Lethal Weapon

RIGGS (FIGURE)

Happy holidays. Mind if I join

you?

PUNK #1

Yes.

PUNK #2

F*ck 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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