” and ironically concludes “A decision on whose God is better could not be made.” He has a handshake with the officer, then turns to open the door. But the door is stuck, and the officer first, then the analyst tries to open it, the last one finally succeeding.
CASINO, MANILA, PHILIPPINES
On the casino floor in Manila, Philippines, small groups of people chat and wander from one baccarat, blackjack or roulette table to another. Two blackjack croupiers just switching the rounds, exchange few words and signal with slight nodes and eye movements to a big body security man. The man approaches the table, nods at the croupier, looks at a gambler then starts talking on the phone’s headset while looking up. A large glass bubble build into the ceiling is somewhat disguised by an elaborately ornamented chandelier.
Inside the bubble, a guard looks at a TV screen then, through the bubble’s glass, at the guard by the blackjack table.” Got to take him out now” says he.
There are two other guards watching other TV monitors. All the surveillance equipment, as well as the chairs hang from the ceiling. In the middle of the glass bubble there is another glass cylinder with three men inside.
The men inside the glass cylinder are Viral, 45, tall, dark hair, classic Greek features, Anader, 50, very short, bald, ascetic looks, eye glasses, and Topaid.
“…my son, I am so proud that he has chosen the shortest way to Heaven” says Anader.
“Our sons, they blow up so fast nowadays, to the praise of our God” responds Viral who then launches into religious rhetoric. His voice is raspy, in contrast with his harmonious face features, and he talks in small sentences with ample body language. “I am observing the world now, to find a future for them” he says emphatically sweeping the monitors in the room with his arm stretched.
There are two monitors and a rack of audio, desktop and video equipment; the monitors show the stock market activity in New York and world weather broadcast showing world’s temperature zones, air turbulences on this day of August 7, 2016. “Let’s talk about this now!” says Viral in a commanding voice while pointing at the weather map, looking at Anader, then pushing a remote control button to activate a projection screen. “Show me what you have” continues he, now pointing at one of the desktops on the rack.
While Anader inserts a disk into the desktop, he explains that the presentation is partially related to his PhD thesis at the University of Maryland. He was able to create a model predicting the formation of small tornadoes at the boundaries of the big hurricanes. It all depends on the air flow parameters at the boundaries. But in order for him to narrow the topic, and address any practical issues, Viral needs to tell him what he exactly wants to do.
Viral explains infatuated how he plans to use the power of the hurricane to spread radioactive dust, a stealth dirty bomb. “Nobody will know what was done, except when they’ll return to the daily routine from the evacuation caused by the hurricane. And then they’ll find out that they have to evacuate again” concludes he with a lethal grin on his face.
“But you need a lot of sources, and where are you going to get them from?” asks Anader intrigued.
“We’ve got them already, Strontium, Cesium and Cobalt sources from industrial and medical radiation facilities. We were collecting them for years now, about 50 a year, out of the 300 they lose every year in US” responds Viral. “And they have about 2 million registered, so there’s plenty” adds him smiling.
Anader is surprised, but still not convinced, considering that the hurricane covers a huge area, thus the lethal impact of the contamination will be minimal.
“Well,” Viral responds, “that’s why we need you. Your scientific knowledge and access to NOAA data should make you decide when and where is the best time to do it. I don’t need it to be lethal, just frightful, create long term chaos over the evacuation and cleanup efforts.”
“Most of the information is available to all”, Anader comments now, presenting the slides. He explains the favorable wind and atmospheric pressure patterns for the formation of hurricanes over the Atlantic. “In the past”, continues he changing the slide, “numerous small storms formed in early summer, caused by typical La Niña convection around the Equator. This year the conditions are typical for a strong hurricane season skewed to the North of the Tropics in September-October time frame. With my model and data from NOAA, I can predict the big ones one week and the little tornadoes one day in advance. You need the little tornadoes to spread the dust, the spread area is small and the precipitations will make the contamination worse.
“Our van will be driving in the area and will have a GPS, you’ll give the coordinates to Nukilar” says Viral, then looking at Topaid “We had a little set-back, but based on what Anader said, it looks like God is on our side. Nukilar will be back in Carolina before the season starts. And we’re ready in LA” concludes he looking back to Anader, “Topaid just need the UNIK money.”
