Blade Page #2

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The beat gets LOUDER. The action heavier. The atmosphere more

narcotic. People are stripping off their clothes, sweating like

fiends. It's a virtual orgy.

Dennis laughs, reveling in the hedonism. Everything rises to a fever

pitch --

DENNIS:

(over the music)

F***, I need a drink!!!

Raquel just smiles -- then Dennis notices a DROP OF SOMETHING spatter

his hand. It looks like blood. Dennis looks up, concerned --

-- MORE BLOOD DROPLETS are falling. Raquel's face is sprinkled with

them now. Dennis stops dancing. What is this? Some kind of f***ed up

performance art?

Raquel turns her face toward the ceiling, as if washing herself in a

summer shower, now the other club goers are looking up too --

BLOOD SHOWERS DOWN

from sprinkler heads in the ceiling, drenching the dancers. The club

goers love it, thrusting their heads back, mouths open wide to

receive the crimson offering.

Horrified, Dennis recoils, turning towards --

RAQUEL,

whose face morphs into a preternatural snarl. Her canines extend,

tapering to razor-sharp points. Her tongue flicks, lizard-like as

fingernails sharpen into claws. All this while the whites of her eyes

BLEED RED, pupils oscillating hypnotically.

RAQUEL:

What's wrong, baby?

Dennis SCREAMS, pushes away from Raquel, only --

-- Mercury has fangs now too. In fact, everyone in the club does,

with the exception of poor Dennis. That's because they're all

vampires.

Dennis tries to run, but the burly Doorman blocks his exit, brutally

smashing his fist into Dennis' face.

Dennis falls, dazed. The club-goers close in around him. They make a

game of it, shoving him from one person to another, their pale faces

leering like twisted jack-o-lanterns.

The strobe lights quicken to a seizure-inducing intensity. Dennis

spins, tumbling into Raquel's arms. She shoves him forward -- Dennis

lands on the floor, falling at someone's boot-clad feet. He looks up.

A DARK FIGURE sits in the shadows, unnoticed until this moment. The

figure stands, moves into the light as time screeches to a halt --

A BLACK MAN,

towers above Dennis, wearing dark glasses and a leather longcoat -- a

sneer of cruel contempt etched upon a face tempered by a lifetime of

horror. His name is BLADE.

Blade whips open his long coat, shrugging it off, revealing an

arsenal of high-tech weapons strapped to his body:

6-point adjustable body armor, a modified CAR-15 assault rifle with

an ultra-violet entry light, two Casull .454 revolvers, a "Demon"

automatic cross-bow, a bandoleer of mahogany stakes, an Indian-style

katar punching dagger -- and last, but certainly not least, his

namesake -- a silver sword which is secured in a back-scabbard.

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