#33Stories: Day 28, "Summer Place: Book Three of the Thunder Rise Trilogy"

#33Stories
No. 28: “Summer Place: Book Three of The Thunder Rise Trilogy.”
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!

Third in the “Thunder Rise” trilogy, “Summer Place” is a classic horror tale that blends fear of bugs and various creepy-crawly-things with a haunted house and a lingering ghost, Myron Valkenburgh. Bad news, that one. The good news? Protagonist Carol Callahan, who by the end of the book arc has been empowered.

The novel also serves as a sort of cautionary tale about an arrogant, narcissistic politician who puts his ambitions above his family. Hmmm…

Crossroad Press published “Summer Place” five years ago.

READ “Summer Place”

From the end of “Summer Place”:

``Come on up!'' Valkenburgh beckoned from the attic. ``Time is wasting!''

His voice beat against the inside of Carol's skull. She saw the image he'd planted inside her head: an image of an altar in an enormous cathedral. Hanging by the side was a beautiful wedding dress -- beautiful, and black.

``The guests are all here!'' Valkenburgh said. ``We must not keep them waiting!''

Carol opened the attic door. Candles flickered at the top of the stairs and in the background, an invisible organist played Bach. She smelled incense and flowers. How easy Valkenburgh was making it for her. How inviting. There was peace up there. An eternity of comfort and peace, Mr. and Mrs. Valkenburgh forever and ever in their beloved summer place.

Carol ascended the stairs, covered now by a red carpet, and was in the vastness of the cathedral. Valkenburgh was waiting. Not an old man now, but someone in the prime of his life. A handsome man, with black hair, a bewitching smile and the confidence of someone who had it all. He was wearing a tuxedo, of course. He took Carol's hand. She did not recoil. His touch was firm, warm, strong.

Now Carol saw it: a painting of his first Carol.

``We didn't divorce,'' Valkenburgh explained, ``and she didn't leave me, not in the manner that was widely believed. That was simply the story, the only one the world would believe. My Carol met a terrible end -- at the hands of those bastards. I buried her by the spring, where the cold of winter could never touch her. Where she could be warm forever.''

Carol shuddered.

``I was powerless then,'' Valkenburgh said, ``but not now. I've learned the secret of their control, can't you see? I gave my life but God, in his infinite wisdom, has given me a second chance! I could hardly believe it when you arrived! Why, it was the very answer to a prayer! You will be safe with me now, my dear! Happy forever! Come! Join me in blessed matrimony!''

The spell was dissipating. Another image formed in Carol's head: Caleb and Sarah, in the hospital, calling her.

``May you rot in hell,'' Carol said.

She broke Valkenburgh's grip. For one fleeting moment, great sorrow was written on the much-younger Valkenburgh's face. Carol could imagine his heartbreak so many years ago, when his wife had died. Then the sorrow was gone, replaced by the purest evil. Young Valkenburgh was transformed into the gnarled old man of Carol's nightmares.

``You sickening thing!'' he hissed. ``You will be mine!''

``Fuck you, you old bastard.'' Carol went back down the stairs, slamming the door behind her.
Valkenburgh laughed. ``Go on!'' he shrieked. ``Try to escape! See where it gets you!''

Carol was trembling and her mouth was suddenly dry. Laying down a trail of lighter fluid, she descended to the first floor and went into her study. The fire would fan out in a leisurely fashion until nothing could stop it.

Outside, Marshall was banging on the kitchen door and Georgiana was calling her. Carol ignored them. She needed, at most, five more minutes.

At the head of the cellar stairs, she hesitated. He was down there now, she knew. Down in the dark with his precious bugs, with which he had reached unholy accommodation from beyond the grave.
``Come on!'' Valkenburgh shrieked. ``Come and meet your old friend! He came all the way from Boston to surprise you!''

What? Carol thought, but she did not let the thought get in her way. She started down, and was immediately mystified. The earthern floor should have been crawling with them -- but she saw only isolated insects. They had to be here, somewhere. A million bugs couldn't just disappear into thin air.
She stood, listening. There was a sound, faint and far-off. A scratching, like an animal clawing. No, it was more like a buzzing. The furious beating of diaphanous wings.

The dragonfly came from nowhere.

It strafed Carol's head, becoming entangled in her hair before disappearing up the stairs.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

``Calm down,'' she told herself. ``It's only a dragonfly.''

The sound had not gone away. It seemed to be coming from the root cellar, whose door was slightly ajar. Squinting, she got a glimpse of what was within:

A skeleton.

A human skeleton, picked clean.

A skeleton, and a scrap of fabric she recognized as her panties.

Now it hit her:

Mark.

And now she saw them, in the darkness behind the skeleton: beetles and yellow jackets, assembled in an obscene seething mass
.
Carol's heart leapt back into her throat.

``Surprised you, didn't he?'' Valkenburgh said. ``But isn't there a saying for that? What goes around comes around?''

Carol's temples pounded and she was overcome by that fetid smell again.

``A thing of beauty is a joy forever!'' Valkenburgh shrieked.

``Fuck you,'' Carol managed. The air left her lungs, and she was gasping. The stone walls, the beam ceiling, the floor -- they'd ceased to exist. It was only her and the root cellar, two points on a plane, moving inexorably toward each other.

Unconsciously, Carol reached into her pocket for the matches.

``Put those away,'' Valkenburgh demanded.

Carol's fingers separated a match.

``There is no need for that,'' Valkenburgh said, and now there was a hint of fear in his voice.
Carol struck the match. It flared, casting a surreal glow.

``No need at all,'' Valkenburgh said. ``We're in this together, remember? Just you and me, and our good friends the beetles, here in our lovely summer place.''

But Valkenburgh's voice had lost its power. The spell was dissipating.

From inside the root cellar, the insects sensed sudden light and warmth. It had been generations since the colony had seen fire, but some primal alarm was sounded. The message spread quickly through the assembly. The beating of wings, the clicking of jaws -- in seconds, it had all subsided.
They were at strict attention now. Another instinct was kicking into place now: Survival. Fight or flight.

The decision was flight. Unseen by Carol, the rear guard began retreating from the root cellar into the tunnel.

Carol held the match to the mop head. The lighter fluid caught.

``No!'' Valkenburgh begged. ``Please no!''

``Fuck you,'' Carol rasped, advancing toward the root cellar, mop held before her like a flaming sword.

``Stop!'' Valkenburgh pleaded.

``Let's see what your friends think of this!'' Carol said, sticking the mop into the root cellar. Flames lapped the door frame, igniting splinters of wood. The smoke made Carol's eyes water. Her skin was reddening.

But it was the insects that were most affected. Only one response was possible now: blind escape, the insect equivalent of panic. The fortunate ones made it safely back into the tunnel. The rest were incinerated.

``Take this, you bastards!'' Carol screamed, delirious. She swung madly, wielding the mop like a fiery baton.

``Stop!'' Valkenburgh squealed, but his voice had been drained of its authority. He was fading.

The root cellar was ablaze now. Fingers of flame reached to the joists; in another minute or two, they would be blazing, too. But Carol was not content to let the fire take its course. She ran for the stairway, touching the mop to the stairs as she climbed to the kitchen, then raced through the first floor, torching the furniture, the wallpaper, the rugs. The fire built steadily toward the inevitable inferno.

``Carol, stop!'' It was Georgiana, poking her head through the window Marshall had finally managed to pry open.

But it was too late. And even if it hadn't been -- even if there had been some way to save the place -- Georgiana doubted she would have tried. She understood.

And seeing the crazed look of triumph on Carol's face, was pleased for her friend.


They stood, the three of them, safely at the edge of the orchard. For a while, the only sign of what was happening inside the old house was smoke from the chimney, as if the owners were at home, seated comfortably around a wood stove. But soon the wisp became a plume, the plume a black billow. A cellar window cracked, then exploded. Flame poured out, shooting up the side of the house. A kitchen window exploded. One in the living room. Another in Carol's studio.

So many hopes pinned on that room, she thought, but went no further. She could get into the deeper meanings later. For now, she intended to savor her victory.

The flames climbed, blowing out window after window, obscuring more of the house until only the roof was visible. Carol was intent on an attic window. There was someone in that window -- she swore there was.

Valkenburgh.

Young Valkenburgh -- a man who had had it all, but really had nothing. Just before the flames reached the last level, she heard him, screaming. Begging to be saved.

Georgiana and Marshall heard it, too. Heard Carol's name, being called by a voice they recognized from many years ago.

A voice that, by mutual agreement, they would choose to believe had been only the roar of the fire.

#33Stories: Day 27, "Asylum: Book Two of the Thunder Rise Trilogy"

#33Stories
No. 27: “Asylum: Book Two of The Thunder Rise Trilogy.”
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!
Excerpt follows this backgrounder.

As I noted  in the introduction of #33Stories, “I wrote and write because I have to, as I am hardly the first storyteller to remark. During my horror/mystery/fantasy/sci-fi days, I wrote to entertain – to stoke the imagination, to scare, and amuse, to put flesh and blood on the bones of characters born in the wind. But in many of these earlier stories, as with my entire body of newspaper journalism, you will also find a fair dollop of reflection and commentary on social and cultural issues, including religion, politics, the treatment of women, and the stigma surrounding those living with mental illness and intellectual disability, among others. Sometimes, fiction best illuminates reality.”

So it was with “Asylum: Book Two of The Thunder Rise Trilogy,” which I dedicated to a man who spent decades in an institution: “To the late Frank Beazley, Godspeed, my friend.”

In the foreword to “Asylum,” I described my motivation:

This is entirely a work of fiction. I created the characters and events.

But I did not create the historical circumstances in which Asylum is set.

Not so very long ago — within my memory as a journalist who covered their dying days — American institutions for the mentally ill and disabled were as depicted in these pages: warehouses that often became laboratories for the mistreatment of our fellow human beings. Residents suffered needlessly, and endlessly. Time dragged. The real world faded until it was gone. Hydrotherapy, insulin, electroshock treatments, lobotomy, forced sterilization, all of which are mentioned in this book — all were real. All were commonplace. Untold numbers of lives ended beneath unnamed concrete markers in potter’s fields.

Since the 1980s, when I began covering these issues for The Providence Journal, many of these institutions have closed. I would like to be able to report that our society’s treatment of the people who once filled them has become more enlightened. And while there are some communities where this is indeed the case, and while I know of one institution where care is compassionate and first-class — Zambarano Hospital, in Pascoag, Rhode Island, where Frank Beazley, to whom this book is dedicated, lived for so long — overall, little has changed. Many of the mentally ill and disabled are now imprisoned — one institution having replaced another. Many are on the streets, lost, abandoned, and often abused. Some are war veterans, which adds an additional layer of national shame.

