If you grew in the early 1990’s, have older siblings or well-cultured parents, for that matter, then you’ve probably heard of Carmen Sandiego. She’s arguably the most famous fictional spy (besides 007) in history.
Sandiego began as a geography and history game, but quickly branched out into math, English, science and other required subjects, and at the height of the character’s popularity, won a Peabody Award for creative excellence on PBS network back in 1993. She was all the rage!
(Enter in commercialization and pop culture… Wait for iiit…. Now!)
Walt Disney Studios was slated to release an animated version of Sandiego back in the character’s heyday, with Sandra Bullock performing the voice, but nothing ever became of it. Walden Media was rumored to do a live-action version of SD in 2012, staring Jennifer Lopez as lead, but again, nothing. Leaving many to believe that Catching Carmen has wound up in development hell.
“The first script was the best,” says a Walden Media employee who asked not to be named. “But the studio said it was too adult and banned it. It’s floating around online somewhere, but so are a lot of fakes. The real one starts with a Secret Service agent in a bar watching TV. It’s unique because it’s written in novel format and not screenplay.”
Below is what the employee confirmed as the original (although no other source would corroborate this), banned script that the studios said was too adult, and was supposedly locked away in their vault before it went missing. We’ll leave it to you to decide for yourself if it’s too risque or not. Again, we would like to preface “the leak” by saying we were unable to confirm its authenticity, and that we are in no way claiming that it is indeed the Walden script, but that there is a high probability it may be. We did in the very least enjoy it, and thought that it was worth sharing with you, our loyal fans. Enjoy and leave us your comments below telling us what you think.
We would like to thank Brøderbund Software, Gene Portwood, Mark Iscaro, Dane Bigham and Lauren Elliott for the inspiration of this story. You made so many of us smile, and every now and again, we wonder, even now, as a matter of fact, just Where in the World is she?
“You know, it’s so hard for me to sit back here in this studio, lookin at a guy out here, hollerin my name! When last year I spent more money. on spilled liquor!, in bars from one side of this world to the other, than you made! You’re talkin to. the Rolex wearin… diamond ring wearin, kiss stealin, Woo! wheelin dealin, limousine ridin, jet flyin, son of a gun, and I’m havin a hard time, holdin these alligators. down! Woo!
Ric Flair, the coolest white boy since ever, is on Spike tv’s “Flairathon,” and they’ve been airing it all week. I’ve been watching it all week too. In the same bar; at the same time. Not that I drink, mind you, but after a twelve-and-a-half hour day protecting the First Lady, it’s nice to take a load off. Come down to Four Sheets and pretend that my orange juice and ice is a Screwdriver on the rocks. Then from there its home. Or to the closest thing I have to it. But right now, I’m just gonna sit here and nurse this drink and hang tough with the Nature Boy. Woo!
Or so I think.
Getting hasn’t even gotten good yet when she walks in. Brunette. Petite. Five foot Five at most. She makes her way to the bar and sits at the opposite end of mine. Strange. Four Sheets doesn’t really pop off until about three hours from now, when the dance floor opens up and they start serving dinner. The whole area where she is now is dimly lit. Funeral home dark at best. The bartender walks over and she orders a Clase Azul tequila and takes a shot and says: “How much for the glass?”
“Ten bucks ma’am,” he says.
“The actual glass, I mean. Not the shot.”
The bartender looks confused. “The glass?”
“That the drink came in?”
“Yes. I don’t leave things I’ve touched behind.”
“Uhhh…” He looks over at the only other person in the pub. Me. “Four bucks, I guess. I’m not really sure how to…”
She reaches in the clutch purse she carries, hands him the quoted amount, and nods. “Thank you.” she says.
He looks at me again and I do something similar to a shrug. “You’re welcome ma’am,” he responds, and returns, albeit slowly, to his previous prep-work.
