“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?”