SHAKESPEARE SUPERHERO

A Hollywood short story conflation reinvigorating a tired movie genre

SHAKESPEARE SUPERHERO

written by Michael Kerr

It had been a long time addiction and Thomas knew he never wanted to work in Hollywood again. He’d escaped with money in the bank enjoying a quick rehab and recovery when Covid halted production, stalling the green-lit script he was re-writing. A year later the labor unions, WGA and SAG, went on strike. And now AI had cometh. He’d been nominated for a best TV series Emmy award once, had occasionally imagined giving his Oscar speech for best screenplay or directing.

“I’m retired.” He chuckled to his brand new friend, as they looked across the Santa Monica bike path at the crashing ocean waves. Beri was from Argentina, attending the week-long AFM film market. She was buying. “So what are you doing here?” she asked.

“I still like the vibe, I live nearby, I just ride my bike over in an expensive jacket and sneak in.”

They carried on, he was glad she didn’t pose the “so what movies have you done?” query. She was dressed beautifully businesslike, as were most of the international others. Their eyes met and she looked at her phone “Meeting,” she said. He put his hand over her other hand, “Wait, can I pitch you a movie? It will blow the roof off this place”.

“I thought you’re retired.”

“It’s just a hobby now.” He said.

“Three sentences.” She smiled.

“It’s a superhero flick.”

“You have two sentences left,” she said tapping her finger on her glass as Thomas considered his next two sentences.

He sipped his and proceeded. “Shakespeare’s depressed, can’t write. He’s a superhero surrounded by his superhero friends: Hamlet, Prospero, Juliet, Romeo, Laertes, Falstaff, Cordelia, Hotspur, Henry IV (the Yoda of the crew), and the supervillains: Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Iago. But some outside force is already writing his next play...a tragedy.”

“That’s four.” Beri said. “Sentences.”

She stood up, smiling into his eyes.

“You haven’t paid, writers never pay for drinks.” He said.

“You said you retired.”

“I’ll always be a struggling writer.”

He waved his hand like he was kidding, which he was, and took his wallet out of the jacket’s holster pocket.

“Where are you staying?” He met her sharply beautiful eyes again.

“Shutters,” she smiled.

Later in her room she was in bed reading his treatment on her iPad. Thomas sat naked on the balcony watching the half moon’s multiple reflections on the mild ocean current. It was a warm September night, the scene like a Terrence Mallick movie, people like marching pins. He went back inside to be with her, climbing under the sheet in the bed beside her.

“You gotta be kidding me you’re reading that now?” he muffled into her thigh. She stroked his hair without shifting then softly hammered his skull.

SHAKESPEARE SUPERHERO – Feature Film (superhero) – 11/29/25

Registered WGAw #2322330

Writer: Thomas Forster

LOGLINE:

Shakespeare’s a playwright superhero surrounded by his superhero friends: Hamlet, Prospero, Juliet, Romeo, Laertes, Falstaff, Cordelia, Hotspur, Henry IV (the Yoda of the crew), and the supervillains: Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Iago. But some outside force is already writing his next play...a tragedy.

CONCEPT:

Shakespeare Superhero is a Marvel character from the sixteenth century blasted into the twenty-first century Superhero Movie Universe. Shakespeare and the other superhero characters all soar around on a planet called The Globe; good battling evil, though talking too much-- occasionally in poetic quips from William Shakespeare’s plays. Usually he writes brilliant plays about his fictitious world Planet Earth. But he has writers block and a terrifying villain has begun writing a new superhero play instead. Stealing Shakespeare’s characters and threatening the Planet Earth with more than bad writing-- flames and storms.

It’s a bits and snatches adaptation from Shakespeare’s folio into an entertaining survey of its characters and themes. Subtext: Shakespeare Superhero is also a dramatization of creative Hollywood’s response to AI’s disruption, which many in Hollywood may recognize, transformed into our most popular cinematic genre: superhero movies....

-- Bira read on, enjoying Thomas’s twist on the tired superhero genre. “Shakespeare In Love” and now “Hamnet” had proven, scalable audiences.

