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To address pesky continuity errors, George Lucas' army of clone screenwriters have has revised a few scenes for the Special Limited 26th Anniversary Collector's Edition of "Star Wars IV: A New Hope". I think that's the one where Spock throws the Ring Of Power into the Hellmouth or something. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it... many Bothans died to bring us this information.
EXTERIOR: TATOOINE -- DESERT -- LARS HOMESTEAD -- AFTERNOON.
The Jawas mutter gibberish as they busily line up their
battered captives, including Artoo and Threepio, in front of
the enormous Sandcrawler, which is parked beside a small
homestead consisting of three large holes in the ground
surrounded by several tall moisture vaporators and one small
adobe block house.
The Jawas scurry around fussing over the robots,
straightening them up or brushing some dust from a dented
metallic elbow. The shrouded little creatures smell horribly,
attracting small insects to the dark areas when their mouths
and nostrils should be.
Out of the shadows of a dingy side-building limps Owen
Lars, a large burly man in his mid-fifties. His reddish eyes
are sunken in a dust-covered face. As the farmer carefully
inspects each robot, he is closely followed by his slump-
shouldered nephew, Luke Skywalker. One of the vile little
Jawas walks ahead of the farmer spouting an animated sales
pitch in a queer, unintelligible language.
A voice calls out from one of the huge holes that form the
homestead. Luke goes over to the edge and sees his Aunt Beru
standing in the main courtyard.
BERU: Luke, tell Owen that if he gets a translator to be sure it
speaks Bocce.
LUKE: It looks like we don't have much of a choice but I'll remind
him.
Luke returns to his uncle as they look over the equipment
for sale with the Jawa leader.
OWEN: I have no need for a protocol droid.
THREEPIO: (quickly) Sir -- not in an environment such as this --
that's why I've also been programmed for over thirty secondary
functions that...
OWEN: What I really need is a droid that understands the binary
language of moisture vaporators.
THREEPIO: Vaporators! Sir -- My first job was programming binary load
lifter...very similar to your vaporators. You could say...
OWEN: Hold on a second... your effeminate mannerisms seem awfully familiar. Didn’t I own you before?
THREEPIO: Highly unlikely, sir.
Luke interrupts when a plate pops off the head
of the red astro-droid's head plate and it sparks wildly.
LUKE: Uncle Owen...
OWEN: Yeah?
LUKE: This R2 unit has a bad motivator. Look!
OWEN: (to the head Jawa) Hey, what're you trying to push on us?
THREEPIO: (pointing to Artoo) Excuse me, sir, but that R2 unit is in
prime condition. A real bargain.
OWEN: Can it fly?
THREEPIO: Not anymore.
OWEN: Wait, now I remember... My father’s mail-order bride had a droid just like you when we bought her. Had them around for nearly ten years before she was fatally gang-raped by Tusken Raiders. Then her kid suddenly pops up, after all these years without sending home a paycheck much less actually checking on her, and jacks the droid without so much as a by-your-leave. Any of this ring a bell?
THREEPIO: Er... Well Sir, Captain Antilles purged our memory files when we became couriers for the Rebellion...
OWEN: The Rebellion? Sweet merciful Force, I better dump your hard drives before Homeland Security shows up. Luke, take these two over to the garage, I want you to clean both of them up and file off their serial numbers before dinner.
LUKE: But I was going into Toshi Station to pick up some power
converters...
OWEN: For fuck’s sake, shut your goddamn whine hole. You’re starting to sound like your old man.
zales@pigdog.org
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