And all remain subject to ugly stigma that pervades our society. Stigma that is based on the absurd notion that disorders of the brain are somehow different than disorders of any other organ.

Are we so lacking in compassion?

Have we learned nothing?

READ “Asylum: Book Two of The Thunder Rise Trilogy,” published in 2013 by Crossroad Press.

Herewith a passage toward the end of “Asylum,” in which the people living with mental illness who have been warehoused and abused by the superintendent and staff begin to break free (think: Chief in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”):

The most accomplished police detective attempting to reconstruct what happened next would have been stymied by the extraordinary complexity of the events and the remarkably short period of time in which they transpired.

Reilly, sneaking up on them. Reilly, managing to stifle the compulsion to rush Adams. Skulking through the darkness, across the grass, coming up behind the Victorian. Pausing at the back door. Listening. Going in. Navigating with the flickering light of a still-burning candle. Negotiating a path past Fred’s mice, who have taken the run of the place. Down the hall. To the front door. Stopping, the throbbing in his eye crescendoing to new heights of pain.

And Adams, his back to the door, dancing his death waltz with the old man.

Saint Peter, whose eyes register nothing.

Nick, stalling for time, engaging in absurd rebuttal with the superintendent.

And Sharon, arms across her belly in unconscious protection of her baby.

Reilly opened the door and stepped noiselessly onto the porch.

Nick was the first to see him.

“He’s got a gun!” Nick almost screamed, but he caught himself in time. Reilly brought a finger to his lips, motioning Nick to ignore him. Nick squeezed Sharon’s arm to signal her. He assumed she’d seen Reilly, too.

“...so you see, Nicholas,” Adams was saying, “this little scheme you’ve hatched, while masterfully crafted, will be, in the end, for naught. Your minions will escape, all right — into the maws of an open grave! What say you?”

It was at that moment — in the lull between Adams’s question and what would have been Nick’s response — that a floor board in back of Adams creaked.

As fast as Adams had snatched the gun from Saint Peter, the superintendent pirouetted.

“YOU!” Adams screamed at Reilly.

Without blinking, he fired.

The bullet tore into Reilly’s lower abdomen. Reilly reeled but did not go down. Blood boiled out of him, splashing Adams, showering Reilly’s clothes. There was a second of amnesty and then pain invaded his body, radiating through trunk and limbs to his extremities.

But he did not drop the screwdriver.

He did not go down.

He gritted his teeth and took another step toward Adams.

Nick, simultaneously immersed in and detached from what was unfolding, was running a probabilities program through his mind. How long before Reilly was out of it? How many more bullets would Adams have to fire? How many would that leave in the superintendent’s revolver? Should he rush Adams now? Could Reilly possibly achieve his aim? The questions sizzled through his brain.

Nick remembered a month he’d done in the emergency room of Boston City Hospital — the knifing and shooting victims the cops brought in, night after endless night. Some had lost entire organs — liver, intestines and kidneys were among the favorites — and still they hung on, unwitting testimony to the incredible resiliency of the human machine. The first few times, it amazed Nick, but not the veteran cops who handled it with no more concern than having their post-rescue-run coffee and doughnut. The heart was the big banana, they’d delighted in telling this greenhorn doc. Not the brain, not the lungs or pancreas or any of the thousand and one other organs you might meet in med school. You could even get by without a brain — half of humanity did anyway, yukity yuk — but not the ole ticker. Police manuals were full of cautionary tales of cops who’d pumped a killer’s belly full of lead, only to have him keep on coming — with disastrous results for the poor officer. Not the heart. Without the heart, blood went nowhere, and without blood there was nada. That was why, Nick had learned, police marksmanship — right down to the bull’s eyes on the life-size paper targets — emphasized one, and only one, organ: the one that Cupid claimed.

Adams’s second bullet was wild. It grazed Reilly’s forearm.

Adams’s third shot blew a hole in Reilly’s stomach.

This time, Reilly went down. He lay on his back, his eyes rolling wildly, the screwdriver still clutched in his good hand. Blood, mixed with a yellowish fluid, seeped from his stomach wound, a jagged and nasty thing.

“Oh my God!” Sharon screamed.

Saint Peter was unmoved.

“To think of all the time I wasted on him!” Adams screamed. “Is that your idea of a trick, Nicholas? Is it? Any more in your bag?”

Adams disengaged himself from Saint Peter. Keeping his revolver trained on the old man, he brought his good foot down on Reilly’s abdomen. With the toe of his shoe, he poked around inside the wound.
“For his next trick,” the superintendent shrieked, “Adams the Magnificent will put his foot right through our willing subject!”

Reilly drove the screwdriver through Adams’s leg.

Clean through — and out as swiftly as in.

Adams howled. Reilly stabbed again, and again, and again. Neat little puncture wounds — calf, ankle, through shoe leather into heel and toes. Six stabs, in less than half the number of seconds. An unbelievable, unbearable pain, brought tears to Adams’s bloodshot eyes.

The gun fell harmlessly from his hand and he dropped to his butt, his foot and leg drawn to his chest. He was trying to stop the pain. He was trying to stop the bleeding. He was howling like a dying animal, his madness and rage giving way to the whimperings of a beaten child, more afraid than he’d ever been in his brief life.

Even Nick’s cop buddies would have marveled at what Reilly did next. There was no way the dying man should have been able to sit himself up, but he did. There was no way he should have been able to continue clutching the screwdriver, but he did. There was no way he should have been able to guide it to his mark, but he did that, too.

The screwdriver punctured Adams’s right eye.

Clear fluid ran down his cheek. Adams’s howling reached new heights, rattling the glass in the Victorian’s windows.

Reilly was fading. He did not have the muscle to force the screwdriver where he wanted: through the skull and into the brain, where he could do some serious scrambling before putting the superintendent’s lights out for good. Reilly scratched around inside the eye socket, but got nowhere.
Nick, initially stunned, was coming to. He had Adams’s gun, and he was holding it to Adams’s left ear, cocking it at an angle that would send lead through the medulla — that awesome inch or so of brainstem that controls respiration, heart rate, blood pressure. People have lived through massive trauma to virtually every region of the brain. To Nick’s knowledge, no one had ever survived destruction of the brainstem.

Nick cocked the hammer.

“No!” Sharon screamed. “Don’t kill him. You’ll kill everybody else!”

“He was lying.”

“BUT WHAT IF HE WASN’T?”

Nick pulled the trigger.

There was a crack and a poof of smoke. The bullet took its intended path: through the ear, into the medulla, out the neck. Adams’s eyes rolled and slowly shut. Blood spread in two dark pools across the porch floor.

Adams spasmed. His last breaths were moist, sucking affairs, like a wet vac across a thoroughly soaked floor.

And then he was still.

Nick was not watching. He was stooped over Reilly, smoothing his brow with his hand, talking softly into his ear. The most talented surgeon with the most up-to-date hospital couldn’t put Reilly back together. It was purely a matter of waiting for the heart finally to stop.

“It sounds so... meaningless... but thanks,” Nick said. “Thanks from all of us.”

“The... bastard... deserved... it.”

“He deserved a lot worse.”

“And he’ll get it... where... he’s... going.”

Reilly drew one great, gulping breath and was still. The look on his face told Nick he had not gone an unsatisfied man. The look told Nick he wouldn’t have played it any other way.

“Come on,” Nick said to Sharon, who was with Saint Peter. The old man was still locked in catatonia. His eyes were the only visible sign that he was alive, and not some hauntingly realistic stone-and-mortar creation.

Nick looked down at the train. Shepherded by Roger, what appeared to be the last passengers were boarding.

“He was lying,” Nick said. “At least about them.”

The trio started down the drive. Halfway there, Nick stopped to peer back. He sensed something was happening back there on that hill.

Something was.

Cracks were spreading across the face of the windows. The glass shattered, raining down in shards. The paint blistered, then peeled, then fell off in long strips. Pieces of slate began rattling on the roof, like the ivories on a player piano. Slate started crashing to the ground. The front door banged open and shut, open and shut, as if caught in some gale-force wind. Shutters clanged and dropped off. Rail posts popped loose and were lost in thin air. Holes appeared in the porch floor and entire planks disappeared.

But the building did not burn.

Nick expected it to, but it did not.

Instead, it aged forty years in thirty seconds.

And Adams — Adams was aging, too, the flesh peeling and stripping away from him in bizarre sympathy to what was happening to the house; the blood coagulating and drying and blowing away, mere dust now; the skin shriveling and blowing away, too; only a skeleton now, and that soon gone as well.

Only Reilly was left, but even he was changing, too. He was shrinking, smaller and smaller, soon gone altogether.

“Are the tunnels clear?”

“Not a soul left,” Roger said. They were standing next to the locomotive. Above them, Alphonse was eager to go.

“The wards have all been checked?”

“All of them.”

“Is everyone on board?”

“Everyone except these.” Roger pointed to a group of perhaps fifty people, most older woman, hovering in the shadows near the caboose. The festivity of half an hour ago had evaporated. This was one somber group.

“No room?”

“Not a fucking inch,” Roger said.

“Jesus. We can’t leave them behind.”

“I know. Maybe we can make two trips.”

“Two trips?” Alphonse interrupted. “I hate to be pessimistic, but I suspect once we’re out of here, there’s no coming back.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Nick said.

“What is it that you need?” Saint Peter asked. With Adams’s grip broken, the old man was on his way back. His voice was still mild and dreamy, but it was recognizable as his. And there were the first traces of a satisfied smile on his lips.

“Another car,” Roger said.

Saint Peter closed his eyes and crossed his arms. The lines on his forehead deepened and extended and he mouthed silent words. Nothing happened. Nick expected a flash of light — a sulfurous explosion — a thunderclap — trumpeting angels — but there was nothing.

Nothing ostentatious, that is.

The brand-new Pullman car simply materialized where Alphonse would have wanted it: coupled to the caboose.

“Jesus!” Sharon exclaimed.

“Will that do?” Saint Peter asked. “Or do we need another?”

“That’ll more than do,” Roger said.

“Get them on!” Nick said. “There’s only one more thing, and that’ll be but a minute.”

“What?” Roger said.

“The rest of the buildings.”

“Leave them,” Sharon said.

“Like hell. Just get on. Give me one minute. That’s all I’ll need.”
...

#33Stories: Day 26, "Summer Love," a screenplay

#33Stories
No. 26: "Summer Love," a screenplay
Context at end of this excerpt
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!

