Spirits of Al Rabbad by Tom Hayes - HTML preview

Arabian Knights By Tom Hayes and K.C. Cates

Copyright © 2008 Please Contact Me Through My All Rights Reserved. Blog
WGA No. 4966899
EXT. ARABIAN NIGHTS MOTEL [PLEASE INSERT
\PRERENDERUNICODE{ÂØA¸S} INTO PREAMBLE] OUTSKIRTS OF ABU

JEBA, ARABABIA [PLEASE INSERT \PRERENDERUNICODE{ÂØA¸S} INTO PREAMBLE] NIGHT

Atop a sleepy and unmistakably seedy establishment, a partially broken neon light with a short blinks on and off erratically: Arabian Nights Hotel, Arabian Nights Hotel, Arabian Nights Notel ...

INT. THE SAME HOTEL -- HALLWAY - NIGHT

Frayed and faded carpet lines the dingy ill-lit hallway. a bellhop from the subcontinent shuffles past, coughing and wiping his nose on the sleeve of his ill-fitting uniform.

A tinny, busted wall speaker emits a carpenter’s song, “We’ve Only Just Begun.”

CARPENTERS (V.O) ... we’ve only just beguuuunnnn ... to liiivve ...

JOHN WATES, a handsome but somewhat nervous American, makes his way down the ratty hallway, bag in hand, laptop satchel slung over his shoulder.

He comes to a room, compares the door number with the number on a key in his hand, begins to insert the key into the lock. As he puts pressure on the door, it falls into the room with a loud crash.

What a dump. Loud laughter erupts from a few doors down.

A door bursts open and DR. AL-SNAFU, a rotund Arab man wearing an American Indian war bonnet and with a bathroom towel wrapped around his waist, clutches a bottle of Jack Daniels as he chases after a bare-breasted prostitute sporting a black Stetson, nylon stockings held up with garters, frilly panties and cowboy boots.

They come John’s way. the prostitute giggles as she passes by and then disappears around a corner.

Al-Snafu stops drunkenly in front of John and begins to dance about in a circle, hooting and hollering in imitation of a TV Indian. His face is painted sloppily with bright red lipstick.

DR. AL-SNAFU Luh, luh, luh, luh .... It seems he has a bit of a stutter. DR. AL-SNAFU (CONT’D) (exuberantly drunk)
Me big chief!!!!
He dances around drunkenly a bit more. John steps back out of the way, tightens his grip on his bags.
JOHN
Do you need some help?

DR. AL-SNAFU
(laughing, out of control)
Me make-em - luh - heap big
warpath on Russian pussy! You
mideast - luh, luh, luh - oil
cowboy. You J.R. Ewing?

JOHN
(frightened)
No, actually ... I’m a

Al-Snafu pushes the whiskey bottle into John’s hand.

DR. AL-SNAFU
You drink, pale - luh, luh, luh
face!

The prostitute sticks her head around the corner, giggles, and Al-Snafu hustles off in pursuit, forgetting totally about John. Their laughter fades as they run further down the hallway. John looks in their direction, nervously steps over the door into his room. He lifts the door back into place.

INT. JOHN’S ROOM - CHEAP HOTEL - NIGHT

John tosses his bag on the bed, watches as a small cloud of dust rises from the sheets. He sets the whiskey bottle down, puts the chain lock on the door and wedges a chair against the knob to hold it in place.

He goes over to the sink in one corner of the spartan quarters, splashes water on his face and rubs his eyes. He grabs a ratty towel to dry off and watches the towel rack fall off and clatter on the floor. He dries his hands, drops the towel in the sink, goes to the window and peaks out the blinds.

The view is of a vacant desert landscape lit by the moon that stretches on into the night, seemingly forever. A meteor crosses the sky, then another. John studies the sky a moment, checks to make sure the window is locked, but the lock comes off in his hand. He looks at it, lets it fall on the floor.
He sits on the bed, reaches for the whiskey bottle, stops, thinks about it a second, then reluctantly brings it to his lips, tilts it back.

He studies his reflection in the window, takes off his shoes and lays back on the bed, removes a wedding band from his ring finger, ponders it for a second, holding it up in the light, then lays it on the bedside table, closes his eyes.

EXT. THE ROYAL PALACE - ABU JEBA, ARABABIA - ABOUT THE SAME TIME AS PREVIOUS SCENE

KING AWAD is on the verge of nodding off while an unhappy supplicant in front of him gestures theatrically, drones on in Arabic about something or other.

