E05: Pier Adventures

INT. AN OCEANSIDE BAR, LOCATED NEXT TO THE PIER (CONT)

Same BAR, same customers, same TV against the wall. Same mix of people with slightly-fishy eyes and pointy heads. BARTENDER's more on the fishier side of things. 

JUSTIN and TOM are still seated in the same window booth they had been in previously. In front of them are plates with a remainder of food and a cameraphone leaning against a plastic cup of Pepsi.

JACK is seated across from them, arm resting with his slightly webbed fingers tapping along the back of the booth, starting to wish he were anywhere but where he was. 

JACK

(whispers)

Hey, don't say that too loud!

TOM nudges JUSTIN; JUSTIN hits him back. TOM flips JUSTIN off and lays his chin on the palm of one of his hands, relinquishing the spat.

JUSTIN

(whispers, wiping his hair out of his eyes)

Sorry. Just, well, m... well, you were saying...?

JUSTIN looks fairly excited. He acts as though he's been waiting a long time to hear the answers to some important questions.

JACK looks around them. None of the customers appeared to be listening to them, but he knew. He knew they were listening. When the bartender winked, Jack broke the silence.

JACK

(under his breath, sliding out of the side of the booth)

We first need to get out of here.

JACK gets in his wallet and flips a couple of tens on the table. Grabbing the CAMERAPHONE, JUSTIN slides out of the booth followed by TOM. JUSTIN reaches in a pocket and puts out a five-dollar bill.

JUSTIN

(shrugs)

Tip?

Sighing, Jack shrugs too.

JACK

Sure. Whatever.

The THREE get up and leave the bar. A few sets of eyes go back to watching the television above the bar. 

EXT. OUTSIDE OCEANSIDE SPRINGS - MID-DAY

The THREE exit the bar. Both FISHERMAN and TOURISTS walk back and forth in front of them on their ways to and from the pier. 

TOM

So, where's a good idea for this interview, JACK?

JACK

At the end of the pier, maybe. Out where the deep sea fishermen stay. 

JUSTIN

That's a great idea. Great ambiance for the shot too.

The FOUR of them start to walk down the pier. TOM hangs back a moment. 

JUSTIN

(absently)

You coming, Tom?

TOM

Yeah, just gotta make a quick phone call. Mom texted. 

JUSTIN and JACK walk down the pier. Tom pushes some buttons on his cell phone and raises it to his ear. After a few rings, the other end picks up.

CAYMAN (OS)

Kid, if this is a prank--

TOM

They're talking. Yes, now. I'll try to deflect, but if it comes out, it's your ass as much as it is mine. 

TOM hangs up his RAZR phone and slips it into his pocket. He grins. JUSTIN and JACK have gotten way ahead of him and he starts to run to catch up. 

EXT. END OF THE PIER -- DEEP SEA FISHERS ONLY

JUSTIN takes the selfie stick that he had, converts it into a tripod, and sets it down. The view we see through the CAMERAPHONE faces west into the beginning sunset. Pinks and oranges and yellowes are creeping in with the blues and the puffy whites of the clouds.

JUSTIN presses a button and takes a picture of said sunset.

At the bottom of the view of the vanishing sun, we see a greenish-blue railing around us with an opening to a second floor with signs that say "Area reserved for deep sea fishermen".

Leaning on that greenish-blue railing with both elbows is JACK. JACK is somewhat in the shadow so that his facial features are silhouetted.

JUSTIN stands next to him, facing him.

JUSTIN

(looking at the camera)

We are here with Joe -- obviously not his real name. Hi Joe and thanks for being here tonight.

JACK

(looking at the camera, voice has been modifed to sound deeper) 

Hi Justin. It's a pleasure.

JACK shifts arouns a little bit, but stays in the shadows as much as possible.

JUSTIN

(looking into the camera)

So, you told me over the phone, you were a member of this... um, Cult of Cthulhu, right?

JACK

(in a modified voice)

I did.

JUSTIN

Has a cult been around here long?

JACK

(in a modified voice)

Long enough. Since the early times, I would imagine. 

JUSTIN

Long enough to, maybe, remember--

TOM (O.S.)

(interrupting, out of breath from running)

Hey, guys!

JUSTIN

Hey, Tom, you finally caught up.

TOM (O.S.)

Yeah, ran all the way here.

TOM arrives next to JUSTIN, keeping JACK in the shadow. It's almost as they've done this type of interview before. 

TOM (CONT)

So, did you ask a question? Is it my turn?

JUSTIN

(a litle frustrated)

I was going to ask about... about...

TOM

(kicks a rock)

Justin, man, it's been what? A year already... You know she's gone.

JACK

(interrupts)

I can--

JUSTIN

It's been a year and 4 days, 13 hours and 4 minutes. Don't you think I know how long it's been?

