Suggested Audio Candy

 

Jerry Goldsmith “Alien Suite”

 

I’ve deliberated long and hard about this particular Keeper Cut and have decided to tackle David Fincher’s Alien 3. This is all the more troublesome considering there is more than one ending to his movie, thanks to studio meddling, and Fincher being taught how to suck eggs. It’s also a challenge as where the hell do you start? I was recently reasonably scathing about Alien 3 in its appraisal but would be quick to point out I still awarded it seven out of ten. Alas there were too many little quibbles not to amalgamate into full-blown gripe. I could fix it of course, but rather than rewind to the time when Bald Guys #9 and #12 were still breathing, I have decided to wipe the slate clean. Thus, I have chosen the lesser theatrical print and pick up our story at the very end, with Ripley swan-diving into the scorching slag beneath. Call this a Keeper Extended Cut, if you will.

The Keeper Cut

 

Everything seems to grind to a halt as Ellen plummets towards her ready-made bed of molten lava. She recalls her fleeting coitus back in the medical bay and, more affectionately, wiping Newt’s runny little button nose with the cuff of her sleeve. There is even time to cast her mind even further back to the Nostromo when she teased the cock of a peeping xenomorph while seductively changing into her space suit. A few more seconds of tantalizing female flesh and Private Drake wouldn’t be the only one with a faceful of alien discharge. Anyhoots, there is nothing more to live for now that she is carrying the xenomorph’s progeny inside her womb and fast approaching term.

She feels at peace and is prepared to plunge into her eternal slumber and accept her fiery fate. What Ripley hasn’t banked on is her uneven descent and she lands awkwardly on an iron railing en route to the spicy solution below. The impact does her one favor as the gestating alien inside her is killed outright, just at the very instance that it is preparing to milk her teats for its first breast feed. She rolls around on the metal grate, severely cramping, but can still make out Bishop II and his men stomping around in frustration two levels above. She doesn’t trust him a lick since he admitted to taking a shafting from the company and switching his allegiances.

A few agonizing seconds pass before she hears a familiar voice, albeit distant. She clambers to her feet and squints as she attempts to ascertain the coordinates of the sound bite.

“Ripley?”

She walks eastbound along the slender platform and it seems as though the cry is growing more pronounced.

“Ripley?”

There it is again, coming from a moldy old trash compactor at ground level, alongside the blazing furnace.

“Ripley? Dammit, I haven’t got all day, get me outta here will ya?”

This time she knows exactly who is sending out an S.O.S.

“Dillon…but you…”

“I know, I know. Turns out they prefer their meat on the medium rare side”

Even neck-high in refuse, he still has that jovial swagger. She peers over the lip of the dumpster and there he is; in amongst a squelching pile of human surplus and smelling like the inside of a particularly unwashed asshole.

“Now, ya know I ain’t much for begging”

She offers her hand and assists Dillon as he scrambles out, smelling like a diaper filled to the brim with spoiled Mexican cuisine. He straightens his frames and can see that his compadre is still befuddled.

“Nice digs Dillon”

“You would’ve done the same Ripley”

“We’ve gotta get outta here now Dillon…NOW”

“Okay, okay. I’m right behind you”

He carries on muttering under his breath as she leads the way forward. Ripley has already spotted company droid, Bishop II, and his cronies making haste towards the security elevator and knows that time is not on their side. Thankfully, both Ripley and Dillon know the layout well enough to have a good idea where the docking bay is situated.

Along the way, they pass by the prison morgue and Ripley can’t resist saying one last goodbye to Hicks who, through a clerical mix-up, hasn’t actually been fired into space like Spock as has been reported. She approaches his still cadaver and leans in for the tender kiss that eluded them both the last time they were together. As she rests her lips softly on his; she feels something sharp pressing into her ribs. Rigor mortis perhaps? Negative; just a plain old-fashioned American boner.

He reciprocates the brief embrace and dozily opens his conjunctivitis-filled eyes.

“Oh my God. Hicks?”

