Thee/Thou

‘Ishmael’ : 

Ahoy There! Someone aboard?

Is this The Captain 

of The Pequod?

Snooty Quaker Investor :

What Doest Thee want 

of The Captain?

‘Ishmael’ : 

We were thinking of shipping.

Snooty Quaker Investor :

Thee art Thinking 

of Shipping…

‘Ishmael’ : 

I art.... I mean, 

I Doest.

Snooty Quaker Investor :

Making Sport of Me, lad?

‘Ishmael’ : 

No. I just fell into that 

manner of Speech.

Snooty Quaker Investor :

If I weren't a Quaker and 

a Man of Peace, I'd fetch Thee 

clout on the side of Thy Head,

My Lad, just to make sure.

I see Thee art no 

New Bedford-man.

Doest know nothing at all 

about Whaling, I daresay.

‘Ishmael’ :

I've had several voyages

in the merchant service.

Snooty Quaker Investor :

Merchant service? Flukes, man.

What takes Thee whaling?

‘Ishmael’ :

Sir, I want to see What 

Whaling is like.

Snooty Quaker Investor :

Have You seen Ahab, 

The Captain of The Ship?

If You want to know 

What Whaling is, then 

You'll know by clapping 

an eye on Captain Ahab —

You'll see A Man torn apart 

from crown to heel and  

spliced-together with 

sperm whalebone in place 

of what's missing.

His looks tell more than 

any church-had sermon 

about the mortality of man.

‘Ishmael’ :

And a whale did that?

Snooty Quaker Investor :

A Whale as big as An Island.

Art Thee the Man to 

pitch a harpoon down 

a whale's throat and 

jump after it?

‘Ishmael’ :

I am, sir... if it should be positively 

indispensable to do so.

Snooty Quaker Investor :

Come along, then.

Bildad, stir yourself.

This Young Man says 

He wants to ship.

Bildad :

Hast ever been a 

pirate, hast Thee?

‘Ishmael’ :

Never.

Snooty Quaker Investor :

Didst not murder Thy 

last Captain at sea?

‘Ishmael’ :

Indeed not.

Bildad :

He'll Do.

Snooty Quaker Investor :

What Pay shall 

We give Him?

Bildad :

The 777th part.

Snooty Quaker Investor :

Would not be too much?

Bildad :

For this strapping lad? 

Not half enough.

Snooty Quaker Investor :

Captain Peleg, Thee hast a generous heart.

But thee must consider the duty thee owest

to the other owners of this ship...

widows and orphans, many of them.

If we too abundantly reward

the labors of this young man...

we'll be taking bread from their mouths.

I'm putting him down for the 

300th part of the profit.

You hear, Bildad? 

The 300th part, I say.

"Lay not up for yourself

treasures upon earth, where 

moth and rust do corrupt."

-My last pay was--

-The 777th part seems 

fair enough to me.

-The 300th.

-Don't Thank me, lad. 

I only Do Thee justice.

What holds Thee? Sign.

‘Ishmael’ :

Sir, it's Captain Ahab.

What about him?

‘Ishmael’ :

Was not Ahab of old a very wicked King?

And when he was slain, did 

the dogs not lick his blood?

Look, lad — Captain Ahab 

did not name himself.

Sign the paper now, 

and wrong him not

because he happens to 

have a wicked name.

Now, for that Son of Darkness

that is Thy Friend --

‘Ishmael’ :

Queequeg, Step forward.

What Say You, Bildad?

I suspect Thee art not a Christian.

Doest Thee attend Church on Sundays?

Doest Thee know and obey

The Ten Commandments?

God, man.

Take the pen. Make Thy mark.

Sign now for a 60th part 

of Our Profit — Put there, quick.

Fleabag’s Dad

DR. GIBBON : 

I don't wish to upset you, Mr Marlow...

No, let me be more precise. 

I do not wish to upset 

you UNNECESSARILY. 

I think you need help.

I think you know that you need help.

And you're too intelligent or too 

aware of your condition to deny it.

Most chronic dermatological patients 

are on tranquillisers or anti-depressants, 

almost as a matter of routine.

Skin is, after all, extremely personal, is it not?

The temptation is to believe that the sins 

and poisons of the mind have somehow 

erupted on to the skin. "Unclean!" you shout, 

ringing your bell, warning us to keep clear.

The Leper in the Bible, yes?

But that's nonsense, you know.

DO you know?

Well, one part of you does, I'm sure.

You can be helped.

Moreover, Mr Marlow, 

I think I can help.

CARE

It hurts sometimes 

more than we can bear.... 