The conversation continues as Viral drives his guests out of the glass cylinder through the door that opens automatically towards a short, narrow passageway onto another steel door. Viral sets his eyebrows on a raised peephole, there is a click and the door automatically opens. He enters a large room where a leader preaches about the path Heaven for the Chosen Ones. “Our God is better than theirs, we have to teach them a lesson!” concludes he forcefully.
The training session ends and the people stand up to walk into a huge room with luxurious plants, small water flows and pools, and divans loaded with pillows. Few white doves playfully flap their wings flying through the large doors opening towards a magnificent sunset.
Anader looks in awe at the ceiling’s mural depicting instances of starry nights, bright and cloudy day skies and green birds flying. Three oriental young and scantily dressed women, with dark hair and eyes, one with a parrot on her shoulder, greet the group, inviting the guests to eat sweets from the tray. Viral takes few candies from it, chews them, dips his fingers is a water bowl then dries them on a little towel held by one of the hostesses.
The conversation had changed now to Anader’s chicken farm business in Bangkok. He laments the misfortune of the chickens dying of a new virus and his wife falling ill just before him having to fly over. There have been dozens of people dying of this mutant virus that could be transmitted to humans. He is mostly concerned about his wife.
“It is about the right time for your wife to pay a visit to her cousins in America.” laughs Viral while guiding his guests to an elevator door which opens as they approach it.
Viral points to the 30-year-old, bearded, ascetic guard to go down. “Everything from good to bad that happens to us is God’s work” says Viral. ” And even the bad things, like viruses, compete for goodness. And their natural aggressiveness is rewarded by evolution.” Throughout his dissertation, Viral caresses the green birds embossed in the panels’ decoration. The elevators stop and the group gets out of it.
As they step out on the large casino corridor, two short guards, quickly emerge from the usual crowd of tourists, closely joining Viral’s group while furtively looking around. Viral stands out of the tourist crowd with his height and white robe flapping about his fast strides. His guests have difficulties to keep up with him, while he continues his animated dissertation. “We have to teach our green ones about these natural things and use them to magnify our power!”
Topaid bumps into an old blonde hooker who curses while the guards screen him from the potential brawl. Viral keeps going like a mad man by a couple of conference rooms, one of which holds the UNIK foundation convention.
The guards hesitate between staving off the brawl with the hooker and staying close to Viral. Viral suddenly stops, his emotions high, his followers almost bumping into him. He addresses in turn to both Topaid and Anader. “These infidels, they have them all, the money, earthquakes, fires, privacy rights, hurricanes, viruses. All should be used to magnify the power of our sacred war against them.” He raises his hands prophetically, but his voice starts cracking. In a cavernous voice revealing his lethal character, he concludes threateningly, pointing the finger at Topaid “Fear is our enterprise! Are you ready?”
LA BREA STREET, LOS ANGELES
Kidall, 15 years old boy, sweaty face, swerves to the left and cusses in anger at the loud thud of cars colliding. Shattered window glass falls inside the car. He glances at the heavy afternoon traffic on La Brea, in Los Angeles, then in the side mirror through the broken window. The coupe bumped in the left side of his white van, when he swerved. The coupe’s hood is covered by shattered glass, a thin antifreeze smoke coming out from under the hood. The coupe’s widow opens and the passenger, a mature Hispanic woman sticks her head out shouting at him.
The Hispanic man driving the coupe is dizzy and attempts to get out of the car. While shouting at Kidall, the woman grabs the driver with her left hand to hold him back.
Kidall sees an opening in the traffic right ahead of him and drives off in a screeching metal noise. The front fender of the coupe is yanked by the van’s rear one, with yet another screech.
In the coupe, the excited woman, still holding on the driver’s shirt, yells at him to follow the van. “This Mother Fucker, get him!” and, in the torrent of cusses and instructions to the old man, she pulls out a cell from the purse and dials 911. The back, left side of the van is visible together with the license plate. The woman floods now the 911 receptionist man with cusses on the van’s driver and confusing descriptions of the traffic accident. The 911 receptionist tries to calm the woman down and persuade her to rather call a traffic police number, since this is not an emergency situation. As the Hispanic woman gets angrier, the 911 receptionist concedes to connect her with the police station. The Hispanic woman has to start all over, including cusses. The traffic police woman receptionist, with a soothing voice, calmly repeats some of the traffic descriptions, to make sure she got them right. The coupe’s driver looks frightened as he tries to see the van swerving in the traffic through the thickening antifreeze smoke of his car. The short instructions yelled at him by the woman passenger continue intermingled with the inflamed conversation with the police receptionist. “Let me check the plates for you, before anything” says the police receptionist languorously.
