A Quiet Night Out

Part 1: Journey to Oblivion

Open on a wide angle shot of Beacon City

Monologue: Beacon city ain’t one for the faint of heart.

Shot of humans walking about on crowded streets in the daytime

Monologue: Sure, you can stay uptown, hit the shops, scrape the sky, go home to the suburbs and pretend it’s all normal. But you stay uptown.

      Because downtown…

Switch to a similar shot, but at dusk, with shoddier buildings. The people here are Peculiars, of all shapes and sizes.

Monologue: downtown belongs to the Peculiars.

Continuing shots of Peculiars going about regular lives: buying food, working jobs, etc. There are humans as well, sprinkled here and there. There is a very lower-class feel.

Monologue: Nobody knows why they’re here. Why this city attracts them like a twenty-watt bug zapper. Some get born, and some get made.

     But be a good little human, keep within the lines, and you’ll never see us. The cops make sure of that. Humans stay bundled in their little world, and we stay in ours.

     Only sometimes…

Shot of a cape codder house in the suburbs. Cop cars are parked outside it, lights flashing, and cops can be seen standing around. Yellow police tape is wrapped around the lawn.

Monologue: sometimes they cross.

Shot of a dark living room. An old, chubby police officer, BOBBY GRIMM, looks down at two bodies sitting on a couch. The bodies are of a late middle-aged man and woman. Their eyelids have been cut off, leaving their eyes bulging out at nothing. Their tongues are gone, and a good amount of blood has spilled out of their mouths at the corners.

BG: “Christ alive.

     ...what have you got?”

Enter DEMETRIUS JONES with a notepad.

DJ: “House is owned by a ‘Mr. and Mrs. Farquar’.

     Guessing that’s them.”

Shot behind their shoulders of them looking on at the corpses

BG: “By gum, Jones, we’ll make a detective of you yet.”

Shot of the bodies as a flashlight plays over them.

DJ: “The daughter’s hysterical. Apparently she swung by for a surprise visit and caught the killer in the act. All we can get out of her is that he ‘disappeared’.

     The neighbors heard her screaming, came over to find… this. Called the cops at 10:48.”

BG: “Alright.

     Sighs

     Pack up the equipment, Jones. This ain’t worth our time or health.”

DJ: “Sir?”

BG: “It’s got ‘snitch retaliation’ written all over in uppercase.”

DJ: “You think this was a mob hit? They don’t seem the type, boss.”

BG: “There’s a system to this kind of thing, Jones.”

     Closeup on the victim’s faces.

BG: “Eyelids gone, that means they saw something.

     Tongue gone, that means they talked.

     You stick around long enough, you’ll pick up the language.”

DJ: “…whatever you say, boss.

     I gotta go make a call.”

Shot of an open office door. The sign on the door reads FRANK FOLDS DETECTIVE AGENCY. In the empty office that can be seen inside, a phone is ringing at a desk.

Close up on the ringing phone.

JM: offscreen “No no, don’t worry, I’ve got it.

     She said, into the void.”

JANET MORENO sits at the desk and picks up the phone.

JM: “Frank Folds Detective Agency.”

DJ: “Is the paper man in?”

JM: “Demetrius Jones.

     Calling with good news, I hope?”

DJ: “Funny.

     We’ve got a double homicide up on Richter Street. Man and wife, middle-aged.”

JM: “There something… peculiar about this homicide?”

DJ: “Well… there’s some stuff missing.”

JM: “Like what, the television?

     The jewelry box?”

DJ: “More like eyelids and tongues.”

JM: “Jesus, Dee.”

DJ: “Yeah.

     Grimm’s chalked it up to a mob hit, but there’s no motive. They were just… people, Jay.

     I was thinking Frank could come down and take a look.”

JM: “I’ll see if I can break him out of rumination.

     Thanks for the inside tip, Dee.”

Wide shot of the darkly lit inner office. FRANK FOLDS is lying back in his chair, his feet up on the desk.

Monologue: It’s so late the clock is yawning. Little man’s got his arms stretched to twelve and two.

     But these are my hours. Detective work ain’t exactly a brunch and cocktails kind of gig. Crime never sleeps, but it likes the night life, and I’ve got to pick my battles.

     Wasn’t always like this. I used to be a writer. Not a great one, heavy on gusto and light on skill. But I had fire.

