Showing posts with label Soap. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Soap. Show all posts

Saturday, 20 July 2019

I Make My Own Soap Now

Coulson remember me.
You're the closest thing I have to family.

So, we're both from "The Real World," we're S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, our bodies are being held captive, and this is all a virtual prison, built to keep us sedated.
Am I missing anything? 

No, that's about the gist of it.

[ Chuckles ] 
I knew I wasn't crazy.
Hydra lies about everything.
The news? It's all fake.
Take the Cambridge Incident.
It was a setup.
That girl shouldn't have been at that school in the first place.

Where we're from, she died.
This never happened.
[ Chuckles ] [ Door opens ]

History Student : 
Hey, Mr. Coulson, my homework was done, I swear, but then my dad made me —

Coulson :
Amy, we've been over this.
Until first bell, this is my time.

It's okay.

Hydra used Cambridge to take control, in The Name of Law and Order to justify everything.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.

[ Sighs ] 
I knew if anyone would understand, it'd be you.

Coulson :
I would've figured it out a long time ago if it wasn't for the mind-control soap.


Coulson :
That blue soap everyone uses? 
Hydra loads it up with chemicals.
It seeps into our bloodstream.
Implants false memories into our brains.
They want us to believe this is a magical place.
But don't worry, I'm clear.

I make my own soap now.

No, I think that you're talking about Project TAHITI.
They messed with your head a little bit which is why you probably remember some things, uh –
Why don't we put the soap theories on hold just for one second, okay? 


We got a problem.
[ Sighing ] 
Oh, you have no idea.
Something big's going down over here.
They're sending a unit to pick up your teacher friend.
You're gonna need a substitute.
Come on.
Don't quit on me.
Not now.
Not now.

Coulson :

Simmonds :
Oh, hi.

Coulson :
It's me again, Phil Coulson.
I called Hydra on you.
My bad.

Simmonds :
Water under the proverbial bridge.
I'm so glad to see you, sir.

Coulson :
Apparently, in The Real World, I have a robot hand.
[ Chuckles ] 
Pretty cool, right? 

And here, he makes his own soap.
How about that.

I do.
You should, too.

Coulson :
[Sighs ] 
For the longest time, I just wanted someone to believe me 
and tell me I wasn't crazy.

Simmonds :
You are not crazy.

Coulson :
I live alone and make my own soap.

Simmonds :
I - Uh. It's quaint.
Hipster, even.

Coulson :
That's not how my ex-wife saw it.
Who am I kidding? I'm not remotely qualified to be here.

Simmonds :
I know The Real Coulson, and I believe in you, 
even if you don't just now.
You're exactly Where You're Meant to Be.

Thursday, 18 July 2019


" I have not written a novel for seven years, but I hope to write one fairly soon. 
It is bound to be a failure, every book is a failure
but I know with some clarity what kind of book I want to write. "

— George Orwell, 
Why I Write

failure (n.)
1640s, failer, "a failing, deficiency," also "act of failing," from Anglo-French failer, Old French falir "be lacking; not succeed" (see fail (v.)). The verb in Anglo-French used as a noun; ending altered 17c. in English to conform with words in -ure. Meaning "thing or person considered as a failure" is from 1837.

fail (v.)
c. 1200, "be unsuccessful in accomplishing a purpose;" also "cease to exist or to function, come to an end;" early 13c. as "fail in expectation or performance," from Old French falir "be lacking, miss, not succeed; run out, come to an end; err, make a mistake; be dying; let down, disappoint" (11c., Modern French faillir), from Vulgar Latin *fallire, from Latin fallere "to trip, cause to fall;" figuratively "to deceive, trick, dupe, cheat, elude; fail, be lacking or defective." De Vaan traces this to a PIE root meaning "to stumble" (source also of Sanskrit skhalate "to stumble, fail;" Middle Persian škarwidan "to stumble, stagger;" Greek sphallein "to bring or throw down," sphallomai "to fall;" Armenian sxalem "to stumble, fail"). If so, the Latin sense is a metaphorical shift from "stumble" to "deceive." Related: Failed; failing.