Writers Guild of America registration no. 1216149

ABOUT THE STORY: Ben Houghton is in his late 30s and living an artist's life made possible, in part, by his wealthy father. He spends summers at the family estate on Block Island, a place that holds many memories for him. The best is the one great love of his life: Serena Fisher, a beautiful young woman he met the summer after graduating college. She left him. Now she's back, not looking a day older. A story of passion and obsession... and a mermaid named Serena.

The opening of "Summer Love":

EXT. THE ATLANTIC OCEAN - TWILIGHT

An uncommonly handsome MAN, about 30, is with a beautiful
WOMAN, early 20s, on a small, 1950s-era motorboat a short
distance off the Maine coast. They are kissing passionately.
The sun drains from the sky as storm clouds approach. The
SOUNDTRACK is The Happenings' smash hit, See You in
September.

The scene becomes increasingly erotic, as the man and woman
shed their bathing suits. See You in September fades as we
hear THUNDER and see the first LIGHTNING. The ocean is
beginning to churn.

MAN
We should head in.

WOMAN
Are you afraid, Bergie?

MAN
It's getting dangerous.

WOMAN
Don't be silly. The sea is our
friend. Nothing can come between us
here. Kiss me.

They resume their lovemaking as the waves continue to build.
Soon, the boat is in danger of being swamped. The man's lust
gives way to fear -- but not the woman. She is more
passionate than ever. The man breaks off.

MAN
We have to go.

He tries to start the boat's small outboard engine, but it
won't catch.

WOMAN
Come with me.

MAN
What on earth?

WOMAN
Don't you see? This is how it was
meant to be.

The boat slips under the water. The man starts to swim toward
the shore -- but the woman grabs his leg. An iron grip.

WOMAN (CONT’D)
We'll live forever.

The man struggles to free himself as the woman drags him
under the waves.

CUT TO:

UNDERWATER

The man is close to drowning -- but not the woman, who seems
strangely satisfied, even angelic. The man thrashes. He
finally escapes. As he heads to the surface, we see a FLASH
of what appears to be a fanciful fantail.

CUT BACK TO

EXT. THE ATLANTIC OCEAN - NIGHT
The storm is full fury. Near exhaustion, his energy almost
spent, the man paddles toward the shore.

EXT. THE BEACH - NIGHT
The man crawls out of the surf and collapses.

FADE OUT.

END CREDITS

FADE IN:

EXT. OLD HARBOR, BLOCK ISLAND - THE PRESENT DAY
A summer morning, sunny and warm, the ocean dotted with
sailboats. A picture postcard. Arriving from the Rhode Island
mainland, the Block Island ferry has pulled into the dock.
The SOUNDTRACK is Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville.
Passengers disembark. Cars and freight are unloaded.

On the vehicle deck, BEN HOUGHTON is behind the wheel of a
beat-up old Jeep Cherokee. He is uncommonly handsome, tall,
in his late thirties, a man with a ponytail, sunglasses, cutoff
jeans, and tee-shirt. He sports a two- to three- days'
growth of beard.

Ben drives off the ferry, waving to several people he knows.
He stops to talk to an OLD DECK HAND, a grizzled man in his
sixties who has worked the docks forever.

OLD DECK HAND
As I live and breathe, Ben
Houghton! Did you order up this
weather for us, cappy?

BEN
Hank! How was the winter?

OLD DECK HAND
Mild -- one even you fair-weather
people could've muddled through, I
bet. You here for the summer?

BEN
Until Labor Day. Same as always.

OLD DECK HAND
You bring weather like this, you're
welcome 'til Christmas.

Ben continues in his Jeep onto Main Street, Old Harbor, a
small village with a few hotels, restaurants, and shops.

As Ben surveys familiar surroundings for signs of change in
the nine months he's been on the mainland, his eye is caught
by SERENA FISHER, who is standing, alone, on a balcony of The
Atlantic, a grand old wooden hotel. Serena is about 20, tall,
with an exotically beautiful face, red hair, and a slender
but not girlish figure. Unforgettable.

We NOTE that this is the same woman, still the same age, from
the opening scene.

Ben slams on the brakes. Serena is watching Ben intently. As
Ben returns her look, Serena raises binoculars to get a
better look at him. Ben's face registers skepticism, then
mild shock.

BEN
(to himself)
Serena Fisher?

CLOSE ON THE HOTEL BALCONY
It's deserted. Serena has disappeared.

EXT. HARBORMASTER'S BUILDING - DAY
Ben drives into the parking lot of a sprawling old building
built on wooden piles. The harbormaster's office and
residence are here, along with a marine supply store, a
lobster pound, and Ben's small summer photo studio.

CLOSE ON THE STUDIO DOOR
A sign reads: BEN'S ISLAND STUDIO. PORTRAITS AND LANDSCAPES.
Attached to the inside of a window is a hand-lettered sign
that reads: HAVE A GREAT WINTER! REOPENING JULY 1! Ben
fiddles with the lock, finally letting himself in.

INT. BEN'S STUDIO - DAY
The studio is well-equipped, with a computer, printer,
lights, backdrops, lightboard, and a (rarely-used) darkroom.
The windows provide a magnificent view of the harbor.

Ben takes down the closed-for-winter sign, opens the windows,
dusts off his desk, checks his phone to confirm that service
has been restarted, and steps back outside...

-- 30 --

Context:

Like my novel “Memory” (coming June 1 in #33Stories), I began “Summer Love” in the late 1990s. Unlike “Memory,” which remains unfinished, I completed “Summer Love” and updated it a decade ago, when it was published by Harvardwood Books and Unlimited Publishing LLC. Harvardwood is a national organization of Harvard students and graduates with interest or careers in film, TV and other media. I served for a while as the group’s media director, working with founder Mia Riverton.

“Summer Love” was also published five years ago in “Vapors: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol. 2,” from Crossroad Press.

#33Stories: Day 25, "Vapors: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol. 2"

#33Stories
No. 25: “Vapors: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol. 2”
Context at the end of this excerpt.
Other entries in #33Stories at the Table of Contents. See you tomorrow!

Five years ago this month, Crossroad Press published this second collection of my short fiction, a follow to "Since the Sky Blew Off: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol. 1.” 

“Vapors” includes 13 horror, science-fiction and mystery stories: “Nothing There,” “Vapors,” “The Senator,” “Sweetie,” “Honey Love,” “God of Self,” “Gnawing,” “Death Train,” “Simon,” “Drive,” “Chiganook,” “Monster” and “The Devil at Bay.” All but the atmospheric “Vapors” (pardon the pun), which I wrote in 2007 in a brief return to horror, had been previously published in magazines including the late Dave Silva’s The Horror Show.

And many of those, in turn, had been republished in collections, including the long-out-of-print “The Definitive Best of the Horror Show,” 1992, from Cemetery Dance Publications, which contains “Death Train.”

My limited boxed edition -- one of my treasures -- includes signatures from the wonderful writers Elizabeth Massie, Robert R. McCammon, Joe R. Lansdale and Dean R. Koontz, among others.

Tom Monteleone reprinted “Sweetie,” which is one of the strangest stories I ever wrote, in his 1991 collection, “Borderlands.”

And so forth and so on…

READ Vapors

LISTEN to the audio drama podcast by Mark Slade and crew

READ “Since the Sky Blew Off: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol. 1” 
The collection includes my stories “God Can Be A Cruel Bastard,” “We Who Are His Followers,” “Not Just Traces of Me,” “All My Children,” “A Process of Change,” “Windhams’ Folly,” “Freddy and Rita,” “To Be Cold, Like Trees,” “Since the Sky Blew Off” and “The Good Book”; plus two screen treatments: “Money for Nothing” and “Alden’s Neck.”

Context:

The introduction to “Vapors: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol. 2”:

F. Scott Fitzgerald may have been right when he famously observed that there are no second acts in American life. In writing, however, there sometimes is a second act –– and even a third. The book you are about to read is proof.

From the earliest age, fiction was my first love (I talk about that in an interview posted halfway down this page: www.gwaynemiller.com/inter.htm). I wrote stories and then outlines and drafts of novels, a satisfying Act One. Then the real world called. When I graduated college, journalism still offered jobs a-plenty for writers. Monetarily, at least, the genre was easier than fiction -- one has to eat, after all. So Act Two began, and it continues to this day, with three decades as a Providence Journal staff writer and eight books of non-fiction (and three documentary movies) to my name.

The first act seemed to have ended (or at least sputtered to an intermission) in the 1990s, after publication of a novel, Thunder Rise, and dozens of horror, mystery, crime and sci-fi short stories. I kept writing fiction, albeit at a slower pace, as that decade closed and the new millennium began. There’s only so much time in a day.

Enter the good folks at Crossroad Press, David Niall Wilson and David Dodd. They had an idea for a third act, though I myself initially did not see it that way.

They wanted to publish an e-book version of Thunder Rise, which had been released in hardcover and paperback editions. They did, in 2012, along with an audio book, released in 2013. They wanted to publish the other never-before-released books in the Thunder Rise trilogy –– Asylum and Summer Place –– which they did, this year. They wanted a short story collection, Since the Sky Blew Off, which they published in 2012. Now comes volume two of the short stories, with at least one more on tap.

So Vapors is another scene from my writer’s Act Three, which is an echo, or a continuation, or whatever, or Act One.

Vapors contains some new stories and some older ones previously published in the late Dave Silva’s now-legendary The Horror Show and other magazines. The roots of all lie in that intermissive period of my writing life when the still-legendary NECON, the New England Writers’ Conference, was the highlight of the summer for me and so many other writers of horror, fantasy and science-fiction, all the way back to the earliest days with Stephen King, Peter Straub, Robert McCammon, Yvonne Navarro, Tom Monteleone, Elizabeth Massie, John Skipp, John Farris, the 2013 NECON Legend Chet Williamson, and the late Charles L. Grant, a fellow Rhode Islander, and Les Daniels. Like me, some of these writers have been brought to a larger audience by Crossroad Press.

Here’s to second and third acts -- and however many more may follow! I have the fiction bug again, big-time.

My fondest wish, as always, is that you, the reader, will enjoy the fruits of something I love so dearly: writing. Visit me on www.gwaynemiller.com and drop me a line, will you? Safe journey...

