Hunting aliens like bears
(Works best as a radio script)
mailto:asullivan00@comcast.net
Scene: radio exchange during between Dispatcher and fighter pilot during an invasion from space
DISATCHER: Alpha Seven, Alpha Seven, this is Central Command. Radar shows that an alien craft is in your sector. Can you confirm?
PILOT: Roger that, Central. A smear of blinding lights just roared passed on my starboard side. I thought it would clip a wing.
DISPATCHER: Don’t get too comfortable up there, Alpha. Home Base wants you to pursue and destroy. And whatever you do, don’t screw this up, too.
PILOT: What’s wrong with those fools at home base? We get visitors from space and all we want to do is shoot at them. This is worse than people hunting the bears back home.
DISPATCHER: If you’re too scared, Alpha Seven, I can alert Home Base to let someone else handle it.
PILOT: I’m not scared, Central. I don’t know enough about them yet to be scared of them. Bears scare me more but I wouldn’t go shooting at them for no reason. You blood-thirsty bastards strike me as more dangerous. The lot of you ought to drop dead and make our planet a safer place.
DISPATCHER: I’ll make certain we passed that on to Home Base, Alpha Seven. By any chance are you an alien-lover?
PILOT: If you mean do I have a sign on my craft saying “welcome to earth,” like those crazies in the city, the answer is “no.” But I would love to know something about them before I start blasting them to pieces. I keep thinking of all the other things on earth we killed before we realized we shouldn’t have.
DISPATCHER: Are you having a nervous breakdown, Alpha Seven?
PILOT: No, more a breakdown of conscience.
DISPATCHER: Warriors shouldn’t have a conscience. What do I tell Home Base? That your conscience won’t let you obey orders?
PILOT: What if this is like the American Indians, and that we’re about to start slaughtering a whole race again?
DISPATCHER: Stop this, Alpha Seven. You’re wasting valuable time. Are you going to obey orders or should I put you on report.
PILOT: Give me the coordinates. I’ll go. But I’m going to look before I shoot.
DISPATCHER: That could wind you up dead, Alpha Seven. For your information, I have put you on report anyway.
PILOT: Roger that, Central Command. You have to cover your ass. I’m sure Home Base will have handcuffs waiting for me when I get back. They can’t afford to have anybody actually thinking up here. We may never attack anybody.
DISPATCHER: You’re a real character, Alpha Seven. If you don’t like the human race, why don’t you got ask the aliens if they’ll make you a member of their society?
PILOT: I’ll do that, Central. If I can find them. They don’t scare me half as much as you guys do.
DISPATCHER: Very funny, Alpha Seven. Just for that I’m putting you down for a pysch evaluation when you get a chance. For your information, Beta and Gamma report contact with the enemy and your alien friends aren’t nearly as friendly as you would make out. Gamma is KIA.
PILOT: Shit! That means I’ll have to go in shooting. Do you have a status of Beta?
DISPATCHER: Engaged and urgently requesting your assistance.
PILOT: I’m almost there. I have them on visual. My God! That’s a mother ship
DISPATCHER: Shoot it, Alpha Seven. Don’t take pictures.
PILOT: I did shoot. I missed. The thing is as slippery as a greased pig.
DISPATCHER: Well, you’d better regroup. Beta’s down.
PILOT: I see his smoke. It would seem the aliens are nearly as good at killing as we humans are. I wonder which of us thinks we’re the Indians, use or them.
DISPATCHER: Shut up and shoot, Alpha Seven. We have reports of other ships landing. We just lost Newark.
PILOT: I did shoot. I missed again. I’m trying to swing around for another shot, but their ship in on me.
DISPATCHER: Use your rear rockets, Alpha Seven. Do you hear me? Alpha Seven? Alpha Seven come respond please. Alpha Seven…