The Fifth Element

18

Manhattan Intergalactic Airport was almost full.

Of trash, not travelers.

A strike was in progress, and the sanitation workers had let the garbage pile up almost to the ceiling of the lobby.

Narrow paths bulldozed through the debris led to the check-in counters and terminal gates.

Striking workers marched and chanted. Some were human, some were ‘bots or ‘droids; others were alien or altered. They all carried picket signs.

The police, meanwhile, were massing to move in. The air was thick with tension, like the electricity before a summer storm.

The novice, David, was watching when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Yaahhh!” he cried, jumping back.

He turned and saw Father Cornelius and the lovely Leeloo, still dripping wet—but fully dressed.

“Did you get them?” asked Cornelius, never a man to beat around the bush.

David nodded. He handed the priest two passports.

“Excellent,” said Cornelius, opening them and studying the forgery work.

He handed one to Leeloo. “Leeloo Dallas.”

She smiled delightedly and took it.

“And Korben David Dallas. Perfect!” Father Cornelius handed the second passport back to David.

Leeloo’s smile faded. “Akta dedero ansila deno poerfect?”

Father Cornelius shook his head. “Leeloo, I can’t pretend to be your husband. I’m old. David’s in great shape. He’s young, he’s strong. He’ll protect you.”

David seemed to swell up with each syllable of praise. He held out a hand toward Leeloo, who took it somewhat reluctantly.

Bam!

Bam!

Father Cornelius looked around nervously toward the strikers as the cops moved in and shots were fired. He pointed toward the line at the check-in counter.

“Go on! See the Diva, get the Sacred Stones. I will wait for you at the Temple. God be with you!”

Bam!

Whang!

Korben ducked as a wild shot shattered the glass behind his head. He dodged and weaved as he ran across the trash-filled airport lobby.

He scanned the crowd, looking for Leeloo.

All he could see were strikers, diving head first into the garbage piles to avoid the charging police.

The gate sign was flashing: “Fhloston Non-Stop, First Boarding Call.”

Casually brushing off two policemen who had mistaken him for a striker, Korben picked his way through the garbage toward the check-in counter.

“Congratulations,” said the check-in attendant.

David looked confused.

“On winning the Gemini Croquette contest— the trip to Fhloston Paradise!” the attendant said, as she stapled the boarding pass to David’s ticket and handed him back his passport.

“Oh, yeah,” he said.

“I made it!” Korben said. He jammed his knuckles into David’s back like a gun, and snatched the passport out of his hand.

“I really thought I was going to miss my flight,” he added to the confused attendant.

Leeloo’s face broke into a wide smile.

“Thanks, kid,” Korben said, hustling David to one side. “You put the luggage on the conveyer belt?”

He poked him convincingly with the “gun.”

“Uh, yeah,” David said haltingly.

“Great!” said Korben, giving David a playful but effective shove into the garbage pile. “Now beat it!”

Korben turned his most charming smile on the confused check-in attendant. “I was so afraid I would miss my flight that I sent the kid here to pick up my boarding pass.”

Leeloo smiled, and held out her hand for her own ticket.

The attendant held back Leeloo’s boarding pass and passport. She looked at them suspiciously.

“Your wife?” she asked Korben.

Korben grabbed the passport and read it. “Uh, yes,” he said. “Newlyweds. Love at first sight. You meet, something goes ‘tilt,’ you get married, you hardly know each other. Right, darling?”

Leeloo reached across the counter and grabbed her boarding pass from the attendant.

“Dinoine chagatakat!”

“Took the words right out of my mouth, sweetie. Go on, I’ll be right with you.”

Korben turned back to the attendant.

“It’s our honeymoon,” he said with a broad wink. “She’s nervous.”

A familiar nasty face was entering the front door of-the airport, clambering over and through the festering garbage.

It was the face of Korben’s nasty neighbor, accompanied by a young woman with a curiously blank expression.

As the two picked their way through the garbage, they were almost knocked over by a huge pink beast—

A police pig, on a steel chain leash.

“Come on Snyffer, go root!” said a pork-patrol handler, running along behind the pig.

The nasty neighbor stepped aside, then pushed on toward the check-in counter.

The blank-faced girl followed.

A few feet away, Father Cornelius watched from a stool at the Take-off Bar, nursing his second martini.

“I feel so guilty,” he said to the robot bartender. “Sending Leeloo to do the dirty work—like these poor police pigs. I know she was made to be strong, but she seems so fragile. So human. Know what I mean?”

The bartender had a monitor for a face. It glowed with compassion and nodded gravely.

Robots are good listeners.

The nasty neighbor handed his ticket to the check-in attendant.

She looked at him, surprised.

“Dallas? Korben Dallas?”

“Yes,” said the nasty neighbor. “That’s me.”

The attendant smiled politely. Meanwhile, her foot tripped a switch that turned on an overhead ultralight passenger scanner.