If we could Live 

without Passion,

maybe we'd know 

some kind of Peace. 

But we would 

be hollow. 

Empty rooms, 

shuttered and dank... 

Without Passion, 

we would be 

Truly Dead. 

Shells

The Qliphoth/Qlippoth/Qlifot or Kelipot 

(Hebrew: קְלִיפּוֹת‎, the different English spellings are used in the alternative Kabbalistic traditions of Hermetic Qabalah and Jewish Kabbalah respectively), literally “Peels”, “Shells” or “Husks” (from singular: קְלִפָּה‎ qlippah “Husk”), are the representation of Evil or Impure spiritual forces in Jewish mysticism, the polar opposites of the holy Sefirot.

The Realm of Evil is also termed 

Sitra Achra/Aḥra (Aramaic סטרא אחרא‎, 

The “Other Side” opposite holiness) 

in Kabbalah texts.

INT. FRED'S OFFICE - DAY 

Wesley is packing Fred's personal 
effects in a box with bubble-wrap. 
He takes a commemorative plate off 

the wall where it hung next to 

the Dixie Chicks poster. 

ILLYRIA 
(standing in the doorway) 
You grieve still... 

for a single Life.

WESLEY 
(without turning to look 

at her, shuts his eyes tight  and 

speaks through gritted teeth) 

Why are you here?

ILLYRIA 
I... I'm uncertain.  
(looks around) 
This place... was 

part of The Shell.

WESLEY 
(snaps) 
Don't call her —  
(breathes deeply) The woman 

you killed had a name.

ILLYRIA 
This is important to you. 
Things have Names. 
The Shell... Winifred Burkle... 
She can't return to you.

WESLEY 
(packing her things, tearfully) 

I know.

ILLYRIA 
Yet there are fragments. 
When her brain collapsed, 

electrical spasms channeled 

into my function system...

memories.  

(holds up her fingers, making a gap between 

her thumb and index finger where 

an electrical spark forms) 

(as Fred) 
Please...Wesley, 

why can't I stay?

WESLEY 
(turns away, nearly sick, crying) 
No.  
(looks out the window) 
Leave.

ILLYRIA 
I've nowhere to go. 
My Kingdom is long dead.  
(softly) 
Long dead. There's so 

much I don't understand. 
I've become overwhelmed. 
I'm unsure of my place.

WESLEY 
(turns to her, angrily) 
Your place is with 

the rest of Your People: 
Dead and turned to ash.

ILLYRIA 
Perhaps... but 

I exist here. 
I must learn to 

Walk in This World.  
(slowly approaches Wes) 
I'll need your help... Wesley.

WESLEY 
(frowning, choking back tears) 
If I were to help you find your way... 
you have to learn to change. 
You mustn't kill.

ILLYRIA 
You killed the Qwa'ha Xahn 

in defiance of Your Leader.

WESLEY 
(shakes his head, then looks at her) 
He murdered the 

woman I love.

ILLYRIA 

And that made it just.

WESLEY 
No. It wasn't just.  
(sighs, puts his hands on his hips) 

I'm probably the last man 

in The World to teach 

you what's right.

ILLYRIA 
But you will. If I abide, 

you will help me.

WESLEY 
(softly) 
Yes.

ILLYRIA 
Because I look 

like her?

WESLEY 
(looks at her with tears 

in his eyes, whispers) 
Yes.

ILLYRIA 
(stands beside Wes, looks out 

The Window to the lab below 

where her sarcophagus lies) 
We cling to What is Gone. 

Is there anything in 

This Life but Grief?

WESLEY 
(looks out at the lab) 
There's Love. 

There's Hope...

for some. 

There's hope that you'll 

find something worthy... 
that your life will 

lead you to some joy... that 

after everything... you can 

still be surprised.

ILLYRIA 
Is that enough?  
(looks at Wes) 
Is that enough 

to Live on?

Co-Interactive MeMe/Gene Co-Evolution

"I would make this response, here, about the difference between MeMes and Archetypes --

Archetypes are there, whether we have MeMes or not —”

"Yes, That's True."

“All of that History of Evolution is there; 

so, we have ideas about Sex Differences, or ideas about -

- Dominance is a very good example - 

- that don't require MeMes — 

they can then BECOME MeMes,

and MeMes by Definition, as  Dawkins started it out, is, 

"That which is Imitated.", or, 

"That which is Copied from 

Person to Person."

So The IDEA of Dominance Hierarchies can be a MeMe;

and all of the 

ideas we build 

on top of that,

so long as we are 

passing them 

from Person to Person." 

