Reagan Cole is the latest entry in the—“OMG, Adrian Paul is leaving, let’s find a female spin-off character for Highlander”—sweepstakes. She fares no better than the others, all of which have one-dimensional personas that do not intrigue the viewer. Nice to look at, with all the warmth of a sea bass. Murphy is a wimpy Mommy’s boy. The Interpol Inspector is a slob. Even the villain, Kendall is limp and unfrightening. At least, if he had been Immortal, we could have had a Quickening to watch. Obviously, Adrian Paul was otherwise engaged, and Sandra Hess...who knows? So, they she and blew Kendall up, instead. And the Inspector’s comment? “Pity.” That sums it up, all right! This entire episode, in my opinion, is feeble. Surprisingly, it was written by James Thorpe, directed by Dennis Berry, both usually excellent. Anyone can have a bad day, but these two had theirs on the same day. New Characters: REAGAN COLE — An Immortal bounty hunter who once snagged MacLeod. However, that was in 1833 and all has long since been forgiven. Now, she’s going on vacation in Paris and looks up her old Highlander friend. BRIAN MURPHY — a menswear model posing in the wrong place. CELINE — his photographer, shooting pictures of Brian in the same wrong place. JACK KENDALL — Mortal, bad guy, terrorist who had his picture snapped inadvertently by Celine. INSPECTOR ROWAN MITCHELL —Interpol. He isn’t stupid, but his sloppy eating manners are repulsive.... and he’s always scarfing down something. RAPHAEL VEGA — A scuzzbag that Reagan was trailing, Kendall got to him first. DEA AGENT — Self-explanatory. CHUCK AND FRIEND — two of Kendall’s “assistants”. Present Day Nightclub Miami Beach, Florida The comic’s routine— Is stale and unfunny, Whatever they’re paying— He’s not worth the money. He’s the only one laughing— The patrons are bored— If he wasn’t so loud, He would be ignored. Raphael Vega— And his entourage, Have gotten their fill— Of this lame badinage What Vega and company— Don’t realize— Is soon he’ll receive— A nasty surprise. Backstage, Reagan Cole— Is applying the final— Touch to her costume— Of shiny black vinyl. She straps on a holster, Inserting her gun— Now she can stop— All the riotous fun. Vega is startled— And a little afraid— When the comic screams out— Suddenly...“It’s a RAID!!” The lights have gone out, Sirens are blaring, Hands close on guns— For a shootout, preparing. But, the music returns— And, the spotlight reveals— Reagan, a stripper— Struts out in high heels. No deadly encounter— With this cop is risked— “Okay,” she demands “Who wants to be frisked.” His stubble filled face— Is wreathed in a leer, “Have you been a bad boy?” “Very bad,” he is clear, “But,” he contends, “You are my kind of cop.” She kneels at his feet, He prays she won’t stop. A few more gyrations, To whet his libido— Then he is hooked, Fast as a torpedo— Reagan has cuffed him, He’s still having fun, “And now what?” “Now this!” At his head, is her gun. His men now take notice. This looks like a bust, She warns them, “Back off— Or he bites the dust! Vega yells, “She’s a cop! “Wrong!” she amends “Damn bounty hunter!” Then it all ends. The DEA men— Have pre-empted her show, Amidst the gunfire, Vega screams, “Kendall, No!” Kendall was hiding, Awaiting his chance, To take full advantage— Of this circumstance. Handcuffed, and helpless, Vega screams from the floor, But, Kendall shoots so— He won’t speak, anymore. As Kendall runs out, Reagan pursues him, She remembers his face— Even though she does lose him. She comes back to find— The gunfire has stopped, She’s angry to see— That Vega was popped. The DEA agent— Asks, “Why be concerned? Whether he’s dead or living... The same fee you earned.” “But now his friends walk, Since he can’t testify.” “Who’s next on your list?” Asks the DEA guy, “I’m off on vacation,” Says Reagan, “It’s nifty. Been years since I’ve had one, Two hundred and fifty.” A Paris Café She’s called the Highlander— To firm up their date. You’d think, on his words— She would concentrate. But, while on her phone— Her eyes commence straying. On Murphy’s bare legs— Her glance now is playing. They’re shooting a spread, He’s cute in his shorts. Celine snaps the photos— While she exhorts— “Clench it! That’s perfect! Oh, beautiful! Sweet!” As women pass by— They ogle this treat. Celine shoos them off, “Big smile! That’s my boy!” Reagan sips