Bishop Bob. A screenplay for a series pilot episode by Drew Smith and G. Wayne Miller

"BISHOP BOB" Pilot episode: "Red Fever" by Drew Smith & G. Wayne Miller BUCKSHOT PRODS. 31O-903-3888 W.G.A. registration #1419302 OPENING TEASER EXT. SOUTH PHILADELPHIA STREETS- AFTERNOON We FOLLOW a well-dressed MAN (early 40’s) who looks very out of place walking the gritty back streets of South Philly. Approaching a store-front reading “Toscana Social Club”, he’s met at the door by a THIN MAN in a cheap, shiny suit (SAL) with a smile and a handshake. SAL Hey, thanks for coming. MAN No problem, Sal. SAL I wouldn’t have called but, like I said, the big guy wanted a face-to-face. MAN I know I’m a little behind but I have last week’s “vig” right here. The Man pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to Sal who takes a moment to count it. SAL That’s fine. MAN If you could just bear with me another week or so... SAL Friend, I know you’re good for it, but the Boss? Well you know how it is. He opens the door for the Man who steps into... INT. “TOSCANA SOCIAL CLUB” Typical inner-city bookie joint. Men watching Off-Track Betting on the TV over the bar up front while others crowd around the card tables in the back. Sal leads the Man over to one of the tables, tapping the shoulder of a seated player (his Boss) who turns around. He’s got the face of a crime scene waiting to happen. SAL Murray, here’s the punter you wanted to see. The Man steps up, extending his hand. MAN Pleasure to meet you, I’m... MURRAY (to the table) Look at this guy, “pleasure to meet you” - (back to the Man) You know what’d be a pleasure? You paying me the money you owe me. That’d be a pleasure. Do you have it? MAN Not at the moment, no, but, as I was telling Sal... MURRAY - that you’re good for it? MAN Yes. MURRAY Then you should know I don’t “exactly” give a shit. MAN I appreciate that but - MURRAY - and I don’t exactly give a shit that you “appreciate” it either. You’re into me for 50 large and that’s the only thing I do “appreciate” so before you open your yap one more time I want you to listen to me, okay? Are you listening? Just nod. The Man nods. MURRAY (CONT’D) Good. Now you know who I am, right? The Man nods again. MURRAY (CONT’D) Then you know I’m not fucking around here. You’ve got ten days - that’s it - ten days. After that, I can’t help you. Got it? MAN I understand your urgency sir... MURRAY Just fucking nod for Christsakes. The Man nods. EXT. SOUTH PHILADELPHIA STREETS The Man comes out of the club and walks down the block until he turns the corner... AROUND THE CORNER ...where he suddenly COLLAPSES against the wall and begins to HYPERVENTILATE. Digging through his pockets, the Man pulls out a PILL which he swallows dry. Taking a beat to regain his composure and smooth back his hair, he continues walking toward a LIMOUSINE parked further down the block. INT. LIMO Getting into the back, the Man opens the briefcase on the seat next to him. MAN Thanks for waiting, Dwayne. Let’s head back to the Chancery if you don’t mind. DWAYNE (50’s), the chauffeur, looks in the rear-view to see: The Man remove a CATHOLIC PRIEST’S (ROMAN) COLLAR and fits it around his neck. CLOSE UP: of Man’s TORMENTED FACE, in direct contrast to... MATCH CUT TO: END TEASER CLOSE UP on PRESS PHOTO of SAME MAN’S FACE, smiling in FULL BISHOP’s VESTMENTS with MITRE (pointy Bishop’s hat) and CROSIER (pastoral staff). BUREAU CHIEF (V.O.) Next up: Bishop Robert Briscoe. PULL BACK TO REVEAL: A nicorette gum chain-chewing BUREAU CHIEF, handing out weekly assignments to his REPORTERS. He’s holding up the PHOTO of BISHOP BOB in... INT. “NBC10” (PHILLY’S LOCAL NBC AFFILIATE) - NEWSROOM BUREAU CHIEF The newest - and youngest - Bishop in America who also happens to be in our own Scranton Diocese. Word has it he’s packing them in up there so I want a fluff piece, thirty-second, human-interest spot - what’s it like to be the “new face” of the Catholic Church?? - yada-yada, you know the drill. Any takers? He’s answered by a COLLECTIVE YAWN. BUREAU CHIEF (CONT’D) No? No one? Okay, then it’s yours Tawney and that’s a gift. The absurdly-photogenic TAWNEY WINNBOCK (20’s) rolls her eyes. TAWNEY Come on Carl! How long am I sentenced to Siberia? BUREAU CHIEF Until I say so. TAWNEY Christ, I screwed the Mayor. I didn’t kill him. This draws CHEERS from the other REPORTERS. BUREAU CHIEF That’s right - you screwed the mayor Tawney - so by all accounts you’re lucky to still have a job. TAWNEY I still have a job because - by all accounts - me screwing the mayor got the biggest numbers you’ve had all year. Another round of CHEERS. BUREAU CHIEF Enough people! Silence. BUREAU CHIEF (CONT’D) Tawney, you still have a job because I’d like to think you’re smart enough to learn from your mistakes. Are you going to prove me wrong? Reluctantly, Tawney holds out her hand. Carl passes her the photo. TAWNEY’S POV: angle on PHOTO OF BOB. TAWNEY (O.S.) A Bishop? With this face?? You gotta be kidding me. EXT. ESTABLISHING SHOT OF SCRANTON, PA. CATHOLIC CATHEDRAL The limo pulls into... EXT/INT - CATHEDRAL GARAGE As soon as the Man (BISHOP BOB BRISCOE) emerges from the back of the limo, he’s met by LENORE (60’s), Head Administrator of the Scranton, PA Diocese for the past 30 years. LENORE Nice of you to join us, Your Excellency. BOB For future reference you know you can always text me. LENORE For future reference you should know that I have never - and will never - “text”. BOB Seriously? You never texted before? LENORE Bishop Augustine didn’t own a cellphone, so I was never required to “text”. Much less update a “Facebook page”. Nor open a “Tweeter account”- BOB Twitter? LENORE - as you wish, so if you feel that any of this makes me ill-suited for your employ... BOB Could we stop it with the “ill-suited” - thing please? I happen to think we’re perfectly suited. Lenore stops short. BOB (CONT’D) Sure we’ve got some procedural things to work out - Facebook? Twitter? - that stuff’s easy - I happen to think opposites attract, don’t you? Something catches in Lenore’s throat. BOB (CONT’D) One’s strength, the other’s weakness? Right? Butch & Sundance? She starts coughing. BOB (CONT'D) Starsky & Hutch? Turner & Hooch? Are you alright? Lenore chokes back a final cough. LENORE And I am to be “Turner” or “Hooch” Your Excellency? BOB Forget that one. LENORE Seigfried and Roy perhaps? Searching her face for a hint of sarcasm. BOB Oh, you’re good. Very funny. Lenore couldn’t look less funny. LENORE Pleasure to be of service, sir, however your 3:15 - which has since become your 5:32 - still waits in your office. Bob breaks out in a smile... BOB Siegfried & Roy - you are too much. ... then delivers a kiss to her forehead and heads off, leaving Lenore stunned. Looking up to the heavens. LENORE Forgive me Lord. She takes out a handkerchief wipes his kiss away. CUT TO: INT. CATHEDRAL SACRISTY Striding through the Cathedral’s Sacristy with Lenore and her clipboard trying to keep up. BOB Let’s set a meeting with the Ad agency for 10:00 tomorrow morning. LENORE But we put that time aside to get through the back-log of items to be blessed, remember? BOB How long can that take? CUT TO: INT. CATHEDRAL SACRISTY Lenore opens the door to a closet. Bob’s face drops. ANGLE ON SACRISTY CLOSET: The “closet” is a 10-by-10-foot room lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves packed to the brim with the widest variety of bless-able items imaginable: basketballs, footballs, mounted moose-heads, artificial limbs, crucifixes of all shapes and sizes, framed-portraits of Christ, Cher, Elvis, Ghandi, Britney Spears... BOB Holy Mother of God... LENORE Didn’t they prepare you for this before your ordination? BOB For this?? No one can prepare you for this. LENORE Then allow me. (as if talking to a child) (MORE) LENORE (CONT'D) Welcome to Bishop-dom, as you can see it’s not all pomp and circumstance around here, is it? No, it’s not. There are some very real, everyday things that must get done and when these things don’t get done, they tend to get backed up. Like this. Am I going too fast? INT. BISHOP’S CHANCERY With Lenore in tow, Bishop Bob walks from the Sacristy to the attached OFFICES that constitute the Diocese headquarters (which look every bit the CORPORATE OFFICES of the multi-million dollar business that it is) greeting everyone BY NAME along the way. Arriving at his office, Bob is greeted by... BOB’S POV: the sight of an EXPOSED ASS-CRACK belonging to a LARGE MAN on his knees beneath the Bishop’s desk. BOB Tom? The Man BANGS his head on the underside of the desk, turning... WE SEE: Tom’s name above the pocket of his ‘Direct TV’ installer’s shirt. TOM How’d you know? BOB I’d recognize you anywhere. INT. CHANCERY - BOB’S OFFICE - LATER CUT TO: Tom is going over the remote control functions with Bob. TOM Now all your premium channels - your HBO, ShowTime, Playboy, Adult-2000 - they start at 600... Lenore drops her clipboard. BOB I appreciate the generosity Tom, but those aren’t really necessary. TOM But I’m giving them to you free because - like I said - you have to have the “premier pack” in order to get the “sports-pack”. No “premium pack”, no “sports pack”. BOB And the sports pack - that’s the one with the NFL Sunday Ticket, the NCAA Mega March Madness... TOM ... the ESPN game-plan, the NASCAR hot-pass - yeah, all those. Bob turns to Lenore. BOB I think we’re going to need that premier pack. LENORE Are you asking me or telling me? BOB I guess... LENORE - because if you’re asking I must say that if ever the Tower Of Babel existed in Biblical times then it most certainly exists today. BOB I suppose, technically... LENORE - and if ever that Tower Of Babel exists today it most certainly exists in the form of cable television. And to bring that abomination into this Chancery is, well, it’s outright blasphemy. As a House of God... Bob turns back to Tom. BOB Alright, let’s do it. LENORE What?? BOB I’m sorry but you heard him - we have to get the premier pack in order to get the sports-pack. LENORE But Your Excellency! BOB I guess I wasn’t really asking, I was telling. LENORE So Your Excellency is instructing me to commit Diocesean resources to pay for your Direct TV premier “pornography” package? BOB No. No? LENORE BOB No, I’ll pay for it myself. LENORE You’ll pay yourself? BOB Sure, why not? I’ve got some Powerball winnings stashed away. LENORE Powerball? As in Powerball gambling?? BOB As in State Powerball gambling. As in all proceeds go to State programs like