TOM

I thought you had let go. We're not going to find her like this. 

JACK

(interrupts louder, looking from JUSTIN to TOM then back to JUSTIN)

Find who?

JUSTIN

(clears his throat)

Let's not discuss that here. Sure, it's your turn.

The sound of a PISTOL rings out. JUSTIN and TOM duck while, it seems the unknowing victim is JACK.

The first round goes in JACK's upper chest, most likely piercing a lung. 

JUSTIN and TOM run their separate ways, bending down and trying to hide from an invisible shooter.

Another PISTOL shot. 

Blood gushes from JACK's shoulder and throat. 

JUSTIN

(screaming)

Goddamnit!

TOM returns to JACK while JUSTIN goes and looks for the shooter. 

EXT. RUNNING DOWN THE PIER -- SUNSET

JUSTIN dashes in the direction he thinks the shots came from. Sees nothing but people. The pier has turned its lights on which makes it a little easier, yet harder at the same time. So many people are fishing tonight. It seems a bit ridiculous -- like the entire town is out fishing on the pier.

So many of the people have similar malformations to JACK. Their heads are more pointed than average, their eyes look flat and empty, their hands have the same slight webbing that JACK's did. He can't help but feel watched.

EXT. END OF THE PIER -- DEEP SEA FISHERS ONLY (CONT)

TOM watches JUSTIN run off and he turns to look at JACK. Trying not to panic, TOM checks for a pulse and doesn't find one. JACK has long given up the ghost, having had his throat torn out by a pistol shot. 

TOM'S PHONE rings. Ignoring it, TOM looks at JACK'S CORPSE and, with one foot, he picks through the man's pockets, finding his WALLET. He picks up the wallet and dusts it off, opening it. A few dollar bills and a picture. 

TOM

(a little shakily)

You didn't have to kill him. 

EXT. BEGINNING OF THE PIER -- NIGHT

JUSTIN dodges one person and accidentally pushes another up against the pier's bait shop wall. He shuts his eyes because he doesn't want to see what the frog-like men look like up close. The smell of rotten fish washes over him and he gags a little before he gets himself under control and apologizes to the man.

At the end of the pier, JUSTIN looks. There are two ways to go: left down the road or right into OCEANSIDE SPRINGS. Neither seem as appealing as going back and finding out what's happened to JACK.

JUSTIN starts to head back the opposite way. Behind him, a Corvette Stingray with the license plate "MANTA" peels out of the parking lot for OCEANSIDE SPRINGS, but not before Justin spots the license plate under a streetlight.

JUSTIN

(confused, muttering)

Mark Cayman?

EXT. END OF THE PIER -- DEEP SEA FISHERS ONLY (CONT)

JUSTIN walks over to what makes him think of a slaughterhouse. JACK is obviously dead, splayed out in an inhuman manner. TOM's watching him.

TOM

I called the police and they should be here any minute.  

JUSTIN

(punches the air in front of him)

I shoulda... I should have got the information when I had the chance.

(sighing)

Oh Lucy...

TOM

JUSTIN, it's okay. I would have gone nuts if my sister had disappeared too. 

JUSTIN

(kicks a rock)

Yeah, but was he my only hope? I mean, do you know how many crazy idiotic people I have interviewed over the years and now... this one... (laughs slightly) this one was supposed to be able to tell me where she was. And now...

JUSTIN looks down at what is left of JACK. The first bullet had gone straight through his ribs to his lung. The second one ripped most of his throat out and he suffocated to death. 

JUSTIN (CONT)

I mean, he told me her name. 

TOM

Whose name?

JUSTIN 

My sister's name, dumbass. Aren't you listening?

TOM

It was something like... Lisa?

EXT. HONEY ISLAND SWAMP -- NIGHT

It is NIGHT and the TRIBESMAN GIRLS have bedded for the night. 

It is the only time LUCY KING is left alone in the CAMP. SECOND TRIBESMAN usually has his eye on her. He thinks she has tried to escape. He is wrong: she hasn't tried to escape. Once she watched someone else try to escape and the smell of the punishment caused her to be sick.

LUCY doesn't remember what happened to her or why she was with the TRIBESMEN.

She doesn't know what happened to her BROTHER whom she knew she _was_ with.

The sound of GUNS permeates the night as it usually does.

Lucy feels a nudge and hears a whisper.

MYRTLINE

(whispering)

LUCY, do you want to curl up with me? SECOND is gone, off with the LADY and GUNNERS.

LUCY

(whispering)

Do you think we'll ever be able to esc--

MYRTLINE put her hand over LUCY'S MOUTH. 

MYRTLINE

(whispering even lower)

Not even the word. 

LUCY curls up with MYRTLINE.

LUCY

(whispering)

I hope if, no, _when_ I see my family again, I'm still me and I don't want to eat them.

