Moments later. The aftermath of destruction. The dust settling.
Haring and Samuels emerge from hiding, shaken but alive.
The swoosh of a meteor overhead.
They brace for the worst. It doesn't come. The meteor passes.
HARING: I fault this bloodless-yet-all-too-bloody millennium. There is no milk to poop nor poetry to ply.
SAMUELS: Unleash and spill or cork the logic.
HARING: Seriously. Replace the plum. Rot the veneer. Till then I'll gargle nasty phlegm.
SAMUELS: Popularize the semi-transparent myth? Till then pish?
HARING: Retire and mourn.
SAMUELS: And let the rhino pull the rickshaw?
SAMUELS: When all are marshmellow?
HARING: Rehash this jumble and I'll puke. My guts are burning.
SAMUELS: Your bath is dry.
HARING: Expand the page. Disparity leads to clarity.
SAMUELS: How the locus of contempt strains to stand and bite and stumbles -
HARING (overlapping): Only action can sedate the need.
SAMUELS (cont'd): - while enemies prowl the aisles.
HARING: Fut! Fut! (pause) And, again, I say, fut! (pause)
My essential enzymes mix. Emotion.
SAMUELS: Seedy sentiment.
Each has found a makeshift weapon from the junk and debris piles around them. They face off defiantly.
Samuels again passes gas.
HARING: Intumescent stinkpot! My sense of smell is a liability in this presence. Oh, untimely meeting in an unventilated world. I am death's midwife come to deliver you. Your enemies wait to feast on your remains.
SAMUELS: They will chew for a night and still not get me down.
Haring lunges with weapon raised and they fight. Wielding their ersatz weapons like swords, they thrust and parry with an acrobatic swordsmanship that would make Errol Flynn envious.
HARING: Swing and fall. Fall and die. I spit cankers into your crowded mouth.
SAMUELS: Blow through tomorrow and depress me Thursday!
HARING: Ugliness on the rocks, your sold-out concert is canceled. Say goodnight.
Haring lands a telling blow and Samuels staggers to a knee.
Samuels touches his forehead, sees blood on his hand.
SAMUELS (thinking): Is there no love in burning shacks? In sinking ships? To fall and forget you were once high. To crouch and crawl under forgotten promises. Oh, broken, decomposing flesh. I cough blood and spew into empty racks. I bear down and squeeze my underpants. Where am I?
Samuels tries to rise.
HARING: No more. Repent.
SAMUELS: Bitter pill disgorge. You are my vomit. Now join me.
Samuels fights on.
HARING: Bite yourself and surrender. You were bought and sold. Now rupture and collapse.
Haring delivers the fateful blow. Samuels reels. Falls. Tries to again recover, but cannot.
SAMUELS (thinking): Scrub me in serene chaos. But save my meat from a scruffy peace.
HARING: Your day is spoiled. Now sputter out.
SAMUELS: I . . . sneeze on your crotch.
HARING: Ghosts ignore you. Unite with nothing. Sound the truce on the trombone. This venting was not in vain. I have struggled with the zipper; the trophy still falls up. I have squeezed the clapstick dry. Now, to ride the glow into tomorrow.
Another meteor. This time close. The building trembles from a direct hit and a large fluorescent light fixture shakes loose from a dangling beam.
As Haring watches the cosmic conspiracy of Rube Goldbergian precision unfold, the light fixture bounces and careens its way into a collision with electrical boxes mounted on a wall.
Sparks. Fire. Alarms.
In the midst of the ensuing conflagration about to engulf him, Haring waits, amazed.
In the DISSOLVE, the sounding alarms become more recognizable as the familiar ringing of a smart phone.
INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT
A smartphone vibrating on a table. A hand picks it up.
HARING (into phone): Yeah?
INT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - NIGHT
Haring runs down the corridor, looking for the right room.
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Haring stops short in the doorway, slowly moves into the room where Samuels lies in bed, an unconscious, badly bruised old man engulfed within a phalanx of tubes, monitors, and life-sustaining equipment.
Haring approaches and gently touches the foot of the bed.
ALONZO (off-screen): Do you know this man?
Haring turns to the man in the doorway.
HARING: He's my father. Who are you?
ALONZO: Alonzo Mosely. FBI.
Alonzo flashes ID.
ALONZO (cont'd): How much do you know about your father?
To Be Continued . . .
END OF EPISODE 3
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