At the king’s side is ALI BEN ALI AL-GHUTRA, confidant and advisor, who loudly clears his throat, bringing the king back to consciousness.

KING AWAD
(behind his hand)
What is it this one wants, Ali?

ALI BEN ALI
(shuffles through some papers)

It’s so late, I’m a little mixed up myself. Let’s see ... was it a car or a house? Maybe it was surgery?

KIND AWAD
Whatever it is, give him two. Ali Ben Ali motions for the supplicant to cease and desist, takes the man aside.
King Awad rises to leave, leaning heavily on a cane.

The Supplicant, now smiling broadly, tries to make a big production of bowing to and flattering the king, but two guards shuffle him out of the room.

ALI BEN ALI
Uh ... there’s still the other matter.

KING AWAD
(wearily)
What is this? A 24-hour bazaar? ALI BEN ALI
Prince Ahmed is outside. King Awad rolls his eyes.
KIND AWAD Ahmed.
ALI BEN ALI
He’s been waiting for two hours. King Awad sit heavily, nods to Ali Ben Ali. KING AWAD
Ok ... let’s get this over with.
EXT. ROYAL PALACE - MOMENTS LATER

A palace side door bursts open and a remarkably short Arab, PRINCE AHMED, exits angrily. He pushes back his fine silk robe, brings one hand up and bites a knuckle to keep from crying.

But, in fact, he does begin to cry, and as he wipes away a tear from one eye, he catches himself and bites his bottom lip with determination.

PRINCE AHMED (to himself)
No. You no cry.
He pulls out a pocket mirror, studies his face. PRINCE AHMED (CONT’D)
You ruin mascara.
He dabs at his eye again, smearing his makeup.
PRINCE AHMED
(vexed)
See?

A PALACE GUARD steps out of the shadows, smirks, gives the prince a half-hearted perfunctory salute. The guard snatches a two-way radio from his belt, barks an Arabic command into it, bringing a black stretch limo screeching around a corner and skidding to a halt in front of the prince

Ahmed walks over to the limo and the guard opens the door for him. The guard smacks him a bit on the ass with the door as he slams it shut.

INT. LIMOUSINE - CONTINUOUS

Ahmed tumbles into the limo, flashes an angry glance at the guard, dabs at his mascara with a tissue, as his dark and beautiful wife, PRINCESS TEEKRA, lifts the black veil covering her face and leans forward toward him with a look of alarm.
PRINCESS TEEKRA

Ahmed, who has died? Ahmed drops his guard, sobs loudly. PRINCE AHMED It is worse than death.

PRINCESS TEEKRA What, Ahmed? What can be worse than death?

Ahmed composes himself with supreme effort, pauses for dramatic effect.
PRINCE AHMED
He has condemned us to Shaheet! The princess gasps, sits back in her seat, too stunned to speak.
EXT. LIMOSINE - CONTINUOUS Tires squeal as the limo lurches from the curb.
EXT. RUNDOWN FOREIGN WORKERS COMPOUND - SHAHEET, ARABABIA
- ABOUT THE SAME TIME AS PREVIOUS SCENE

A dim light illuminates a half-cocked sign on a sagging fence. In crudely painted letters, the sign says, "Leetle Bangladesh Blanned Komunity for Worker." Through the fence we see a ramshackle collection of tin shacks set higgledy-piggledy between some rocky hills.

A few people walk about the community, but all is mostly quiet. There are no street lights, no lights from any structure, except for a large concrete block building on the far side of the compound. Here we see a couple of street lights and the windows are lighted. Steam pours from a smokestack on the end of the building. A few men can be seen through the windows, walking about the building as if they are working.

The sky is clear and dark. Occasionally a shooting star lights the sky.
EXT. NEXT TO THE CONCRETE BUILDING - CONTINOUS

RUSS MCDARE, rugged 40-something American, badly shaven and sporting a dirty cowboy hat, walks out a door at the loading dock of the concrete block building. He is followed by two workers who load some boxes into an old Land Rover backed up next to the dock. The workers go back inside.
You boys keep it coming. I need 10 for the delivery.

One of the workers looks back, gives Russ a thumbs up, disappears into the building.

Russ opens one of the boxes, takes out a pint bottle of what seems to be alcohol. He inspects it in the light for a moment, breaks the seal, smells of it, then turns it up, takes a big swig, smiles broadly.

