E6: The Chatty Professor

INT. ALAN'S BEDROOM

Cally, as seen previously, looks around the room, annoyed.

Frowns, sets her jaw.

SUPER: Investigation, Day 0

Cally looks at her phone and taps at it.

ON THE PHONE SCREEN

A typical sort of streetmap view under the heading "BabyStalker 4".  Two phone icons appear, green and red.  Green is "HERE", and red is "ALAN".

Alan's icon moves north on a major freeway.  A little indicator besides it says "71mph.  Speeding!"

The app changes to a text messager.

ON CALLY

She walks slowly through the house, back to the front door.

INT. ALAN'S LIVING ROOM

CALLY (TEXT)

Where are you headed, Dallas?  Should I catch up?

She waits.

ALAN (TEXT)

You put that tracker on my phone again.

CALLY (TEXT)

Yes.  Not being kidnapped, I assume.  Where to, and why ignore my texts?

ALAN (TEXT)

Will uninstall that.

Cally smirks.

CALLY (TEXT)

If you do that at any point, I'll tell your family that you're in trouble.

She gathers up her purse.

ALAN (TEXT)

Not in trouble.  Much.

(beat)

Safe right now.

(beat)

Leave it be.

Cally scowls.

CALLY (TEXT)

Fill me in, and I know to leave it be.

Cally leaves the apartment.

EXT. OUTSIDE ALAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

She walks out, locks the door, goes down steps toward her Red Mini.  Gets in.

ALAN (TEXT)

Miss, I am your employer.

CALLY (TEXT)

Which makes your future ability to sign my paychecks a priority to me.

ALAN (TEXT)

Keeping your ability to forge my signature safe.

CALLY (TEXT)

Does this have to do that "Alberts" man who came in today?

ALAN (TEXT)

Stay away from him.  TROUBLE.  Can't talk.  Will talk tomorrow.

She frowns, thinking.

ON THE PHONE SCREEN

We see the app switch to a photo gallery.  We see the front of a white Volvo, license number clearly visible.

INT. MARLON GRIMALDI'S OFFICE - DAY

A small professor's office, lacking prestige, but full of dangerously heavily-laden bookshelves.  It would be a cozy place to look into things or talk one-on-one with students, if not for the further stacks of books in not-quite-out-of-the-way places.  The window beside the desk looks out onto grass stretching to the next brick building.

MARLON GRIMALDI, the Volvo Driver, picks at steaming food in a plastic container.  He wears different slacks and shirt with the unchanging sports jacket.

SUPER: Investigation, Day 1

CALLY

(O/S)

Professor Grim-Aldy?

Grimaldi sights and looks toward the door.

GRIMALDI

(resignedly)

Grih-MALDY, Grih-MALDY.

Cally steps in. Today she wears a more genuinely demure black dress with the fishnets and boots, balancing on the edge of standing out and being easily forgotten.  She rests one hand on her purse.

CALLY

Sorry, it's just that you introduced yourself as "Mr. Alberts".

Grimaldi stares at her.

Cally smiles, a repetition of her encouraging smile from before.

Grimaldi pales.  After hesitating, he starts to reach under his sports jacket.

Cally grabs her REVOLVER out of her purse and puts the barrel to Grimaldi's temple.

CALLY

(firmly)

Don't move.

Grimaldi freezes.  She reaches under his jacket.

CALLY

"Alberts".  Many people, when choosing an alias, tend to use a variation of a given name for a surname.  It's a dead giveaway.

She draws out a GLOCK from Grimaldi's jacket, holding it with two fingers.

CALLY

(disgusted)

You don't have a proper holster, and you're carrying a Glock, of all things.  I'm probably protecting you by taking this.

(shakes head)

Is this even your gun?

GRIMALDI

(frightened)

I...have friends.

Cally drops the Glock in her purse.

CALLY

I do, too.  One's Alan Churchgrim.  But who are yours?

GRIMALDI

(quickly)

He's not what you think he is!

CALLY

Do tell.

GRIMALDI

(quickly)

He's a degenerate abhuman thing living sub rosa in our society!

CALLY

Ah, so you're a racist.  I knew this was a conservative campus, but...

GRIMALDI

What?  I-I don't mean he's black, I mean he's a different species, a nocturnal thing that preys on human flesh!

CALLY

(pokes him with revolver)

Again, you're a racist.

(beat)

I mean, he's more human than I am.  He's a taxpayer, an upstanding...ish...citizen who likes very, very high steaks, and he's no more prone to violence than random asshole professors.

Grimaldi stares at Cally, eyes wide.

GRIMALDI

Than...you are?

Cally pulls back the revolver's hammer with an authoritative CLICK.

CALLY

(annoyed)

Start answering questions before I put this school in the nightly news.

Grimaldi whimpers.

EXT. OUTSIDE GAS STATION SOMEWHERE ON A PRAIRIE

SUPER: Investigation, Day 20

It's flat.  You might think coastal Texas is flat, but it at least has hills.  It's pancake-flat and treeless up in this part of the Panhandle.

The beige SUV sits at the pumps, and Alan Churchgrim stares tiredly at the spinning numbers on one.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.  He looks, pulls it out.

CALLY (TEXT)

You haven't looked into any of those names I sent you.  Do I have to go to Dallas myself?

ALAN (TEXT)

Didn't tell you to go after them.  I stay AWAY from people who try to shoot me.  You should, too.

CALLY (TEXT)

That doesn't work when they know where you live.  And all of them have been amendable to reason.  Or to threats.

INT. UNIVERSITY LIBRARY STACKS

Cally holds RED-HEADED LIBRARIAN (male, 40-50) in grey business casual at gunpoint, while holding up an odd, vice grip-like device holding open a loop of an elastic band.