Replaced Old English abreoðan. From c. 1200 as "be unsuccessful in accomplishing a purpose;" also "cease to exist or to function, come to an end;" early 13c. as "fail in expectation or performance."
From mid-13c. of food, goods, etc., "to run short in supply, be used up;" from c. 1300 of crops, seeds, land. From c. 1300 of strength, spirits, courage, etc., "suffer loss of vigor; grow feeble;" from mid-14c. of persons. From late 14c. of material objects, "break down, go to pieces."

fail (n.)
late 13c., "failure, deficiency" (as in without fail), from Old French faile "deficiency," from falir (see fail (v.)). The Anglo-French form of the verb, failer, also came to be used as a noun, hence failure.

suffix forming abstract nouns of action, from Old French -ure, from Latin -ura, an ending of fem. nouns denoting employment or result.

The sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of the Ministry of Truth, with the light no longer shining on them, looked grim as the loopholes of a fortress. His heart quailed before the enormous pyramidal shape. It was too strong, it could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs would not batter it down. He wondered again for whom he was writing the diary. For the future, for the past--for an age that might be imaginary. And in front of him there lay not death but annihilation. The diary would be reduced to ashes and himself to vapour. Only the Thought Police would read what he had written, before they wiped it out of existence and out of memory. How could you make appeal to the future when not a trace of you, not even an anonymous word scribbled on a piece of paper, could physically survive?

The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten minutes. He had to be back at work by fourteen-thirty.

Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new heart into him. He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear. But so long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not broken. It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the human heritage. He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote:

   To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live alone--to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone:

   From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink--greetings!

He was already dead, he reflected. It seemed to him that it was only now, when he had begun to be able to formulate his thoughts, that he had taken the decisive step. The consequences of every act are included in the act itself. He wrote:

   Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death.

Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible. Two fingers of his right hand were inkstained. It was exactly the kind of detail that might betray you. Some nosing zealot in the Ministry (a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired woman or the dark-haired girl from the Fiction Department) might start wondering why he had been writing during the lunch interval, why he had used an old-fashioned pen, WHAT he had been writing--and then drop a hint in the appropriate quarter. He went to the bathroom and carefully scrubbed the ink away with the gritty dark-brown soap which rasped your skin like sandpaper and was therefore well adapted for this purpose.

He put the diary away in the drawer. It was quite useless to think of hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether or not its existence had been discovered. A hair laid across the page-ends was too obvious. With the tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken off if the book was moved.

“ I give all this background information because I do not think one can assess a writer’s motives without knowing something of his early development. His subject-matter will be determined by the age he lives in – at least this is true in tumultuous, revolutionary ages like our own – but before he ever begins to write he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he will never completely escape. It is his job, no doubt, to discipline his temperament and avoid getting stuck at some immature stage, or in some perverse mood: but if he escapes from his early influences altogether, he will have killed his impulse to write. Putting aside the need to earn a living, I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. 

They are:

1. Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc. etc. It is humbug to pretend that this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen – in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they abandon individual ambition – in many cases, indeed, they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all – and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, wilful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centred than journalists, though less interested in money.

2. Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact or one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or a writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.

3. Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.

4. Political purpose – using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push The World in a certain direction, to alter other people’s idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.”

Friday, 15 March 2019


Lord Aukon himself is here.

(Aukon enters and inspects the line.)

Interesting -

(He goes back to Adric.)

Lord AUKON : 
A mind that shields itself.
 One who pretends to be a dull and stupid peasant, 
but who is different.
Who, me?

Lord AUKON : 



Come with me.


Lord AUKON : 
Spirit too, I see. 

Come with you? 

What's in it for me?

Lord AUKON: 


Dominion over This World.... 