SANTA MONICA POLICE STATION, LOS ANGELES
At a local Police station, two men, one fat one slim, 50 and 30 years of age and a woman, 30, pass in front of the reception desk heading towards a side door. On the walls there are a couple of framed newspaper articles and police recruiting posters. The younger man winks at the female receptionist, Afro-American, 29, who ignores him ostentatiously. She dials an extension and starts explaining very slowly.
” Papa! This crazy woman has an emergency …”
” Don’t call me Papa!” interrupts the man at the other end. “She has to call 911!”
“Just be patient…” hesitates she trying to avoid “papa”. “911 connected her to me, this driver who damaged her car…” continues the receptionist while looking in the mirror on the counter. She sees a bead of perspiration on her upper lip, sweeps it and makes sure that the lipstick is not affected, before continuing. “This is a hit and run and I checked the plate…”
In an office of the Police station, the male officer, 60, speaks on the phone. “What business? “asks he a little annoyed, then after a pause mockingly “Radioactive?” His face becomes serious and he changes his posture in the chair. “A mobile unit from North Carolina? Where is it now?” asks he excited. He listens for a short while then adds” Go get lunch by yourself. Good girl!” Standing up now, he connects to another phone line. “We have a radioactive mobile driver involved in a traffic accident. He’s fled the scene and our people are chasing him. We need the dogs at the ready for…” he hesitates a bit before deciding” The Groove area. Stay on the line while I’m talking to SWAT and the Feds.”
3rd STREET, LOS ANGELES
As Kidall white van turns on the 3rd Street, the radio communication between the police mobile units and the dispatchers goes on. Some mobile units in the area are dispatched to the La Brea and Santa Monica crossroad. The whereabouts of the car are not yet clear but in the course of the communication, one unit signals that two white vans went by and turned left on the 3rd Street, driving towards The Groove.
There is heavy traffic on the 3rd Street and Kidall’s van seems to be stuck. He is impatient and speaks on the phone with somebody, gesticulating. The police radio communication continues, mixed at times with static and traffic noise. A pedestrian policeman waves at him and points towards the Beverly Center.
The police radio communication is about the traffic jams preventing them to follow the car closely. There is also another trouble going on in North Hollywood: “Where do we go first?”, “How many cars checked in?”, “About ten”, don’t go to Hollywood, move to Beverly”, “Roger”.
As Kidall’s van approaches the crossroad, then drives through a red light on Fairfax, a police motorcycle turns right on 3rd from Fairfax, speeding up to catch up with it.
The police communication continues with interruptions caused by bursts of static or loss of connectivity. “Somebody’s got him!” …”He’s heading towards the Beverly Center now!”
SAN VINCENTE STREET, LOS ANGELES
The white van crosses La Cienega and veers to the right on San Vincente, around the Beverly Center. On San Vincente there is another traffic jam caused by the Cedar Sinai construction squeezing the cars into one lane. The van slows down then speeds-up to enter the Beverly Center garage.
The police motorcycle that was following the van turns the corner from the 3rd Street and on the radio-dispatch it is communicated that the van drove in. All mobile units are called on the radio to isolate the area.
BEVERLY CENTER GARAGE, LOS ANGELES
Kidall pulls the van into a parking spot and gets out, mingling with the other people walking towards the elevator stairs. He leans against the railing, looks down on the street; five police cars are blocking the Beverly Blvd. entrance into the Center, three more just pull in. Policeman with dogs deploy at the entrances. Kidall looks around hesitating then hurries to Macy’s elevator.
BEVERLY CENTER ROOFTOP
The News Channel helicopter circles above the Beverly Center. The pilot shouts in the headset, through the deafening rotor noise, at a man visible in the SWAT marked helicopter: “No way I’ll go away!”, then looking at the cameraman, and pointing down “Take those police cars!” There are about fifteen of them now and more arrive from the surrounding streets swearing-off through the traffic. Some policemen run into the mall with dogs in the leash, some cordon the street, others take shooting positions or try to disperse the crowd. People in the street crowd either sit watching the commotion or running away. There is an incipient panic.