TREATMENT

ACT 1

Shakespeare and his cast of thirteen superheroes and supervillains are exhausted after The Tempest, celebrating in Falstaff’s Plumpjack tavern. The battle is seen all over the tavern in holograms. Hamlet, Prospero, Cordelia, Laertes, Hotspur, Romeo and Juliet, even Henry IV (the Yoda of the crew ) are all there. And the supervillains who did their best but failed again: Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Iago. They’re all friends-ish, their flashy Elizabethan superhero garb tattered and tarnished but never their spirit. Falstaff hosting them all as equals, keeping it friendly. “Turn those sorrowful things OFF!,” demands Shakespeare. Falstaff extinguishes the holograms.

But the plays have always been Shakespeare’s fiction-- All’s Well That Ends Well, Measure for Measure, Midsummer Night’s Dream, Henry IV Part I, Hamlet, King Lear, Macbeth, Othello... etc. But now, a far greater threat than anything he’s ever written about appears to be real. “Oh Bard what’s wrong?” asks his wife Anne, the only mortal among them. “It’s Planet Earth, I can’t write about her anymore, something else is.” “Oh dear, you’re hallucinating. Planet Earth isn’t real.” she responds. Everyone has always thought it was just a fiction he wrote about which didn’t truly exist. Places like Denmark were all in his imagination. “No,” admits Shakespeare, “They’re all real, Planet Earth is real.”

A dark force, calling itself Swordarth, is destroying Planet Earth. It’s “writing” a play that is very real and far darker than any play or poetry. Shakespeare convenes a truce summit with the superheroes and supervillains and confesses that Planet Earth is very real.

--She glanced at Thomas, dozing. On a certain level it was a send-up of Superhero flicks, on another it was high concept brilliance. She continued on....

ACT 2

Shakespeare must reassert his powers. He puts on his cape (B for Bard) and rewrites them all. There are battles on every continent in cities and deserts, with Elizabethan weapons modified for the 21^st century; Swordarth’s armies wear jeans and impenetrable hoodies. Puck is injured, Shakespeare is captured. Anne rescues him, as a mortal, the deep energy of Planet Earth is within her and unleashes her secret powers. Flashback to how they met on Planet Earth, she was an usher at the Globe Theater. He swept her off her feet, into the skies and outer space....

ACT 3

Under Shakespeare’s pen, Planet Earth is quickly healing. The superheroes surf in Hawaii, ski in Gstaad. The supervillains marvel at the cities and nightclubs, get drunk and into fights. Swordarth wants to join them but has no soul. Hamlet, Cordelia, Hotspur break up the bar fight. They shatter Swordarth into billions of bytes and bits and banish him to a remote corner of the universe. Its pulse nevertheless begins to throb in the blackness between the stars; the bits conjoin, into a huge new planet called Artificial. Shakespeare writes again but his magic ink is almost dry. Anne and Shakespeare have a child. The church explodes at the christening. The superheroes and supervillains are fracturing from the bond of their triumph, back into their former ways. Hamlet gives him a new pen with which he rewrites the explosion, restores the church and saves Anna and his semi-mortal child. “Every play needs heroes and villains...truth, beauty and poetry” he writes over the Credit Roll.

__________________________________________

--Bira tossed her iPad onto the comforter reviving Thomas. “This is a fucking smart idea,” she said.

“Thanks, which idea do you prefer, fucking me or that I’m smart?” He stroked her stomach, gently tugged her panties’ cute silk bow. Her perfect small breasts with their hint of curve turned him on. She covered it all nonchalantly and he withdrew his hand.

“They always say ‘don’t fuck the writer’, right?” she remarked with a poke, a reverse flirt.

He always felt she was hiding something, though never her body. “William Goldman said ‘In Hollywood nobody knows anything’.” He retorted.

She shook her head not knowing the reference.

When Thomas left the hotel his bike was gone, only his bolt-cut chain remained at the base of the street light where he’d locked it.

Walking back to his house his phone pinged. It was Beri.

‘I can sell Shakespeare’

‘You miss me already?’ he replied and got no response as he walked the fifteen minutes down Main Street and up the hill to his house. He figured he probably had thirty AFM texts. He had none. ‘Come to my house tonight, I’m making cassoulet and need tomato help’

‘Can’t have a dinner but I’ll come later’ came her reply. He was gladenned she wasn’t an emoji texter.

They shared a Pall Mall non-filter cigarette on his roof deck. She looked even more beautiful, something glittering on her neck.