....and over Many Others. 

 Distant music, Brahms' lullaby, from the Rosner Brothers way down by the women's barracks calming the inhabitants. Up here on the balcony, Schindler and Goeth, the latter so drunk he can barely stand up, stare out over Goeth's dark kingdom.


They don't fear us because we have the power to kill, they fear us because we have the power to kill arbitrarily. 

A man commits a crime, he should know better.

We have him killed, we feel pretty good about it.

Or we kill him ourselves and we feel even better. 

That's not Power, though, that's Justice. 

That's different than Power. 

Power is when we have every justification to kill -- and we don't. 

That's Power.

That's what The Emperors had. 

A man stole something, he's brought in before the emperor, he throws himself down on the floor, he begs for mercy, he knows he's going to die... 

And The Emperor pardons him. 

This worthless man. 

He lets him go. 

That's Power. 

That's Power.
 It seems almost as though this temptation toward restraint, this image Schindler has brush-stroked of the merciful emperor, holds some appeal to Goeth. 

Perhaps, as he stares out over his camp, he imagines himself in the role, wondering what the power Schindler describes might feel like.

 Eventually, he glances over drunkenly, and almost smiles.


Amon the Good.


 A stable boy works to ready Goeth's horse before he arrives.

 He sticks a bridle into its mouth, throws a riding blanket onto its back, drags out the saddle Schindler bought Goeth.

 Before he can finish, though, Goeth is there. The boy tries to hide his panic; he knows others have been shot for less.

I'm sorry, sir, I'm almost done.


Oh, that's all right.

 As Goeth waits, patiently it seems, whistling to himself, the stable boy tries to mask his confusion.


 Goeth gallops around his great domain holding himself high in the saddle. But everywhere he looks, it seems, he's confronted with stoop-shouldered sloth. He forces himself to smile benevolently.


 Goeth comes into his bedroom sweating from his ride. A worker with a pail and cloth appears in the bathroom doorway.



I have to report, sir, I've been unable to remove the stains from your bathtub.

 Goeth steps past him to take a look. The worker is almost shaking, he's so terrified of the violent reprisal he expects to receive.


What are you using?


Soap, sir.


Soap? Not lye?

 The worker hasn't a defense for himself. 

Goeth's hand drifts down as if by instinct to the gun in his holster. 

He stares at the worker. 

He so wants to shoot him he can hardly stand it, right here, right in the bathroom, put some more stains on the porcelain. 

He takes a deep breath to calm himself.

 Then gestures grandly.

Go ahead, go on, leave. 

I pardon you.
 The worker hurries out with his pail and cloth. Goeth just stands there for several moments -- trying to feel the power of emperors he's supposed to be feeling. 

But he doesn't feel it. 

All he feels is stupid.


 The worker hurries across the dying lawn outside the villa.

 He dares a glance back, and at that moment, a hand with a gun appears out the bathroom window and fires.

(Habris enters.)

My Lord, it is time.

How dare you interrupt us!

Aukon has seen The Sign. 
The Arising is at hand.

The Arising? Leave us.

(Habris leaves.)

We must go to him.

We shall resume this later. 
If you need anything, there are guards outside the door. 

Many guards.

The Great 1 :
You took the one, last 
PERFECT Crystal of POWER. 

I searched all Time, and all Space for it....!!!

I MUST have it! 

The Established Dandy : 
No! No, never. 

You are PROUD, Little Man. 

I see that I shall have to teach you to have respect! 

Round you go, Doctor. 

No. No! 
No, I will not! 

(Against his will, the Doctor turns left, stepping high, as the Great One laughs.) 

No! No, I will not! No! 
(The Doctor has turned right round and back to where he started.) 

Is that FEAR I can feel in your mind...? 

You are not ACCUSTOMED to feeling FRIGHTENED, are you, Doctor? 

You are very WISE to be afraid of ME...!!!. 

