(Dear Reader. This is an exercise in transplanting dialogue from a movie into a different scene. ALL Rihanna’s dialogue (in bold) is taken, word for word, from her laughably bad lines in the movie Battleship (as summarized here by the good folk at www.vulture.com). Her lines appear in order and, apart from the odd punctuation tweaks, are unchanged).
After I win an MTV competition, Rihanna arrives for the arranged dinner at my shitty little bedsit. To convey my unworthiness, I open the door and lie prostrate on the floor.
“What’s wrong with you, drama queen? Get up, princess! Come on! Typical.”
“I’m sorry, you’re so beautiful and I figured –“
“Shut up. Shut up.”
“Righto…” I start but her phone rings. It’s her boyfriend.
“Oh, this gon’ be sweet. He hates the man.”
Happy to be referred to as “the man” I smile weakly, but soon she and her boyfriend argue. It escalates. She seems drunk.
“You go mess with him and see what happens! Chicken!” she yells before hanging up. In silence I lead her to the table where a 10 piece feed is laid out.
“Kentucky Fried Chicken!” she squeals. “You look like Colonel Sanders, actually.”
Self-conscious that my white suit is overkill I throw my jacket onto a nearby lamp.
“Yo, Sanders, ever been in a department run by some kind of Donald Trump/Mike Tyson mutant combo?”
“What do you mean?” I start, now pretty sure she has been drinking.
“Please don’t call me s-”
“If you did, it was only in reference to the fact that you both project great physical intensity, sir.”
I’m confused but I take the “intensity” line like bait and roar as I lift a chair over my head. It knocks a massive chunk out of the ceiling. As the plaster falls we stand in silence. She coughs.
“I got something, sir, on my camera,” Rihanna says, moving closer to share the screen. The clip clearly shows her boyfriend bonking another woman.
“What is that?” I feign.
“I don’t know. Is this some kind of exercise?”
“Yes. Pilates,” I offer weakly, clocking her denial.
“You ever seen anything like this? Weird, man.”
“I know,” I purr as I place my hand on her shoulder to, I suppose, comfort.
“Real bad idea, Lieutenant.”
“Righto,” I say, throwing myself prostrate on the floor again.
“Lieutenant, get up.”
“No,” I’m not worthy.
“Lieutenant. Come on, you with me?”
“Yes just put the camera away.”
“Come on, squared away?”
“Yes, please.” She complies. Suddenly a rat leaps from the fresh hole in the roof onto the side of my head.
“What the hell is that?”
“How the hell shou-Getitoffgetitoff!”
“Ahhhhhhh! What happened? What?!”
My face is scratched and I start to whimper. She strokes my hair.
“Who’s in charge?” she whispers, hand on my cheek.
“You are,” I reply. This feels so intimate. We both know what’s going to happen. My face flushes red as we kiss.
“Fire control’s offline. I need three minutes.”
She retreats to the bathroom. I press my ear to the door and hear a “(Heavy sigh)”.
“My dad said they’d come.” She was on the phone to a friend. “Said it my whole life. He said one day we’d find them, or they’d find us. Know what else he said? He said, I hope I ain’t around when that day comes.”
It’s clear she’s talking about ugly men; me. I can’t help myself: “Are you talking about men not hot enough for you?”
“But it sounds like -,”
“Nothing, sir, nothing.”
“If you want to go just go.” The door creaks and she smiles at me through the open crack.
“Yo, hey,” she coos.
She shuts it again and I can hear the frenetic rustling of clothes: “Come on, come on, come on.”
Then the door bursts open. She is naked.
“Mahalo, motherfu— What the hell is that?”
She could be referring to any number of things as she has found me naked also.
“Is, is this ok,” I stammer, not one hundred percent sure what that even means.
“Roger,” she affirms and hands me a blindfold. I put it on as she scampers to the bed. Blinded, I have no idea what to do. Then she starts to offer directional clues.
“Echo 1-1. Box 24. Ready to fire. India 3-7, locked.”
I bump into the wall.
“Sir, we’re hot over here. We’re good to go, let’s light ‘em up.”
“I’m trying to but it’s hard with this blindfold.”
“Tango 1-9, loaded.”
I bang into my table.
I stumble through a chair and finally make it to the bed.
“Let’s do this,” I beam as we cuddle up.
“Negative, sir, it’s moving all over the place. I can’t get a line on it.”
“Sorry, I’m nervous.”
“Sucker’s really jumping around.”
We fumble around for what seems like forever.
“Thanks for being patient. How long has it -?”
“40 minutes, sir.”
Then she laughs encouragingly and I join her. Suddenly I relax and things start to pick up.
“Contact is seven minutes out and closing fast.”
Rihanna takes charge.
“Contact two miles out. Contact ETA 21 seconds. Boom. Yeah! Get up! Let’s go! Go, go, go! Yes, sir. Oh yes sir. Awesome.”
We lie in the afterglow. Suddenly, the jacket I threw over the lamp an hour prior catches fire. In seconds the curtains are ablaze. I jump up and grab the fire-extinguisher from the kitchenette
“Sir, we’ll be in weapons range in five minutes.”
“Make that seconds,” I say in what I imagine is a very commanding voice.
“Aimed at target?”
“Sir, that’s the wrong direction!”
The fire-extinguisher sprays everywhere but on the flames.
“Come on, take the picture, Beast!”
I roar instinctively and turn the spray to the flames. The fire hisses, wanes and dies. Blinded by smoke, I hear footsteps and the front door slam. She is gone. I am alone, naked, and covered in a waxy film of soot and flame retardant. The chicken is cold.
Later that night she composed the song Rude Boy.