(SCENE: A darkened alley in Newark, New Jersey, on a dark, drizzly April evening. A broken down school bus full of inner city middle-schoolers returning from a trip to the ballet in New York sits by the side of a dismal road, steam rising from its up-tilted hood, in front of a deserted chemical plant. The driver, a cute, plucky Puerto Rican single mother of three named Maria LOPEZ, looks under the hood along with passerby Tobias “Wang Dang Doodle” JACKSON, a grizzled 60-something black man in a porkpie hat and a worn black suit. Mitch BERG pulls up, driving a rented Ford Focus, and climbs out to try to render assistance, carrying a cell phone and a nearly empty bottle of lemon-lime Powerade).
BERG: Can I help? Has anyone called a tow or anything yet?
LOPEZ: I called the police, the district and a wrecker, but there won’t be any help coming for at least an hour.
JACKSON: Those infernal garages aren’t what they used to be.
BERG: OK. Well, maybe we can figure out what’s wrong here…
(A black BMW sedan pulls up beside the bus. Out pops a dapper African-American man, who walks briskly to the bus).
MAN: Hi. I’m Corey Booker, and I’m the mayor of Newark.
LOPEZ: Hello, Mister Mayor!
BOOKER: Hi. We don’t have much time. The CIA just called me. A band of Serbian narcotraficantes are apparently en route from the docks in Elizabeth to pick up several drums of methamphetamine stored in that disused chemical factory, and they’re not above killing everyone that gets in their way.
BERG: Isn’t this a job for the police?
BOOKER: They’re all busy. It’s up to us.
BERG: I hate it when that happens.
JACKSON: Newark police are, let us say, sub-optimal.
BOOKER: Be that as it may, we’re going to have to get these children out of the way before the Serbian narcotraficantes get here and kill everyone in their path. You, maam, and you, sir (points to LOPEZ and JACKSON), start walking those kids to safety in that community center on the other side of that culvert. You, sir (points to BERG) and I need to divert them to provide cover.
(LOPEZ and JACKSON start to herd the kids out of the bus and into the ditch).
LOPEZ: Hurry, kids!
JACKSON: Remember, gentlemen – fire and movement!
(In the distance, a pair of panel vans stop and disgorge 20 Serbian narcotraficantes,all carrying AK47 assault rifles. They form a skirmish line and start charging toward the bus. Scattered shots ring out as the line moves forward. LOPEZ and JACKSON start the children running in single file down the ditch by the side of the road as a few sparks fly from the bus’ chassis).
BOOKER: You flank them to the right. I’ll draw their fire.
BERG: Flank them with what? Your state’s idiotic gun laws bar me from bringing my legal handgun, much less something I can use against…
(BOOKER springs to the left, waving his arms wildly. BERG, nonplussed, crawls to the right and crosses the road. The Serbian narcotraficantes fire picks up and their charge gathers speed, as they yell “get the meth! get the meth!” in Serbian)
(BOOKER dodges incoming bullets in a complex, acrobatic display that makes The Matrix look like that old SNL “Bears Fans” sketch. An RPG fires, the rocket tracing an angry red slash across the field. BOOKER catches the rocket by the tail and throws it back at the Serbian narcotraficantes; it explodes, sending several Serbs diving for cover as others blaze away at the Mayor).
(Berg, in the meantime, as closed the gap with the Serbs, who are focused on blazing away at Mayor BOOKER. Having no weapon, he looks around, and sees a puddle of New Jersey rainwater. He ducks down and starts filling the Powerade bottle).
(Two more RPG rounds rocket toward the Mayor. He catches them, cross-handed, just before they’d have impacted his chest, and in a grandiose double-pirouette, throws both rounds back at the Serbs. One splashes into the mud at the feet of Branko SLRBÇ, the leader of the Serb narcotraficantes.
SLRBÇ (yelling in Serb with subtitles): Is this even plausible?
(The round explodes, and SLRBÇ vanishes in a gout of gore and flame).
(The second round slams into the grill of the first of the narcotraficantes’ vans, exploding it in a gout of flame. The rest of the Serbs go to ground, panicked and pinned down).
(BERG caps the bottle of New Jersey rainwater, and with a mighty heave, throws it at the second van, which explodes into brilliant blue and green flames).
(The surviving Serbs get up and run back up the road toward their rally point, a giant Exxon sign which, unfortunately for them, gives the local cops plenty of light by which to apprehend them).
BERG (soaking wet, walks back to Booker, who is somehow still dry): Wow. How did you do that?
(BOOKER tips his hat and climbs into his car, and – notwithstanding that a dark cloudy night fell over two hours earlier – drives into the sunset as LOPEZ, soaking wet, walks back up the freeway. She and BERG look at each other, drenched, before embracing in a passionate kiss as the camera pulls back to a wide shot of the full post-battle vista).