-----------------

So, I learned more in this draught. I've learned I like screenplay writing like this. I don't write very quickly but I like what I did this week. I took the draughts that came before and reread them then took notes on a couple things and figured some of it out. Some of this draught came from planning and some came from out of nowhere :)

I think I have Justin almost where I want him. 

I hope I left it in a good spot. :)

E04: Into the Danger Zone

EST. INNSMOUTH MOTOR IN - DAY

A sleepy, Massachusetts coastal city. Humarock, MA,

unexpectedly, not Innsmouth itself. The November rains are

drizzling, the streets wet, the doors always shut hard when

someone steps off the street.

The Motor In looks like a boring old Motel 8 with the serial

numbers scrubbed off. The parking lot is sparse, only a '68

Corvette Stingray in deep sea blue of any note.

The license plate reads MANTA.

A cell phone rings OS.

INT. INNSMOUTH MOTOR IN - CAYMAN'S ROOM - CONT

A shiny new cell phone rings on the nightstand.

There are more than a few bottles of cheap booze tipped or

toppled around it. A few more on the floor. No cigarettes;

the ashtray is scrupulously clean. Clothes, some dirty, some

clean don't heap but definitely are lazily stacked around.

Whoever's here has been here for a while and expects to be

here a little longer. A few Chinese cartons are stacked in

the garbage can along with another bottle, this time of

Jack.

The phone's not giving up.

One hand gropes out from under the covers. Maybe the fingers

are a little long, maybe a little webbed. The thick-lipped,

round-faced head that slides toward the surface after it is

a little more disturbing.

The hang grasps the phone languidly and the voice that

follows it sounds like it's been asleep for a thousand

years.

                      MARK CAYMAN

          Cayman.

                      TOM PITTS (OS)

          It's the Pitts, man.

Cayman rolls over under the covers as if he wants to drown.

                      CAYMAN

          What do you want, kid? Can't you

          see I'm trying to drink like a

          fish?

                      TOM PITTS (OS)

          No. We have camera phones but no

          one ever turns the cameras on.

          Total bummer.

Cayman pulls the covers back up until only one slitted eye

can be seen in the dark.

                      CAYMAN

          Look, kid, I gave you what you

          wanted. Leave me alone. That which

          can eternal lie, yadda yadda.

                      TOM PITTS (OS)

          Yeah, about that --

                      CAYMAN

          No. There ain't no more.

                      TOM PITTS (OS)

          But that was some primo shit, man!

          Anyway, not what I was calling

          about. Jack's talking.

A beat.

Slowly, impacably, MARK CAYMAN surfaces again.

                      CAYMAN

          Motherfucker.

                      TOM PITTS (OS)

          I have no doubt, my man. I have no

          doubt. But he's up and he's

          talking.

                      CAYMAN

          It's your prissy girlfriend,

          Justin, ain't it?

                      TOM PITTS (OS)

          Hardly. Justin is terrible at dick

          sucking. My girlfriend's great at

          it.

          But he is good at talking to

          jack-offs, and your buddy Jack is a

          grade-A wanker.

                      CAYMAN

          You've been reading Constantine

          again, haven't you?

                      TOM PITTS (OS)

          Look, we're in the same boat, you

          and me, right? Right bro? This shit

          is going down.

Lugubriously, Cayman clambers out of the bed, wearing only a

pair of yellow speedos. He has the body of a swimmer with

just a hint of sheen to his skin like an orca, pale and

dangerous. Without looking he reaches out and scoops up a

pair of old jeans in one hand.

                      CAYMAN

          We are not anywhere near the same

          "boat," "bro." I don't do boats.

                      TOM PITTS (OS)

          You'll do this one. Jack'll sink us

          both.

Cayman gives the phone a disgusted look.

                      CAYMAN

          Another ocean pun and you can go

          fuck yourself, kid. Good and hard.

          I don't need this shit.

                      TOM PITTS (OS)

                (cold)

          Yeah. You kinda do, Mark. You need

          this one.

A thick thumb squashes the hang-up icon.

                      CAYMAN

                (tired)

          Fuck you, kid. Fuck you running.

INT. JUSTIN'S APARTMENT - CONT

TOM PITTS gives a tight smile as he flicks closed his

hipster RAZR.

                      TOM

          Hooked.

EXT. HIGHWAY EAST OF BEAUMONT, TX - DAY

interstate 10 East looks about like every other eastbound

highway in southeastern Texas, with November brown and green

matching the crappy sedan's earthtones. Traffic is light in

the afternoon, just a few cars which keep their distance as

if afraid of catching something.

                      ALAN (OS)

          You know, it's been four hours.

          Subway was a few miles back. As is

          the original owner of this lovely

          Mercury Sable.