“It’s glitter,” she answered. He kissed it anyway, she brushed some off his lips.

“In the morning we’ll come up here with coffee and the ocean view.

“Tea. I have a breakfast meeting at 7:30.” She kissed him and they fell back on the chaise longue resuming the night before. It was warm, their bodies cooled by the night’s moisture.

In the morning waiting for the tea to brew, he scribbled on a paper napkin, placing that and a cup on the striped indigo placemat.

“What is the writing all over this?” she picked up the napkin sitting down fully dressed for her day. Her faint accent rang in that part of Thomas’s mind reserved for falling in love. “It’s a love poem,” he said straightfaced. “It’s a deal memo, the best ones are traditionally written on napkins at film markets and festivals.”

Beri read it and grinned. “So you’re giving me a free six month option.”

It’s not free, you have to pay me one dollar so it’s legal.” He said.

Beri took a sip of tea “There’s another Hollywood saying, or maybe universal in business: Never mix pleasure with business.”

“No it’s never mix business with personal,” he chuckled at his similar misquote as she grinned into his eyes and they imitated Pacino together:

“It’s not personal, just business.” They kissed. She put a dollar from her purse on the table and signed the napkin. And ordered an Uber.

“Who are you, what are your roots?” he asked her as they waited through the final Uber arrival minutes.

“We were supposed to share all that after we first slept together,” she laughed, he smiled and nodded. “my Jewish grandparents fled Vienna with my parents, I was born In Argentina. I became Buddish, Buddist and Jewish.”

Thomas drove her to the AFM past the sharply dressed international faces wearing neck tags, traipsing along Ocean Ave on their cellphones. His white BMW E5 pulled up and she paused to switch into business mode.

“When do you leave?” He asked?

“I have an eight o’clock flight tonight.”

He suppressed his reaction.

“Kidding, I just wanted to see your response,” she said. “I’m here five more days, there was disappointment in your eyes. Were you ever an actor?”

“Yeah but no. Hey go get ‘em, go sell Shakespeare. I’m retired from business but not from personal.”

He watched her walk through the crowded glass doors of the hotel like she owned the place, a valet tapped his car and pointed his finger that he had to move.

In the bike shop the next day, Thomas bought a Bianchi road bike and ordered it customized like his stolen one. They texted each other intermittingly during the day but didn’t see each other that night.

He watched Hamnet from the nominated for Best Picture links he’d been sent by the Academy. He’d voted for Train Dreams, a beautifully written screenplay with VO’s perfectly fitted. He hesitated to text her but did at 12:27AM. ‘Hope you’re making fun deals in Santa Monica!’

At 2:17 AM two German tourists were robbed and stabbed to death walking the beach path behind the AFM Loews. The CCTV showed one of the assailants riding away on Thomas’s stolen bike. There might be a plot connection Thomas, the writer, thought. The bike reported stolen from Leows with matching fingerprints on the knife. Though he’d never reported it stolen. But someone else had. A puzzle that might fit together and he might get his bike back or at worse become a person of interest. Why was his feeling for his bike more important than for the two Germans and their horrible deaths? He then recalled it had a small bike license sticker that could trace him.

He texted her ‘I hope you’re okay after the sad news, please come to dinner tonight at my house hug Thomas’.

Ten minutes later she replied ‘It’s paranoia here, people want guns, they’ve hired security guards all over. I can’t come but thanks’

The next afternoon they drove up PCH through the burned remains of Malibu and the Palisades fire. A production crew was shooting in a beach parking lot. Camera and grip trucks, double-wide trailers and “honey wagons” for the stars and actors. He pulled over and they got out and walked onto the location. A vintage convertible Lincoln was parked, two assistant cameramen (women) were rigging it with cameras as the main scene was in progress closeby. A chirp and “Quiet Please” came from the 2^nd AD’s megaphone. Huge sound blankets were rigged to silence the crashing waves.

“A hundred thousand dollars a day below the line.” Said Beri, both slightly disdainful and impressed.

“Netflix,” he said, “California tax credit.”

“Taking over the world, I’m punching them in the nuts.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant as she gazed at the charred hills and blackened foundations, then back at the ocean. “I’m passionate about cinema, it’s the greatest art of communication. My talent is financing it, I’ve also produced four I’m pretty good at that.”