"Well, so you can certainly think of Hierarchies of MeMes,

you know, from once they're 

no-more than fads, 

that wash across The Culture, 

to where they become 

more Permanent and Enduring."

" We have The First Replicator 

on The Planet : Genes;

And we know the consequences of that --

Producing all these Organisms.

But, the idea about MeMes, 

is that they are a SECOND Replicator --

So, Genes are copied by chemical processes in bodies,

MeMes are copied by Imitation, 

and other kinds of interactions between 

Human Beings, and

very little in ANY other species at all --

and THAT'S what gives rise to Hunan Culture (it now seems quite pleasing to you — )

(or what passed for it, back in The Dog Days, of Long ago and blesséd Memory —)

So, the whole 

Theory about MeMes 

is ONE, of MANY ways of trying to 

understand 

The Evolution of CULTURE(s)."

The Death of Gods

Dave, The Giant-Killer

of Planet-4.

Let us sit upon The Ground

and tell sad stories

of The Death of Gods --

Testes

BRANDT

We've had some terrible news. Mr. Lebowski is in seclusion in the West Wing.

DUDE

Huh.

Brandt throws open a pair of heavy double doors. The music washes over us as we enter a great study where Jeffrey Lebowski, a blanket thrown over his knees, stares hauntedly into a fire, listening to Lohengrin.

BRANDT ANNOUNCES, AMBIGUOUSLY:

BRANDT

Mr. Lebowski.

Jeffrey Lebowski waves the Dude in without looking around.

LEBOWSKI

It's funny. I can look back on a 

life of achievement, on challenges met, competitors bested, obstacles overcome. 

I've accomplished more 

than most men, 

and without the use of my legs. 

What. . . What makes a 

Man, Mr. Lebowski?

DUDE

Dude.

LEBOWSKI

Huh?

DUDE

I don't know, sir.

LEBOWSKI

Is it. . . is it, being prepared 

to do the right thing? 

Whatever the price? 

Isn't that what 

makes A Man?

DUDE

Sure. That and a 

pair of testicles.

Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes —

[Hotel room]

RIKER : 

There's also one other thing, 

a diary with obviously made 

by Colonel Richey.

PICARD [OC]: 

Can you read it?

RIKER: 

Yes.

“ I write this in the hope that it 

will someday be read by human eyes. 

I can only surmise at this point, 

but apparently our exploratory shuttle was contaminated by an alien life form which infected and killed all personnel except myself.

I awakened to find myself here in the Royale Hotel, precisely as described in the novel I found in my room.

And for the last thirty eight years I have survived here. 

I have come to understand that the alien contaminators created this place for me out of some sense of guilt,  presuming that The Novel we had on board the shuttle about the Hotel Royale was in fact a guide to our preferred lifestyle and social habits. Obviously, they thought this was The World from which I came.

I hold no malice toward my benefactors. 

They could not possibly know the hell they have put me through, for it was such a BADLY WRITTEN book, filled with endless cliché and shallow characters —

I shall welcome Death when it comes.”

RIKER [OC]: 

A bizarre incident just took place.

PICARD: 

The shoot-out between the bellboy and Mickey D.

RIKER: 

Yes, and Mickey D 

just walked out the door. 

How did he DO that?

PICARD: 

It's on page 244.

RIKER: 

In the novel. Right. 

How does it end?

PICARD: 

A bad love affair ends 

in a bloody shoot-out, 

The Hotel gets bought out, 

and life goes on, 

such as it is.

RIKER: 

The Hotel gets bought? 

By whom?

PICARD: 

It isn't specific. It simply 

refers to foreign investors. 

Sale price, twelve point five million United States Dollars.

They return home, leaving the assistant manager in charge.

RIKER: 

Captain, that's how 

we're getting out —

We're BUYING 

this place.

DATA: 

Commander — these cubes 

are improperly-balanced. 

I believe their final resting position would be —

RIKER: 

Can you REPAIR them?

DATA: 

I believe so — (to the pit-boss) 

I will make another attempt.

(He gives the dice a good squeeze to even them up)

DATA: 

Baby needs a new 

pair of shoes— (ROLL)

The Wounded

[Beeping ]

[ Beeping Continues ]

[ Servo Whirs ]

Ripley : [ Softly ] 

Hey.

Bishop : 

[ Looks around ] 

Ah, Ripley.

Ripley : 

Hi, Bishop. 

How you feeling?

Bishop : 

My legs hurt.

Ripley : 

Uh, listen, I'm sorry.

Bishop :

It's okay. I'm just 

a glorified toaster.