RUSS
Eat your heart out, Jim Beam.

BIMAN, the plant foreman, a Bangladeshi man about 50, sticks his head out the door, bobs his head from side to side.

BIMAN
Hey, boss, you come to my house tonight, no? My wife make kalia.

RUSS
Sorry, Biman. Gotta pick up two new teachers at the airport early tomorrow. You always make me get drunk!

Biman feigns astonishment.

BIMAN
Biman make you drunk? Biman make
sun come up in morning too. Biman
make wind blow in evening. Biman
very powerful man, no?

Russ grins. Indistinct yelling emanates from inside the building, some glass breaks. Biman turns in the doorway, gestures angrily, yells at someone in Bengali, goes back inside.

Russ shakes his head, walks out to the edge of the loading dock, looks up at the stars, turns the bottle up, takes another big swig just as a shooting star lights up the sky, then another, then another.

RUSS
(quietly)
Shit yeah.
He reaches for a pack of Redman chewing tobacco in his back pocket, stuffs a wad in his jaw.
He sees another falling star.
(quietly) Shit yeah.
INT. KING AWAD’S QUARTERS - PALACE IN ABU JEBA - ABOUT THE SAME TIME

King Awad, in his nightclothes, mixes a gin and tonic, heavy on the gin. Ali Ben Ali, still diligently in attendance, shuffles through some royal paperwork at a desk. Awad walks out onto the balcony.

EXT. BALCONY - CONTINUOUS

The king looks down at one of the palace guards, who snaps to attention, tosses off a salute. Awad shifts his attention to the sky, where a bright shooting star lights up the night.

Ali Ben Ali, drink in hand, steps out onto the balcony just as another meteor passes overhead.
KING AWAD It’s a bad omen, Ali.

ALI BEN ALI
Rubbish, Awad. It’s the Leonid Meteor Shower. Happens every year.

KING AWAD
(smiles)
Did you see Ahmed’s face when I told him I was appointing him Prince of Shaheet?

Ali Ben Ali chuckles softly.

ALI BEN ALI
Not quite what he expected, was it? It was worth the extra wait just to see the horror in his eyes.

Awad sighs.

KIND AWAD
It’s a pity Teekra will have to accompany him though.

ALI BEN ALI
(cautiously)
Well ... she chose to marry him, Awad.

Awad nods. ALI BEN ALI (CONT’D) Awad ... What’s past is past.

KIND AWAD
(small smile)
Sometimes, what’s past is simply prologue, my friend.

ALI BEN ALI You think too much. KIND AWAD
Just like an old man, no? They clink their glasses together.

KIND AWAD (CONT’D) Well, she can do us no harm ... especially in Shaheet.

ALI BEN ALI Only a woman.

KIND AWAD
(quietly)
Yes ... but so much like her mother.

They look up at the sky again. Another shooting star streaks past.
EXT. ABU JEBA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - ABOUT THE SAME TIME

Passengers disembark from a 747. TERRY BOLT, a skinny, extremely nervous American man with a facial tic and an enormous camera dangling from his neck, comes down the stairs of the plane, carry-on in hand.

INT. ABU JEBA AIRPORT TERMINAL - MOMENTS LATER

Bolt wanders vacantly inside, pulling his small bag behind him as he walks into the terminal. He is immediately accosted by an aggressive BAGGAGE PORTER from the Indian subcontinent.

BAGGAGE PORTER Hey, boss!
Bolt looks about in startled confusion.

BAGGAGE PORTER (CONT’D) Hey, boss! I am taking the
baggages, sarh!
(gripping his bag)

I only have the one ... I, uh ....

The porter snatches the bag away, throws it carelessly on a ridiculously large baggage cart and takes off, weaving pell-mell through the crowd in the terminal.

Bolt is too taken aback to react. A fat Arab man in traditional dress bends over his baggage a few feet away, farts loudly in Bolt’s direction. Bolt starts, scurries away like a startled deer after the baggage porter.

EXT. AIRPORT, CURBSIDE - MOMENTS LATER The porter tries to flag down a taxi as Bolt catches up to him.

BAGGAGE PORTER
Hey, boss! I am bring the taxi for you. You want hotel?

Bolt doesn’t respond immediately. BAGGAGE PORTER (CONT’D) You want girl?
Shocked, Bolt begins to mumble and gesture in a confused way.
BAGGAGE PORTER (CONT’D) (impatient)
You want boy?