Go now. You must hurry back and fetch the crystal. 

I MUST have it, don't you understand? 

I must have it! I must! 
I must! I must! 

Go now. Go! 
Go! Go NOW! 

We are all apt to surrender ourselves to domination. 
Even the strongest of us. 

...Do you mean me? 

Not all spiders sit on the back. 

Oh, I don't understand. You're not saying they've taken over The Doctor, are you? 

Oh no, Sarah, no. 
No, he's talking about my GREED. 

Greed? You? 

Yes, my Greed for KNOWLEDGE , for INFORMATION. 

He's saying that all this is basically My Fault. 

If I hadn't taken the crystal in the first place.....

I know who you are now!

You were always a little slow on the uptake, my boy. 

Stop! Have you brought the crystal to me? 
Well if I had not, why should I have returned? 
Very well. Very well, advance. 
(The Doctor walks around a corner and sees the universes biggest spider.) 

I've brought you the crystal. 
Now why don't you just take it and leave the humans in peace, both here and on Earth? 

You think I care for the puny plans of my subjects? Earth? 

One paltry planet among millions? 
Give me the crystal. 
I thirst for it! 
I ache for it! 

Well, why is it so important to you? 

You see this web of crystal above my head? 
It reproduces the pattern of my brain. 
One perfect crystal and it will be complete. 
That is the perfect crystal I need. 

And then? 

My every thought will resonate within the web, and grow in power until, until, until....!!!

But you've built a positive feedback circuit. You're trying to increase your mental powers to infinity. 

I shall be the ruler of the entire universe! 

Now listen to me. Listen. 
I haven't got much time left. 

What you're trying to do is impossible. 

If you complete that circuit, the energy will build up and up until it cannot be contained. 
You will destroy yourself. 

 You waste the little time remaining to you. 
Even now the cave of crystal is destroying the cells of your body. 
I will grant you one last favour. 

You may watch the completion of my triumph before you die! 

(The crystal flies out of the Doctor's hand and becomes the keystone of the web lattice.) 

I am complete! 
Now I am total power! 
All praise to the Great One! 

Stop. Stop! 
Don't you see what's happened to you? 

All praise to the Great One! 
All praise to me! Bow down before me, planets! 
Bow down, stars! 
Bow down, all galaxies and worship the Great One! 
The me! The Great, all-powerful me! 


(The giant spider starts to glow red.) 

I hurt! Help me! 
I am burning! My brain is on fire! 

(The Doctor runs out of the cave.) 

Help me!

Compressed information, streaming into her. Reports from every city, every country, every planet, and they all get packaged inside her head. She becomes part of the software. Her brain is the computer. 

 If it all goes through her, she must be a genius. 
Nah, she wouldn't remember any of it. There's too much. Her head'd blow up. 
The brain's the processor. As soon as it closes, she forgets. 

So, what about all these people round the edge? 

They've all got tiny little chips in their head, connecting them to her and they transmit six hundred channels. 
Every single fact in the Empire beams out of this place. 
Now that's what I call power. 

I started without you. 
This is fascinating. 
Satellite Five contains every piece of information within the Fourth Great and Bountiful Human Empire. 
Birth certificates, shopping habits, bank statements, but you two, you don't exist. 
Not a trace. No birth, no job, not the slightest kiss. 
How can you walk through the world and not leave a single footprint? 

Suki. Suki! Hello? 
Can you hear me? Suki? 
What have you done to her? 

I think she's dead. 

She's working. 

They've all got chips in their head, and the chips keep going, like puppets. 

Oh! You're full of information. But it's only fair we get some information back, because apparently, you're no one. It's so rare not to know something. Who are you? 

It doesn't matter, because we're off. 
Nice to meet you. Come on. 

(Suki grabs Rose's arm. Two other zombies grab the Doctor.) 

EDITOR: Tell me who you are. 

DOCTOR: Since that information's keeping us alive, I'm hardly going to say, am I. 