CALLY

You see, they take the young male they want to make a steer of and—

She releases the device, and with alarming force, the thing CLACKS open, and the elastic band drindles to a terrifyingly small ring.

The librarian makes a full-body, leg-crossing cringe.

EXT. OUTSIDE GAS STATION SOMEWHERE ON A PRAIRIE

ALAN (TEXT

IOW, to threats.

CALLY (TEXT)

So, you're not investigating this.  I wonder, does this have anything to do with that psycho jailbait runaway with the daddy issues?

Alan sighs.  Looks toward the gas station's restroom door.

ALAN (TEXT)

1, you're going all crazy Parker the Hunter on these people, psycho.

(beat)

2, if it did, have to protect her confidentiality.  She's still underage, pretty sure.

CALLY (TEXT)

She tried to kill you.

ALAN (TEXT)

Only the once. Fine after she smelled my blood.

Alan deletes "Fine after she smelled my blood.", sends the first sentence.

TRAILER comes out of the restroom, dressed as seen before.  Her face is cleaner, though, and the hoodie looks cleaner and damp.


Alan looks at her.

ALAN

Well, look who got all dolled up.

Trailer glances at him, gets into the SUV's driver seat.

EXT. OUTSIDE USED BOOKSTORE

Typical example of such a place, packed with books and fronted with glass panes.  Inside, an elderly, white-haired SHOPKEEPER greets Alan and Trailer.

Alan starts to talk, but Trailer cuts him off.  Clearly takes the lead in the conversation, smiling and clasping her hands excitedly as she talks to the Shopkeeper, who smiles and nods to her before going back behind her counter.

Alan looks increasingly bewildered as Trailer and the Shopkeeper just keep talking as the Shopkeeper finds and hands Trailer a book.  Trailer flips through the book and seems to chatter excitedly, delighting the Shopkeeper.

Alan tears his eyes from this disorienting scene and looks out toward the road.

We see one of the many electronic signs the Texas Department of Transportation has scattered around major freeways.  It flashes messages to traffic, reasonably enough.

ON THE SIGN

"REPORTED MISSING THURSDAY LUBBOCK"

In a moment, it's replaced with

"LAST SEEN BEIGE CHEVY, LIC. LVE-YU44"

ON ALAN

Alan looks away, to the front of the store.

We see the license plate of his SUV, LVE-YU44.

His phone buzzes.  He takes a look.

CALLY (TEXT)

You are in an Amber Alert.

(beat)

Not my fault.

ALAN (TEXT)

Going dark.  Don't tell my family.

EXT. SWEET BLESSED REST FUNERAL HOME - NIGHT

It's a typical rural/exurb funeral home for the region, a low, white building with a large, currently near-empty parking lot in front of and behind it.  Generic-Christian stained glass windows in places.  CASSIUS GLASS, a heavyset, white-haired, white-bearded black man, 55-65, stands in front of the door like a palace guard.  Wears a light grey suit, nearly-tied burgundy tie.

Cally's Red Mini pulls up fast on the wet pavement, but parks neatly.  She gets out and trots through the light rain to Cassius at the entrance.

CALLY

(smiling)

Good to see you, Uncle Cassius.

Cassius brightens, but not quite to a smile.

CASSIUS

Good to see you, little mermaid.

He pulls open the door for her, as if he's done it a thousand times.  He has.

INT. FUNERAL HOME HALLWAY

Also typical, aside from the lack of mourners or guestbook set out.  Cassius takes a moment to lock a good three latches.  Turns back, gestures off to the left.

CASSIUS

Everyone who could make it is in the West family room.  Have you eaten?

CALLY

(hesitant, tries to hide that)

No...

CASSIUS

(smiles tolerantly)

My wife made a pork roast.

(beat)

Don't worry, that's what you're smelling.  The Churchgrims and the Stewards are having theirs blue.

INT. WEST FAMILY ROOM

Like a glorified office break room, with coffee and similar for the bereaved needing a recharge.  At least a dozen figures are pressed in here, sittng or standing while holding paper plates and trying to eat while talking.  All are tense or pretending not to be to reassure each other.  Not all are human.

A few, all black or slightly lighter-skinned human men, are dressed in suits that match Cassius'.  Others wear business casual or just plain casual; whatever they were wearing.  These others vary in skin color from light brown to pinkly Caucasian to ashen gray and gray-blue.  The lighter in skin people are, the thinner and gaunter they are.  The last two shades bring various degrees of literal ghoulishness.  For a few, the gaunt turns to skeletal, with hard, almost armor-like faces and disturbingly lively, liquid eyes.  Two, the gray-blue ones, can't wear more than sweat-pants and hoodies, thanks to their hunched posture, clawed feet, and prominent snouts.

Everyone starts trying to ask questions at once as Cally and Cassius step inside.

CASSIUS

Simmer down, everyone!

(beat)

Simmer down!

(beat, as they settle down)

Now, those of you who don't know Cally, she's not family, but she's friend.  I've known her almost as long as my favorite nephew has.  She's one of the Beaumont Barbeaus.

He nods to Cally.  She turns on that smile for a moment, then sobers.

CALLY

Thank you.

(beat)

I beg all your pardons in advance, because some of this is a bit...involved.  I've had to work out what were red herrings and what actually mattered.  Two conspiracies, for lack of a better word, have crossed paths.  One is human, one is my people, and both are reacting very poorly to encountering each other and discovering each others'...

(beat)

Misdeeds.

(sighs)

And some people, including Alan, are getting pulled right into the middle of it.

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.