How are you….? [looks down] 

I like your new haircut.

Ripley : 

Bishop, can you access data 

on the flight recorder?

Bishop : 

No problem.

[ Beeping ]

I'm home. 

Ripley : 

What happened on the Sulaco?

Why were our 

cryo-tubes ejected?

[ Computer Voice ] 

Stasis-interrupted :

Fire—in—cryo—

genic—compartment.

Repeat—Fire—in—

cryo— genic- 

Ripley : 

What happened?

What started 

The Fire, Bishop?

Can you hear me?

Bishop : 

The Fire was electrical.

It was in the…. sub-flooring.

Ripley : 

Did the sensors pick up 

anything moving around 

on The Ship prior 

to separation?

Bishop : 

It's very dark here, Ripley; 

I'm not what I used to be.

Ripley : 

Just tell me. 

Does The Recorder 

indicate anything?

….was there an 

ALIEN on board?

Bishop : 

…….YES.

Ripley : 

……is it on the Sulaco 

or did it come with 

us on the E.E.V.?

Bishop : 

It was with us 

ALL the way.

Ripley : 

…..Does The Company know?

Bishop : 

The Company knows 

everything that 

happened on The Ship.

It ALL goes 

into The Computer 

and gets sent 

back to NetWork.

Ripley : 

And They want it.

Bishop : 

I hurt — Do me a favour. 

Disconnect me. 

I could be reworked, 

but I'll never be top of 

the line again.

I'd rather be nothing.

Ripley : 

You're sure?

Bishop : 

Do it for me, Ripley.

[ Whirring ]

[ Exhales ]

[ The Robot Dies ]

L1STER-3000

Data is his surname.

In "Measure of a Man" you see his full name 

when Riker pulled up his file : 

Lt. Cmdr. NFN NMI Data. 

"No First Name" 

"No Middle Initial"

LISTER-3000-CC4B

 Obs room --

Lister is unconscious 

on the observation table. 

Kryten is cutting the skin 

on Lister's injured right 

upper arm with a pair 

of operating scissors. 

Rimmer and Cat stand nearby.

Rimmer: 

How is he? 

Kryten: 

Not good, sir. 

Perhaps you'd better look away. 

I know -- I know you can't 

stand the sight of blood. 

Rimmer: 

Don't worry, Kryten. 

It's okay when 

it's Lister's. 

Kryten: 

Impossible! 

(draws back in surprise) 

Cat: 

What? 

Kryten: 

Look!

A closeup of Lister's arm. Under the skin, 

we can see wires and flashing lights.

Kryten: 

Mr. Lister is a droid! 

Rimmer: 

He's a what? 

Kryten: 

There's no doubt about it! 

He's entirely mechanical, a 3000-series. 

Made in Taiwan. Look! Look, he has 

a 24-hour callout number!

Rimmer: 

I'm sorry, I'm not buying this. 

I mean, who created him and why? 

And what's his mission? 

To rid the universe of chicken vindaloo? 

Cat: 

This doesn't tie up. 

If he wasn't human, I'd have 

known by his scent. 

Kryten: 

X-rays confirm it!

Kryten holds up an x-ray. 

On one side is the outline of a human body. On the other side is what looks like the machinery from a generator.

Kryten: This is so strange. Mr. Lister's always been an icon of mine, and now I found he's an earlier model, and technically I outrank him. Rimmer: An earlier model? Then how come he looks so much more sophisticated than you? Kryten: Sir, just because I have a head shaped like a freak formation of mashed potatoes does not mean that I am unsophisticated. Rimmer: Alright then, why does he look more realistically human? Kryten: Humans have always found exact duplicates rather disturbing, sir. The 3000 series was notoriously unpopular. Most of them were recalled. A few slipped the net and went undercover to make new lives in society. Cat: Do you think he knows? Kryten: Unlikely. He probably reprogrammed his own memory to escape detection. Cat: This is going to crack him up, devastate him! Who's going to tell him? Rimmer: I'll write you into my will if you let it be me. Kryten: I suggest you leave this to me, sirs. I'll have a talk with him droid-to-droid. Rimmer: Okay. We'll get going and try to get out of this damn fog before it drains our solar batteries.

Rimmer and Cat leave as Lister revives.

Rimmer: What happened? What hit us? Kryten: Something in the stellar fog, sir, didn't show up on the scans. Sir, do you remember who your parents were? Lister: Kryten, you know I don't. I was found under a pool table, in a box. 

Kryten: 

Did anyone ever tell you what was written on that box? 

Were the words "kit" or "paint before assembly" 

written on the side? It's just that while you were under, we discovered something rather disturbing about you. 