EDITOR: Well, perhaps my Editor in Chief can convince you otherwise. 

DOCTOR: And who's that? 

It may interest you to know that this is not the Fourth Great and Bountiful Human Empire. In fact, it's not actually human at all. It's merely a place where humans happen to live. 

(Growl, snarl.) 

Yeah. Yeah, sorry. It's a place where humans are allowed to live by kind permission of my client. 
(Who we finally see is a giant lump hanging from the ceiling, with a very nasty set of teeth in a mouth on the end of a pseudopod.) 
ROSE: What is that? 
DOCTOR: You mean that thing's in charge of Satellite Five? 
EDITOR: That thing, as you put it, is in charge of the human race. For almost a hundred years, mankind has been shaped and guided, his knowledge and ambition strictly controlled by it's broadcast news, edited by my superior, your master, and humanity's guiding light, the mighty Jagrafess of the Holy Hadrojassic Maxarodenfoe. I call him Max. 
(Down on Floor 139 Adam avoids Cathica as she goes to take another look at the schematic that the Doctor called up. Then she goes to the lift and punches in the code for Floor 500. 
Meanwhile, the Doctor and Rose have been placed in hefty sets of manacles.) 
EDITOR: Create a climate of fear and it's easy to keep the borders closed. It's just a matter of emphasis. The right word in the right broadcast repeated often enough can destabilise an economy, invent an enemy, change a vote. 
ROSE: So all the people on Earth are like, slaves. 
EDITOR: Well, now, there's an interesting point. Is a slave a slave if he doesn't know he's enslaved? 
EDITOR: Oh. I was hoping for a philosophical debate. Is that all I'm going to get? Yes? 
EDITOR: You're no fun. 
DOCTOR: Let me out of these manacles. You'll find out how much fun I am. 
EDITOR: Oh, he's tough, isn't he. But, come on. Isn't it a great system? You've got to admire it, just a little bit. 
ROSE: You can't hide something on this scale. Somebody must have noticed. 
EDITOR: From time to time, someone, yes, but the computer chip system allows me to see inside their brains. I can see the smallest doubt and crush it. 
(Cathica arrives on Floor 500. Adam goes to the broadcast room on 139.) 
EDITOR: Then they just carry on, living the life, strutting about downstairs and all over the surface of the Earth like they're so individual, when of course, they're not. They're just cattle. In that respect, the Jagrafess hasn't changed a thing. 
(The Doctor and Rose spot Cathica behind the Editor's back.) 
ROSE: What about you? You're not a Jagrabelly 
DOCTOR: Jagrafess. 
ROSE: Jagrafess. You're not a Jagrafess. You're human. 
EDITOR: Yeah, well, simply being human doesn't pay very well. 
ROSE: But you couldn't have done this all on your own. 
EDITOR: No. I represent a consortium of banks. Money prefers a long-term investment. Also, the Jagrafess needed a little hand to install himself. 
DOCTOR: No wonder, a creature that size. What's his life span? 
EDITOR: Three thousand years. 
DOCTOR: That's one hell of a metabolism generating all that heat. That's why Satellite Five's so hot. You pump it out of the creature, channel it downstairs. Jagrafess stays cool, it stays alive. Satellite Five is one great big life support system.

[Adam's home]

(Adam settles in the broadcast chair and opens his portal, then phones home.) 
ADAM [OC]: It's me again. Don't wipe this message. It's just going to sound like white noise, but save it because I can


ADAM: Translate it, okay? Three, two, one and spike. 
(Information beams into Adam.)