INT. MERCURY SABLE, EAST OF BEAUMOUNT, TX ON US-90 - CONT

ALAN CHURCHGRIM is casually belted into the passenger seat,

munching on some Funyons. He's casually rumpled but little

worse for wear, and singularly unconcerned. The car is

remarkably free of empty cups, wrappers, or other garbage.

TRAILER, wearing a black hoodie as if she never takes it off

is driving. Splay-fingered grip is precisely at 2 and 10 and

the speedometer is hugging 71mph as if painted on.

                      ALAN

                (continuing)

          Though, in fairness, he really was

          looking the wrong way at that gas

          station. Sloppy. You did good.

Trailer grunts and shrugs.

                      ALAN

          A solid month and you've said like

          thirteen words to me. I haven't

          been counting, but I have a feel

          for this sort of thing.

The woman grunts.

                      ALAN

          Exactly my point.

                      TRAILER

          You talk too much.

                      ALAN

          The sphinx speaks!

                      TRAILER

          'Course I do. Exactly like two and

          a half hours ago.

                      ALAN

          It was just so long, I couldn't

          quite put my finger on it.

                      TRAILER

          Right. You talk too much.

                      ALAN

          Damn right I do.

She grunts again.

                      ALAN

          I should really call Cally.

                      TRAILER

          You said that last time. And the

          time before that. And almost every

          hour on the hour.

                      ALAN

          I should.

She throws him an imperious look.

                      TRAILER

          Phone's in your pocket.

Alan puts his hand on his hip then drags it away.

                      ALAN

          I know. And it's staying there.

          Least until I know where we're

          going.

                      TRAILER

          Home.

                      ALAN

          Your place or mine?

                      TRAILER

          We started at yours. We got a few

          more stops to make.

Blinkers. An exit at LITTLE CYPRESS BAYOU.

Alan's staring out the car window. There's more trees and

less road as they go.

EXT. LITTLE CYPRESS BAYOU - DAY

it was a bog, once. Now it's mostly new growth pine and a

few hardy old oak that are holding as much water as they

can. it's a rainy day and the road has turned to gravel and

mud.

BILL SAXON and ARNOLD WARREN are standing in the middle of

the road wearing rain slicks. Bill has a PUMP ACTION SHOTGUN

leveled at the car. Arnold has TWIN BERETTAS and looks

positively gleeful.

TRAILER and ALAN roll to a stop twenty feet away. With

finality, Trailer turns off the ignition and dangles the

keys in her hand in plain sight above the dash.

Bill casually twitches the shotgun to the side and Trailer

rolls down the window and tosses the keys out into the mud.

She looks unperturbed.

Alan, however, looks very perturbed.

                      ALAN

                (quietly)

          Are you crazy? Why are we just

          sitting here?

                      TRAILER

          Was looking for them.

She gets out of the car, making sure to keep her hands

visible at all times. Nods.

                      TRAILER

          Saxon! Long time!

Bill barely lifts the corner of his mouth but the shotgun

goes up to his shoulder as if he's just stepped out to hunt

some pheasant.

                      BILL

          Trailer! If I'd known it was you

          headed out here, I'd have brought

          some Tastycakes. Warren, be polite

          to the young lady.

Arnold smiles and drops the pistols into his hip holsters as

if he was at an Old West show. Reaches up to tip an

invisible hat.

                      ARNOLD

          Ma'am.

                      BILL

          Miss, you cur.

Trailer laughs and sketches a curtsey in her jogging pants.

                      BILL

          I see you've started keeping

          company with another man. I'd be

          jealous if he didn't look so

          comfortable.

Alan gingerly steps out of the car.

                      ALAN

          She's very persuasive. Alan

          Churchgrim, PI.

                      BILL

          That she is. Bill Saxon, Department

          of Natural Resources.

                (to Trailer)

          I appreciate your call. As he says,

          very persuasive.

Trailer shrugs. Roots around in her pocket and tosses a

couple cell phones down in the mud.

                      ALAN

          You had phones?

                      TRAILER

          Not mine. They're insured.

                      BILL

          But we're not. Come on up the road,

          we've got a nice roomy 4-by. We'll

          get out of the rain and mud for a

          few minutes, anyway.

Trailer starts picking her way across the drier patches up

the road. After a moment, so does Alan with a shrug.

                      ALAN

                (low)

          DNR? Were you about to report me

          for poaching?

                      TRAILER

          Something like that. We're goin'

          huntin'.

                      ALAN

          For what?

                      TRAILER

          Same as you're always huntin'.

EXT. MASSIVE 4X4 SUV JUST OFF ROAD - CONT

BILL and ARNOLD trudge up the road, TRAILER and ALAN not far

behind. What looks like a MUTANT ESCALADE with jacked-up

wheels sits on the side of the road, the only slightly muddy

logo of the Department of Natural Resources, Special

Operations Group on the side. It's not a subtle vehicle.