     Always loved detective stories. Couldn’t write one to save my life, but that never stopped me from trying. Cranked a new one out every day. I made so many I bought a paper pulper, so I could throw in all the ones that never sold, crank out fresh paper, and print more.

     And then one day I slip on a loose sheet and I wind up the one getting pulped, along with a dozen copies of my latest slop. And the man who came out wasn’t the man who went in.

     I was made Peculiar, which puts me square on the bottom of the totem pole, holding the damn thing up. Guess everybody needs somebody lower than them.

     But I manage. Turns out there’s a lot of demand for a Peculiar detective, even one who can’t use a damn pistol without lighting himself up. And there’s no-

Monologue is interrupted by JANET MORENO slapping a calendar and the bank ledger onto FRANK FOLDS’ desk.

JM: “Now that I’ve got your attention, we’ve got something worth checking out. 101 Richter Street. Double homicide, husband and wife, eyelids and tongues missing.”

FF: “Let me guess. Our boys in blue said ‘mob hit’ and buried their heads in the sand.”

JM: “But you, me, and Demetrius know better.

     Get over there before they close up shop and you might still have a secretary when you get back.”

FRANK FOLDS steps out of his office, down to his rusty, dented car.

Monologue: Janet’s my rock, the kind that beats you over the head till you get moving.

Montage of FRANK FOLDS getting into his car, starting it up, and driving down the streets of Beacon. The city subtly shifts from dirty slums to tidy suburbs.

Monologue: She keeps the office running and the bills paid on time. Real head for numbers.

     Real head for magic, too, but she doesn’t do that anymore. Not since her ‘talents’ went and had her playing host to some real mean demons.

     Her family hired me to drag the hoodoo out of her, but when I was done, they didn’t want their little ‘Bruja’ back. She’s been working for me ever since.

FRANK FOLDS steps out of his car and walks up to the house. Police around the yard look at him.

Monologue: Time for an old song. It’s worn out and tattered, played so many times I know it by heart, but somehow there’s always someone in this city who hasn’t heard it yet.

Cop1: “What’s wrong with his face?”

Monologue: There it is.

Montage of FRANK FOLDS moving through the crowds, speaking to cops. Behind him, two cops are talking.

Cop2: “Keep it down, kid. That’s Folds.

     He’s Peculiar. Made of paper or something.”

     Private eye, or at least thinks he is. Runs an office down in freakville.”

Cop1: “And we just let him walk around up here?”

Cop2: “Well… thing is, he’s good. Especially when it comes to Peculiars.

     We get cases we need some perspective on, maybe we cut him some slack.”

Cop1: “The chief approve of this?”

Cop2: “The chief don’t need to know about it, kid. He don’t want to know.”

BOBBY GRIMM looks up as FRANK FOLDS enters the house.

BG: “Folds? What the hell are you doing here?”

FF: coolly “Heard you had a real puzzler, thought I could help.”

BG: suspiciously eyes DEMETRIUS JONES “Yeah? Heard it from who?”

FF: “It’s my job to hear things, Grimm.

     And what I heard is, you’ve got a lovely old couple getting cooler by the second. You gonna let me take a look, or you gonna jerk me around till we’re all stiffs?”

BG: “We don’t need you here, Folds. We got it all figured out.”

FF: “Oh, that’s right. Mob hit.

     Is that ink dry just yet?”

BOBBY GRIMM glances down at his clipboard, and FRANK FOLDS takes the opportunity to dart through the cops, using his powers to turn 2-dimensional to their shock. He slips through the crack in the door to the crime scene and locks it behind him.

FRANK FOLDS looks down at the bodies, studying them. Behind him, the police are hammering at the door.

Monologue: I’ve got about five seconds before they decide to kick the door in. Another ten before Grimm gives up and lets someone younger try.

     I’d better have something real snazzy to say by then.

The cops manage to break open the door. BOBBY GRIMM is the first person in.

BG: “God DAMMIT Folds-”

FF: “There’s not enough blood here.”

Beat panel of BOBBY GRIMM looking surprised.

BG: “What?”

FF: “Human body holds a gallon and a half of blood. And the tongue’s full of arteries. This carpet should be a nice maroon by now.”

BG: “Which means…?”

FF: “Which means the tongue wasn’t severed until the victim was already dead.