[Floor 500]

EDITOR: But that's why you're so dangerous. Knowledge is power, but you remain unknown. Who are you? 
(The Editor snaps his fingers and energy surges through the manacles. Back in the now, the little dog watches energy encircling the telephone answering machine.) 
DOCTOR: Leave her alone. I'm the Doctor, she's Rose Tyler. We're nothing, we're just wandering. 
EDITOR: Tell me who you are! 
DOCTOR: I just said! 
EDITOR: Yes, but who do you work for? Who sent you? Who knows about us? Who exactly 
(He stops. The Jagrafess growls.) 
EDITOR: Time Lord. 
DOCTOR: What? 
EDITOR: Oh, yes. The last of the Time Lords in his travelling machine. Oh, with his little human girl from long ago 
DOCTOR: You don't know what you're talking about. 
EDITOR: Time travel.


(Adam screams as information is sucked out of his brain.) 
ADAM: Help!

[Floor 500]

DOCTOR: Someone's been telling you lies. 
EDITOR: Young master Adam Mitchell? 
(The Editor calls up the holo-monitor showing Adam in the broadcast chair.) 
ROSE: Oh, my God. His head! 
DOCTOR: What the hell's he done? What the hell's he gone and done? They're reading his mind. He's telling them everything. 
EDITOR: And through him, I know everything about you. Every piece of information in his head is now mine. And you have infinite knowledge, Doctor. The Human Empire is tiny compared to what you've seen in your T A R D I S. Tardis. 
DOCTOR: Well, you'll never get your hands on it. I'll die first. 
EDITOR: Die all you like. I don't need you. I've got the key. 
(The Tardis key rises from Adam's pocket.) 
DOCTOR: You and your boyfriends! 
EDITOR: Today, we are the headlines. We can rewrite history. We could prevent mankind from ever developing. 
DOCTOR: And no one's going to stop you because you've bred a human race that doesn't bother to ask questions. Stupid little slaves, believing every lie. They'll just trot right into the slaughter house if they're told it's made of gold. 
(The Jagrafess snarls, and Cathica leaves.)

Wednesday, 26 December 2018



Late Middle English: from Jack, pet form of the given name John. The term was used originally to denote an ordinary man ( jack (sense 6)), also a youth (mid 16th century), hence the ‘knave’ in cards and ‘male animal’. 

The word also denoted various devices saving human labour, as though one had a helper ( jack (sense 1, jack sense 3, jack sense 9, jack sense 10), and in compounds such as jackhammer and jackknife); the general sense ‘labourer’ arose in the early 18th century and survives in cheapjack, lumberjack, steeplejack, etc. 

Since the mid 16th century a notion of ‘smallness’ has arisen, hence jack (sense 4, jack sense 5, jack sense 7, jack sense 13).


predicative Tired of or bored with someone or something.
‘people are getting jack of strikes’

" The fictional company which owns and operates the lunar base is called Lunar Industries Ltd.  As a nod to this, the production company used to make the movie is also called Lunar Industries Ltd (UK Companies House company number 06346944), whose company directors are Duncan Zowie Hayward Jones (the movie's director) and Stuart Douglas Fenegan (one of the movie's producers). "

So, how is it a fictional company?

And who is Stuart Douglas Fenegan....?

And what does "Hayward" mean....? 

Other than being the forename of Haywood Floyd, the Chairman of the National Council of Astronautics and protagonist of both the novel and movie 2010 : The Year We Make Contact AND the novel 2061 : The Next Odyssey (which is about rogue Affrikaaner agents illegally prospecting for diamonds on the surface of (a populated/inhabited) Europa.

I don't understand. Why does a weak person have to go out and find a strong person... to hang onto?

What do you get out of it?

 Faint SOUND of SAWING and HAMMERING. Jack can't quite figure where it's coming from.

You hear that?

 MARLA Hear what?

That... sawing and hammering.

Have we been talking too long? Must we change the subject?

 Jack turns -- through the crack of the open basement door, Tyler's staring at Jack from the bottom of the stairs.

 TYLER (harsh whisper) 
You're not talking about me, are you?

 Jack reacts, turns back to Marla.

 JACK (to Marla and Tyler) 

That day you came over to my place to play doctor... what was going on there?