The ultralight revealed that the nasty neighbor and his blank-faced girlfriend were both Mangalores.

The attendant never blew her cool, however.

“Just a moment, please,” she said in her sweetest the-customer-is-always-right voice.

With her other foot she tripped a silent alarm.

Sensing trouble, the Mangalores both backed away.

“We’ll be right back!” said the nasty neighbor suspiciously. He grabbed his ‘girlfriend’ by the hand and dragged her away, into the crowd.

“The same?” asked the robot bartender.

Father Cornelius’s eyes were glazed over. “Yeah.”

“Make that two,” said a voice at his elbow.

Cornelius was surprised to see the novice, David, seated on the stool next to him.

He sobered up real fast. “Where’s Leeloo?” he asked in a horrified whisper.

David swallowed his martini and slammed the glass down on the bar, cowboy style.

The stem snapped.

“On the flight. With Mr. Dallas. The real one.”

“What?”

“He put a gun right here,” said David. He turned on his stool and showed Cornelius the small of his back.

“Oh, my Lord!” said Father Cornelius. “This is all my fault. I’m the servant; it was my mission. I should never have given it to you.”

David was already ordering his second martini.

Father Cornelius reached under his cassock and snapped the chain around his neck.

He handed the crooked steel finger to David. “Here!”

“Huh?”

“The key to the temple,” said Cornelius as he tossed down David’s martini, and then his own. “Go and prepare for our arrival. I go to face my destiny!”

And he was gone, into the milling crowd.

Unfortunately, he was right behind the Mangalore, whose nasty-neighbor face was flickering in and out of focus as he and the “girl” ran, faster and faster, toward the airport exit.

“Tell Aknot that plan A flopped,” the neighbor Mangalore said to the girl Mangalore. “Go to plan B.”

She nodded and peeled off, jumping over the garbage toward the exit.

Two cops stepped in front of the neighbor Mangalore.

He drew his ZF1 and fired twice, then dove into the pile.

Bratabrat!

Bratabrat!

The cops fired back.

Bam!

Bam!

“Send a backup!” one cop yelled into his walkie talkie, “Zone 7!”

Cornelius was backed against the wall, trying to avoid the flying bullets.

A trap door opened in the wall behind him, and three gigantic pigs rushed out, followed by their armored pork-patrol handlers.

The trap door bobbed up and down, then started to close.

Cornelius looked right, then left—

Then got down on all fours and crawled through the trap door, just before it closed.

“Excuse me!” said Korben.

He was being led by a stewardess down a long hall in the first class lounge.

She had insisted that Korben come with her. Her high heels went click click click and she walked so fast that he could barely keep up.

“I shouldn’t leave my wife alone,” protested Korben. “My wife—when she’s nervous, she’s…” He searched for the word to describe Leeloo; then found it:

“…unpredictable!”

“This will only take a minute,” the stewardess said. “Loc Rhod is the quickest DJ in the universe. You are SO lucky!”

Korben was not so sure.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m sure he’s very cool, but I don’t want to be interviewed. I’d really prefer to remain anonymous.”

The stewardess stopped and turned to face Korben.

“Forget anonymous!” she said. “You’ll be doing Loc Rhod’s live show every day from five to seven.”

Korben was beginning to perceive the magnitude of the public relations circus to which he had, unwittingly, attached himself. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, even as he was realizing that she not only didn’t have to be, but wasn’t.

The stewardess smiled and shook her head.

Not kidding.

WHAP!

A door opened, knocking a few new stars in the already sore heaven of Korben’s consciousness.

Through the door came a being of intense vivacity, impeccable sartorial integrity, and intermittent intelligibility.

A young black man with an elaborate “do,” velvet bell bottoms and boat-sized pointed-toed shoes.

The 24th century’s most popular DJ.

Loc Rhod.

“Korben Dallas!!” said the DJ, speaking into a mike that doubled as a silver cane, in a rhythmic voice that sounded more like rap than radio reportage. “Here he is!! The one and only winner of the Gemini Croquettes contest!!”

Loc Rhod turned to scan the crowd that was already gathering around him.

“This boy is fueled like fire!! Ladies, start melting because he is hot, hot, HOT!!”

Loc Rhod put his hand on Korben’s arm.

“Right size!!” he said, “Right build, right hair, right on!! And he’s ready to say something to those fifty billion eager ears out there!! Pop it, D-Man!!”

He stuck the mike in Korben’s face.

“Uh… hi!” said Korben.

Loc Rhod winced and pulled back his silver rhinestone-studded mike. “Un Be Leave A Bull!!” he said.

He grabbed Korben’s arm and led him down the hallway.

The crowd fell in behind them.

“Quiver, ladies, quiver!!” crooned Loc Rhod. “He’s gonna set the world on fire, right here from five to seven!! You’ll know everything there is to know ’bout the D-Man!! His dreams, his desires, his most intimate of intimates!! And from what I’m looking at, intimate is this stud muffin’s middle name!!”