wine and stares. A view to enjoy! No one sees Kendall, But he knows his face— Has been caught in a photo, Can’t be seen in this place! Reagan to Mac, “Okay, six o’clock... Still in that garbage scow— Moored by the dock?” Celine is upset. The pictures are flat, She reassures Murphy, “Not your fault for that.” “We’ll try it again, Go change to the blue.” As he leaves, a car rolls— Steadily into view. Kendall’s called men— Into position— To put Celine’s camera— Out of commission. Celine takes the film— From the camera, to chuck it— Into a nearby— Convenient trash bucket. Reagan sees this, While talking to Mac. When thugs grab Celine, Reagan sees the attack. “Gotta go!” she tells Mac, And runs to assist. One thug grabs the camera— Now Celine’s really pissed. That camera’s expensive, Perhaps a week’s pay, But the rat pulls a gun— And blows her away! Celine hits the ground, Writhing in pain, Shot in the stomach— A spreading blood stain. The camera is gone, The two thugs have fled. Reagan can’t find a pulse. The photographer’s dead! Kendall’s Home “Where is the picture?” That’s Kendall’s question— To Chuck and his buddy. No response or suggestion. “You know what happened— To Vega, when he— Failed to deliver— What he owed to me.” He asks them again, Can they recall the query? “Where is the picture?” Kendall looks weary, “What is the answer?” Chuck’s aware of the stakes— “We’ll find it,” he says, “Whatever it takes.” Plaza Opposite the Café When Murphy comes out— And finds Celine dead— He sits in his robe— Lamenting instead— The loss of his chance— For a big ad campaign. His portfolio dreams— Just went down the drain. He blurts, “If I hadn’t— Been in that van... Changing my clothes...” (He’s a childish young man.) “You’d be dead, too.” Reagan pictures the worst, “I’ll drive you home, Please get dressed first.” Murphy’s Home (Such As It Is) But, he’s still in his robe— As they enter his door. Somehow she’s attracted— To this simple boor. No beer in the fridge, “Rots the soul,” says his Mum, Even coffee’s forbidden, “Jasmine tea...you want some?” She scans his apartment, There’s plenty of space, Second hand furniture, Tucked every place. But the pièce de résistance— Is Kendall’s weird pair, When Chuck and his sidekick— Say, “Hands in the air!” “We’re after that film, You know all about it. We have no intention— Of leaving without it!” When Chuck attacks Reagan, Murph finds his balls, But, Chuck smacks his face— And down Murphy falls. Reagan grabs Chuck— And with Chuckie’s gun— Shoots down his buddy, Leaving Chuckie to run. “You okay?” (To Murph), His response, a bit slow... “Who ARE you?” he asks, (Not wanting to know.) Later The body bag’s zipped, And Interpol’s best... Inspector Rowan Mitchell— Attempts to digest— An overstuffed sandwich— While belching away. His excuse? “I did not— Have breakfast, today.” Murphy prompts, “Mum— Always says, when congestive— Cherry bark is— A natural digestive.” But Mitchell chomps on, Ignoring this comic, With frequent emissions— Of gas, gastronomic. Reagan is curious, “What’s Interpol’s stake in— These crimes—what’s the link, The murder and break-in?” “There isn’t any.” Slurps Mitchell, mouth full. Reagan is certain— He’s loaded with bull. “That’s that!” eructs Mitchell, With a final protest— From a stomach that’s fighting— In vain to digest— That grease-laden sandwich. He’ll return to the station, So grateful for their— Cooperation. Reagan’s left pondering— Questions galore. The film? Interpol? What DID they come for? “Why do I feel— My vacation’s been trashed?” Wait! That’s the key... That’s where the film’s stashed! The Plaza Back to the trashcan— That’s where Celine tossed it! The film is still there! They haven’t lost it! But they’re being watched. Two pairs of sharp eyes— See them go to a shop— To develop their prize. The prints are soon ready, The men leave their car. Now Reagan’s aware— Juicy targets, they are. They need a safe place— To examine each print, But closing behind them— These two bozos sprint. Reagan hangs back, She jumps the number One... Easily whomps him, But Two has a gun. She decks him as well, Then again kicks the first, As his dreams of a comeback— Are quickly dispersed. Murph sees it all, Hanging back cautiously. “I’m not used to women— Fighting for me.” “Your turn, next time,” As she checks their pockets. Oops! They are cops! They take off