 TYLER (still a whisper) 
What are you talking about?

 JACK (to Marla and Tyler) Nothing.

 MARLA Nothing? I don't think so.

 TYLER (whisper) This conversation...

 JACK This conversation...

 TYLER ... is over.

 JACK ... is over.

 Marla comes to touch Jack's hair. Jack closes the basement door. Marla sees the kiss-scar on Jack's hand, grabs his hand. Jack tries to pull it back, but Marla keeps a grip.

 MARLA What is this? Who did this?

 JACK ... A person.

 MARLA Guy or girl?

 JACK Why would you ask if it's a guy or a girl?!

 MARLA Why would you get bent if I asked?

 JACK Let go of me... (pulls his hand free) Leave me alone.

 MARLA You're afraid to say.

 Marla backs away, closes her eyes, struggling with frustration. She leaves out the back door, not looking back.

 Jack leans against the wall. After a moment, he opens the basement door, heads downstairs...


 Tyler walks upstairs, passing as Jack continues down...


 Jack looks around. TRIPLE-DECKER BUNKS clutter the basement, as many as can fit into the space.

 JACK (calling upstairs) Tyler... ? What's this for?

 From upstairs, the SOUND of the DOORBELL.


 Jack opens the door. Ricky stands on the porch, staring ahead in subordinate military style. He's in black pants, black shirt, black shoes, holds a PAPER BAG, with an army surplus MATTRESS rolled-up at his feet.

 JACK Um... what can I do for you, Ricky?

 Tyler steps up beside Jack, looks Ricky over.

 TYLER You're too young. Sorry.

 JACK Wait a minute...

 Tyler comes back inside, shuts the door.

 JACK "Too young?"

 TYLER If the applicant is young, we tell him he's too young. Old, too old. Fat, too fat.

 JACK "Applicant?"

 TYLER If the applicant waits at the door for three days without food, shelter or encouragement, then he can enter and begin training.

 JACK "Training?" Tyler...


 Jack comes out, walks around Ricky, hands in his pockets, unsure. Tyler watches, nods for Jack to go ahead.

 JACK Uh, look. You're too... young to... train here. You should probably be on you way.

 No response from Ricky, who remains at attention. Jack goes back inside. Tyler closes the door.


 Ricky remains at attention. Jack bursts out with a BROOM, knocks the brown bag out of Ricky's hand, kicks it away.

 JACK Are you deaf?! I told you to leave! You will never get inside this house!


 Ricky's still there. Tyler comes out, friendly.

 TYLER Look, friend, I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. It's not the end of the world. Just go away. You're trespassing and I will call the police. Nothing personal.


 Ricky, same spot. Jack bursts outside with the broom again.

 JACK You're never getting through this door, you stupid little weasel! Look at me when I talk to you... !

 He WHACKS Ricky in the shoulder with the broom.

 JACK What is your major malfunction!?


 At the window, Tyler sips coffee, watches this scene on the PORCH below.

 JACK (V.O.) Sooner or later, we all became what Tyler wanted us to be.


 Ricky's there. Bob is now next to him, in black, with a paper bag in hand, mattress at his feet. Tyler steps out. Jack stays in the doorway, locking eyes on Bob. To all the following questions, Ricky answers "Sir!" --

 TYLER You have two black shirts? Two pair black trousers? One pair black boots? Two pair black socks? One black coat? Three hundred dollars personal burial money? Go inside.

 Ricky goes in. Tyler turns to Bob.

 TYLER You're too old. Sorry. And, you're too fat. Nice seeing you.

 Bob looks genuinely hurt. He picks up his mattress and starts away. Tyler looks at Jack and rolls his eyes. Jack follows Bob...

 JACK Bob... Bob, wait... (leading Bob back) Let me explain this to you...


 CRICKETS CHIRP. Bob stands at at rigid attention.


 Tyler and Jack stand in bathroom doorway, watching Ricky finish SHAVING off all of his HAIR. Tyler comes to give the top of Ricky's head a sharp SLAP.