The News Channel pilot watches excited the six SWAT people deployed from the helicopter on the roof of the Center. Two SWATs take positions on the roof while the other four unlatch the sunroof bubbles and prepare to get down on ropes. The SWAT leader signals by raising his hand for the team to wait for his order.
BEVERLY CENTER STREET LEVEL, LOS ANGELES
At the street level, a vehicle resembling a bobcat bulldozer its way through the police cars blocking the mall’s entrance. Its rear tangles with that of a Wolkswagen and drags it towards the ramp going up into the mall’s parking structure.
People yell at each other trying to get their families together while running away towards the exits already fenced by the police. The panic grows.
BEVERLY CENTER 5th FLOOR
On the fifth floor, surprised shoppers are rushing towards the exit of the Macy’s store, responding to the speakers’ announcement that the store will be closing. The crowd getting out of Macy’s collides with that coming out of the movie theater, some of the latter wanting to get into the store. The confusion caused by the physical interaction grows as the Beverly Center security employees elbow through the crowd now while talking into their Walkie-Talkies.
The most turbulent area is by the Pet’s Store as some people get out of Macy, some get in line by the elevator, and more are coming up from the elevator stairs.
Kidall is in the crowd emerging from Macy’s. He sees a security guard on the right, lowers his head and walks through an occasional passage into the Pet’s Store. He gets his hands in the back of his vest trying to untangle a load strapped to his body with heavy duty tape; he can’t, and turns now to gauge the situation outside the store.
The wrangle of people, security and megaphones directing the people to move calmly towards the exit is at the apogee. Right at this moment, the SWAT force in combat gear drops in through the sunroof openings.
Kidall sees them, shouts “Run!” and, as he dashes out of the store and towards the elevator, heavily bumps into a security guard. In the ensuing melee, glass displays inside and outside the store shatter and few dogs and rabbits from inside and the snake from the outside display window escape. Through the feet of people running and kicking shattered glass on the floor, the snake faces a frozen stare rabbit, through the falling glass shards.
SHAKILAD KID’S SCHOOL, LOS ANGELES.
Coins fall on the floor, a boy, eight years old laughs and fends another boy, 12 years, who hits him. A light fight starts in the living room while two other kids, a boy of 14 and a girl of 12, make ugly faces and take handicapped body postures.
Shakilad and Topaid enter the living room; she hits one boy in the head on her way, claps her hands to get attention and shouts to all to shut up. Her body partially covers a white board on which it is written “wealth” and a list of some other words. One of the boys mimics her clapping.
“All of you! Quiet! We’ll learn today the old Chinese Money Principles the basics of which are No-Money-No-Happiness and Cash Is Always Better. Shakilad continues telling them in broken English that chaos is driven by people strive for sex and money. “Chaos weakens people and that’s when we have our opportunity” says she tapping on the white board:
Money Oppartunities, The Five Key Sources:
1. Stealing
2. Begging
3. Politics
4. Real Estate
5. Banking.
” These are your opportunities, but we will concentrate on the first two. You have to think “I” and “Now”, she tells the kids.
“And there is reward right behind that moment” emphasizes Topaid from a chair in the back of the room.
BEVERLY CENTER 5th FLOOR
On the fifth floor of the Beverly Center, somebody grabs the snake by the neck and the rabbit runs away.
“Lay down! “shouts a police officer pointing the gun at Kidall from about 20 feet away.
“Don’t move!” shouts a SWAT officer. The SWAT officer and police man look at each other.
All shoppers drop face down on the floor now. The silence is total just for a moment, then a baby starts crying.
Kidall stands and looks at the two officers shouting at him then arrogantly says “I give up!” then smiling, “I’ll give you what I have!” and gets to open the vest with one hand.
The SWAT shoots Kidall with silencer muffled shots. As the bullets hit him in the head and chest, Kidall’s body is engulfed in a cloud of white powder, and bleeds while falling down.
The relative silence is sheared by a woman’s scream and a man desperately shouting “Stop shooting, you’re killing us!” The police officer crawls towards Kidall, looks at the white powder on the floor, licks his finger, then takes a powder sample to taste it. “It’s coke!” he shouts.
The SWAT leader talks into the head set’s microphone: “It’s coke,
damn it!” The voice at the other end responds:” We got radioactive traces in the van, instead!” There is a moment of puzzlement on the SWAT officer’s face.