From there on out, he and I stare at her off the bar wall mirrors which all pubs around the world seem to have. If she notices us she pretends not to. I return back to my TV watching after a while ― but, now I’m pseudo engaged. What a weird request that was. I glance down at my all but watered-down juice and over at her… Shit. She’s looking right at me, and after I turn away she sizes me up and says: “Let’s talk about it then.”
I turn back towards her. “What?”
“You heard me.”
The bartender looks up at me, at her, me, and back inside the cup he’s washing out.
“What’s there to talk about?” I say.
“My next stop is out the door. Don’t be a fool.”
When I look at the bartender again, he says: “If you don’t man, I will.”
I look at my reflection in the glass and sigh… To hell with it. Why not, I think, and walk over. The first thing I notice after I sit down next to her is not how pretty she is, although she is, and very, but the power she exudes. When you protect Heads of State like I do, you learn to feel people out more than converse with them. Persons with juice don’t much talk to agents anyway. We’re just the help. But whomever she is and whatever she does, it’s on her own terms only and nobody else’s. She takes the shot glass and tucks it inside her purse.
“Francis,” I say, and extend my hand to shake hers.
She doesn’t acknowledge my invite. What she does do is one-eighty on her barstool and gaze out at traffic. “You know how Wild Bill Hickok was killed?” she says.
The hell? Random. “He was shot.”
“Yes. But do you know how?”
“Course I do. With a gun.”
“He was at a card game and twice asked the man across from him to switch places; twice the man refused. Bill never sat with his back to doors for obvious reasons, and that time he did. A man he’d argued with before walked in unseen and shot him in the head and he died” ― she snaps her fingers: “just like that. Never knew what hit him, as the saying goes.”
“Uh-huh…” I say, and stare at her for what seems like forever. Then I get up, walk over to a nearby table, drag it ― rather dramatically ― over towards her, and sit facing the entrance. “Sooo you want in on this or what?”
She smiles at me for the first time, and I, at her. “Is that why you sat facing the mirror?” I say. “Ducking a head shot?”
She walks over and sits alongside me. “There’s a Jack McCall trailing us all, I’m afraid. And I aim to see mine coming.”
I look out at the nameless crowds passing us. People I’ve never noticed before and whom I probably see every day.
“Is that the man who shot Bill?” I say. “Jack McCall?”
“Thought so. Don’t think I have any of those in my life, though. Then again…” I think about my past: “Maybe I do,”
She nods but doesn’t say anything, and I realize it’s a defense mechanism. She’s naturally a talker but has trained herself not to be. Why? Well, I hope to find out.
“So tell me a story,” I say.
Another man walks into the bar and she watches him at length. “A story? What about?”
“Nothing ― any ― and everything. I’ll even help you start it.”
“Okay.” She nods again. “I’ll bite. Shoo.”
“All right. Good. So a woman ―”
“But first let me get you a drink. What’re you having?”
Never has a woman offered to buy me a drink before. I find her exceptional already. “Orange juice actually. Don’t drink.”
I expect her to ask why not like everybody else does, but ― again, nothing. Just an “Okay” and off she goes. “I’ll be right back.” she says.
“All right. I’ll hold you to it.”
So here’s the thing. I’ve always had a hyper awareness about my surroundings, and while the details of it are not interesting enough to get into here, I’ll say this much: People who pretend not to notice me I instantly notice. In part because it’s my job, but mostly because it’s odd. I know sometimes when people are uncomfortable they’ll avoid eye contact, or look elsewhere, but that’s not what’s happening now. The guy who came in a moment ago was texting on his phone and now he’s not. He’s talking. And while that’s not a sin, it is a farce. He’s no more on his phone right now than I am. Blind in full black and asleep, I see this setup coming a mile away.
“Yeah man I’m already here. My ass he’s backing out. Tell him I won that bet fair and square and I want my drinks. Ha. El cheapo strikes again. Tell him I’ll only get into him for two drinks this time. Sure. Sure I’ll even…”
“One oj as promised.”
