The Termi-Nator

Screenplay draft

Title: THE TERMI-NATOR
Credit: Written by
Author: 
Draft date: 10/10/2024
Contact: 

FADE IN.

EXT. GREASY ALLEY - NIGHT

A urine-stained puddle ripples under sickly yellow neon. Steam hisses upward from the center as a naked 400-pound man materializes, square jaw clenched, thinning hair plastered to his scalp. Rolls of flesh glisten under bone-white streetlight. Water beads and slides down his massive belly.

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER
(heavy breathing)
Fuel required.

He sniffs the air. Distant drive-thru jingles bleed through the shadows. His intense eyes lock on the flickering neon sign two blocks away. Each step sends ripples through his gut as he begins to waddle, bare feet slapping wet pavement. Discarded wrappers crunch beneath his weight.

A rat scurries past his ankle. Arnold pauses. His belly growls loud enough to echo off the dumpsters. He considers the rodent for a long beat, then continues toward the burger joint. Sweat trails down his back. The leather-jacketless frame strains with every labored breath.

The drive-thru sign pulses pink and red. Grease hangs in the air like fog. Arnold's pace quickens, thighs rubbing, fabric-less skin slapping. A fresh wrapper skitters across his path on a gust of fryer vent wind. He stoops with effort, picks it up, sniffs it, then drops it again.

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER
(breathing hard)
Extra cheese...

He reaches the mouth of the alley. The first golden arches glow in the distance. His stomach rumbles again, drowning out the jingle for a moment. Arnold wipes sweat from his brow with the back of one thick hand, then resumes the waddle, each footfall heavier than the last, leaving wet prints that steam in the night air.

EXT. GREASY ALLEY - NIGHT

A naked, 400-pound man with Arnold Schwarzenegger's square jaw and thinning hair materializes in a urine-stained puddle. Steam rises from his massive frame under sickly yellow neon. His belly sags forward, rolls glistening with alley grease. He stands motionless for a beat, heavy breathing already audible.

Arnold's eyes lock on a flickering drive-thru sign two blocks away. Wrappers crunch beneath his bare feet as he takes a single step. He pauses beside overflowing dumpsters, the stench of rotting patties and fryer oil thick in the air.

A rat scurries across his path. Arnold's gaze drops. He tilts his head, considering. His stomach growls loud enough to echo off brick walls.

ARNOLD
Fuel required.

He shifts his weight, leather-less skin rippling. The rat vanishes into a crack. Arnold resumes his waddle toward the neon, each footfall sending fresh ripples through his gut. Crumpled burger wrappers stick to his soles. Deep reds from a distant diner sign paint his shoulders as he moves deeper into the greasy shadows.

INT. SARAH'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Clutter covers every surface: baby toys scattered across stained carpet, half-assembled pipe bombs on the kitchen table, a flickering practical lamp casting sickly yellow light over bone-white wrappers already on the floor. Steam rises from Arnold's massive frame as he stands shirtless in the doorway, leather jacket still in his hand, rolls of flesh glistening under the harsh bulb.

Sarah Connor sits at the tiny kitchen table in her waitress uniform, sleeves rolled, feeding spoonfuls of mashed peas to baby John in a high chair. Her holstered pistol presses against her apron. She glances up at the cyborg, eyes narrowing at the way his belly strains forward with every labored breath.

ARNOLD
Fuel. Required.

He steps inside, each footfall sending ripples across his gut. His eyes scan the counter and lock on a half-eaten donut resting on a paper plate beside the sink. He leans closer, sweat beading on his thinning hairline.

SARAH
You can't protect us if you stop for every burger.

Arnold's gaze stays fixed on the donut. His thick fingers twitch at his side. Heavy breathing fills the space between them, fabric of his future jeans creaking.

ARNOLD
(heavy inhale)
This unit requires calories for optimal function. Extra cheese would improve efficiency.

Sarah sighs, wipes John's chin with a cloth, and sets the spoon down harder than necessary. The baby coos at the sound of the metal hitting the table.

SARAH
We don't have time for drive-thrus, Arnold. The T-1000 is coming. You waddle in here smelling like grease and already you're eyeing my trash.

Arnold shifts his weight. The floorboards groan. He reaches one meaty hand toward the donut, pauses, then retracts it slowly.

ARNOLD
Negative. Mission parameters include protection of John Connor. And... milkshake acquisition.

Sarah stands, pushing the high chair back. She crosses to the counter, sweeps the donut into the trash without looking at him, and turns, arms folded.

SARAH
Listen to me. Every time you smell fries we lose ground. You can't protect us if you stop for every burger. Say it back.

Arnold stares at the empty plate. A single crumb clings to the surface under the neon-pink glow bleeding through the blinds from the street below. His stomach growls, loud and wet.

ARNOLD
I need fuel for the mission.

Sarah's expression hardens. She grabs a half-built weapon from the table and begins tightening a bolt with quick, sharp turns.

SARAH
Then fuel yourself on something that doesn't leave a trail of wrappers straight to our door. Got it?

Arnold nods once, slow and deliberate, but his eyes drift again to the trash can where the donut disappeared. Outside, a distant drive-thru jingle drifts through the open window.

INT. SARAH'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

A cluttered one-bedroom glows under harsh practical lamps. Baby toys litter the carpet beside half-assembled pipe bombs on the kitchen table. Greasy brown takeout containers stack near the sink. The sickly yellow light catches sweat on rolls of flesh.

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER stands at the open fridge, leather jacket already straining across his 400-pound frame. His square jaw works methodically as he shovels cold meatloaf straight from the foil pan into his mouth. Heavy breathing fills the room between bites. Crumbs tumble down his belly onto the faded jeans.

SARAH CONNOR leans against the counter in her rolled-sleeve waitress uniform, pistol holstered beneath the apron. She watches him, expression tight.

SARAH CONNOR
You can't protect us if you stop for every burger.

Arnold ignores her. He grabs a half-eaten donut from the counter and bites deep, powdered sugar dusting his thinning hair. The fridge light flickers across his massive silhouette.

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER
(heavy exhale)
Fuel required. Mission parameters demand caloric intake.

SARAH CONNOR
Mission parameters demand we leave before that thing finds us. Again.

She adjusts the holster strap with a weary sigh. Arnold reaches past her for a carton of milk, drains it in three gulps, then eyes the remaining slices of pizza on the top shelf.

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER
Extra cheese improves combat efficiency.

SARAH CONNOR
(sharp)
John's asleep in the next room. Keep it down.

Arnold pauses, considers the pizza, then stuffs two slices into his jacket pocket for later. His boots squeak on the linoleum as he turns toward the window, neon from the street painting his sweat-slick skin in deep reds. A wrapper crinkles under his foot. Sarah pinches the bridge of her nose, the pistol grip cool under her palm.

EXT. DOWNTOWN LA STREETS - NIGHT

Steam rises from Arnold's naked 400-pound frame under flickering sodium-vapor lamps. Wrappers skid across cracked pavement as he waddles from the alley mouth, belly swaying with each labored step. A distant drive-thru jingle drifts on the greasy night air.

He pauses at the curb, eyes locking on a lone biker leaning against a chopper. The man freezes at the sight of the massive, glistening cyborg. Arnold advances, heavy breathing echoing between parked cars.

ARNOLD
Jacket. Boots. Now.

The biker stumbles backward, hands raised. Arnold snatches the leather jacket and yanks it over his shoulders. Fabric groans and seams pop as the garment stretc

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