health care and education. LENORE But isn’t gambling - even State sponsored gambling - a mortal sin? BOB No. No? LENORE BOB No, it’s one of the venials, I think, hard to keep track. LENORE But isn’t gambling...gambling? BOB Bingo. LENORE Thank you. BOB No, I mean - bingo. What about bingo? That’s gambling, isn’t it? LENORE Bingo? I’d hardly consider bingo - BOB But this very Diocese benefits greatly from bingo. In fact I have a file here, somewhere, showing exactly how “greatly” it benefitted last quarter... Bob shuffles through the papers on his desk... LENORE That’s not necessary, Your Excellency. Seeing as it’s late - and that you were telling, not asking - if there’s nothing more you require of me, may I bid you a good-evening? BOB Only if I can bid you one right back. LENORE (confused) Alright then...good evening. Bob and Tom watch her EXIT. TOM Seems a little stuffy to me? BOB Stuffy like most of us grown lambs who’ve lost their way. TOM Sheep. BOB Pardon? TOM Grown lambs. They’re called sheep. INT. CARDINAL’S DINING ROOM CARDINAL ROCHESTER sits at the head of the table in an elegant oak dining room. On the wall behind him hangs a MAP OF PENNSYLVANIA with his ARCHDIOCESE outlined and broken down by boundaries into the INDIVIDUAL DIOCESES which make it up. Rochester raises a brandy snifter in toast. ROCHESTER Does everyone have one of these? Or a ginger ale if need be? He looks around. ROCHESTER POV: PAN AROUND THE TABLE to see the 7 BISHOPS who comprise his archdiocese. ROCHESTER (CONT’D) To the advent of Advent and the beginning of a strong fiscal holiday season. BISHOPS Here, here...amen... They sip in unison. ROCHESTER (savoring the brandy) That’s the good stuff alright. Gentlemen, shall we get down to the numbers? Rochester opens a file. ROCHESTER (CONT’D) Manny, care to do the honors? BISHOP GARCIA (50’s) snaps to attention. GARCIA Of course, Your Eminence. Garcia rises and Rochester hands him the file which he studies as he approaches the wall map. GARCIA (CONT’D) Overall things look pretty good... Garcia uses a laser-pointer on the map as he speaks. GARCIA (CONT’D) The Northern dioceses - Peter and Tim - are seeing an up-tick in Advent revenues already - good job - while in the west things still seem to be in a slump. What’s going on, Tobias? TOBIAS What’s going on is what’s been going on, Manny. The ‘burbs are hell. You know that. GARCIA Paddy’s numbers seem to be holding. TOBIAS Build me a cathedral like Paddy’s and you’ll see me pulling in numbers like Paddy. GARCIA Let’s not look unto others... BISHOP #1 Not to mention these abuse scandals the press is pounding out daily - BISHOP #2 -all over the front pages - BISHOP #3 -linking the Pope directly - TOBIAS -which might also be taking some of wind out of our sails, if I could be so bold. The Bishops GRUMBLE. GARCIA I know times are tough, but is not vigilance rewarded? TOBIAS Depends on your zip code. The Bishops CHUCKLE. Garcia’s face hardens. Realizing the meeting’s getting away from him... ROCHESTER Speaking of which, what are the Scranton numbers? (MORE) ROCHESTER (CONT'D) How is our newest brother - who couldn’t be with us tonight due to the sudden blessing of ‘76er tickets - doing? INT. PHILADELPHIA ‘76ER’S LOCKER ROOM SMASH CUT TO: Surrounded by the ENTIRE PHILADELPHIA ‘76er’s BASKETBALL TEAM, suited up and psyched up, BOB delivers an impassioned pre-game prayer which - with his eyes closed - comes off more as a desperate plea. BOB Please God grant these men the fortitude to endure the trial of all four quarters, the focus of thought and deed required to hit the three-pointers and utmost, your divine guidance to beat the spread. SMASH BACK TO: INT. CARDINAL’S DINING ROOM GARCIA Briscoe? He’s hardly been in the post long enough to break a sweat. ROCHESTER Indulge me. Garcia scans the file. GARCIA It’s up...a bit. ROCHESTER A bit? GARCIA Three, four percent. ROCHESTER In two weeks? GARCIA It’s negligible. ROCHESTER Is it? This is Scranton we’re talking about. GARCIA Your point being, Your Eminence? ROCHESTER If there’s anyone in this room who’d like reassignment to the Scranton diocese I’d be more than happy to oblige. Gentlemen? Rochester looks around the room. ROCHESTER’S P.O.V: PANNING Bishop to Bishop - from the look on their faces it’s apparent they’d all rather be water-boarded than reassigned to Scranton. ROCHESTER (CONT’D) That, Bishop Garcia, is my point. CLOSE ON GARCIA: He gets the point. But he doesn’t like it. EXT. ALLEY BEHIND THE “TOSCANA SOCIAL CLUB” Murray watches while a HUGE, BARREL-CHESTED MAN (Russell) delivers a brutal beating to a DEAD-BEAT GAMBLER. The CRACKING SOUNDS of the Dead-Beat’s ribs being broken brings a sly smile to Murray’s lips. MURRAY I think he’s getting the point. Russell delivers one last kidney shot to the Dead-beat who he props up against the wall by the throat. RUSSELL Want me crack some teeth? Crush an eye-socket or two? DEAD-BEAT No - no - please! Not the face! I can’t sell cars with a busted face. MURRAY You should’ve thought about that sooner. DEAD-BEAT How am I going to get you your money if I can’t work? MURRAY What? I’m the Shell Answer Man all of a sudden? It’s not my concern. Murray nods to Russell who rears back his sledge-hammer fist. The Dead-Beat SCREAMS OUT like a six-year-old girl. But Russell HEARS something else that causes him to hesitate. Looking down... RUSSELL’S POV: The Dead-Beat is literally pissing his pants. RUSSELL You are one sorry excuse for a man. Russell releases his grip and the Dead-Beat crumples to the ground in TEARS. Murray enjoys the sight while he hands Russell an envelope. MURRAY Thank you, Russell, job well done. Russell takes the money out of the envelope and pockets it without counting. RUSSELL Scum-bag like this? My pleasure. MURRAY I miss you. Why don’t come back to work for me full-time? RUSSELL I’m still exploring other options. But I appreciate the offer. MURRAY You just let me know. INT. CARDINAL’S CHANCERY The other Bishops have left. Garcia is collecting empty snifters on a tray when Rochester returns. ROCHESTER Don’t bother. Matilda will take care of those in the morning. GARCIA Pavlovian response, I guess. My parents owned a restaurant... ROCHESTER A “taquarita” in El Paso, if I’m not mistaken. GARCIA I’m a broken record, aren’t I. ROCHESTER Nonsense. You’re proud of your roots. Nothing wrong with that. GARCIA Guilty as charged. The sin of pride is one I wrestle with constantly. And I’m not proud of that. ROCHESTER Is this about Briscoe again? Or the fact that I brought up his first months’ numbers? GARCIA Sir? ROCHESTER From the day the Holy Father elevated him your opinion of Briscoe was duly noted. GARCIA I voiced certain concerns at the time as I felt it my duty to do so. ROCHESTER “Too young”. “Too erratic”. “A philistine”. “A ladies man” - that about cover it? GARCIA I assure you that from the moment the Holy Father proclaimed him Bishop I’ve wanted nothing more than to see him - and your Eminence - succeed. ROCHESTER I assume you’ve heard about the council’s bequest for his promotional campaign. GARCIA Not really. Rochester waits. GARCIA (CONT’D) Just here and there. Something about a 15-second ad spot for prime-time placement on some of the local affiliates. Rochester smiles. GARCIA (CONT’D) What? Can I help it? We’re a dying breed, you and I. But I, for one, refuse to “go gently into that good night”. ROCHESTER Leviticus? GARCIA Close. Dylan Thomas. The two share a stolen laugh. INT. AD AGENCY CONFERENCE ROOM With the Account Executive, STAN (30’s) seated next to him, Bob listens to the Creative Executive, TREVOR (early 20’s) pitch. TREVOR Sure, for the older demo facing impending death, the carrot of eternal salvation might put some butt in the pews. But to reach the younger demo - our target demo - that means talking to them, not at them. They can’t be “sold” and they can’t be “inspired”. They’re far too sophisticated for that... BOB Sorry to interrupt. Again. STAN Not at all Bishop. We’re here for you. BOB I know you’re doing this for the Church at a cut-rate and I appreciate that - God bless - but aren’t we all in the business of “inspiring”? ACCOUNT EXEC Of course we are. So right. Trevor? TREVOR Let me rephrase. By “inspire” I mean, you know... “conned”. STAN (laughing) What I think Trevor means is... BOB No, I know what Trevor means. Stan and Trevor exchange a glance. BOB (CONT’D) There has been some “conning” going on, that we need to help “un-con” - STAN Spot on. You, me, Trev - same page - BOB - and maybe we need to acknowledge that. But this is a new Catholic Church that’s what we’re here to promote. STAN What? Are you telepathic? Because that’s exactly where we were headed, right, Trev? TREVOR Bada bing - STAN - bada boom. Let’s just cut to the chase, Trev. Give it to him. TREVOR Okay, ready for the money shot? Bob nods. Trevor assumes position. TREVOR (CONT’D) “We’re not your father’s Catholic Church”! While Stan and Trevor freeze for Bob’s reaction, Bob’s iPhone RINGS. BOB If you’ll excuse me a moment. Taking out his phone, he sees the number and taps “answer”. BOB (CONT’D) Lenore? What a pleasant surprise. Let me guess - you can’t stand being away from me...what’s that?... Of course, I’ll be there right away. Does Dwayne know the address? CUT TO: INT. HOSPITAL - INTENSIVE CARE UNIT - DAY Bishop Bob enters the ICU (followed by Dwayne) where he’s meet by ARCHIE, a distraught, gay man in his 70’s. ARCHIE Thank you so much for coming. BOB Can I get you something? Water perhaps? ARCHIE Thank you Father. Is that what I call you? Father? BOB Or Bishop, or Bob, or whatever. INT. HOSPITAL - INTENSIVE CARE UNIT - LATER Standing bedside to his COMATOSE LIFE PARTNER, Archie, now with cup of water in hand, is calmer. ARCHIE They give him a week at most. BOB I understand you two have been together for thirty-four years? ARCHIE Thirty-five and a half. He was the most kind, caring person I’d ever met. Never a mean word for anyone. BOB One of those effortlessly good people that makes the rest of us look bad? ARCHIE Exactly. BOB I hate those people, don’t you? It’s the first smile Archie’s had in a while. ARCHIE I’ve got to be honest with you, Bob, I never understood what Gordon saw in the Church. But that was his deal. Once in a while he’d talk me into going with him. He adored that old-fashioned service, what’s it called? BOB The Tridentine Mass? What? ARCHIE BOB The Latin Mass? ARCHIE That’s it. Loved the music, the smell of the incense. Me? Incense makes me sick but Gordon loved it. Even after he was excommunicated, he still went to that Latin Mass. When we moved back to Philly he directed the choir at one of your smaller parishes in Hawley. He would have been honored to meet you Bob. Bob looks confused. ARCHIE (CONT’D) You said I could call you Bob. BOB Gordon was excommunicated? ARCHIE Back in ‘78. We were living in Phoenix at the time... The memory brings a smile to Archie’s face. ARCHIE (CONT’D) Can you imagine? Phoenix? 