Shoppers are still face down.
“Yank his cell for me!” snaps the SWAT leader at the policeman by Kidall’s body. The policeman pockets Kidall, finds his cell and sends it gliding towards the SWAT. The SWAT takes it, flips it open, and reads loudly the phone numbers from the Dialed Calls feature into the microphone’s headset.
Few shoppers decide that it’s time get up and flee. That’s like a signal for all to do the same while a SWAT loudly insists on a megaphone that they don’t move, the danger is not dealt with, not yet! People don’t care and the mayhem is on, again, everybody bumping into each other while running towards Macy’s, the movie theaters or escalator. The panic reaches its peak.
CASINO, MANILA, PHILIPPINES
A clod of powder surrounds Viral’s chin as the barber 35, dark hair and beard, joyously powders him. In his casino quarters in Manila, through the powder clouds, Viral somnolently watches the US news on a TV station.
He suddenly becomes alert, shoves the barber aside, removes in haste the towel from is neck and turns up the TV sound. The TV news shows images from the air and street level in LA Beverly Center, reporting on a possible terrorist attack. He listens attentively then waives away the barber and two women in bikini meandering by. He presses few buttons on a small switchboard on the table and fits a blue tooth headset in his ear.
SHAKILAD APARTMENT, LOS ANGELES
In Shakilad’s apartment, Topaid picks-up the ringing phone while leaving the kid’s room. He displays an increasing surprise while listening to Viral broken-up invectives about the bad timing. Ironically gracious, he invites Viral to speak slowly because the voice encrypting software garbles its sentences.
He enters the living room and turns the TV on. The TV anchor comments on the Beverly Center closure two hours ago and its evacuation due to a possible terrorist attack. Long lines of people cordoned by police are evacuated through check points. At the sequence of the van, seen from the helicopter, enters the garage, Topaid gets closer to the TV focusing on the van’s roof. Viral continues to blame Topaid for striking before sending him the signal.
Topaid recovers somewhat from his surprise and has to repeat twice “It’s not our game! “before Viral hears him and finally stops talking. He explains that they have the cards, it must be some other game, not theirs. Viral breathes hard for few seconds before bursting in laughter: “Let’s call it a bluff then!” says he and Topaid joins in.” I don’t know what happened with the van. Let me call Nukilar.” He removes his phone from the garbler’s box, gets another phone from the breast pocket and dials.
NUKILAR APARTMENT, LOS ANGELES
Back in LA, in Topaid’s apartment, Mulaget balances in a rocking chair. She slows down at the sound of the phone ringing in the adjacent bedroom. The door towards the bedroom is open and somebody is coughing hard. From behind the door, a reddish skin, swollen and shaking hand takes the ringing cell from the floor. In a raspy voice, a man says” Yes, it does have two round hatches, one small, one big, why?” Nukilar is lying on the bed, his torso and face reddish, sun burned like, with blisters. He listens then replies “There are similar vans like it, it can’t be ours. Ours is with Satrap, he took it to service it for my return.”
“I don’t want to go to his apartment, you call him, I have to save my energies.” Nukilar is somewhat agitated.
SHAKILAD APARTMENT
Topaid calls Satrap, who was sleeping, and anxiously tells him about the van at the Beverly Center. He learns that Satrap left the car in front of the building, after servicing it, no other place to park it. Satrap will go check and call him back. After thinking for a moment he starts packing in a hurry.
NUKILAR APARTMENT LOS ANGELES
Mulaget enters the bedroom with a towel in her hand, sits on the edge of the bed and presses the towel on his torso with a rather rough than gentle touch.
“What’s happening?” she asks.
Nukilar moans in pain then yells at her “Go away!” He yanks the towel and throws it into Mulaget’s face, “it hurts!”
She looks disappointed at him. “Sorry, I know it does. The doctor said you’ll get better though” says she making a pause then adding more to herself “before it gets worse.”
Nukilar becomes energized “I will be slashing the sword, and He will be waiting for me, and I will have my reward.” They both ignore the ringing phone.
“You are going on the other side anyway, but you want the hurricane to do it, because it’s your fucking martyrdom way.” says Mulaget with sad anger.