like rockets! The Barge, Night Duncan reminds her— Of their dinner date, “Nice that you came, But you’re four hours late.” She kisses Mac’s cheek, Tells Murphy, dead-pan... “Here’s that wonderful, handsome— And generous man!” Mac senses where this— Is liable to go. To Reagan—“Isn’t it— Too early for snow? What’s going on?” With a look so contrite— She tells him, “We need— To crash for the night.” Murph, ever helpful— Cheerily fills the gaps. Mac is all ears— As the model recaps... “Her hotel room’s out— Because she just bopped— A couple of cops— And they want her stopped.” “My flat’s no good, She shot one guy there. His friend might return, After his nasty scare.” Duncan is speechless, Reagan smiles, “Simple, really.” He sighs, “What’s the story?” Doesn’t want it piecemeal-y. She hands him the photos, Then says curtly, “These.” Brian Murphy in shorts— Is all MacLeod sees. “Well you always had— A strange knack of sorts— For getting in trouble— With men wearing shorts.” Flashback, London, 1833 His horse newly shod, Mac’s ready to ride. But the Buzz of an Immie— Cannot be denied. In her elegant gown— She’d entrance any man. Mac hurriedly states— His name and his clan. And she is the “Countess...” (Her name’s very long)... “Ludmilla Albertina...” ( On her lips, it’s a song)... “Katushka Von Tscheka,” (Still it goes on...) “Of Hungary.” There! Introductions are done! Mac smiles with delight, “Your name is exotic.” As his lips brush her hand, She amends it ...“erotic?” “Whatever the lady— Desires,” says MacLeod. He’ll take this encounter— As far as allowed. She strokes Duncan’s horse, “How I love...” she rejoins, “A powerful stallion’s... Thrust ‘neath my loins.” “Aye,” says MacLeod, “The kind that enjoys— A long and hard ride,” (Never losing his poise.) Nearby Château, Shortly After A warrior Scot— Battles to win, Never surrenders, Never gives in. Faced with impediments— He will surmount them. But all of these petticoats! He cannot count them! Stripping, unlacing, Untying and stretching... Yanking, exposing... Groping and kvetching! Layer upon layer— Of clothing, divested. A Highlander’s stamina— Thoroughly tested. She rips off his shirt— Till his chest lies bare. He’s flat on his back— Clad in underwear. She’s lying atop him, Enough dilly-dallyin’! She can’t wait to ride— Her powerful stallion. They’re quite out of breath— From exertions chaotic. Impatient to taste— Pleasures erotic. In between kisses, She proposes variety, Mac quickly assents, Showing little anxiety. One would think, after Kristin— He’d be somewhat wary— Of a female Immortal— Possible adversary. But lust charges in— Where caution won’t tread, And soon he is tied— To the posts of the bed. Then just to insure— Her conquest’s complete— She deftly, expertly— Ties up his feet. “Now what?” he asks, Expectant of rapture, “Now, the game’s over!” He’s trussed up for capture. She extracts a small whistle— From deep in that place— Where the Highlander hoped— To bury his face. She blows it, and soldiers— Appear when it sounds, Handing Reagan her bounty— Of one thousand pounds! “What’s this about?” Mac cries, “What’s the reason?” “The charge is a serious one— It is treason... To the Duke’s marriage!” Reagan: “He’ll lose his life? Merely for diddling— With the Duke’s wife?” To the Duke’s country palace— MacLeod’s led away For a “private beheading”— Later that day. This worrisome sentence — Has made MacLeod smarter, “I’ll bet you’re no countess,” He’s learned, for a starter. Later, On the Road With wrists tightly bound, In a coach, under guard— Mac’s truly been hoist— With his own petard. But, fortunes can change— From minute to minute. There’s a cart blocking them.... And, an Immie is in it! A nun! Weak and stranded. Mac’s guard will assist her, But he painfully learns— She’s no common sister. She’s Reagan, disguised. With a big chunk of wood— This “poor little nun,”— Clobbers him good! When the others join in— Mac cuts his hands free— Slicing his ropes— On a sword, naturally. The duke’s finest soldiers— (No match for these two), Lie battered, inert— When the scuffle is through. “You’re a mad woman! First, you seduce, Then you betray, Then set me loose!” Regan, expansive... “All in a day’s work.” Mac’s getting pissed off— At her virtuous smirk. “You almost caused me— To forfeit my head!” “And now, through my rescue— You are not dead... I’d say, we