1978? Two gay men marching on City Hall for marital rights? I remember them spitting on us. BOB I’m sorry you had to experience that. ARCHIE Brought out the Irish in me I can tell you, but Gordon? Wasn’t in his nature. Used to say - what’s it matter what this person says, or that person? It’s about what Christ said and Christ taught love for all. BOB Was Gordon ever absolved? ARCHIE Absolved? BOB From excommunication. Church Law requires absolution before the excommunicated can receive the Holy Sacraments. (a beat) Last Rites is a Holy Sacrament. ARCHIE What are you saying? BOB Archie, if Gordon was excommunicated and never absolved, then I’m prohibited from administering Last Rites. It’s an Ecclesiastical Law. I simply can’t. ARCHIE You’re serious. BOB I know it sounds arcane, perhaps even silly, to you but... ARCHIE So what the hell do I tell this man when he wakes up?? For the first time Bob is at a loss for words. ARCHIE (CONT’D) What?? Some arcane, silly Bishop refuses to allow his soul go to Heaven??? BOB I’m so sorry. ARCHIE He believes in all that crap, you know, all your bullshit sacraments and Latin mumbo-jumbo. If it were me I’d tell you to go “f” yourself right now - but it’s not me. It’s Gordon. And if ever a man deserved to go to heaven, it’s Gordon. BOB I’ll pray for him, of course... Archie throws his cup of water into Bob’s face. ARCHIE Pray for yourself, asshole. You need it more than he does. Archie STORMS OUT. Bob takes out a handkerchief to wipe his face, looking around... BOB’S POV: The entire ICU is staring at him. The only one looking back with any sympathy is Dwayne, his driver. INT. CHANCERY - LENORE’S OFFICE Lenore is at her desk, sitting opposite CRYSTAL (20’s) a young woman with face and figure best described as dirty-sexy. LENORE ...there’s also a dress code which we’ll obviously have to go over. CRYSTAL Even for volunteers? Lenore looks Crystal over. LENORE Especially for volunteers. Tell me, Ms. Castilano, how is it that you know the Bishop so well? CRYSTAL I headed up his “Get’em-back-in-the-Pews” campaign at his old parish... INT. TOPLESS BAR - BACK ROOM CUT TO: Crystal is wrapping up a lap-dance with a REGULAR CUSTOMER who hands her a $20. CRYSTAL Thanks Frank and remember: I see you at Mass this Sunday and it’s ten bucks off next time. Bring a friend and you’ll be glad you did - and I think you know what I mean. Frank’s look says he knows exactly what she means. CUT BACK TO: INT. CHANCERY - LENORE’S OFFICE LENORE So you were the one responsible for his early numbers? CRYSTAL I wouldn’t say I was responsible... INT. TOPLESS BAR - BACK ROOM Crystal is dancing for a NEW CUSTOMER. CUT TO: Behind her, on the other side of the parted drapes is a LONG LINE OF NEW CUSTOMERS waiting their turn. CRYSTAL V.O. I helped out... INT. CHANCERY - LENORE’S OFFICE CRYSTAL You know Bob - he’s a pretty engaging guy on his own. LENORE CUT BACK TO: - Bishop? CRYSTAL Bishop? LENORE You were referring to Bishop Briscoe? CRYSTAL Oh right, Bishop Bob, he’s... LENORE No, not “Bishop Bob”. It’s “Bishop Briscoe”, or “Bishop”, or “Your Excellency”, but it’s not - ever - “Bishop Bob”. Do you understand? Crystal STUDIES Lenore before... CRYSTAL I so get you. Lenore STARES BACK at Crystal. CRYSTAL (CONT’D) His cred? Lenore CONTINUES to STARES BACK at Crystal. CRYSTAL (CONT’D) Credibility? LENORE Because the authority of the Catholic Church doesn’t provide him with enough “cred”? CRYSTAL I’m down with you on that sister. Crystal HOLDS OUT HER HAND for some “skin”. LENORE I am not a nun. CRYSTAL I didn’t mean “sister”. I meant, you know...sister. Crystal CONTINUES to HOLD OUT HER HAND. Lenore CONTINUES to STARE BACK. CUT TO: CLOSE ON: BOY (14) talking, self-consciously, TO CAMERA. BOY I can’t help it. I know I shouldn’t do it - and swear I won’t - but stuff starts me thinking and then I start thinking about stuff and one thing leads to another and then I end up doing it and right after I swear I won’t do it again but then stuff starts me thinking again and then I start thinking about stuff again and -- I can’t help it! It’s like I’m possessed! INTERCUT WITH: CLOSE ON: BOB on the other side of the CONFESSIONAL. BOB Easy Dominick, let’s keep this just between us. DOMINICK Why would God make it so hard not to do it if He didn’t want me to do it? It’s like He’s playing some kind of sick joke on me. BOB I know. DOMINICK And every day I wake up swearing I won’t “do it” again but, yes, I’ve been “doing it” again. I don’t want to lie to you like Tommy Henderson does. BOB I appreciate that. DOMINICK Fifteen times. BOB A day?? DOMINICK Christ no! I mean, sorry, Father. No, since last time we talked. BOB Since your last confession. DOMINICK Yeah since then. BOB I suppose the fact that you’re keeping count is a good sign. CUT TO: CLOSE ON: MARINE, in dress uniform (21), talking TO CAMERA. MARINE It’s not that I’m worried about me. It’s more about my folks. Me? I’m fine with it. I signed up to fight. That’s what I wanted and that’s what I’m going to get to do. But if something happened to me I don’t know if they could handle it. CLOSE ON: BOB on the other side of the CONFESSIONAL. BOB But you’re fine with it, you say? Going into a war zone? MARINE Yes Father. BOB Then you’re one in a million because no matter how well-trained I was - going into a war zone?? I’d be scared as hell. CLOSE ON: MARINE Bob’s bluntness has found a chink in the Marine’s bravado. MARINE Sure I think about it, but not so much about me dying. More like what if I, you know, kill someone? I mean, that’s what we’re over there for, isn’t it? So is that murder? Am I going to hell for that? Even if I do it for my country? CLOSE ON: BOB The Marine’s bluntness has found a chink in Bob’s. BOB That’s a really good question... CUT TO: INT. CHURCH - SUNDAY MORNING A full-blown BLACK GOSPEL CHOIR is rocking the house with their closing number. As we PAN AROUND we begin to notice STRANGE CONTRADICTIONS: -the church is actually a large, ornate CATHEDRAL. -the MULTI-ETHNIC PARISHIONERS all share the same look of over-caffinated exuberance. Until we COME TO: -Bob in high-Mass regalia (replete with miter) keeping beat with a tambourine and dancing in step. As the SONG comes to an end and Bob takes to the pulpit. Using his robed sleeve to wipe the sweat from his face, he pauses to look DIRECTLY TO CAMERA: BOB We’re not your father’s Catholic Church! The congregation ERUPTS IN APPLAUSE. INSERT: C.U. - of a HAND on a SOUND MIXING TABLE cueing the SFX of LOUD APPLAUSE. Just as the APPLAUSE dies down, Bob’s Iphone RINGS. Retrieving it from beneath his robes, he looks at the number. BOB (CONT’D) I’m sorry. I need to take this... DIRECTOR (O.S.) CUUUUUTTT! We PULL BACK TO REVEAL: a COMPLETE CAMERA CREW is FILMING the service with Bob in the spotlight. Bob heads to the Sacristy to take the call.... BOB Sal, thanks for calling me back. I’ve got a good feeling about this Sunday. I understand your situation but I thought just this once... ...passing the VIDEO VILLAGE set-up where Stan and Trevor sit with the IRATE DIRECTOR watching the monitor. They pause to look to one another: “who the hell is this guy?”. IRATE DIRECTOR Alright people, back to one... INT. CARDINAL’s STUDY -- AFTERNOON Bishop Garcia sits across his desk from Cardinal Rochester, who leaves through his confidential report. GARCIA As you can see, there’s not a scintilla of proof. This is a single mother with a long criminal history of drug abuse. ROCHESTER What does the boy say? GARCIA Very little. Sadly he has Down’s Syndrome. He was made an altar boy due solely to the loving kindness of Father Martin. ROCHESTER And Martin? GARCIA Good man. Spotless record. ROCHESTER Says here he received counselling for certain “urges” on three separate occasions. GARCIA That doesn’t make him a pedophile. ROCHESTER No, but it does raise a red flag. GARCIA There’s no one who doesn’t adore Father Martin. Ask your own Council of Priests - they’ll give him their highest rating. (a beat) Martin’s parish has always been one of my top producers. ROCHESTER So how do you suggest I handle this, Manny? GARCIA Move Martin to someplace quiet until he hits retirement next year. Like Scranton. I’m sure Robert could use an extra hand. ROCHESTER And this woman? GARCIA The lawyers assure me she’ll settle out of court for a hundred thousand which our insurance will cover. She’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement and this all disappears. No headlines. No trial. And no attorneys getting rich at the expense of the faithful. ROCHESTER And no one’s the wiser. GARCIA And no one gets hurt. Trust me, Your Eminence, your record is spotless but if this ever got out we’d have the New York Times and every other Jewish-run news organization at our front door. And I don’t have to tell you what that would mean. For all of us. INT. CHANCERY - BOB’S OFFICE - LATER MORNING Bishop Bob is counseling MARGO and JAMES (both early-20s). MARGO No offense, but if it wasn’t for my father, we wouldn’t even be here. BOB No offense taken. MARGO He grew up in this diocese - JAMES - and he’s paying for the wedding. BOB So where would you two prefer to be married? MARGO To be honest, neither of us really want to be married. JAMES Not in the traditional sense. MARGO We’re both more ”spiritual” than religious. JAMES We adhere to the early, more radical, writings of Martin Buber. MARGO His theory of our predestined “I/ Thou” relationship with the ultimate entity we call “God”. JAMES But down deep we’re both existential realists: does God even exist at all? MARGO And could we perceive Him in any meaningful way, even if He did? Bob takes this in. BOB Only freshmen at U. Penn, did you say? MARGO Like I said, Your Honor, we may not be religious but we’re super spiritual. BOB I can see that. Margo and James turn to each other and kiss passionately. BOB (CONT’D) But are either of you Catholic? MARGO Yes, I am. I’ve been baptized, confirmed - all that stuff. BOB Let’s back up. Forget Catholic. Do you consider yourselves