 TYLER A monkey, ready to be shot into space. A Space Monkey, ready to sacrifice himself for Project Mayhem.

 From here on, all those with shaved heads: "SPACE MONKEYS."


 Jack looks out the window. Bob stands motionless. There's another "applicant," a SHORT GUY, beside Bob. Ricky comes out the front door with the BROOM...

 RICKY (to Bob) You're too fucking old, fatty! We don't want your kind here! (to short guy) You're too short. Go away, stumpy! Go back to the circus!

 Ricky HITS them with the broom, then goes in, SLAMS THE DOOR.

 JACK (V.O.) So it went...


 Tyler works with a HALF DOZEN SPACE MONKEYS, preparing the square of backyard. They pull weeds, clear rocks; working with shovels, rakes, etc. They cart away WHEELBARROWS of rocks and carry in SACKS of FERTILIZER.

 JACK (V.O.) Tyler built his army.

 IN THE KITCHEN WINDOW, Jack watches...


 Jack keeps watching out the window, eats toast.

 JACK (V.O.) To what purpose, might one ask? Well, one might ask, if not for the first rule of Project Mayhem.

 Jack turns to look around the kitchen. THREE SPACE MONKEYS work -- one SCRUBBING the FLOOR, one WASHING DISHES, one SCRUBBING the walls. Jack walks out.

 JACK (V.O.) In Tyler We Trust.


 Jack opens his eyes, awakening to sunlight thru the window.

 JACK (V.O.) And, then...


 Jack slowly pushes open the door to Tyler's room...

 JACK Tyler...

 The room is empty. Jack stares.

 JACK (V.O.) He was gone.


 Jack comes downstairs... finds DOZENS of SPACE MONKEYS.


 Jack enters. Space Monkeys render fat and make soap. They pinch HERBS, adding them to the mix. They add VODKA. Off to the side, a couple Monkeys stir a vat of RICE. On the wall is a big bulletin board with HUNDREDS of DRIVER's LICENSES; a sign above it: "HUMAN SACRIFICES."

 FRECKLED SPACE MONKEY "You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We are all part of the same compost heap."

 JACK (V.O.) Planet Tyler.

 Jack dips a spoon into the rice, chomps on it irritatingly.

 FRECKLED SPACE MONKEY "We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world."

 Jack picks up a BOTTLE of VODKA.

 JACK (V.O.) I had to hug the walls, trapped inside this clockwork of Space Monkeys, cooking and working and sleeping in teams.


 Jack enters, vodka in hand. TEN SPACE MONKEYS here, reading.

 JACK (V.O.) The house became a living thing, wet inside from so many people sweating and breathing. So many people moving, the house moved.

 Jack walks out.


 Jack enters. Angel Face reads a book, marks on a chart. Space Monkeys shuffle PAPERS and NEWS CLIPPINGS. Walls are lined with FILES, each labeled with a STREET ADDRESS, under SIGNS: "Mischief," "Disinformation," "Arson."

 Jack's eye lingers on "Arson." He starts flipping through a file. Angel Face comes to take the file from him.

 ANGEL FACE That wouldn't interest you.

 JACK Where's Tyler?

 ANGEL FACE The first rule of Project --

 JACK Right, right.

 As Angel Face replaces the file, Jack notices -- a LYE- BURNED KISS-SCAR on the back of Angel Face's hand.


 Jack takes a swig of vodka, smokes. In the BACKGROUND, a Space Monkey WHACKS an APPLICANT with a BROOM. It's a ritual; no words. Other Space Monkeys tend the garden.

 JACK (V.O.) 
I'm all alone. I Am Jack's Broken Heart.

 Jack drops his cigarette in the gravel, steps on it. A Space Monkey immediately comes to clean it up.

The Second Coming 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst   
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   
The darkness drops again; but now I know   
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?