     One of the wife’s eyelids isn’t removed. He was probably about to when he got interrupted. So he went tongues first, then eyes. And other than that, there’s no visible wounds.”

BG: “Well?! So what?”

FF: “So what killed them?”

The cops look baffled, except for DEMETRIUS JONES, who is smiling softly.

FF: “The mob doesn’t deal in Peculiars, Grimm. And their stooges prefer to stab, shoot, or strangle. None of which happened here.”

BOBBY GRIMM takes an effort to dial back his anger, and assumes a smug look of fake conviviality. He walks up to FRANK FOLDS, leering in inches from his face.

BG: “Look Folds, as much as you’d like to bill us for this one, we’ve got it under control. It’s a mob hit. You know why? Because I say it is.

     We’ll call you when we get a case that requires your expertise.

     Don’t get... torn up, about it.”

Unimpressed, FRANK FOLDS picks a pink sprinkle off of BOBBY GRIMM’s tie.

FF: “You’ll need me before I need you, Bob…”

He flicks it into BOBBY GRIMM’S face, who flinches.

FF: “...dollars to donuts.”

FRANK FOLDS turns and walks out of the room, lightly tipping his hat to DEMETRIUS JONES.

One of the cops tries to save his boss’s face.

Cop3: “Why’d you run him off, Grimm? I hadn’t finished reading the sports section!”

Shot of FRANK FOLDS walking away from the house as the cops laugh behind him.

Monologue: It’s a new twist on an old joke, one that was actually witty the first dozen times.

FRANK FOLDS gets in his car and starts it up.

Monologue: Sports section. Hmmph.

     I’d always figured Mahoney for the Sunday funnies.

FRANK FOLDS pulls away and drives back towards the slums.

Monologue: What can kill without a trace? A town like this, there’s far too many answers to that question.

     My head’s buzzing like a wasp nest. Some kid’s decided to throw a rock and now every idea’s zipping around in there, trying to make itself heard.

     Times like this, a man needs to quiet his mind.

     Times like this, a man seeks oblivion.

Extreme closeup of a blade tearing raggedly through paper with an ugly sound. Zoom out to reveal JANET MORENO in the office, opening a bill marked PAST DUE, to add to the large pile already on the desk. The “DRIP, DRIP” of leaking water can be heard in the background.

JM: sifting through the pile of bills “Three months past due…

     One month past due…

     Two years past due?! We have a winner.”

JANET MORENO attaches a postit note to the bill and scribbles URGENT!! on it.

Walking through the dark office holding the bill, she passes the dripping faucet in the kitchenette and sighs before going into FRANK FOLDS’ office.

Dropping off the bill at his desk, she looks up at the pegboard on the wall, tacked with countless newspaper clippings, linked by a spiderweb of string. She reaches for one clipping and looks at it. It reads ORIGAMI BANDIT STRIKES AGAIN.

Wide shot of the room with JANET MORENO in the middle, facing away, holding the note and looking very alone.

JM: Oh, Frank.

Shot of FRANK FOLDS walking from his car to a bar with a dingy neon sign that reads OBLIVION

Monologue: The mission is threefold:

     Interrogation, information, and intoxication.

     Luckily, I can kill three birds with one stone.

FRANK FOLDS enters the bar. It is filled with Peculiars of all kinds: hulking monsters, bizarre mutants, and some who could almost pass as human.

Monologue: Oblivion. Bar of choice for a man with peculiar interests.

     Where the strange can feel normal and the normals feel strange.

FRANK FOLDS glances up to the stage, where BABY GRAND, a peculiar with a piano key birthmark running from ankle to neck, is singing. Their eyes meet as he passes, and she smiles.

FF: I hear a voice, one that sets my spine to shiver, and I know Baby Grand’s started her set. Like a sunrise through a smoked glass window. Like chocolate running down a gold bar.

     Always gives the band a chance for a smoke break. That key mark ain’t just for show. Piano, sax, trumpet? Baby does it all with that voice.

     She’s always been sweet on my ragged old soul. Can’t imagine why.

FRANK FOLDS sits at the bar, where AUGUSTINE, an enormous humanoid frog, is tending bar. At the other corner of the bar, a pale, well-dressed man can be seen sitting and looking towards FRANK FOLDS

FF: raises his hand “Excuse me barkeep, there’s-”

AUGUSTINE slams his webbed hands on the bar and glares at FRANK FOLDS

Au: “I swear to god, Frank, you tell me there’s a fly in your drink again and I’ll feed you to a goat.”

