Lethal Weapon

FADE IN:

CITY OF ANGELS:

lies spread out beneath us in all its splendor, like a

bargain basement Promised Land.

CAMERA SOARS, DIPS, WINDS its way SLOWLY DOWN, DOWN,

bringing us IN OVER the city as we:

SUPER MAIN TITLES.

TITLES END, as we -

SPIRAL DOWN TOWARD a lush, high-rise apartment complex.

The moon reflected in glass.

CAMERA CONTINUES TO MOVE IN THROUGH billowing curtains,

INTO the inner sanctum of a penthouse apartment, and

here, boys and girls, is where we lose our breath,

because -

spread-eagled on a sumptuous designer sofa lies the

single most beautiful GIRL in the city.

Blonde hair. A satin nightgown that positively glows.

Sam Cooke MUSIC, crooning from five hundred dollar

SPEAKERS.

PASTEL colors. Window walls. New wave furniture tortured

into weird shapes. It looks like robots live here.

On the table next to the sleeping Venus lies an open

bottle of pills ... next to that, a mirror dusted with

cocaine.

She rouses herself to smear some powder on her gums.

As she does, we see from her eyes that she is thoroughly,

completely whacked out of her mind...

She stands, stumbles across the room, pausing to glance

at a photograph on the wall:

Two men. Soldiers. Young, rough-hewn, arms around each

other.

The Girl throws open the glass doors ... steps out onto a

balcony, and there, beneath her, lies all of nighttime

L.A. Panoramic splendor. Her hair flies, her expression.

rapt, as she stands against this sea of technology. She

is beautiful.

On the balcony railing beside her stand three potted

plants.

The Girl sees them, picks one up. Looks over the balcony

railing ... It is ten stories down to the parking lot.

she squints, holds the plant over the edge.

GIRL:

Red car.

Drops the plant. Down it goes, spiralling end over end

-- until, finally ... BAM --! SHATTERS. Dirt flies. A

red Chevy is now minus a WINDSHIELD. The Girl takes

another plant.

GIRL:

Green car.

She drops it. Green Dodge. Ten stories below, BAM

Impact city. Scratch one paint job. Grabs the final

plant and holds it out, saying:

GIRL:

Blue car.

POW. GLASS SHATTERS. Dirt sprays. A blue BMW this

time. The Girl loves this game ... her expression is

slightly crazed. She reaches for another plant -There

aren't any. Her smile fades -- And for a moment,

just a moment, the dullness leaves her eyes and she is

suddenly, incredibly sober. And tears fill her eyes as

she looks over the edge -

GIRL:

Yellow car.

And jumps the railing. Plummets, head over heels like a

rag doll. Hits the yellow car spot on. She lies, dead,

like an extinguished dream. Still beautiful.

CUT TO:

1A EXT. BENEATH THE PIER NIGHT 1A

FOUR TOUGH-LOOKING DOCK WORKERS are camped out under the

pier, warming themselves around a small bonfire, laughing

loudly. Christmas decorations dangle above them from the

pier, and empty beer cans litter the sand around them.

CAMERA PUSHES IN to discover an old collie tied to one of

the pilings. Then we realize that the dog is being tormented

by the dock workers. They flick lighted matches

at him. Shake their beers and spray him in the face.

These guys are not rocket scientists.

The dog cowers, tugging bn the rope. Tries to get away.

All to the great amusement of its tormentors.

One of them turns, laughing -

As a shadowy FIGURE strides calmly up to the fire:

Long hair.

Cigarette dangling from-lower lip.

Shirt-tails hanging loose below the waist.

Nothing threatening in his manner as he plops down beside

the men, smiling.

They are immediately on their guard.

RIGGS (FIGURE)

Happy holidays. Mind if I join

you?

PUNK #1

Yes.

PUNK #2

F*** off.

Riggs smiles at him innocently. Strokes the collie's fur

with one hand.

With the other, he reaches intb a paper sack and produces,

a spanking new bottle of Jack Daniels, possibly the finest

drink mankind has yet produced.

RIGGS:

I need help drinking this. Cool?

The dock workers exchange glances. There seems to be no

harm in this. One of them frowns:

PUNK #1

You a homo?

RIGGS:

Do I look like a homo?

PUNK #1

You got long hair. Homos got long

hair.

PUNK #3

I hate homos. Arrggh.

Riggs shakes his head, laughs.

RIGGS:

Boy, you guys are terrific. You

make me laugh, you just do.

At which point, appropriately enough, Punk #4 shakes a

beer and sprays it in the old collie's face.

The DOG pulls away, WHINING.

Riggs leans forward.

RIGGS:

This your dog? Nice dog.

And then, he proceeds to do a peculiar thing:

He starts to talk to the dog -in

what seems to be the dog's own language.

Very weird, folks...

He coos, snuffles, barks softly, then withdraws,

listening, his ear to the dog's muzzle.

Riggs nods. Frowns.

The others look on, puzzled.

Then Riggs looks at each of the four dock workers.

RIGGS:

Huh-You know what? He says he

doesn't want you to spray beer in

his face. He says he just hates

that.

A pause. Uncomfortable. Then -

PUNK #1

Oh, he does ... ?

(beat)

Well, mister, why don't you ask

him what he likes...?

The others snicker. Riggs simply nods.

RIGGS:

Okay.

And once again, begins to confer with the dog. Listens

intently, piecing together what he is hearing.

RIGGS:

What ... ? You want ... oh. Oh,

hell no, I couldn't do that ...

Nossirree bob, you little nut.

He ruffles the dog's hair.

The men are more puzzled than ever as Riggs turns and

says:

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