“It’s like designing and building a house everyone wants to visit until nobody buys it.” He absently said.

“My father builds houses outside Buenos Aires, it still keeps him alive at eighty-four.” She glared her glare. “Fifty million people will watch your superhero.”

Thomas shook his head and smiled. “I retain the video game rights.”

They had dinner at the Sunset Café on Zuma beach then walked barefoot across the small strip of sand to the water as the sun set.

“We could just keep going, I know a great hotel in Santa Barbara.”

Beri absently grabbed his hand, giggling as the shorebreak washed over her calves and he remembered what love was like. He took her other hand and they kissed, what was in their eyes was the same as they smiled, their faces pressed to each other’s.

She insisted they go back to Santa Monica; and got out of his car there with a performative wave. He waved back, understanding that work came first. His last thought as he faded into sleep was of glad calmness and a sense of some Borgesian magic that he’d met this wonderful person. He dreamed of walking a busy Buenos Aires boulevard, chasing down a cellphone thief into a dinner party thrown my his mother where there was no food left, just messy dinner plates and pots in the kitchen and he couldn’t find a clean glass.

He awoke with the dream vivid in his mind, withering away as his brain grasped at it, got out of bed pinching his stomach fat. He thought it might about directing Napa in Napa, and his mother who never wanted him to work in Hollywood, and always had clean glasses. His last jab directing a feature had been a thriller set in Napa Valley’s internecine wineworld. “They Would Kill For A Good Bottle of Wine” captioned the one-sheet featuring a wineglass with a bullet hole, the cabernet dribbling down. He’d spent two months shooting it in the wine country outside Buenos Aires which perfectly doubled as Napa for half the cost. But it wasn’t the same; his months of location scouts and prep to shoot in Napa Valley had given the movie its terroir. Then ripped out for Argentina. He never should have accepted the Argentina shoot. His mind washed deeper over that regret. He was further disturbed by three hard knocks at his door. “Santa Monica Police! Open the door please.”

Unshowered, he spent the morning in an interrogation room, two detectives three times in and out with questions, leaving him cooperatively waiting. “Am I a suspect or just a POI? Can I get my bike back?” His bike was evidence so he couldn’t retrieve it; he was a Person Of Interest but not a suspect. Finally released into the outdoors he sniffed his armpits. It was a short walk to Loews, he sat down on a bench, watching AFM’s well- dressed ebb and flow and texted her. He stared at the sliver of beach and ocean he could see beyond the luxury hotel, thinking more about his bike than anything else, then heard the ping. ‘I’m at LAX I hate AFM I sold Shakespeare one is a lie’

‘I believe number one, backtrack and let’s meet for hugs’

‘Wrong meet me at Shutters in 10’ she didn’t do commas.

They settled into a window booth watching the every walk of life walk by, including AFMrs with their tags flapping in the wind and homeless dragging their trashbagged belongings.

Thomas stroked her hand. “Can we order a pitcher of Bloody Mary’s, I spent all morning in a windowless room at Santa Monica Police department”

“I know,” Beri responded, he stopped stroking, pulling his hand back to his side of the table.

“What does that mean?”

“I know who killed them, and I saw it. I’m really fucked up. And we probably shouldn’t be seen here together. Like we’re getting our stories straight.”

He considered her, considered walking out, and glanced around the restaurant.

She continued. “It was two trans sex workers who were working the market. They had a room--”

“What do you mean you saw it?” he asked.

“No I didn’t see the attack, I mean...” he waited for her to finish, instead she switched tack. “You should leave this country bad things keep happening to you. Cleanse your spirit get the fuck out of town thing.”

He paused and stood up. “Okay let’s get out of here.” They Ubered separately to his house.

“I wrote a screenplay once, this is really good,” Bira murmered. They were back in his bed, the covers pulled up, pillows refluffed, lying apart like a happy married couple. She was reading an ancient script of his with CAA covers, he with his iPad.

“Don’t you want to write the Shakespeare script?”

“Not for WGA minimum, always mix screenplays with sex,” said Thomas. “What’s yours about?” He closed his laptop, flinging it somewhere on the bed.

“Love story murder mystery.”

“Did you ever see Body Heat? William Hurt.” Her face was blank. “No you’re too young. But this is starting to feeling like that movie. Nevermind.”