“Thanks.” I take it from her and sip, and pretend not to notice our voyeur pretending not to notice us. “Mmm that’s good. So where were we again?”
“Apparently I’m telling you a story of which you’re leading into.”
“Oh yeah. Right.”
The actor just “hung up” his call, and then he stands and looks towards the door.
“So a woman walks into a bar,” I say. “She sits down, orders a tequila”: and that’s when the shit hits the fan.
Two men, both interchangeable with the actor, walk in and wave at him. He reaches in his pocket to put his phone away, but when he draws it out, to wave back, a Glock and not a greeting is what he has inside. Goddamnit here we go.
By the time I reach for my CZ my companion has already kicked my chair over and fired a single shot into his head. She had the drop on him all along, it seems. Now that I think about it she was reaching for her gun at the same time she handed me my juice. The other two men open fire on her but Lord Almighty the way she moves. Incomprehensible. Down goes the second shooter and I haven’t even touched my piece yet. The last man standing steps out of the bar and around the corner. I hear him shuck and reload his clip. That’s about all he has time for, though; cause as soon as his clip goes click she’s already beside him. From my vantage point I see the window mist pink after a sharp pop. Then silence.
I’m on the ground frozen with my gun in my hand when she comes back and stoops over me. I look up at her, confused. Why the hell can’t I move? I find out why when she checks my pulse and says: “I slipped a paralysis in your juice in case you’re wondering.”
“Can’t have you follow me, you understand.” She takes my gun and unloads it and hands it back (puts in in my hand) but pockets the bullets. After that she looks over at the bar. “Come from behind there and help him a moment. He’ll be this way for at least another ten minutes.”
The bartender stands with his hands in the air. “Yes ma’am.”
“Put your arms down this isn’t a heist.”
She gives me a look of disappointed interest and says: “Be careful what you wish for my friend. You just might get it,” and turns and looks at the entrance. After no one appears in it she walks off towards the women’s restroom. She only glances back once before she disappears through the door and is gone. After that it’s just the bartender and I left. Alive, I mean. Police sirens sound seconds later.
The bartender looks down at me and around the bar. He looks stupefied. Can’t say I blame the guy, though, place is three bodies deep. When the sirens are just outside the bar he exhales and says: “Hey man. Uh, I know this isn’t maybe the best time to tell you this ― but um… When she ordered your juice she asked for her four dollars back and said to put her drink on your tab. So um… between the two of you and that shot glass she took you owe me about twenty-two bucks and some change.”
If I could do more than stare right now, I would. I’m laughing inside, though, as much as a poisoned, paralyzed man surrounded by dead bodies from a shootout with a woman whose name I have yet to learn can, I suppose. Practically in stitches. Lord protect me from the women in my life. Every Goddamned one of them.
“And you say you never met her before today?”
“No. I’d remember somebody like her.”
“Why would you remember her?”
“She killed three men right in front of me in six inch heels and never even stumbled. Is that a real question?”
“Well it’s a stupid fucking question then.”
The conversation I’m currently having is with a one, R. L. Miscavige, head of A.R.D. (Apostate Retrieval and Disbandment), an elite group that hunts and returns rouge agents to justice. At least that’s what Homeland Security states publicly. We on the inside know better though. They don’t return anybody. They kill them. Apparently the U.S.’s (at present time) sixteen intelligence agencies had such a problem with agents selling information, that the President sanctioned a sort of Internal Affairs to oversee them all. And thus, A.R.D. was born. The Death Dogs. So named because of their logo: a hound biting the head off of a snake. Pretty strait forward, I should think.
“What did she say to you? In full.”
“I already told you that. We talked about Wild Bill Hickok, she bought me a drink… Actually I bought me a drink. Anyway he walked in, she gave me my juice, and the rest is history. Other than that I can’t say. She poisoned me.”
No other text is available beyond this point.