Christian? JAMES Define “Christian”. BOB Do you believe that Jesus Christ died for your eternal salvation? They look at each other, trying not to laugh. JAMES That’s a bit of a stretch. BOB Then we’ve got a bit of a problem. MARGO I hope not. Daddy wants this and you know my father, don’t you? BOB He’s hard to miss, especially in an election year. INT. CHANCERY - BOB’S OFFICE With his feet up on the desk, completely enthralled, Bob is watching TV when Lenore ENTERS. LENORE Sorry to disturb you sir, but you’re scheduled to sanction that miracle in Lackawanna this afternoon... BOB Be there in ten... LENORE (looking over his shoulder) To accommodate “The Real Housewives of Orange County”? Bob hits “pause” on the remote. BOB I was looking for last night’s scores and stumbled across this show. LENORE The “Real Housewives of Orange County”? BOB Right, and was immediately stunned by how shockingly candid these women are. LENORE The “Real Housewives of Orange County”? BOB Right, about their lives, their loves, their dreams, their fears - the problems that plague all of us, articulated here - LENORE By the “Real Housewives of Orange County”? BOB Yes...no. Not by them in particular but from the collective modern-day experience they represent. LENORE Oh in that case - sure. The collective modern-day experience of the Real Housewives of Orange County is infinitely more important than the collective modern-day experience of our flock in Lackawanna County, many of whom aren’t even housewives... BOB You’re right. I’ll record it, watch... As soon as he picks up the remote, Lenore EXITS. BOB (CONT'D) (calling after her) Just another advantage of Direct TV by the way. EXT. DUNKIN’ DONUTS PARKING LOT - DAY The gathered CROWD OF OVER 500 PEOPLE breaks out in APPLAUSE when Bishop Bob’s limousine pulls up. Bob emerges like a rock star. “Fans” snap photos, elbowing each other to kiss his ring. TV cameras broadcast live. One OLD WOMAN, holding rosary beads and carrying a poster with Bob’s face with the number “666” written across it screams out: OLD WOMAN The Anti-Christ walks among us. Heed Revelations Seven verse six... Before she can continue TWO PRIVATE SECURITY GUARDS “escort” her away. In their wake, FATHER MOORE and a YOUNG PRIEST approach. MOORE Bishop Briscoe, what an honor. Thank you for coming. BOB Nonsense, Fred. It’s good to see you. This is my assistant, Lenore. Lenore, Father Moore - the best poker player in the diocese. MOORE Not the best - just the only one who’s never been caught cheating. LENORE I’ll keep that in mind. They shake. MOORE And this is Father Lamont - my Assistant Pastor - the one who filed for authentication. Bob and the young Father Lamont shake. BOB So what do we have here? LAMONT Well as I stated in the application: the vision first appeared to Mrs. Agostino - a long serving member of our parish - about two weeks ago. (MORE) LAMONT (CONT'D) After conducting a personal investigation I brought in two specialists from the police department’s CSI division... He gestures to TWO MEN IN LAB COATS behind him. LAMONT (CONT’D) To rule out ”natural causes” and based on their report I concluded the vision to be authentic, warranting your sanction to the Vatican as a miracle. Hence the application I filed for such. Bob smiles. He’s seen a few “Lamonts” in his time. BOB Hence my visit with you today. MOORE What Father Lamont means... BOB Come on, let’s go check this out. EXT. DUNKIN’ DONUTS STORE Surrounded by the crowd, with a CSI EXPERT on each side, Bob studies a SHADED ANOMALY in the store’s plate-glass window. A CSI EXPERT hands Bob a special magnifying glass which Bob uses to inspect the shaded spot more closely. BOB’S POV: CLOSE ON the shaded anomaly as it eerily takes on the shape of a MAN’S BEARDED FACE. After a moment, Bob steps back and takes a breath. Finally he turns to face the crowd: BOB It’s either Jesus Christ or Eric Clapton circa 1973 - either way I’d call it a miracle! I say the Pope needs to come here and see this for himself, what’d you folks say? The crowd ERUPTS IN CHEERS. REPORTER’S FLASHES go off, LOCAL AFFILIATE NEWS VIDEO FEED goes out, capturing Bob’s smile as we... MATCH CUT TO: INT. TOSCANA SOCIAL CLUB We PULL BACK to reveal that Sal and Murray have been watching the previous scene on the TV above the bar. Both, grouper-mouthed, stare back, dumb-founded. MURRAY What the... SAL Holy... MURRAY Did you know about this? SAL Me? Swear to God, Mur, I thought he was a businessman. MURRAY Yeah, he’s a businessman alright, God’s business. SAL I guess this changes things. MURRAY Money’s money, Sal, and that never changes. INT. CHANCERY - BOB’S QUARTERS - EARLY EVENING In his ornate bathroom, Bob is scrutinizing how the new Bishop’s ring looks on his finger in the mirror when the doorbell RINGS. BOB Lenore? Hello? INT. CHANCERY - DOORWAY In his bathrobe, Bob opens the door to find FATHER MARTIN (60s) standing before him in the rain with a suitcase. BOB Father Martin. MARTIN Hello, Robert. You look surprised. BOB It’s been a long time. MARTIN Seminary. Second year. Moral Theology. If I recall correctly. I gave you a “C”. BOB And if I recall correctly that was being charitable. (awkward beat) So what brings you up here on such an evening? MARTIN Bishop Garcia didn’t call? BOB No. MARTIN That’s strange. INT. CHANCERY - BOB’S OFFICE - EVENING CUT TO: Leading Father Martin into his office, Bob walks in to find Lenore, wearing headphones, completely engrossed in an episode of “The Sopranos”. BOB Ahem! Yanking off the headphones, Lenore bolts up, turns off the TV and pretends to go through the paperwork on Bob’s desk. LENORE Excuse me Bishop, I was just... BOB You can record the show if you’d like. LENORE Nonsense Bishop, something caught my eye, that’s all...ah, there it is. She picks up a file, making a bee-line for the door. LENORE (CONT’D) I’ve got to fax this out right away. May I bring either of you some coffee? Before either can answer... LENORE (CONT’D) No? Okay... ...Lenore’s out of the room and half-way down the hall. MARTIN Oh, she’s good. CUT TO: INT. CHANCERY - BOB’S OFFICE - EARLY EVENING Bishop Bob sits across his desk from Father Martin. MARTIN It’s an allegation - that’s all. BOB I still have to ask - is it true? MARTIN If I’m guilty of anything, it’s for being naive. I took pity on a poor retarded boy when others warned me about his mother, but I didn’t listen. BOB No good deed. MARTIN So true, brother. BOB So how can I help you? MARTIN Garcia suggested that you might have something for me in Scranton. The Vicarate, perhaps. I’m a very easy boarder. BOB Did Garcia inform Cardinal Rochester of this? MARTIN I didn’t ask. Bob hangs his head. MARTIN (CONT’D) Forty-one years of faithful service and look at me sitting here, hat in hand. He opens his briefcase, taking out letters and photos, laying them out on the desk before Bob. MARTIN (CONT’D) The Donnelly family - celebrated 30 years of marriage last month. Read this letter. I baptized, confirmed and married all three of their girls in my Church - my Church - and here: Mrs. Malinowksi - turned 90 last week, God bless her, buried her husband last May. No children. No family. I’ve been bringing her a church dinner every Wednesday since... BOB I don’t question your faith brother, but I have to ask - have the police been notified? MARTIN What you’re asking is for me to account for myself in a way I hope you’ll never have to account for yourself. Father Martin stands. MARTIN (CONT’D) I’m showing you the lives I’ve touched, actual souls I’ve saved and you’re asking me... Father Martin begins to break down. Bob comes around the desk to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. BOB I’m so sorry... EXT. CEMETERY A funeral has just concluded and a SMALL GROUP is milling about grave-side, comforting a grieving ARCHIE. A WOMAN hugs him. WOMAN I’m so sorry Archie. ARCHIE Me too, Maura. Me too. Archie looks over her shoulder to SEE... ARCHIE’S POV: Standing alone under a tree in the distance (dressed in civilian clothes) is Bob. ARCHIE (CONT’D) I’ll be right back. EXT. CEMETERY Archie and Bob stand beneath the tree. BOB Sorry I couldn’t show up in any “official capacity”. ARCHIE The hat would have been nice. BOB It is an eye-catcher, isn’t it. ARCHIE So if you’re not here as a Bishop what are you here as? BOB A man. Here to invite another man for a drink. INT. FATTY MCGEE’S PUB - LATER BOB So you really knew him? ARCHIE Knew him? I couldn’t get him off my couch when he was starting out. BOB Who knew from such humble beginnings the man would go on to leave his indelible mark on the lower right-hand corner of the Hollywood Squares. They click glasses. Archie watches Bob drink. ARCHIE So I’m guessing you didn’t invite me here to hear my old Paul Lynde stories? BOB No, but if I had known... ARCHIE Didn’t think so. BOB I wanted to say I was sorry. ARCHIE For what? Being a Catholic Bishop or just having to act like one? BOB I won’t bore you with the details Archie but the Church saved my life. I love the Church. I love what it stands for and I believe in its power to enrich lives. ARCHIE Then you can’t love me or those like me because we aren’t what your Church stands for. In fact, we’re what your church stands against, isn’t that right? BOB I know this may be hard for you to understand. ARCHIE Oh I understand Bob. All too well. Forget the homophobia - I can take that - but what about all the people dying of AIDS and the fact that your church actually preaches against condoms? It makes no sense. You say your church enriches lives and I say it destroys twice that number of lives. BOB Let me put it another way: I love what I do - not necessarily all that I seem to represent. ARCHIE Oh please, is there a difference? You can take off the robes and the funny hat but can you take the blood off your hands just as easily? BOB Change is coming, Archie, I promise you that. ARCHIE Not soon enough for the one I loved though, right? CUT TO: CLOSE ON: Rough VIDEO EDIT of Bob’s commercial when he takes the pulpit. BOB “We’re not your father’s Catholic...:” PLAYBACK PAUSES and we PULL BACK to REVEAL: INT. BISHOP’S QUARTERS - LATER Bob watching the rough edit on TV, alone and drunk. From the look on his face Bob seems to be asking himself: “What church is this then?” INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT - LUNCH Bishops Bob and Garcia are dining. Both wear dark suits and Roman collars. WAITER More wine, fathers? GARCIA Please. The waiter refills their glasses. BOB