Ext. Cliff Face, Painted Desert, Arizona. Day. 1999
Darkness. The sound of athletic exhalations are amplified.
Professional BODYBUILDER, 21, climbs the face of a rock. The cliff face and desert are almost orange-red. Replacing a blue sky is a montage of US flag, shouting Marine DRILL INSTRUCTOR, 40s, and close up of the bodybuilder's sweating, determined face.
His hand slips. He dangles by one arm. MARS, the god of war, with a voice like those used in dramatic film previews, narrates
The few. The proud.
The bodybuilder's hand grips the top.
He stands on top.
Electricity crackles over his skin. A sword forms in his hand. He's transformed into a Marine in dress blue uniform in front of a flag pole with a US flag.
EXT. Marine Reserve RECRUITING, SEATTLE. DAY. Spring 2000
The gray-green metal front door reads
Seattle Marine Reserve Recruiting Battalion
The door bursts open under the push of Josh, 18, a six-foot high school running back with short hair, built like a bull, wearing jeans and a Nova High School Football t-shirt. Just behind him is a Recruiter, 30s, with a buzz cut, wearing dress blue Marine slacks and short-sleeve formal Marine shirt. The recruiter has already got his smokes out. With his demeanor, he could have had a career in used cars or the Star Chamber.
It's a gray cloudy day. The grass is lush green and trimmed to perfection.
Soundin' sweet so far.
Josh takes a cigarrette. They light up.
Ya hook me up with some a this?
Josh thumps the rank on the Recruiter's collar.
So to hit Private pronto what you can do is recommend a buddy to sign up. It's our referral program.
Funk, 18, shoulder length blonde hair, walks up. He's shorter, leaner, and more muscled than Josh. He wears a LEATHER JACKET over his athletic shirt. He nods to Josh.
Funk's your man.
Ready for action?
So I heard there's college money?
How does forty gees hit ya?
Uncle Sam takes care of his own. Just one weekend a month. You ready for boot camp? Ready to get in shape?
The recruiter punches Funk's arm lightly.
Funk is already ta hit the ground running. State wrestlin champ.
Wrestling? I use ta do a little. C'mon, show me a move.
Funk slips his leather jacket off and crouches. He ties his hair in a pony tail in one motion with the hair band from his wrist.
Ready. Set. Limbs fly. Josh jumps back.
Funk pins the recruiter in the green grass.
(winded, holding his hand up for help)
Not bad. Best two outta three?
Ext. Camp Lejune, South Carolina. DAY. Summer 2000
Funk flips Josh into the orange-brown dirt. Both are wearing camouflage battle dress uniforms. Both have buzz cuts. They're Marine recruits now. It's a scorching hot, dry day in boot camp.
Drill Instructor (O.S.)
Now stab him in the face with your bayonet!
Funk mimes the stab.
Josh's dog tags dangle from his neck.
(under his breath)
Each Marine scrambles into formation, some tripping. It's the same D.I. from the opening advert. The DRILL INSTRUCTOR, although in his 40s, is thin and pale but each fiber as hard as nails, and every word and deed is full of fury as if all Hell IS breaking loose.
Listen up panzies! This time it's the real deal. FIX BAYONETS!
Each picks up a BAYONET and attaches it quickly and noisily to the end of a standard issue Marine rifle.
The Drill instructor walks the front line.
What are you ready to do?
They are as loud as a riot, but Funk is silent. The D.I. stops in front of Funk.
What makes the grass grow!
The blood of our enemies!
The D.I. shouts at Funk until his neck is popping.
What are you ready to do?
Marine Chorus (O.S.)
Funk mouths the words but can't be heard.
EXT. BAYONET DRILL GROUND. SAME.
There are columns and rows of dummies. Each dummy is a crude wooden cross about man height with a tire for a chest and a disk of wood for its contents. There is a clamor of shouts, growls, and stabbing.
With a fury, Funk stabs his dummy in the center with the bayonet. It goes in all the way to the hilt and stays in.
Blood flows from the wound.
It brightens the green grass below.
Funk stares in horror.
What is your mal-FUNK-shun, Private?
He's up in Funk's face. Funk drops the rifle. Funk picks it up again. The drill instructor knocks it from his grip and then knocks Funk down.
You're going to havva do better than that. Front leaning rest!
Funk rolls onto his belly and hovers in pushup position. His dog tags are hanging from his neck.
Funk lowers until his chest hovers one inch above the ground. The dog tags dip into the green grass.
The Drill Instructor lowers himself into view.
What makes the grass grow, Private?
The blood of my enemies!
Funk pumps out a perfect pushup.
He lowers as before.
What are you ready to do?
What are you ready to do, Funk?
His face is red and his eyes bloodshot.
EXT. GRADUATION PHOTO HALL. DAY. DAYS LATER.