He bent down and put the mike in Korben’s face again.

“So tell me, my main man, you nervous in the service??”

“Uh… not really,” stammered Korben.

Loc Rhod put his arm around the stewardess.

“Freeze those knees, my chickadees, cause Korben is on the case with a major face!l”

The procession paused at an intersection in the corridor, where the airline’s catering service had placed a robot with a tray of champagne glasses.

Loc Rhod grabbed a glass, drained it, tossed it away; all the while scribbling autographs as he rapped nonstop:

“Yesterday’s frog will be tomorrow’s Prince of Fhloston Paradise!!”

An aide handed him a cue card.

“The hovering hotel of a thousand and one follies, dollies, and lickin’ lollies!! A magic fountain flowing with nonstop wine, women and hootchie koothchie koo!! All night long, ooowwwooooo!! ” Korben looked on amazed, as the smooth and supple DJ grabbed two stewardesses by the arm, and continued rapping as easily as others walk or breathe. It seemed to be an unconscious activity with him; the rhymes and rhythms flowed without thought as his eyes appraised the crowd that followed him everywhere he Went.

“And start licking your stamps, little girls, this guy’s gonna have you writin’ home to momma!! Tomorrow from five to seven, I’ll be your voice, your tongue, and I’ll be hot cm the trail of the sexiest man of the year!! D-man!! Your man!! My man!!…” Bleep.

“End of transmission,” said an engineer’s voice over a distant speaker.

Loc Rhod stopped in his tracks.

The hallway fell silent.

Two assistants ran up to Loc Rhod, one with a cigarette, another with a match.

Loc Rhod lit the cigarette, blew out a cloud of dissolving smoke, and asked, “How was it?”

“Oh, green!” said one assistant.

“How green?”

“Oh green green green!” said another assistant. “Super green. Crystal green.”

Loc Rhod approached Korben.

He put his hand on his arm, and in an oily, unctuous voice, said, “Korben, sweetheart, do me a favor…”

Sweetheart? Korben looked at the DJ skeptically. Favor?

“I know that this is probably the biggest thing that has ever happened to you in your inconsequential life,” said Loc Rhod. “But I’ve got a show to do here and it’s got to pop, pop, POP! So tomorrow, when we’re on the air, give me a hand.”

A hand? Korben stared unbelievingly at the arrogant little DJ.

“Try to make believe you have more than a six-word vocabulary. You green, pal?”

Instead of answering, Korben grabbed Loc Rhod by the collar.

A security guard stepped forward, but Korben shoved him out of the way. His partner hesitated.

Korben rammed Loc Rhod against the wall, wedging his head into the corner, holding him up so that his feet were six inches off the floor.

“Green?” Korben said. “I didn’t come here to play Dumbo on the radio. So tomorrow between five and seven, give yourself a hand. You GREEN, pal?”

Loc Rhod’s eyes were about to bulge Out of his head. “Super green!” he said.

The check-in attendant, resplendent in her see-thru dress and vinyl pillbox hat, examined the two tickets in her hand.

She read them curiously.

“Mr. Dallas? Mr. Korben Dallas?”

“That’s right,” said Zorg’s Right Arm, giving her his most persuasive smile.

Which was not very persuasive.

With her foot, the check-in attendant tripped the passenger scanner, and its ultralight beam played across the face of Zorg’s Right Arm.

Which remained the face of Zorg’s Right Arm.

“The problem is,” said the attendant, “I have only one Korben Dallas on my list. And he’s already checked in.”

“Impossible!” said Right Ann, his smile shattering. “He’s in jail—I mean, there must be some mistake. I have my ticket. And I am the real Korben Dallas!”

DING! A bell rang at the end of the gate corridor.

“Sorry, sir,” said the attendant. “Boarding is finished.”

Zorg’s Right Arm reached for the attendant, just as a thick plexi screen rose from the check-in counter.

“I’m Korben Dallas!” Right Arm yelled, thinking of the torments Zorg would prepare for him if he failed. “I want to see your boss! Get rid of this stupid window! Somebody’s made a mistake, goddammit!”

He pounded on the counter with both fists.

The only result was that a steel curtain descended to back up the plexi screen.

“THIS.IS.NOT.AN.EXERCISE!” said a robotic voice from an indeterminate spot in the air, where an atmospheric speaker node had temporarily coalesced.

Red laser sighting beams sliced through the air, forming target spots on Right Arm’s body.

“THIS.IS.A.POLICE.CONTROL.PUT.YOUR.HANDS.IN.THE.YELLOW.CIRCLES.”

Gun barrels protruded from the wall, the counter, the floor.

“Sorry!” said Right Arm, in his best dealing-with-insane-authority voice. “Just a little overexcited. That’s all. I’m CALM now…”