AUGUSTINE and FRANK FOLDS stare down each other for a beat, then start laughing.

Au: slides FRANK FOLDS a shot “So what brings you around tonight, Frank?”

FF: sipping his drink “I’m working a case.

     Human couple, elderly, killed up in the heights. No wounds, but tongues removed.         Figured someone here might know something.”

Reaction closeups on TEMPERANCE HIGHTOWER and KRIN hearing FRANK FOLDS. KRIN opens an eye and flicks his ear towards the conversation, looking irritated. TEMPERANCE HIGHTOWER looks startled.

Au: cleaning a glass “You know we don’t like that kind of talk in here, Frank. You go snooping around the bar for suspects, makes the clientele nervous.”

FF: “I’m not saying the killer’s Peculiar, August.”

Monologue: but it’d be a damn miracle if he weren’t.

FF: “But Peculiars have eyes and ears. Some more than others.

     Somebody’s got to know something.”

A massive fist slams down on the bar. FRANK FOLDS looks up into the snarling face of KRIN. KRIN is a bestial Peculiar, nine feet tall with the head of a goat.

Kr: “Why don’t you ask some of your human friends what they’ve seen? Leave us Peculiars alone?”

FF: hiding his nervousness “Tried that, didn’t pan out.

     You know this guy, August?”

Au: still looking down, cleaning his glass “This is Krin. Remember the fly joke?

     He’s the goat.”

Monologue: Ah.

FF: “Well, Krin, rest assured that I’m taking every effort to-”

FRANK FOLDS is interrupted by KRIN seizing his neck

Monologue: He gets me by the pipes and I know I’m in dutch.

KRIN holds FRANK FOLDS up in the air by the neck, leaning in close

Kr: “I heard about you, Folds. Some human falls into a paper mill and you pop out.

     You ain’t one of us. You weren’t born Peculiar. You got no place here.”

Monologue: The word “crumple” suddenly comes to mind.

FF: struggling “I got no kick with you, Krin. Just asking some questions.”

Kr: “Yeah? You about to get some answers.”

Monologue: I don’t think they’re going to be the helpful kind.

A double click makes them both look down. AUGUSTINE has pulled out a sawed-off shotgun out from under the bar and is holding it not quite pointed at them.

Au: “Cut the gas, boys. You know the rules.

     You want to rumble, you take it outside. Otherwise you’re both getting the bum rush.”

KRIN pauses, then lowers FRANK FOLDS and stomps towards the alley door. FRANK FOLDS pauses, then takes another round before following KRIN.

FF: "I’m gonna need this one for the road."

Shot of the dirty alley outside, as FRANK FOLDS walks out of the door. Something small, long, and scaly can be seen scurrying away in the foreground.

Monologue: Not exactly information gathering, but there’s such a thing as Peculiar pride.

Shot of KRIN looking savagely eager

Monologue: He’s over the edge with the rams. I’m not entirely sober myself.

FF: “So how exactly do-”

KRIN’s fist hits him in the jaw

Monologue: Tonight’s performance by Baby Grand will be accompanied by a five-man-band of chin music.

FRANK FOLDS recovers in time to dodge a flurry of blows by KRIN.

Monologue: A narrow alley’s no place for idle conversation.

     I should really know that by now, but I’m a man of words. It’s written into me.

     Like my Ma always told me-

KRIN’s hand with extended claws tears into FRANK FOLDS, clawing down the side of his face and neck.

Monologue: no place for internal monologue, either.

FRANK FOLDS pulls out a pulp magazine and presses pages to his ragged wounds, where they stick and heal.

Monologue: Luckily I’ve got a patch kit.

     Just one of my talents.

Dual shots of KRIN grinning and brandishing his claws, and FRANK FOLDS grasping his sword.

Monologue: Well, he’s shown me his claws.

     Wouldn’t be polite not to return the favor.

Fight scene unfolds between FRANK FOLDS and KRIN, sword against claw. FOLDS lands several slashes on KRIN, but is torn up badly in return. They pause. KRIN has a few cuts, but none seem serious, while FRANK is ragged.

Kr: “Hah! Hardly felt any of those, Paper Tiger!”