“I’m Hudson sir, he’s Hicks”

Clearly still delusional, Hicks takes a second to gather his thoughts after waking from his perpetual cyber sleep.

“You’re one deep fucking sleeper brother…name’s Dillon”

The convict offers his palm to the Corporal.

“I like your smile Dillon”

Hicks kisses his hand and the pair begin making suggestive eyes at each other. This may seem a little out of character for Dillon, who is ordinarily such a man’s man. However, a life sentence alongside a troupe of perspiring inmates that collectively resemble a carton of free-range eggs has played havoc with his sexuality. As for Hicks, well his narcolepsy has led to him waking up huddled in a man’s embrace many times already so no more shame remains in his game.

“No time for that. They’re coming”

Ripley dashes any hopes of bromance and leads them both out of the room. She doesn’t notice Dillon slipping a business card into Hicks’ rear pocket and mouthing two words to his new sweetheart, whilst gesturing a telephone with his fingers.

“Call me”

As they progress towards the door which will lead ultimately to their freedom, Ripley notices that it has suddenly gone worryingly quiet behind them. Have Bishop II and cohorts grown tired of their pursuit? Perhaps a straggling xenomorph has punched their heads through? Wishful thinking perhaps but Ellen is clinging to whatever she can right now. They arrive at the large plutonium door and are one button press away from their destiny. Wary of the welcome party that awaited Burke back on LV-426, she looks to her comrades, nods, and waits for their return gesture before palming the red button. Once all parties are ready, she hits that buzzer like Double Jeopardy and the three stand wide-eyed as they find out what lies beyond the metal door.

No Aliens; that’s a plus. However, she hasn’t banked on Bishop II and his minions also knowing the floor plan. They’ve been soundly flanked and Ripley knows full well that their chance of escape has likely passed. Bishop II stares for a moment and that gentle smile of his now resembles a somewhat patronizing smirk. He begins to reach for something in his coat and she squeezes her eyes tight in preparation.

“Get it over with Bishop”

Nothing. She opens one eye warily and is relieved to see that he is holding out a clipboard.

“I’m not going with you Bishop”

Ripley stands firm. Besides, the xenomorph she was carrying has already been obliterated during her earlier fall therefore all the analysis in the world isn’t likely to shed any fresh light on the species anyway.

“You didn’t hear me out back at the furnace Ripley. I only wanted you to come with me to the delivery bay”

Her contorted features perfectly relay her bemusement, while Hicks has nodded off on Dillon’s shoulder and the convict is too busy stroking his cheek to give a hoot. However, Ripley’s relief is palpable as Bishop II goes on to explain his motivation further.

“I only need you to sign for a consignment. Due to intergalactic recession the company made me redundant so I got this job to make ends meet”

She feels foolish for jumping to the wrong conclusion and even musters a vague smile for her opposite number which is swiftly wiped from her face as he finishes explaining the cargo she is expected to sign for.

“We heard of the loss of your dog here on the Fiorina ‘Fury’ 361 but we’re all out of canines so the boys and I all clubbed together. I need you to sign for three palettes of Friesian cows to tide you over. Better yet, one of them is heavily pregnant so you should hear the patter of tiny hooves sometime soon”

It’s space, therefore no one can hear her scream.

 

 

 

Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

 

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

 

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013

 

Xenomorphs Have Needs Too

 

 

I’ve always wondered what happened to Captain Dallas when he was caught with his pants down in that ventilation shaft aboard the Nostromo. What actually occurred when Sarge and Dietrich were dragged away to the egg factory on LV-426? How was it for Ripley being inseminated? Perhaps aliens make great lovers. Damn right they do; turns out their the most randy organisms this side of Uranus and have insatiable appetites for sex. I’m not entirely convinced that I would savor the moment that the queen decides to slide in dry. Besides, I’m all for cunnilingus, but I think face huggers are a tad too restrictive. Think I’ll pass thanks xenomorphs. Please don’t let me stop you from doing your business however. I’ll just watch from a safe distance.