The battalion of three hundred TRAINEES is marching toward a large, olive drab hall. The are hardened now, their camouflage spotted with orange-brown dirt, but as mindless as zombies. The D.I. calls cadence to keep their marching in step, ironically from Pink Floyd lyrics.
We don’t need no education.
We don’t need no education.
(under his breath)
We don’t need no thought control.
Match cut to:
INT. GRADUATION PHOTO HALL. DAY.
Face of Josh. He steps forward.
Jeezus. We need an extra large.
An Old Lady, 60s, wearing a faded dress and a US flag button. She has lived every one of those years in the same miserable military town. She's short and fat from too many apple pies. She slaps the frontpiece of a Marine dress uniform. This is just the front of the dress blue uniform down to the breast bone where it's crudely cut off.
This is just a bare bones hall with one spot of blue, a wall and a US flag on a stand. And a long line of dirty, miserable, brain beaten recruits.
A camera is set up in front of the blue backdrop. Flash. The old lady rips the frontpiece off of Josh.
Josh walks away, passing by Funk, then further down the line. The line stretches and stretches seeming endless into the darkness of the bare hall way.
C'mon, meathead. We ain't got all day.
Funk steps forward. She slaps a smaller frontpiece on and tries a dress hat, but its too small.
Seven an three quarters. Damn, that's a big bucket.
She slaps another dress hat on Funk's head.
He is framed to appear as if wearing dress blues in front of the US flag and backdrop. There is a FLASH of his dazed and brainwashed BOOT CAMP TRAINING PHOTO.
Ext. Rally, Downtown Seattle. Rainy Day. February 12, 2003
to match cut of Funk's face. His buzzcut grew out half an inch. He's still got his leather jacket, although it's faded now and has the canvas name tag FUNK sewn in, along with a TOOL patch and other pieces of heavy metal flair.
He's jolted to the side of the pit by other MOSHERS. He is in a mosh pit. Unseen but definitely heard is the music of the heavy metal band, TOOL, doing a German war chant parody, "Die Eier von Satan".
Josh, in a TOOL t-shirt, slams into Funk. His buzzcut is as tight as day one. His dog tags hang from his neck.
Limbs are flying. One Dude, 30s, on the edge has a tattoo of an Anarchy symbol on his arm, several piercings, and torn, tattered black jacket and jeans.
UND kEINE EIER!
The crowd ROARS as loud as a Marine chorus. Josh slams into the dude.
Dude, watch your dancin'.
Watch your panzy ass!
Funk pulls Josh away.
Jeez! Tryin' to get us killed before we even report for duty tomorrow morning?
Funk pulls Josh out of the mosh pit. They walk by miscellaneous anti-war tables and RALLYERS, socialist, hippy, or libertarian.
You a softie too? This our last night o freedom. Rock on till oh four-hundred, baby.
Still want a tattoo?
Yeah, I'm thinking of--
I'm thinking of a big, black asshole tattooed on your forehead with the letters ...
Funk drifts into a gaze at EVA, 18, Turkish-American with long, dark hair, in a cutoff blouse and a long skirt that she dyed black herself. She’s dancing to the music, whirling, and enrapt in the energy of the crowd. She trails black cloth ribbons in her left hand.
Fuck that. Those softies. I'm thirsty.
Oh, I see what you're hard for. Poachin some before we hit the sand tomorrow?
Funk is already closing in on Eva. He stands at the edge of the BYSTANDERS.
During her dancing, Eva arrives in front of Funk. She brushes the black ribbons over his face and shoulders.
The song ends and she collapses. She stands and hands black ribbons to BYSTANDERS. She walks over to a nearby table that has a white peace symbol on black banner above a table. On the table lie various anti-war pamphlets, Turkish pastries, and a hemp handbag.
Funk follows. She's ready for him with stunning eyes and a peace pamphleT.
Got time for peace?
(handing a Ten-dollar bill)
Got change for a brownie?
She takes the bill but gives no brownie. Instead she steps between the brownies and Funk.
Hey, you go to Washington? We're having a sit-in tomorrow.
Not yet. When I get the money.
Funk steps closer. The flirting begins.
You're invading my personal space.
Then step away.
She steps closer and ties
a black armband around his left arm with a white PEACE SYMBOL on it.
Hope I see you at the sit-in.
She hands him the pamphlet.
She nods, then looks left, and digs in her handbag.
Ever eaten ... ?
She pulls out
a nutty, greasy, half-baked COOKIE wrapped in saran wrap. It is light brown and glistens with oil.
Die Eier von Satan. The Egg of Satan.
She hands him the cookie. He smells it.
What's in this?