The group settles into the vehicle companionably enough.

Handshakes come along.

                      ALAN

                (to Trailer)

          Friend of yours, I'll assume.

                      BILL

          Has to be a friend. She's only

          tried to kill me a couple dozen

          times.

                      TRAILER

          Twelve. No more'n that.

                      BILL

          Twelve then. That's almost like

          making love.

Trailer tilts her head.

                      TRAILER

          Almost.

                      ARNOLD

                (to Alan)

          I'd ask what brings you out to

          these parts, but I'm bettin' I

          already know that one. It's only

          partly the young miss there.

                      ALAN

          Her and a tip-off from a friend

          that the person coming to my office

          wasn't exactly the bearer of good

          omen.

EXT. ALAN'S OFFICE - DAY

The strip mall is about as boring as you'd expect for a

mid-October day. In the far corner you can see the shingle,

ALAN CHURCHGRIM, PI.

A well-used VOLVO pulls up in the second rank away from the

office. MARLON GRIMALDI, mid-50's, balding, sports coat with

patched elbows, steels himself.

Then he takes a gun from the glove compartment. Sticks it

into his inner coat pocket, nervously, like someone's never

done it before.

INT. ALAN'S OFFICE - CONT

ALAN's looking speculatively at his office door, expecting

to hear a knock any time.

The PHONE rings. He scoops it up without thinking about it.

                      ALAN

          Alan Churchgrim, PI. But you knew

          that.

                      TRAILER (OS)

          There's a man with a gun in your

          lot.

                      ALAN

          Just the one?

                      TRAILER (OS)

          Today.

                      ALAN

          Thank you.

                      TRAILER (OS)

          Whateley ain't dead.

                      ALAN

          Good t'know. We'll talk later.

                      TRAILER (OS)

          Your place this time.

The line clicks dead.

                      ALAN

          I really love this job. I do.

The phone is back in his hand.

                      ALAN

                (to phone)

          Cally, once you see the boring

          gentleman in, you're done for the

          day. I'll need a bit of privacy.

INT. MASSIVE 4X4 - DAY

                      ARNOLD

          So you went out the window?

                      ALAN

          What sane man wouldn't? That's why

          it stays openable.

                      BILL

          And you never went back?

                      ALAN

          Hell no. Trailer grabbed a few of

          the necessities other than my

          go-bag from the office and met me

          back at my apartment.

                (beat)

          Cally is going to be pissed.

A SHOTGUN BLAST rocks the side of the 4x4!

Without a hesitation, all four occupants boil out of the

truck and shelter behind the wheels, ALAN and BILL at the

front, ARNOLD and TRAILER behind the rear. Bill and Arnold

have shotgun and Baretta in their hands respectively.

                      ALAN

          Hey! Mind sharing the load?

Arnold considers his pistole. Hefts them with a look of

abstract consideration. Tosses one to Alan.

                      ARNOLD

          Thirty-round mag. Don't blow your

          load in one spot.

                      BILL

                (muttering)

          That's what she said.

                      ALAN

          Jesus, you two. Get a room.

He leans out and sends a trio of rounds down-range into the

trees.

EXT. IN THE BAYOU TREE LINE - CONT

SIX TRIBESMEN look at each other without concern. The three

rounds plip into the trees well off target.

SECOND prepares another blast from the truly absurdly large

shotgun he's cradling. Until a strong woman's hand presses

over the iron sights.

                      MIRE PRIESTESS

          Wait a moment. They're almost in

          place.

EXT. DOWN THE ROAD, AROUND THE BEND - CONT

THREE TRIBESMEN carefully wend their way between the trees

and bush, just out of sight of the quartet behind the truck.

They cross the road in a low crouch.

EXT. UP THE ROAD - CONT

FOUR TRIBESMEN form up in the slightly lower brush. They

glance back and forth, then silently shift across the road

to circle back down.

EXT. MASSIVE 4X4 - CONT

ARNOLD spots the TRIBESMEN up the road and fires three

rounds. BLAM BLAM. BLAM.

Two tribesmen lie dead in the road, one head splattered like

a melon, the other with a shattered and bleeding pelvis,

screaming.

                      ARNOLD

          Not today.

EXT. IN THE BAYOU TREE LINE - CONT

                      MIRE PRIESTESS

          Now.

SECOND lets loose another mighty BLAST that rocks the truck

on its axles again, making the group scramble for tighter

cover.

EXT. UP THE ROAD - CONT

The remaining TRIBESMAN scrambles into the woods on the far

side of the road, unseen.

EXT. MASSIVE 4X4 - CONT

TRAILER looks at ARNOLD.

                      TRAILER

          We got us a problem.