LISTER-3000 : 

It's that tatoo on me inner thigh, isn't it? Well, I don't really love Peterson -- he just got me so drunk that I didn't know what I was doing. Kryten: It's not the tatoo, sir. There's no easy way of breaking this gently. I'm afraid, sir, you are not human. You're a droid. Lister: I'm a what? Kryten: You're a mechanical, 3000 series. Technically subordinate to me! Lister: What does this all mean? Kryten: Well, in broad terms, I get the front seat in the cockpit, and you're in charge of the laundry!

Kryten hands Lister a basket of dirty laundry.

Kryten; And I want to see creases! Lister: Kryten, have a heart, man. I'm in major stress-related shock here. [Emotional] overload. Kryten: You're a droid -- you don't have real emotions. It's just syntha-shock. Now stop thinking like a human and go about your duties. Lister: Kryten, Why are you being so heartless? Kryten: Fine, I'll tell you. You encouraged me to break my programming and ape human behaviour. 

Now I find out you're no better than I! But worst of all, the most bitter pill to swallow, for four long years, I had to hand-scrub the gussets of your longjohns. 

Now, unless you want to wallow in 

the eternal fires of Silicon Hell, 

I suggest you bring a tray 

of refreshments up 

to the cockpit, pronto!

Kryten leaves. Lister looks 

confused but resigned 

to his new role. 

He smells a sock 

from the basket, and 

the smell makes him 

turn quickly away.

7. Cockpit --

Rimmer and Cat are in 

their regular seats. 

Kryten is in Lister's seat.

They hit another jolt.

Rimmer: What was the jolt? Cat: It's a mystery, bud. Nothing on the scanners, nothing on visual. Rimmer: It's like we've gone through some sort of energy pocket. Still, it looks like we're out of it now. Kryten: Better run a crosscheck and see if this phenomena is mentioned in of our databases.

Enter Lister with a plate. The plate has three cups and a pile of sandwiches.

Lister: Tea, all! Sorry I took so long but I didn't know where anything was. Kryten: Let me see that tray, please. Lister: Why? Kryten: That's "why, Mr. Kryten sir" ... You call those triangular sandwiches? Did you use a z-square? I think not! And the chocolate fingers display is laughable. Don't just pile them higgledy-piggledy onto the plate. Make them into an attractive interlaced log cabin structure or something. This will just not do! Kindly return to the gallery and start again. Lister: Okay ... sir. (mumbling) This doesn't feel right ... Not right at all ...

Lister leaves.

Rimmer: What a charlatan all these years. 

Cat: Any idea what hit us yet? Kryten: Wait, wait, here's something. (checks computer) Reports of artificial stellar fogs which contain reality mindfields. Cat: Reality what? Kryten: Bubbles or pockets of unreality which when encountered create false realities designed to disorient and drive off potential looters. Rimmer: From what? Kryten: It's a defence device fitted to space corp test ships which are fitted with prototype drives so awesome in their power that they have to be safeguarded at all costs. Rimmer: So we just crashed through an unreality pocket? Kryten: Which created a false reality making us believe Mr. Lister was ... Oh my ...

Long pause while Kryten realizes what he's done. He nervously twiddles his fingers in an impression of Stan Laurel.

Cat: You mean he's not a ... Kryten: No ...

Lister enters again. This time the tray has a very elaborate log cabin made from chocolate bars. There are even a green tree and fence.

Lister: Tea's upstairs. Kryten: Sir, I, ah ... Lister: What do you think of the picket fence? (Kryten hides his face in shame) I'm not happy with it meself. But I'll go away and do it again if you want. Kryten: Sir, may I see your arm? (Through the rip in Rimmer's jacket can be seen undamaged skin) Lister: Smeg! It looks normal -- human! Kryten: Someone else tell him. (looking as if he could burst into tears) I've got gussets to scrub!

8. Shot of Starbug moving through the fog.

9. Cockpit --

Lister is back in his seat. 

Rimmer and Cat are in their seats. 

Enter Kryten with a can of beer on a tray. 

Lister gives him the cold shoulder.

Kryten: I wondered if you felt like a nice cold beer, sir?

Lister takes the beer but gives Kryten a look cold enough to freeze Kryten's circuits.

Kryten: (frantic voice) Oh sir, how many times can I apologize? I have offered to mince myself. What more can I do? Lister: Don't worry -- I'll think of something ... probably involving a bowl of water, a poker, a recharge socket, and 4000 volts of direct current. Kryten: (sounding very worried) Oh! (takes his seat)