BOLT
(his tick flaring up)
No, no, no! I - I - I - I suppose I need a hotel. Just a hotel, please. I ... I’m very tired. I have to go to Shaheet in the morning. I’m an art teacher.

The porter nods, uninterested.

Bolt’s eyes become fixed on a sign just across the busy terminal. The sign has evidently been run over by one or more vehicles and part of the placard is missing.

All it says is "m: The Final Solution" and in smaller type: "For More Information, Contact ...." The rest of the message is broken off.

The roar of a jet engine all but drowns out every other noise as a plane lifts off a nearby runway, flies directly overhead.
The porter watches the plane, just as a meteor blips across the sky above it. Then another, and another. Bolt is oblivious to all this, his eyes glued to the sign across the way.

BAGGAGE PORTER
Ooooh, very bad. People say meteor shower come before fall of king.

He shakes his head.
BAGGAGE PORTER (CONT’D) Very bad.

A cab screeches to a halt in front of them. The driver jumps out, grabs Bolts bag, tosses it carelessly into the trunk, slams it, jumps back in the cab to wait.

BAGGAGE PORTER (CONT’D) (holding out his hand) Twenty dollars, boss.
Oblivious to the porter’s demand, Bolt nods at the sign across the way.
BOLT You see that? The porter glances over one shoulder at whatever in the hell Bolt is looking at.
Bolt brings his camera up, photographs the sign a few timess. Click, whir, click, whir
BOLT
The "final solution."

BAGGAGE PORTER
(uninterested, hand still
out)

Yes, yes, final solution. Give
twenty dollars!
A goofy smile spreads across Bolt’s face.

BOLT
Do you know how long I’ve been
looking for the final solution?

The porter eyes him suspiciously.
BAGGAGE PORTER
You crazy man?
(laughing) No, I’m an artist!

The fat Arab who farted in Bolt’s face throws his stuff into the back seat of the waiting cab, jumps in behind it. The cab takes off.

Hey!^BOLT His nervous tic flares up. He turns to the porter. BOLT My cab! My bag! The porter stubbornly holds out his hand again. PORTER Give 20 dollars.
EXT. ARABIAN NIGHTS MOTEL - THE NEXT MORNING John flags down a cab.
INT. CAB - CONTINUOUS

John has hardly settled in the back seat when the DRIVER zips away from the curb, Steppenwolf blasting from his CD player.

STEPPENWOLF (V.O.) "Born to be Wiiillld! Born to be Wiiillld!"

JOHN (gasps) Airport!
He clutches his bags and computer case close to him.

JOHN (CONT’D)
Is there a seatbelt I could put on? Any prayer beads I could cling to?

The driver laughs, turns the music down just a bit, looks over his shoulder to talk to John, glancing back occasionally as he barrels down the street at expressway speed.

DRIVER
No gat no seatbelt. You American? You go home to land of seatbelts now?
He laughs (somewhat maniacally), shakes his head.

JOHN
Could you slow down just a bit? The driver ignores him. DRIVER
You go home now?

JOHN
No, no. I’m going to a place
called Shaheet!

He points frantically.
JOHN (CONT’D)
Redlight! Cars!

The driver screeches to a stop at the light, just inches from the vehicle in front of him. Unfazed, he grins wide at John.

DRIVER
You go Shaheet, my friend? John nods, grips his bags tighter, gasps. The driver begins to laugh.
JOHN What?

DRIVER
Oh, my friend. You go Kingdom of Ahmed! You go Magic Kingdom!

He tosses John an English-language newspaper. The headline reads: "Ahmed Names Prince of Shaheet." Just below the headline there is a studio portrait of Ahmed in princely regalia, a hawk -- obviously fake -- perched on his arm. John studies the portrait.

JOHN
He’s wearing eye shadow! The driver laughs, a bit unhinged, shakes his head, peels out at the light turns green again.
EXT. SHAHEET AIRPORT TERMINAL - DAY

In front of the terminal a silent monotonous desert landscape stretches to the horizon. Across the mostly empty gravel parking lot in front of the terminal, a wind devil whips a few dozen discarded plastic bags into a momentary frenzy, which quickly subsides. A shepherd wanders by leading a small flock of ragged goats. A door creaks loudly and John emerges from the terminal, pulling his suitcase behind him, his laptop strapped over his shoulder. Almost simultaneously, Bolt wanders out another door a few yards down, no bags, camera about his neck.