                      ARNOLD

          Y'think?

                      TRAILER

          I know.

EXT. DOWN THE ROAD - CONT

FOUR TRIBESMEN circle through the woods until they're

looking at the crew through knotted trunks and scrub. Two of

them slowly draw wicked MACHETES. A third pulls a

SMALL-CALIBER PISTOL. The fourth watches intently.

---

I have had such a bizarre week that it was really difficult to pull my head together long enough to write five pages, but somehow 10 pages managed to fall out and I'm not sure how. On the positive side, I managed to work in side characters from every single episode and even expanded on at least one while simultaneously introducing significant conflict which extends and expands the situation as a whole, all of which without actually touching a single core character. That is quite the achievement. I'm kind of proud of myself. One of the hard parts was realizing that we just don't actually have a timeframe, which made it more difficult than it had to be to frame things appropriately so characters were in the right place at the right time. How do you solve that problem in a shared writing environment? You cheat. Since it wasn't already defined it was perfectly open for me to define it. So I did. Temporally, we are located somewhere recent enough that a mid-1990s car is kind of a beater and cell phones are cheap and easily accessible. Anything more specific aside from the month is going to be someone else's problem. Why November? Because November is the shittiest month. The weather sucks everywhere equally and it's perfectly suitable for making everyone stand around in the rain. Good times, ladies and gentlemen. Good times.

E03: The Case of the Missing Boss

EXT. STRIP MALL - DAY

A fresh and clean example of the species, aspiring to be more than it is.  Several single-story buildings in two ranks, the first facing the feeder road of a major freeway, the second nestled in the space carved out of the pine trees.

We pass over a building in the first rank, with its pho place and hair stylists, then see the one place rented out on the end of the building behind it, with a cheap, plain sign reading CHURCHGRIM INVESTIGATIONS

In front of the nearest empty spot are a Red Mini and a nondescript "white gold" (dark beige) SUV.

INT. INNER OFFICE OF CHURCHGRIM INVESTIGATIONS

There's plenty of space for this beige-carpeted, beige-walled office, but not much money to fill it.  That leaves it furnished with the cheapest office furniture from big-box stores.  On clearance.  A too-small cherry veneer desk with a cheap laptop and the handset of a wireless phone surrounded by papers and books in short stacks.  Bookshelves of various sizes and colors sag against the walls and the lower half of the one window, all overfilled with both ratty old books and glossy new ones.

ALAN CHURCHGRIM, a tall, wiry, racially indeterminate man, 30-45, leans back in the cheapest plastic office chair available.  Black cowboy-booted feet on one clear corner of the desk.  Wears department store white dress shirt and black slacks that billow on his thin frame.  The one spot of hue on him is a Day of the Dead tie, all festive skeletons in a color riot.  Mild Texas accent, all in the tempo rather than the twang.

CALLY BARBEAU, a somewhat heavyset, pale, dark-haired white woman, 25-30, leans against the jamb of the open door leading out to the reception/waiting room.  Her outfit is  even more aggressively grayscale than his, a black, lacy, and gothy dress over fishnets and black steel-toed boots, with ornate rings, ankh necklace, etc.  The dress is theoretically demure, but tailored to fit close to her shape; not "profressional" in many workplaces.  Faint English accent.  Eyes strikingly made-up, on the outer edge of "smoky" and heading toward "raccoon" to some.

CALLY

(at his tie, curious)

Day of the Dead, Alan?

ALAN

(annoyed)

Don't  you  get on me about cultural appropriation.  Half my ancestors got appropriated and shipped to this country.

The ankh necklace swings in the air as she tilts her head toward him.

CALLY

(unperturbed)

My culture is all appropriated.  Just didn't think you were the sort.

ALAN

The "sort"?

CALLY

You're more of a Thanksgiving sort.  Have a great big feast with your family, then sprawl like lions in front of football on the TV.

ALAN

(chuckles)

Same thing, really.  It's all about family, and most of everyone's family is dead.

CALLY

(smirks)

Morbid and sweet, that's my Alan.

ALAN

"My Alan"?  I thought you were dating that guy in a punk band.

CALLY

No, he decided bathing was "bougie".  And one can be possessive of good friends.

(thinks)

Even if Gran -- and even my parents -- still think I should have married you.

ALAN

Despite us never dating?

CALLY

The chastity would be a plus to my parents.  Sex ony for procreation and all of that.  Gran finds that both funny and depressing, but wayward daughters, you know.

Cally winks at Alan.  He grins long enough to nod once.

CALLY

(slumps against the door jamb)

I need a damned cigarette.  Bit early for one, though.

ALAN

(dryly)

It's an expensive vice.  Not that I bring up money for any particular reason.

CALLY

Except no jobs for the last two weeks?

ALAN

(looks out window)

You know how this works.