“No, tell me why.” She tossed it across the room. “Whisper your pitch in my ear.”

“Our phones are tapped,” he mouthed jiggling the face of his phone at her.

She shook her head, frowning like she didn’t believe it. He nodded that it was likely. Bira resumed the conversation. “It’s already a page and a half of dialogue. Let’s take action.”

She took a Farady bag from her purse gesturing him to give her his phone. He shook his head no as she leaned into him and they started again, phones half out of the bag. Bira lived in the sensual moment; he wondered what other moments there were, watching her sitting on top of him, sliding up and down. In the morning Thomas called Det. Franklin about when he could get his bike back.

Then they boarded a flight to Mexico City. It was hot there, dangerous to taxi or uber. They both knew Mexico City well but spent an uncomfortable day as wandering tourists before returning to the labyrinthine airport for their flight to Xijuatenejo. A day old vmail from Det. Franklin was just about his bike “still in evidence” and a request that he stay in Santa Monica for further questioning. He ignored everything else on his phone. Cleansing his spirit.

The beach hotel in Xijuat was four stories of modest white stucco with turquoise trim a short sandy walkway from the beach with no elevator. It was perfect. They rented red scooters and fell in with daily beach life, nightlife and in-bed time. They took showered together to cool it all down. He’d happily lost all track of time when Bira announced her impending return to Buenos Aires.

“I’ve booked two seats on a flight tomorrow.” She said. He’d forgotten all about this, maybe she’d never mentioned it, and was thrilled to follow her lead. In the morning they went for one last swim, showered and packed. Thomas searched for his passport, he always stored it in a hidden zipper compartment in the lining of his suitcase. It wasn’t there. He tore apart the room. They went to the scooter rental office where they’d had their passports copied to see if he he’d accidentally left it there. It had been stolen from the hotel room. He called AeroMex and confirmed that he could board the plane to Mexico City with his California drivers license.

At Mexico City Airport his CDL was predictably declined at the check in for their Buenos Aires flight. It was Friday before a three-day weekend, the U.S. Embassy already closed. He felt vulnerable, somewhat ashamed to be traveling without a passport with a woman he barely knew. But it was also the sort of adventure he enjoyed, maybe needed.

“Bad things keep happening to me,” he said as they kissed after dinner a short walk from their hotel in Condesa where taxis regularly kidnapped passengers.

“I’m not all bad,” she said.

On Monday he stood in line outside the black and white marble U.S. Embassy building. Its gates opened by uniformed guards exactly on time as if a nod to El Norte hard power. Their smiles were friendly. Across from the passport office was a makeshift photo booth, Thomas walked past the DHS office with its framed photo portraits of Trump and Vance above the door, and asked, “Permiso, can you do a photo quick?” The vender made short work of it. “Si senior no problemo. Two photos Good luck.” He sat for an hour in the passport office, striking up a conversation with a too talkative stranded Texan who recommended chartering a boat to Tijuana then another to LA if his passport application was delayed. They almost shook hands by way of wishing each other good luck but Thomas declined, thinking it bad luck. Everyone’s applications seemed delayed at the counter. When he finally had his turn the young American was efficiently polite. She reviewed everything, took his photos, his birth certificate he’d had faxed to their hotel, and told him he could sit back down until called. He noticed she wore no wedding ring. He took a seat across the room from the Texan.

A text came from Beri ‘update?’, he texted her a thumbs up though didn’t feel it. He kept his eyes, mesmerized, on the woman at the counter now controlling his life. Who was she, what was her social life, her ambitions? A half hour later an assistant delivered some documents to her counter. She reviewed them and called his name. He got up and approached. She handed him a brand new passport. “Have a good trip,” she said with a firm smile, meeting his eyes for the first time.

They flew business class to Buenos Aires. A black capped limo driver held a sign with her name Bira Weiss. He loaded their luggage in the town car’s trunk and they drove off. It was barely daybreak, pink clouds were emerging from the dull grey sky and he felt strangely safe riding next to her. The chaos of his disrupted life two thousand miles north felt calmly distant.

“He’ll drop you off at a very good hotel in town,” she announced without looking at him.

He nodded without a flinch, they were playing with each other now on her home turf.

“I’m just kidding.” She said squeezing his thigh, stroking it further up. He wanted to kiss her but resisted, seeing the driver’s reflection in the rearview then out the window instead.