are even... Where were we engaged?” She suggestively strokes him, Can he stay enraged? “Perhaps, you’ll remember?” He crushes her lips— With deepening passion— While his fingertips— Are knotting her wrists— To the wheel of the cart. “Now, we’re even!” he states, Flourishing, he’ll depart. Back to the Barge, Present Day Now, as good friends— Over pictures, they pore. “Might help, if we knew— What we’re looking for.” “Wait!” she exclaims— As she spots Kendall's face, “I’ve seen him before, Can’t think of the place.” Kendall’s Home Kendall discovers— With assistance from Chuck— That Reagan’s the one— That’s messed up his luck. He’s aware of her rep, Bounty hunting’s an art. “She’s clever but we— Will be twice as smart.” The Barge Reagan stares at the picture— Of Jack Kendall’s head— On Duncan’s computer... “I thought he was dead... Last week, in Miami... I really did see him, Killed the guy I was after, But I didn’t ID him.” Never once been arrested, An assassin so skilled, He’s suspecting of having— Forty-two people killed. Reagan perks up, “The bounty’s one mil!” MacLeod’s more reflective— “Who’s he here to kill?” Next Morning None of the three— Has slept very well. Reagan derides— The “futon from hell.” To hide his annoyance— Mac scans the porthole, There...devouring a pastry— Comes Mitchell, Interpol. Mac strolls out to meet— This chewing machine, Who seems not to notice— That Mac’s deck is clean. Mitchell tosses his wrapper, Makes the last morsel linger, Shows Mac his ID— With a grease-laden finger. Mac has no knowledge— Of a film roll, Never knew anyone— With the name, “Reagan Cole.” When Mitchell wants in, MacLeod plays a hunch, He returns Mitchell’s trash, “Come, I’ll buy you lunch.” The Outdoor Café Murphy is struggling— In his sweet bumbling way— To ask Reagan out, Nonetheless, her eyes stray— To a newspaper story... How Europe will unite, “Foreign Ministers Gather— In Paris, Tonight.” “Something important— Brought Kendall here. A job that pays millions, That much is clear.” Murph wants to know— What he can do. “Spend time at the Louvre, Meet me here at two.” Like a puppy, rejected— He lowers his eyes. Yet, she will not risk— His untimely demise. “What about Kendall?” He asks, still persistent. “Kendall is mine!” She’s firm and insistent. His pager goes off— As soon as she leaves. His agency wants him, (Or so he believes). ‘Head shots’, it says. The Louvre can wait. He’ll need to make money— If he’s going to date. Hotel, Site of the Conference She “borrows” a clipboard— From the back of a van, Pretends to be checking, Stopping one man. He’s balding like Kendall, But his name’s Dr. Bellows, She’s looking at present— For a lady, not fellows. She finds one, who’s perfect, Just what she desired. A blonde journalist, “Your tag has expired.” In the blink of an eye, The tag’s on her blazer She strolls right on in, No one naysays her. Reception Room And who’s chowing down— At the ample buffet? Interpol’s finest— Munching away— At a nice crusty roll— His teeth rip and pull, Mitchell cannot converse— Unless his mouth’s full. They trade poisoned barbs, Oblique witticisms, Each attacking the other— With sharp criticisms. Reagan delivers— Her bottom line. “You’ve failed to catch Kendall, That million is mine.” From Mitchell’s breast pocket— A folder appears, “What’s that?” queries Reagan, Suddenly she’s all ears. “It could be a plane ticket— Back to the states, Or, an arrest warrant, (Still chewing), he states. The Café, 2:30 PM Reagan has waited— For Murphy to show. Has he gone to the barge? On the phone, Mac says, “No.” “His apartment? He wouldn’t!” But she calls up to hear, His telephone’s busy, It confirms her worst fear. She speeds to his place, Through his window she spies... He’s still on the phone! “Get out!” Reagan cries. A gunshot’s the last— Sound he will hear, As it closes the book— On his modeling career. Later She stays with his body— Till Mitchell’s arrival. For once, he’s not oozing— Secretions salival. The number displayed— On Murph’s beeper, he knows... “That’s only his agent.” Now Reagan blows! “You used him as bait!” To her, the last straw! She slugs the inspector, Very hard, in the jaw. “Misdirected aggression,” Mitchell shrugs, now officious. “I’d be a commissioner, If I was that vicious.” “We tapped his phone.” “You go to hell!” “Most likely...but you— Will be leaving, as well... Here’s