CALLY

(dryly)

Dry spells, then five jobs at once.  Nobody has the courtesy to schedule their mysteries.

(off Alan's look)

Sorry, "cases".  No, it all has to come like a Nile flood.

Cally look outside at the sound of tires on pavement.

EXT. STRIP MALL - DAY

As before, except now an white Volvo comes down the parking lot between the buildings, pulling into a spot in front of Chuchgrim Investigations.

The DRIVER of the Volvo is a balding white man, 50-55, with thick glasses, light green sport coat with brown leather elbow patches.  Eccentric choice for coastal Texas, even in spring.

No music from the stereo, just the blast of the air conditioner.

CALLY

(v/o, slyly)

Ah, but there's the first raindrops, right now.

The driver stares hopelessly at his steering wheel, hands clutching the wheel, as if trying to gather up his will.

INT. INNER OFFICE OF CHURCHGRIM INVESTIGATIONS

Cally's still looking out at the driver.

ALAN

Boring or fun?

CALLY

Almost certainly a fun one.

She stands straight, then looks back at Alan.

CALLY

(apologetically)

Professor-type, though. 70% chance of him using terms like "miscegenation" or "degeneration".

ALAN

(sighs)

I'd rather deal with the rednecks shooting at things in the woods.

(wistfully)

Maybe he just wants me to find his estranged gay kid and give him a message.

Cally smiles at Alan and walks out of the inner office.

INT. RECEPTION/WAITING ROOM OF CHURCHGRIM INVESTIGATIONS

Doorways to the office and a restroom.  Just as cheaply furnished as the inner office, though at least all four of the stackable chairs against the wall match.  Cally's desk is even smaller than Alan's, but neater, with another cheap laptop, a wireless phone handset, and a blank legal pad with a pen resting on it.

Cally strolls to her chair, sits down.  Composes herself into the model of a straight-backed receptionist.

EXT. STRIP MALL - DAY

The driver of the Volvo closes his eyes.  Breathes slowly.  Opens eyes.  Looks up.

Though the floor-to-ceiling glass front, we see Cally at her desk.  She meets his eyes.  Smiles brightly, encouragingly.

EXT. STRIP MALL - NIGHT

A storm recently drenched everything and wandered away.  A red Mini drives up fast, on the edge of safety.  Pulls in a spot in front of the dark Churchgrim Investigations office.  Only car in sight at any of the buildings.

Cally steps out, moving casually despite her driving.  She heads for the corner of the sidewalk in front of the office.  Fishes a cigarette out of her purse.  Rummages for the lighter.  Looks sidelong at the door.

The door is just barely ajar.

Cally looks around quickly.  Drops cigarette back in purse.  Looks at the closed door to the inner office.

She walks around to the office window, squishing and slushing through mud and puddles.  Peers in warily.

INT. INNER OFFICE OF CHURCHGRIM INVESTIGATIONS

As before, but dark.  We see Cally look in the window.

EXT. STRIP MALL - NIGHT

Over Cally's shoulder, through the mirror, we see at least one bookshelf toppled and books scattered over the floor.  Nobody obviously inside.

She walks quickly to the front of the office, squishing and slushing again.

A SHAPE rises from behind the desk.

INT. INNER OFFICE OF CHURCHGRIM INVESTIGATIONS

Cally flips on the lights, pulls out her phone.  Takes pictures of the office.  Steps behind the desk, takes pictures of the disarray of the open drawers.

Cally looks at the inner office door.  Not sctually closed, but also ajar.  She pushes it open, not touching the knob.

A BURGLAR in worn jeans, oversized black hoodie, and disposable gloves, hood pulled over his head to hide his face, bursts through the door.  Shoulders Cally and swings his arm, clearly meaning to fling her back, knock her down.

Cally doesn't fling, keeps her balance.  Lunges at the burglar, shoulders him into the wall with a bang and rattle.

The burglar grunts in pain, tries to punch her despite the bad angle.  Cally kicks at the back of his leg; not the best angle either, but the burglar still cries out at the steel toe slamming into his calf.  She pelts his lower back with a fist, which can't feel good, either.

Cally shies back, closer arm up, as the burglar drives his elbow down at her face.  This deflects the blow, but pushes her back, giving him time to pull away and run out the front door.

He darts left, down the sidewalk.  Cally follows, hand in her purse.

EXT. STRIP MALL - NIGHT

Cally comes out the door, pulls pistol out of purse.  Flips off safety while watching the burglar.

He's more than halfway down the front of the building.

Cally doesn't bother to aim.  Puts safety back on, gets in Mini.

The Mini pulls out of its spot and turns so fast it SQUEALS and drifts on the wet pavement.  Keeps control, surges forward even as the burglar turns the corner of the building.