The stand a few yards apart looking at the bleak landscape before them. Bolt lifts his camera, snaps off a few shots of god only knows what.

JOHN
(to himself)
Oh god....

A battered Range Rover, its top removed, comes roaring into the terminal parking area. It circles the lot, slides to a stop in the gravel between Bolt and John.

It’s Russ! He takes off his cowboy hat, sticks his head out the top of the Rover, gives Bolt and John a quick once over, then spits a huge wad of tobacco on the sidewalk between them.

RUSS
Well, I guess you boys is the two miscreants.

John and bolt look at each other.

RUSS (CONT’D)
You boys on probation, right? Working off your prison term or whatever?

John and Bolt stand in stupefied silence. Finally John starts to speak, but Russ cuts him off.

RUSS (CONT’D)
Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, son. Hell, all us is jailbirds here. Why else would anybody come to this stinking Shaheet-hole?

He grins through tobacco-stained teeth, slaps the side of the rover with his open palm.

RUSS (CONT’D)
Well, come on girls! I’m your ride!

INT. RUSS’ ROVER - MOMENTS LATER

The squalor and bleakness of Shaheet rolls by outside the windows. A camel noses about a stripped out car on the shoulder of the road. A man leans indolently in the doorway of a claptrap grocery store with cars parked in front at random angles. A stray dog limps past. Plastic bags and paper blow about in the desert like tumbleweeds. Garbage piles are strewn here and there between shantytowns punctuated by the occasional grand (and gaudy) edifice with a Mercedes or two parked out in front. People go about their business. Most of the men are dressed in white thobes with red-checkered ghutras. The women are covered in black abaya with veils.

Russ glances at John in the passenger seat, then at Bolt in the back through the rear-view mirror. Bolt is taking photographs as they drive along. John strapped in with a shoulder harness, reaches over and locks his door.

RUSS
(to John)
Don’t worry. We got air bags ... anti-lock brakes too.

JOHN Really?
RUSS
(grins, shakes his head) Nah, we ain’t even got no breaks. John grips the arm rest on the door. Russ digs out a chaw of Redman, offers it to John, who shakes his head. JOHN
I never chew before lunch. Russ grins.
RUSS
That’s a good’n, boy. He eyes John, trying to size him up. RUSS (CONT’D) This your first time, son? JOHN
(looking about) In Arababia? Uh-huh.

RUSS
(laughing)
Yeah, I know it’s your first time in Arababia. It’s everybody’s first time here. I mean, is it your first court-ordered
community service assignment to a foreign country?

John nods.
JOHN
Yeah, it’s my first time. He glances back at Bolt.

RUSS
What about you, boy? You’re awful quiet back there. What you got to say for yourself?

BOLT
(indignantly)
I’m an artist. They said I was guilty of pornography, but I’m not. I took nude pictures of children playing in my jacuzzi. They didn’t understand the
aesthetics of it. I’m an artist.

His nervous tic flares up. BOLT (CONT’D)
I’m an artist ... an artist .... He begins to mumble incoherently. John and Russ exchange a look.
RUSS That right?

Bolt’s face goes totally blank, he trembles, shakes his head, then seems to come back to himself. He points his camera out the window - click, whir, click, whir ....

EXT. RUNDOWN FOREIGN TEACHERS’ COMPOUND - MOMENTS LATER The rover bounces into the compound.

Russ drops off Bolt in front of the door of one dilapidated structures, takes John to an equally decrepit home. They both get out of the Rover. John gives his new home a once over.

JOHN
(sarcastic)
Wow, they spare no expense, do they?

RUSS
(laughs)
You gonna fit in just fine here, boy.

He gives John a slap on the back.
RUSS
Come on over to my place and I’ll buy you a drink.

JOHN
What about a raincheck? It’s been a long trip.

Russ nods. RUSS Well, adios then. He jumps back into the Rover, fires it up. RUSS (CONT’D) Hasta mañana, amigo!

He drives away while John watches. He sees Russ drive down to a home at the end of the compound, turns back to his own humble abode. A few of the windows are broken, there’s some Arabic graffiti on the door and the outside of the building. John walks up, turns the door handle and pushes, watches the door fall off its hinges onto the floor with a loud clattering bang.