She popped a bottle of champagne and joined him with two glasses on the terrace of her penthouse. Cars and taxis streamed below with the occasional car honk, it was like Park Avenue in the 1950’s. She was living the dream, he thought, with no evidence she lived with a, husband, lover or even room mate. They clinked.

“What are we celebrating?” He asked.

“Shakespeare.” She answered confidently

“Right. And/or us meeting.”

She kissed him without giving much away about her inner life. He wanted to pry into that, he wanted to know her. He was an open book but she only wanted to own Shakespeare. Regardless, he was glad and relieved he was with her, now in her own stylish home. He wondered if she’d thought his looked shabby, it needed a paint job and the downstairs maple floors refinished.

They had dinner at the sort of busy loud café he recalled from shooting Napa. Tasty steak dishes with over-buttered vegetable garnishes. He finally relaxed, and felt like looking up those fleeting movie friends. He smiled that he was with just her. In the movie business you could just shift from one people party, business deal, or three month shoot to the next one.

“What’s that smile about?” she asked. He shook his head nothing and suggested they throw a party and invite his local movie friends, remembering some of their names. She nodded that they were regulars in her Buenos Aires film cohort, with some name corrections. Then explained the Shakespeare deal, “We’ll shoot it here,” she said. He pretended to listen then a bicycle rode by and he jumped out of his chair almost rushing after it. “I could swear I just saw my stolen bike ride by.”

“I think you should just stay here awhile, and make a movie.” She said with that smile.

In the morning Thomas stepped out of the massive shower so Bira could finish shaving her legs alone. Unpacking his suitcase for whatever length stay his old passport flopped out. He stared at it; during the jostling of their flight it must have dislodged from being trapped in the suitcase lining and ribs. Bira stepped out wrapped in a towel and he held it up.

“It’s my passport I lost.” He said, shaking his head pissed off at himself and for putting her through it.

“You don’t travel well, we could never be together,” she laughed, joking? “Where’s your new one?”

She compared the two. “You look better in the new one, the old one you look too young.”

As she prepared coffee, mango, yogurt, he reviewed her Shakespeare Superhero deal memo, four pages on the table. She’d pre-sold it to Viaplay in Europe, ViX in Latin America.

“If you sign that you’ll last longer here.” She said sitting down with the tray of breakfast. She was dressed in a raw silk button down skirt for business. He decided he’d shop for clothes that day.

“You never told me whatever you really knew about the AFM killings,” he asked biting into a muffin. “If you’re with me, that’s--”

“The perps are dead, the world is a dangerous place.” She sharply answered with a shrug.

“A risk,” he completed his sentence. They nodded at each other, as if someone else was in the room.

Within a month he was doing rewrites, had a new bike better than his last and was falling in love but not sure with whom. Bira? Or his inner self again, dredged up from an indefinite paid vacation in one of the world’s beautiful cities.

Playing it safe, he declined to direct the movie, protecting himself from whatever blame when it likely failed.

Bira was lovely, his lovely host and then some. It was her he was falling in love with. She never brought the movie to their pillow talk yet all day long was an intensely competent producer with everything else shut out from her mind. She attached a Palm D’Or nominated female director with CGI expertise and preproduction began. He did some rewrites, repurposing his stolen bike as a superhero conveyance character. She made a branding deal with Bianchi and signed off on his shooting script without reading it. “I’ll watch the movie,” she happily demurred to him.

With that same glimmer in her eyes she kissed him hard on a rare Sunday they were still in bed past 9AM. The two month shoot churned on, taking over one of the small Argentina-wood studios half an hour away. He occasionally drove there with her, memories of his failed wine movie flooding past with the vineyard scenery outside the window.

He rides his bike around Buenos Aires, missing the ocean. Bira has an affair with the female director. He’s okay with that, it’s all part of movie-making. In a way it made him fall further in love with her and also Buenos Aires. He staying on, and on through post-production. They were an unjealous threesome everyone knew about, like everyone knows about everything else. In private Bira kept them separately to herself. The three of them slept together once, her name was Katrine.

Shakespeare Superhero screened at Sundance, won no awards and was picked up by Netflix. Deboarding at LAX from Utah, Thomas and Bira were both arrested. Detective Franklin was there with the FBI.

END

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