The Mini takes the turn as tightly as remotely sane, circles around.  Hopefully, she looked for cross-traffic, but there is none.

INT. CALLY'S MINI

A cute little bat ornament swings from the rear-view mirror.

Cally looks around as she drives, grievous assault in her eyes.

EXT. STRIP MALL - NIGHT

The Mini hunts around the buildings of the strip mall.  The burglar is nowhere in sight.

INT. CALLY'S MINI

Cally looks increasingly frustrated.

EXT. STRIP MALL - NIGHT

The Mini stops.

INT. CALLY'S MINI

CALLY

(accent strong with anger)

Bloody Hell.

INT. RECEPTION/WAITING ROOM OF CHURCHGRIM INVESTIGATIONS

Cally sits behind the desk, filling out a statement.  A green leather book sits on the corner of her desk  A BLOND COP studies the dent in the cheap, beige-painted wall.  From the inner office, a camera flashes.

BLOND COP

(disbelieving)

You did this to him?

CALLY

(not looking up)

Roller derby.

The blond cop absorbe that.  Looks back to the inner office door as OLD COP, his portly, balding superior comes out, putting away his phone.

OLD COP

You  sure  you can't tell if anything's missing, Ms. Barbeau?

CALLY

(shakes head)

I'll have to itemize the books and check with Mr. Churchgrim.  He might have taken some home.  He's not the best when it comes to work/life balance.

OLD COP

Any luck reaching him?

CALLY

He goes do-not-disturb at night.  He usually answers my texts, but he hasn't, yet.  I'll wake him when I drop off this book he sent me to get.

The old cop looks dubiously back toward the inner office.

OLD COP

Any reason your boss has so many books about...monsters and the occult?

CALLY

(smiles)

That's for what I call our Scooby-Doo cases.

OLD COP

Scooby-Doo cases?

CALLY

(glances up)

We put ads in the Houston Press and certain online forums, and so, some of our cases are...silly.  We get people convinced the abandoned house down the street is haunted, or that the Mothman shows up in their backyard.  Mr. Churchgrim investigates and inevitably finds the homeless people squatting in the old house or the big owl nesting in a nearby tree.

BLOND COP

Wait, a mothman?  How big an owl is  that?

CALLY

(smirks)

A Great Horned Owl can be two feet tall.  They like to perch upon the edge of car trunks, porch railings, etc.  In the dark, they look all for the world like a person standing behind what they're perched upon.

Cally finishes the statement.  Stands and gives statement to the OLD COP.

OLD COP

Can't promise anything, but we'll keep our eyes and ears open.  Just, next time, call and have  us  go inside, first.

CALLY

(far too seriously)

Oh, I will, officer.

The cops nod to her and head out.  She gathers up the book and her purse.  The cops' headlights shine in the office, then slide away.

EXT. OUTSIDE ALAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

A door and a window, the latter with closed blinds. A black-painted metal railing behind Cally.

Cally impatiently knocks.  Waits even more impatiently.

CALLY

(through the door)

Alan?  Alan!

She finally pulls out her keyring and opens the door.

INT. ALAN'S LIVING ROOM

Not small or large.  Battered but comfortable-looking couch behind a cheap, blocky coffee table barely visible under books and scrawled-in notebooks.  A lamp in the corner is on, but not the overhead light.  More light comes the hallway to the rest of the apartment.

Cally closes the door behind her.

CALLY

Alan!  Are you here?

Cally listens.  Hears nothing.  Pulls the pistol out of her purse.  Drops the purse.  Takes piston in both hands, flips off the safety.  Stalks into the hallway, gun out.

INT. ALAN'S KITCHEN

Clean and tiny, with a steak on a plate under glass.

Cally lifts the glass cover.  Sniffs, looks disgusted.  Replaces the cover.  She moves on down the hall.

INT. ALAN'S BEDROOM

Many overflowing bookshelves, a desk, and a rumpled bed.  A lamp is on, but not the overhead light.

Cally moves quietly into the room.  Goes to the closet.  Aims gun at the door, opens door in burst of motion.  Nothing.

She goes to the bathroom, moving out of sight.  We hear a shower curtain rapidly slide open.  She comes back out.

Cally glares at the bed and goes over to the light switch.  Flips it on.  Then she steps toward the middle of the room and quickly drops to her hands and knees.  Rolls onto her side.  Aims her gun under the bed.

Nothing.

She gets up.  Brushes at her side.  Glowers.

The glower fades.  She starts to look worried.

Cally pulls out her phone and starts pictures of everything on the desk and all the bookshelves.  Hesitates, looking around.

CALLY

(to herself)

No texts, no messages.

(looks at desk)

No notes.

(looks around)

No Alan.

---

Eric couldn't be arsed to do the transport to the blog himself, so I have to. :P He can do an addenda later to put in his personal thoughts, et al.