KRIN goes to take a step forward, then abruptly collapses. FRANK FOLDS sheathes his sword nonchalantly.

FF: “I kept them shallow, but they add up fast.”

Monologue: Should be fine in a few days, but I should probably get Augustine to call the doctor.

     Or a vet.

TH: “Mister Folds?

FRANK FOLDS turns at the voice. TEMPERANCE HIGHTOWER steps out of the shadows.

TH: “You are Frank Folds, right? The Paper He- the detective, right?”

Monologue: And just like that, the trail picks up again.

     That, or collection agents are getting younger.

FF: “Might be, kid. What’s it to you?”

TH: hesitantly “I got… a friend. May have mentioned something, something crazy.”

     looks around “About people missing tongues. And… eyelids.”

FRANK FOLDS looks appraisingly at TEMPERANCE HIGHTOWER

Monologue: Could be stringing me. Could be three guys with bats waiting around the corner to conduct a financial transaction on my person.

     But I didn’t say anything at the bar about eyelids.

TH: “And he said this guy-”

FRANK FOLDS shushes her.

Monologue: It’s time to stop talking, for my sake and hers.

He looks around warily.

Monologue: This town’s got more ears than its share. Can never tell who’s listening.

FF: “Take me to your friend, kid.”

FRANK FOLDS and TEMPERANCE HIGHTOWER walk through dark streets, the buildings becoming more and more decrepit, the streets greasier and less populated until it’s just them. FRANK FOLDS patches himself up with paper as they walk.

Monologue: This place used to be an arts and cultural district. The “Peculiar Pride of Beacon City”.

     Then the mood changed. Now they sweep us under a rug, pretend we’re urban legends.

     I’ve never been to New York, so I can’t verify the gators in their sewers. But I know they wouldn’t last a week against what we’ve got in ours.

They approach a half-collapsed church of red brick. The stained glass windows are all cracked and shattered.

TH: pointing “He’s in there.”

FF: “Your folks know you hang around friends like these?”

TH: serious “My friends are my folks, Mister Folds.

     I shouldn’t have to explain to a detective what that means.”

FF: “Fair enough.

     Wait out here.”

FRANK FOLDS approaches the church and climbs carefully over crumbled bricks and glass.

Monologue: Orphans come a dime a dozen in the slums. They survive by learning Beacon’s rules.

     You get quick or you get crafty, or the city swallows you whole.

     So not much different than the grownups, overall.

FRANK FOLDS heads up the rotten stairs to the balcony.

Monologue: Never much liked churches to start with, but this just seems sad.

     Squatter in the disemboweled house of god.

Long shot of FRANK FOLDS looking around, with a pile of brick and glass lying in the foreground.

Monologue: Starting to regret making the kid wait. This ‘friend’ of hers might be waiting to jump me.

     Might think I’m the cops. Hell, might think I’m the killer.

     All I know for sure is…

Same angle, but focused on the pile, which it is now apparent has blood spattered across it. FRANK FOLDS grasps the handle of his sword.

FF: “That red ain’t glass.”

FRANK FOLDS walks forward cautiously, sword drawn.

Monologue: I could be lucky.

     Maybe mister witness went and cut himself on a window, bled to death and took my only lead with him.

     But I’m never that lucky.

FRANK FOLDS glances down, then pushes aside some glass and debris with his foot to reveal a severed human tongue.

Monologue: Matter of fact, I’m probably the second most unlucky bastard stepped into this church today.

     Better let the blueys know they’ve got a serial killer on their hands.

Shot of FRANK FOLDS from the front, suddenly suspicious, eyes flicking backwards. A shadowy presence is standing just behind him.

Monologue: Someone behind me. Someone real quiet, to get this close.

He just better hope he’s fast-

FRANK FOLDS spins around, sword raised, only to come face to face with a double-barreled shotgun. It is held by MISTER QUIET, the pale, well dressed man from the bar, in pure white cotton gloves.

FF: “What-”

MQ: quickly holds a finger out to FRANK FOLDS’ mouth “Ssssssshhhhh.”

MISTER QUIET returns his hand to the shotgun and smiles.

MQ: “Quiet.”

With a ‘BLAM!’ MISTER QUIET blows off FRANK FOLDS’ head in a plume of smoke, ashes, and scraps of paper.

END PART 1