you're late. sit down.
my name is zed. you're all here because you're the best of the best. marines, navy seals, army rangers. nypd.
and we're looking for one of you. just one. what will follow is a series of simple tests designed to quantify motor skills, hand-eye coordination, concentration, stamina -- i see we have a question.
son?
what's so funny, edwards?
okay. let's get going.
the hell happened?
may i ask why you felt little tiffany deserved to die?
and how did you come to that conclusion?
he's got a real problem with authority.
i hope you know what you're doing.
congratulations, you're everything we've come to expect from years of government training. now, if you'll just follow me, we have one more test to administer, an eye exam.
now, if you'll look directly at the end of this device.
what's your jacket size, edwards?
then let's put it on.
the last suit you'll ever wear.
from now on, you'll dress only in attire specially sanctioned by mib special services.
you'll conform to the identity we give you, eat where we tell you, live where we tell you, get approval for any expenditure over a hundred dollars.
you will have no identifying marks of any kind. you will not stand out in any way.
your entire image is carefully crafted to leave no lasting memory whatsoever with anyone you encounter.
you're a rumor, recognizable only as deja vu and dismissed just as quickly. you don't exist; you were never even born.
anonymity is your name. silence your native tongue.
you are no longer part of "the system." we're above the system. over it. beyond it.
we're "them." we're "they."
we are the men in black.
okay, let's see. bee, we got the deposed sur-prefect of sinalee touching down in the forest outside portland tonight. i'm pulling you down from anchorage to do a meet-and-greet.
you wish. bring a sponge. what else -- everybody, we gotta keep rolling fish-goat out of the sewer system, he's scaring the rats. and bobo the squat wants to reveal himself on "unsolved mysteries." bee, make sure he doesn't.
red-letter from last night -- we had an un-authorized landing somewhere in upstate new york farm country. keep your ears open for this one, kay, we're not hosting a galactic kegger down here.
well, well, well -- we got a skimmer.
redgick. he's not cleared to leave manhattan but he's way out of town right now, stuck in traffic on the new jersey turnpike. why don't you take jay? this is a good one for him to warm up on.
the twins keep us on alpha centaurian time -- a 37-hour day. give it a few months -- you'll get used to it. or you'll have a psychotic episode.
here's orion; the brightest grouping of stars in the northern sky.  and here's orion's belt --
there are no galaxies on orion's belt. the belt is just these three stars; galaxies are huge, made up of billions of stars. you heard wrong.
kay.
we've had twelve jumps in the last hour. redgick was just the beginning.
translate that and step on it! meanwhile get down to rosenberg's store and see what you can turn up.
and kay -- take a lot of fire power.
containment may be a moot point, my friend. the exodus continues. it's like the party's over and the last one to leave gets stuck with the check.
you sorry little ingrates!
we've only translated a part of the message so far: "deliver the galaxy."
oh, it gets better.  they're holding us responsible.
another contestant has entered the ring.
same thing: "deliver the galaxy."
arquillian battle rules, kid. first we get an ultimatum, then a warning shot, then we have a galactic standard week to respond.
to keep the bugs from getting it, the arquillians will destroy the galaxy and whatever planet it's on.
sucks, doesn't it?
they're all gone. frank the pug took the last ship on the planet.
gone.
gone.
gone.
gone.
gone, thank god.
i think the word's already out. our friends are coming back. got an authorized landing at times square. you and jay check it out on the way back.  and pick me up one of those soft pretzels, while you're at it. extra salt. i feel like celebrating.