your airline ticket.” She’s quick to remind him, “I’ve seen Kendall’s face, You need me to find him.” Outside the Hotel Poor Dr. Bellows— Has the bad luck— To resemble Jack Kendall, Now he’s a dead duck. Shot! Neatly stuffed— In his trunk, a tight fit, Kendall now takes his tag, And his medical kit. Inside Reagan’s demanding— They re-check the hall, “My men,” insists Mitchell— “Have fine-combed it all. There are metal detectors, Dogs that sniff bombs, We’ll be prepared— For whatever comes.” (Outside, Jack Kendall— In his Bellows disguise— Beeps when he’s wanded, Genially he complies, Opens his briefcase. In his first aid kit, The oxygen tank... That’s the reason for it!) Mitchell says—“To get in— One must wear a tag.” “That really stopped me,” Reagan counters his brag. Outside, one by one— Dignitaries arrive, Reagan hopes, when it’s over— They all will survive. Reagan makes out a face, She has seen recently. “Who’s that?” to Mitchell. “Dr. Bellows,” says he. She recalls Dr. Bellows... And, this man’s not him. Then she thinks of Miami... That face, cold and grim. It’s Kendall! She’s off! But the bastard moves quickly, Losing himself— In the hallways, so slickly. She pulls Mitchell back— To the auditorium. He’s convinced she belongs— In a quiet sanatorium. “All this has been checked, Men, dogs all deployed!” They walk to the podium. “You’re paranoid!” Says she, “He’s a terrorist, Certain to hide— A bomb, set to blow— When all are inside.” At the base of the lectern, Exposed, in plain view... Sits Bellows’ first aid kit, Reagan sees this is new. The oxygen tank, Nice and heavy, no doubt, But on twisting the valve— No gas hisses out. She unscrews the bottom, Surprise! It’s a bomb! With a vial of clear fluid, She holds in her palm. “Nerve toxin, most likely. Two hours from now— At the height of the meeting, This device will go, POW!” She entrusts it to Mitchell. “Take it out carefully.” Then, to the reception— She returns, speedily. Kendall’s conversing— With some attendees. She interjects loudly, Time to collar this sleaze. “His name was Brian Murphy, The young man you killed. Your canister’s been found.” Kendall’s answer is chilled. “I’m leaving here... Two minutes from now— A chopper will land, Safe passage, you’ll allow.” Reagan grabs Mitchell’s gun, Straight at Kendall, she aims. She’s not gonna play— Any bargaining games “You can kiss my butt, That’s what I’ll allow, What’s to keep me from blowing— You away, here and now?” Kendall steps back, Confident, with no haste. He opens his jacket— And strapped to his waist— Are packs of explosive, His scornful voice goads, “If my heart stops beating— This bomb explodes.” “You’ve thought of everything,” Reagan admits... “Except when this bullet— Your twisted brain hits— Your heart will stop beating— In four seconds...flat.” “NO!” Mitchell yells Then the bullet hits...SPLAT! Right through his brain! Kendall staggers back! Reagan leaps forward, As if to attack, She forces him over— The balcony’s railing. Into the air— Both bodies go sailing. Down to the water, Then a great blast! Both blown to bits. Spectators aghast. Mitchell remains— Unmoved, even gritty, As he walks away— With one comment, “Pity.” The Barge, Later that Evening Reagan and Mac— Relax over wine. Grateful that she— Has a lengthy lifeline. She still has regrets— For the lost million score, But Murphy she says, “Lost a lot more.” “What’s next?” asks MacLeod. “I’ll lay low,” says she. “Then I’ll return— With a brand new ID. The Kendalls out there, Expand like a cancer, I help keep the world— In health,” is her answer. They’ve started to kiss, She sighs with delight, “A soft starry sky, A beautiful night... And a strong handsome stallion...” Both smile at the thought, How this stallion can be— So easily caught. “And the Countess...” says Mac, (He rolls out that name)... “Ludmilla Albertina...” (It’s part of their game)... “Katushka Von Tscheka,” (He’s having a ball) “Of Hungary....” Laughing, He remembered it all. “And what,” asks MacLeod, “Would that countess do?” She whips off his belt, “Here—let me show you!” They fall on the bed, Deep kiss, long caress, The camera fades out— Before they undress. Peace, Emit © 2003 When Sandra Hess was interviewed on an AOL chat, she was asked what it was like to kiss Adrian Paul. Her reply, “Here’s a secret. He’s a FABULOUS kisser.” Home ~ Two of Hearts