Hunting aliens like bears

(Works best as a radio script)


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: Donít get too comfortable up there, Alpha. Home Base wants you to pursue and destroy. And whatever you do, donít screw this up, too.


PILOT: Whatís 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 youíre too scared, Alpha Seven, I can alert Home Base to let someone else handle it.


PILOT: Iím not scared, Central. I donít know enough about them yet to be scared of them. Bears scare me more but I wouldnít 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: Iíll 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 ďwelcome to earth,Ē like those crazies in the city, the answer is ďno.Ē †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 shouldnít have.


DISPATCHER: Are you having a nervous breakdown, Alpha Seven?


PILOT: No, more a breakdown of conscience.


DISPATCHER: Warriors shouldnít have a conscience. What do I tell Home Base? That your conscience wonít let you obey orders?


PILOT:† What if this is like the American Indians, and that weíre about to start slaughtering a whole race again?


DISPATCHER: Stop this, Alpha Seven. Youíre wasting valuable time. Are you going to obey orders or should I put you on report.


PILOT: †Give me the coordinates. Iíll go. But Iím 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. Iím sure Home Base will have handcuffs waiting for me when I get back. They canít afford to have anybody actually thinking up here. We may never attack anybody.


DISPATCHER: Youíre a real character, Alpha Seven. If you donít like the human race, why donít you got ask the aliens if theyíll make you a member of their society?


PILOT: †Iíll do that, Central. If I can find them. They donít scare me half as much as you guys do.


DISPATCHER: Very funny, Alpha Seven. Just for that Iím 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 arenít nearly as friendly as you would make out. Gamma is KIA.


PILOT: Shit! That means Iíll have to go in shooting. Do you have a status of Beta?


DISPATCHER: Engaged and urgently requesting your assistance.


PILOT: Iím almost there. I have them on visual. My God! Thatís a mother ship


DISPATCHER: Shoot it, Alpha Seven. Donít take pictures.


PILOT:† I did shoot. I missed. The thing is as slippery as a greased pig.


DISPATCHER:† Well, youíd better regroup. Betaís 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 weíre 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. Iím 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 SevenÖ


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