“You trump; I’ll shake the blasphemies out of your heretic brain! Do not talk about my mission that way! ” bursts Nukilar, his energies fainting though. “I have to talk, I have to know what’s going on!” argues Mulaget, angry. “You’re going away, and I am not, that’s how your God wants it, doesn’t he? Do you know what your God wants for Meme? Or you decide what God thinks about? You owe it to Meme and me.” The phone is ringing. “I made this chunk of money for you people, I need some back” yells she now getting her face close to his.
Nukilar grabs her by the neck and rises from the bed almost barking at her in anger. “The money comes from my people, and you skimmed too much of it.” She tries to escape but he flips her on the bed and shakes her head with renewed force. He then gets a better idea about shaking and starts tearing up her dress. After a short fight, she escapes Nukilar’s fading energies and jumps in the middle of the room, breathing hard.
“Do you wanna fuck hah? Wanna see my cunt?” Laughs she hysterically, opening her robe then taking her underwear off. She makes a ball out of it and throws it into Nukilar’s face. As she does that, there is a noise at the apartment’s entrance, then Satrap and two other men enter the room. They briefly bulk at Mulaget’s half nakedness, then everybody starts doing things while arguing. Satrap needs to take Nukilar away, the van is not where he left it, the police probably has it. Satrap and another man force Nukilar out of the bed to dress him up. Mulaget pulls on Satrap’s shirt and yells at him to leave Nukilar alone. One of the men searches for and finds the laptop. Satrap turns to Mulaget, grabs her by the hair and shouts in her face: “You stupid! They may trace us, could be here any time!” He shoves her in the head then rushes with and the men out of the apartment. Mulaget finally understands, buttons her torn robe, grabs her big purse and dashes to follow the men. She is about to leave but returns to fetch her underwear lying on the floor, before shutting the door close.
NUKILAR APARTMENT BUILDING, LOS ANGELES
Two SWAT men enter the building’s corridor in quick but noiseless moves. Two more appear from the other end, joining them at the elevator. The LEDs show one of the two elevators coming down. They take positions, their backs to the wall.
The elevator’s door opens and an old woman is about to get out pushing an old man’s wheelchair. They are stunned by the two SWAT in firing stances. The old woman gives signs of fainting and the man opens the mouth ready to scream. One of the SWAT catches the falling woman while the other one extends his arm and sprays the old man in the face. The old man goes limp in the chair. The two SWATs get the elderly people out through the back end of the corridor.
The other elevator is coming down now and the two other SWATs swiftly move to flatten their backs against the opposite wall. The elevator’s door opens and the SWATs move in the door opening, weapons aiming at Satrap’s party. They all freeze. In yet another burst of energy, face distorted in rage, Nukilar pulls himself out of his supporters’ arms and charges the SWATs head first. One of the SWATs fends off and trips him while holding his aim against the other in the elevator.
“Freeze!” shouts he, then orders them to slowly get out and lay face down on the floor. The other two SWATs return rushing to the scene.
Satrap’s party is down now, and an attempt to get up by one of them is thwarted by a hit in the head. Two SWATs handcuff the hands and legs of Satraps’ party people one by one. A cell phone rings. One of the SWAT turns them face up now while the other searches for their cell phones. They flip them open one by one and start communicating the phone numbers displayed on the dialed call feature.
SHAKILAD APARTMENT, LOS ANGELES
In Shakilad apartment, the TV broadcasts the news about hurricane Isabel. The capital, Washington DC, is almost dead center of the storm’s projected path, according to the National Hurricane Center. A category 5, passing the threshold of 156 mph, Isabel is to become one of the most violent Atlantic hurricanes in recent memory.
The TV announcement continues as the apartment is busted by SWAT.
The door of the apartment noisily breaks down, splinters flying. Through the dust, SWAT with gas masks and heavy radioactive gear burst into the rooms of the apartment. There is heavy breathing and beeping. Topaid looks struck by awe while still holding his carry on and luggage, ready to flee.
Shakilad runs into the bathroom and shuts the door. The kids are frozen in fear first, and then two of them start screaming. A SWAT man walks around with a beeping Geiger-Muller radiation detector.
FBI TERRORIST COORDINATION CENTER, PENTAGON.
The big screen displays many more flashing points on the US map, “Red Alert” “Date: September 15, 2016” text flashing at the top.