EXT. SHAHEET COLLGE - DAY

A bus lurches to a stop in front of a central, overly grandiose marble edifice with marble pillars in front. It seems to be unfinished. Some rusting cranes stand next to the building as if construction were abandoned and no one bothered to remove them. Strings of 100-watt light bulbs are draped all over the building and the cranes. An equally pretentious unfinished mosque stands next to the school.

A few students in white thobes and checkered ghutras loll about the main building. A dog wanders out one of the open front doors and one of students kicks at it, misses, nearly falls on his ass while other students laugh and point.

Above the building, written in Arabic and English is a sign that reads, "Shaheet College." Underneath that: "In the Name of God, Be Merciful." About 15 "teachers," including Russ, John and Bolt, pile off the bus as one of the doors of the building begins to creak open.

The door grates, then sticks half open against the marble. Someone gives it a rough shove and the door hinges snap ... and crash! The door falls over, shattering glass all over the steps of the building.

Standing in the doorway is none other than Dr. Al-Snafu, the same guy John ran into a couple of nights ago at the fleabag hotel.

AL SNAFU
(redding with embarrassment) Luh, luh, luh ....

He snaps his fingers authoritatively at two workers from the Subcontinent idling about nearby trying not to snicker. They scurry over and grapple with the door, wresting it back into position.

RUSS
(mimicking Curly Howard)
Nack-nack-nack-nack!
John can’t help but laugh. Bolt begins to take some pictures: click, whir, click, whir.

Al Snafu turns his attention to the teachers at the bottom of the staircase, clears his throat, tries to reclaim some air of dignity.

Most of the teacher, except for John and Russ, gaze up with vacuous eyes and gaping expressions, giving one the impression that they could possibly be drugged mental patients who have wandered off from an institution.

AL SNAFU
And so, luh, luh, luh, so, good
morning, gentlemen. Most of you
have met me or already have known
me for some, luh, luh, luh, time,
but for those who haven’t, I am
Dr. Ishmael Al Snafu, professor
of Native American studies and
dean of Shaheet, luh, luh, luh,
College.

He smiles a big, stiff smile just as John suddenly remembers him.
JOHN (grinning) It’s big chief!

A bit shocked, Al Snafu peers with concern at John, trying to remember where they might have met. Russ reaches over and takes a newspaper John has tucked under his arm, begins to leaf through it.

AL SNAFU
(trying to recover) Yes, I suppose you might, luh, luh, luh, say that I’m the "big chief" of this college. Heh-heh!

Fake smile. He clears his throat.
AL SNAFU (CONT’D) Let me just take this moment to say what a thrill luh, luh, luh, it is to have such a fine
collection of luh, luh, luh, professionals on board for the new semester.

Another tight, fake smile as he lets this compliment sink in, gazes out at the gawking expressions below him. One of the teachers is picking his nose. Another stares back with an insolent sneer, a cigarette dangling form his lips. Russ keeps on reading the newspaper.

AL SNAFU (CONT’D) The fact that you are all on probation from the overcrowded American penal luh, luh, luh, system for assorted non-violent crimes is not important to me. What matters, luh, luh, luh, is that Shaheet College’s
relationship with the US
Department of Justice remains vibrant. Everybody’s a, luh, luh, luh, winner under this
arrangement. We get affordable faculty and you get the
invaluable opportunity at rehab-, luh, luh, luh, rehabilitation at one of Arababia’s premier
institutions!

Russ spots something of interest in his newspaper.

RUSS
(loud)
Well, lookee here, Doctor Al Snafu! Seems like they’ve named a new prince of Sha--heet.

He holds up the newspaper so Al Snafu can see. RUSS (CONT’D)
(seriously)
Who do you reckon he pissed off? Al Snafu reddens, a few of the teachers snicker.

RUSS (CONT’D)
I’d say you’d really have to be a royal-fuck-up to get shipped off to this place, don’t you think, doctor?

Some of the teachers are laughing now. Others just continue to gape as if Russ were speaking Chinese. Al Snafu gives Russ the stink eye.

RUSS (CONT’D)
(drugged hippy voice)
Hey Ahmed, guess what? We’re shipping your ass off to Shaheet, man.

A few more yuks from the teachers.

AL SNAFU
(coldly)
For those of you who have not had
the pleasure of meeting him, luh,
luh, luh, this is Russ McDare. We
are ... under obligation, shall
we say, to k