Coffee Maker
INT. TYRELL CORPORATION LOCKER ROOM - DAY
THE EYE
It’s magnified and deeply revealed. Flecks of green and yellow in a field of milky blue. Icy filaments surround the undulating center.
The eye is brown in a tiny screen. On the metallic surface below, the words VOIGHT-KAMPFF are finely etched. There’s a touch-light panel across the top and on the side of the screen, a dial that registers fluctuations of the iris.
The instrument is no bigger than a music box and sits on a table between two men. The man talking is big, looks like an over-stuffed kid. “LEON” it says on his breast pocket. He’s dressed in a warehouseman’s uniform and his pudgy hands are folded expectantly in his lap. Despite the obvious heat, he looks very cool. The man facing him is lean, hollow cheeked and dressed in gray. Detached and efficient, he looks like a cop or an accountant. His name is HOLDEN and he’s all business, except for the sweat on his face. The room is large and humid. Rows of salvaged junk are stacked neatly against the walls. Two large fans whir above their heads.
LEON: Okay if I talk?
Holden doesn’t answer. He’s centering Leon’s eye on the machine.
LEON: I kinda get nervous when I take tests.
HOLDEN: Don’t move.
LEON: Sorry.
He tries not to move but finally his lips can’t help a sheepish smile.
LEON: Already had I.Q. test this year – but I don’t think I never had a…
HOLDEN: (cutting in) Reaction time is a factor in this, so please pay attention. Answer quickly as you can.
Leon compresses his lips and nods his big head eagerly. Holden’s voice is cold, geared to intimidate and evoke response.
HOLDEN: You’re in an office, walking along in the kitchen when all of a sudden you look down and see a…
LEON: What one? It was a timid interruption, hardly audible.
HOLDEN: What?
LEON: What office?
HOLDEN: Doesn’t make any difference what office – it’s completely hypothetical.
LEON: But how come I’d be there?
HOLDEN: Maybe you’re fed up, maybe you want to be by yourself – who knows. So you look down and see a carafe. It’s steaming…
LEON: A carafe. What’s that?
HOLDEN: Know what a coffee pot is?
LEON: Of course.
HOLDEN: Same thing.
LEON: I never seen a coffee pot.
He sees Holden’s patience is wearing thin.
LEON: But I understand what you mean.
HOLDEN: You reach down and pour the last cup out of the carafe, Leon.
Keeping an eye on his subject, Holden notes the dials in the Voight-Kampff. One of the needles quivers slightly.
LEON: You make these questions, Mr. Holden, or they write 'em down for you?
Disregarding the question, Holden continues, picking up the pace.
HOLDEN: The carafe is empty, there are fresh grounds right next to it, and an industrial coffee maker. But it can’t make itself. Not without your help. But you’re not helping.
Leon’s upper lip is quivering.
LEON: Whatcha mean, I’m not helping?
HOLDEN: I mean you’re not helping! Why is that, Leon?
Leon looks shocked, surprised. But the needles in the computer barely move. Holden goes for the inside of his coat. But big Leon is faster. His LASER BURNS a hole the size of a nickel through Holden’s stomach. Unlike a bullet, a laser causes no impact. It goes through Holden’s spine and comes out his back, clean as a whistle. Like a rag doll he falls back off the bench from the waist up. By the time he hits the floor, big slow Leon is already walking away. But he stops, turns and with a little smile of satisfaction, FIRES at the machine on the table. There’s a flash and a puff of smoke. The Voight-Kampff is hit dead center, crippled but not destroyed; as Leon walks out of the room, one of its lights begins to blink, faint but steady.
April 9th, 2013 10:37am