She tears off a bite and feeds it to him. She licks her fingers and whispers in his ear. He bites into it, leaving a bite left, which he offers to her lips. She accepts and licks his fingers. He takes the cue one step too aggressively and touches her waist. She steps back and begins to dance again, but slower and more sensually. It’s all he can do to keep up.
The song ends, and she comes to a slow stop inches from Funk. She’s shorter, so his lips are almost touching her eyebrows. He touches her chin to lift it.
What’s in ... this?
They kiss. It is a light kiss that kindles a small fire in their hearts.
Josh is in his jeep, obnoxiously close to BYSTANDERS.
Hey there ain’t no beer nowhere. Let’s roll.
We gotta get our drinkin’ on. In ten hours we hit the sand. Hey babe! Need a lift?
See you tomorrow?
I ... don’t know ... your name.
It’s cool, babe. I’m a marine, too! Bring a friend.
Reservist. Tomorrow we ... Shit. I gotta go.
Funk is leaving. Eva is left, confused.
INT. JOSH'S JEEP. DAY.
Funk, in the passenger seat, licks his fingers. Josh, in the driver seat, starts the jeep. Distant music echoes followed by the roar of the crowd. A lovestruck Funk puts the PAMPHLET into his jacket.
You poach her? Damn you drunk?
The engine revs.
EXT. RALLY. DAY
The jeep drives off.
INT. JOSH'S JEEP, Downtown. DAY. Half-hour later.
Funk looks at his arm. Pink Floyd's "THE WALL" is on the CD player. The lyrics echo in the background
Pink Floyd (O.S.)
Tear down the wall!
Where'd you say that liquor store was?
Josh rips off the peace symbol on his arm.
What the fuck is this?
Funk grabs it back and lurches away.
Oh-four hundred hours tomorrow we ship out. It's the real deal. You faggin' out?
In your dreams.
Josh grabs again but misses. Funk punches his arm.
You little shit.
Josh swings at him, but Funk blocks it.
Maybe I gotta reason. Why're we going to war with Iraq?
Dubya-em-dee. They got weapons, dumbass.
So do we.
Yeah but those are ours, dumbass. What if some fuckall towel head plants a suitcase downtown? And boom, no more down--FUCKED UP--town.
Twin towers, shit-for-brains?
Two towers, fuck nuts?
What crack you been hittin?
EXT. SEATTLE Downtown. Day.
Liquor store passes by.
Rubber squeals as the jeep brakes hard.
INT. JEEP. SAME.
Hold up, there's a store. Jeezus H., you need a drink or an ass kickin'. Or both!
Int. Funk's Bedroom. Twilight. An hour later
Post highschool shithole. Two Towers poster on the wall.
On the unmade bed Funk has his jacket off, wearing white undershirt and dog tags. His arms are tensed. The music drowns off.
(to the right)
Sword or axe?
Josh swigs a pissy can of beer.
(to the left)
Axe, mutha fucka.
Josh's huge thumb presses the red "A" button on a DreamCast console game controller.
EXT. Mythic GERMANCASTLE. VIDEO GAME. DAY.
Astaroth comes to life in an arena in front of the castle. He's facing left. He is a computer-generated, purple skinned, ten-foot tall, beefy Assyrian slaughterer with a two-handed battle axe and black leather pants and no shirt over his musclebound torso.
Nightmare, a long blond-haired Aryan demon knight, is facing right. He's wearing black battle armor that shows off half of his naked chest. He's wielding a gruesome great sword with an eye in its hilt.
The two are in an arena in front of the castle. Nightmare is on the left, Astaroth on the right. The word appears
The combatants approach in the middle of the arena.
Who's my bitch now? Huh?
Astaroth takes a huge baseball swing, but Nightmare ducks.
Astaroth swings down, but his axe gets stuck in the ground.
Nightmare dashes in, slides, and kicks Astaroth back away toward the edge of the arena. As Astaroth is getting up,
Funk's thumb executes a precise sequence of button presses.
The sky darkens and the sword glows with flames before stabbing Astaroth in the chest. Astaroth falls to his knees.
Nightmare sneers. The text displays:
Funk yawns. Josh blindsides Funk and pins him on the bed.
Who beats who, bitch?
Funk deftly escapes to his feet beside the bed.
Josh sticks his finger in Funk's face.
I'll pick you up on the way to the unit. Oh fuckin' four.
Funk pushes him out. But he's dead tired now.
I know, dipshit. Four A.M.
Be squared away. Oh four hundred.
Funk slams the door shut to
BLACK. A low roar of a chorus of Marines begins to rise and echo the Pink Floyd lyric
Marine Chorus (O.S.)
Tear down the wall!
EXT.GERMANCASTLE. COMPUTER GRAPHICS. DAY.
Two towers stand in the castle. As we move closer we see
A giant orange-red flaming eye appears between them. A wave of fire erupts onto