The woman officer, now by herself, few agents moving between cubicles on the floor, watches the screen while talking in the phone headset: “Show me the top ones!” “There are only TV broadcasts available” claims the voice at the other end. “What’s wrong with that, thank God they’re making themselves useful once in a while.”
The big screen turns into four quadrants, three showing an immigrants’ rally in San Francisco, the SWAT helicopter dropping the agents on the Los Angeles Beverly Center rooftop top and the Caribbean hurricane approaching North Carolina. On each quadrant, data on time, amount of people and police resources involved are typed as the images unfold. The fourth quadrant displays the statistical control chart of the phone communication traffic loads. The split screen then switches to the US map with colored flashing dots,
“We didn’t ask for red, it’s not enough for that” says the woman officer.
From the other end of the line, the analyst replies: “No, but we have a car with radioactive traces in LA.”
“Give me the commander. We need clearance to listen to some people’s conversations” says the woman officer.
“Got the clearance one week ago, responds the commander trough the speaker phone, that’s how we tracked the van’s owner and his leader in LA. “All related people have been identified and isolated. Look!” he continues.
The officer woman watches the screen as it turns from the US map to a
database generated relationship diagram. There are names of people in color coded boxes, phone numbers, cars licenses, credit cards, cities and clusters of arrows between them. Viral, Topaid, Nukilar, Satrap, Mulaget boxed names flash, together with three city names, Manila, Devil Dust Hills and Los Angeles. “A number of these people use the same talk-garbler that codes their conversations.” “Is this corroborated information?” asks the woman officer.
The analyst draws the woman’s attention to the diagram on the screen, freezing the relevant frame, explaining that there is no relationship between the owner of the van in Florida and the Beverly Center guy. “We learned later that the guy stole the van to escape from an undercover bust. Later we traced two of the people in the diagram and got possession of a laptop. The van owner owns an industrial radioactive business in North Carolina and the laptop has four targets and a construction site in DDH.”
The split screen now displays the map of the Devil Dust Hills city in North Carolina, the construction site photo and the satellite image of hurricane Isis.
“Did you send our people to DDH?”
“Negative, hard to get there now, all 6000 military personnel and their families on or near Langley Air Force Base in Hampton, Virginia, were just ordered to leave.” The big screen turns to the North Carolina, Virginia and Washington map with the superimposed Atlantic hurricane advancing in its estimated path through Washington DC.
“So, what do we do?” asks the woman.
“Well, nothing, I mean with the alert. They can’t do anything while the hurricane is on.
HOSPITAL ROOM, LOS ANGELES
Breathing hard, Nukilar, covered by bandages except for his reddish and swollen shaky hands, lies on the hospital bed. He stares at the TV set broadcasting the news about hurricane Isis, on this day 16 Sep 2016. “Isis” intones Nukilar and bursts into a short throaty laughter and cough. “I was to chase you alive, make you glow with my dust right from the eye of your furry.
On the TV, the satellite image of the hurricane is followed by that of people evacuating their houses and lots of cars jammed in traffic. In the background, the evacuated city resembles with yet another old fortress. “The National Hurricane Center posted a hurricane watch between the South Carolina east coast and Washington DC. Forecasters say that Isis appears to be on a course to hit the coast tomorrow. More than 75,000 people have been warned to evacuate.”
There are tubes and wires running from Nukilar’s body to electronic medical equipment beeping and displaying the tack of his vital functions. The draperies drawn all around the bed slightly wave in the air draft. The shadows of the nurses moving behind the waving curtains seem to be lusciously dancing. Nukilar recites a poem on the beeping background of the medical equipment:
“I pray to see the radiance of God,
Through the glowing dust of Orion’s Sword.
Through the eye of the heavenly storm.
Virgins to quench my thirst for Thy Love
The promise I held as the Treasured Trove”
The reciting rhythm slows down together with the equipment’s beeping frequency, while the number of the nurses’ shadows multiplies. Nukilar’s breathing gets fainter and the oscilloscope signal turns into an irregular pattern. “Will you be one of my virgins?” whispers he with the last breath. The oscilloscope pattern turns linear and the beeping into a continuous whistle. The nurses’ shadows turn into gracious shapes dancing in slow motion.
The screen turns black and stays like this for at least 30 seconds before “END” is displayed then disappears. The credits start rolling only after another 30 seconds.
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