So help me out with something. Why did you send Father Martin to me? GARCIA He didn’t explain? BOB Not in any way that adds up. Does Cardinal Rochester know? GARCIA You think I’m the Lone Ranger on this? BOB So he approves? GARCIA Absolutely. BOB That puzzles me. GARCIA Let me tell you something Bob: I can spot “red fever” a mile away. (MORE) GARCIA (CONT'D) You can put up all the impressive numbers your want and make all your expensive commercials and you can think you’re on the road to Cardinal but if you don’t start making some friends, you’re on the road to nowhere. Not that you asked, but you want some advice? BOB Of course. Garcia leans in and motions Bob to do the same. GARCIA (quietly) Don’t fuck with me. I’ve been playing this game a lot longer than you and Bob... (a beat) I play to win. Leaning back, he resumes the meal. GARCIA (CONT’D) Now how about those Sixers? INT. “NBC10” - TAWNEY WINNBOCK’S CUBICLE All other staff are gone, Tawney Winnbock sits at her desk, flirting with CLIVE SUTTON - NBC10’s age-defying news anchor. TAWNEY You are such a dog. CLIVE I didn’t do it. I said it crossed my mind...once or twice. The two break out into NAUGHTY LAUGHTER when Tawney’s cell-phone RINGS. Tawney looks at the number. TAWNEY This should be interesting. Clive, if you’ll excuse me... CLIVE There is no excuse. She waits... CLIVE (CONT’D) Go on, take it, I’ve got to get out here. There are spankings to be administered! As soon as he’s out of ear-shot, she takes the call. TAWNEY So you’re not dead after all...what? Is this like your last “big tip” that almost ended my career?...wait, slow down, speak English...who told you this? Suddenly Tawney bolts up in her chair. TAWNEY (CONT’D) Don’t bullshit me... Grabbing a pen, she looks around for something to write on. TAWNEY (CONT’D) Okay, what’s that name again... Scribbling on her bare arm... TAWNEY (CONT’D) ...and the case number?... I need a case number to verify...why? Because, I learned the hard way last time not to take the word of a meth-addict...no, Steve, the Mayor turned out not to be gay... because I ended up having to screw him that’s how I know, you idiot... INT. FATTY MCGEE’S PUB At the bar we recognize TOM (the cable guy from earlier) sitting with RUSSELL (Murry’s rib-breaker from earlier). When they’re joined by a WOMAN (SHEILA), Tom stands. TOM Hey Sheila, love that dress. SHEILA It’s a business suit, Tom, but nice try. The two hug. Sheila looks over at Russell. SHEILA (CONT’D) What? You paralyzed? You don’t stand when a lady enters? RUSSELL When a lady enters I do. Sheila slugs him in the shoulder. SHEILA Russell the Muscle. How’s the recession hitting the extortion business? RUSSELL Why you always busting my balls? SHEILA Hey, just doing my duty. Tom punches Sheila in the shoulder. TOM You said “doodie”. SHEILA Jesus Tom, grow up. She takes a CARD from her purse. SHEILA (CONT’D) I got this for him. Thought we could all sign it. Tom looks it over. TOM “Congratulations on your recent promotion”? RUSSELL He’s been ordained Bishop, not made V.P. of Human Resources for Christsakes! SHEILA Oh, right, I should’ve looked in the “ordination of a Bishop” aisle at Hallmark - my bad. TOM I still don’t get it. Ten something years ago he was marketing Pampers for Procter & Gamble... INT. BOARDROOM AT PROCTOR & GAMBLE JUMP CUT TO: A younger Bob is pitching the PAMPERS ACCOUNT TEAM. BOB .. so I ask: what are diapers if not the tangible, modern-day acknowledgement of that most primal and eternal bond between mother and child? The Pampers Account Team APPLAUDS. BOB (CONT'D) And what are Pampers if not the very avatar of this most sacred and holy trust? The Pampers Account Team stare back, confused. JUMP BACK TO: INT. FATTY MCGEE’S PUB TOM (CONT’D) ... and he suddenly “got the calling”? Seriously, how’s it make him any different now? RUSSELL Wait, let me think...oh yeah, he’s an ordained Bishop - for starters. TOM You can’t get over it, can you? RUSSELL What? Being Catholic? No, I can’t. Guess I’m not all that interested in spending eternity in hell, thank you very much, unlike the rest of us here. SHEILA Hey don’t put me in that category. TOM What? You too? SHEILA Think about it, bone-head. If you believe in it and it isn’t true - no harm, no foul. But if you don’t believe and it is true - then you’re screwed. And I mean for a long, loooong time. So I, for one, prefer to keep my options open. The door opens. They all turn to see Bob, in Sixer’s tee-shirt and jeans, enter the bar. RUSSELL Speak of the Devil. The Holy Boy Wonder. TOM Looking like he never worked a day. SHEILA Looking like he’s been working that Grecian Formula though. INT. FATTY MCGEE’S PUB - LATER Three drinks later and old friends are old friends again. TOM I mean, this is Becky Munson we’re talking about here. Every guy in school would’ve given his left nut to sniff her panties, remember? SHEILA Thank you, Tom, yes, we all remember Becky. TOM So it’s Disco Briscoe who gets the “go” and he’s sitting in the front seat of my car looking like he’s just found out the hard way that Becky’s a tranny, am I right? He gives Bob a poke in the ribs. BOB You’re right, Tom. TOM Son I’m begging for details but he’s taking the fifth. To this day the man still refuses to talk about it, am I right? BOB Right again Tom. SHEILA Look, we can get back to pressuring Bob into telling us what Becky’s muff looked like but right now let’s raise a glass to the man of the hour. Congratulations Bob, on your promotion to Bishop-hood, or Bishop-tree, or whatever you call it. TOM & RUSSELL Here, here. All raise their shots and down them. RUSSELL So let’s see the ring. You got it Bishop-sized, right? BOB Serious bling. But I left it back at the Chancery. A bit much for an off-duty night. Tom punches Bob’s shoulder. TOM You said “doodie”. RUSSELL (to Tom) What are you doing? TOM What? RUSSELL (to Bob) He can’t do that, can he? BOB He just did. RUSSELL But you’re a Bishop. He could go to go to hell for that, right? TOM Good, sign me up for double hell. Tom punches Bob again. BOB How I wish it were true. TOM But it isn’t, is it “Bishop Bob”? Bob hesitates. SHEILA Well? Is it? Choosing his next words carefully... BOB Yes, it is true. Tom could go to hell for punching me. Bob throws back his shot and stands. BOB (CONT’D) But if he’s bought another round by the time I get back I’ll deem it an act of contrition. INT. FATTY MCGEE’S PUB HALLWAY Bob staggers out of the men’s bathroom to find Sheila waiting outside. BOB Go on in, I’ll stand guard. SHEILA No, I wanted to talk to you - alone - for a minute. Got a minute? BOB For you I’ve got several. SHEILA We’ve always been close, you and I, right? I mean you’re the only guy I ever dated who I stayed friends with. BOB We made out once in sixth grade. I’d hardly call that dating. SHEILA Well I don’t make out with just anyone... (off Bob’s reaction) Okay just forget it. I don’t need you judging me. She turns to walk away but Bob grabs her. BOB I was kidding alright, I’m a kidder. SHEILA Well I’m not kidding alright. BOB I can see that. What’s going on? Sheila takes a deep breath. SHEILA I’m... late. BOB You’re late? SHEILA Yeah, I’m late. BOB You’re late? As in “you’re late”-late? SHEILA Yeah, as in “I’m “late” - late. As in - “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do” - late. As in “I’m scared shit-less even talking about this with you” - late. BOB So you’re “late” - late but are you exactly “sure”- late? SHEILA I know you’ve been a sequestered, chaste man of God for the past ten years but you do know what an EPT kit is, don’t you Bob? BOB Early Pregnancy...detector kind of thing? SHEILA You got it. BOB Oh dear. I knew it. What? SHEILA BOB SHEILA I can’t tell if that “oh dear” was coming from an old friend who I used to talk about everything with? Or an “oh dear” coming from a newly ordained Catholic Bishop who’s going to excommunicate me for having pre-marital sex. Or an abortion. Or whatever. He goes to hug her but she pushes him away. SHEILA (CONT’D) No...don’t... But Bob forces through, holding her as she starts to cry. We PAN UP to see tears welling in Bob’s eyes too. INT. CATHEDRAL Before a packed house, Bob steps up to the pulpit, lays the papers of his sermon down, adjusts the microphone. BOB I’d like to welcome all the new faces here with us this morning and invite all of you to stay after Mass for our coffee social and ... Bob stops, takes off his glasses, puts his sermon aside. BOB (CONT’D) You know when Jesus taught “love thy neighbor” and “tolerance for all” there were about 200 million people in the world then. Which is only about 3 percent of the world’s population today. So when you think about it, we have to love and tolerate 97% more people than Jesus ever did. Which makes it seems like he got off easy. But guess what? Tomorrow there’s going to be even more people. And the day after that? Even more. And this is where the rubber meets the road. Because if the humanity all around us keeps growing and getting bigger then so too must the humanity inside of us keep growing and getting bigger. The very survival of our species depends on it, right? So why does God make it so hard for us to do what’s so important for us to do? A wise person once told me: “sometimes it feels like God is playing a sick joke on us” and yes, sometimes it does feel that way. But I don’t think He is. In fact, I know He’s not. How do I know? Because we all have flaws. And we all have weaknesses. Because each one of us is a work in progress that makes each one of us also a part of God’s plan. And once we acknowledge that fact we can start to learn to forgive not just others but, more importantly, ourselves... INT. SACRISTY - AFTERWARDS A KNOCK on the door catches Bob in a compromising stage of his post-Mass “de-robing” process. BOB Just a minute. The door OPENS and Crystal walks in. BOB (CONT’D) A little privacy please? CRYSTAL Don’t worry I’ve seen it all before. BOB Excuse me? CRYSTAL Wanted to let you know I’ve got the season finale of “Real Housewives” TiVo’ed at home and thought, if you weren’t doing anything, we could order in some Chinese and... BOB Crystal? CRYSTAL Yes? BOB We’ve gone through this. CRYSTAL What? BOB You know what. She walks over to him in a way only a woman who makes her living doing this knows how. CRYSTAL That you don’t “celebrate”? BOB That I’m celibate? CRYSTAL What’s the difference? I mean really. Bob starts to back up. BOB Crystal, listen to me, I care for you as a person and... CRYSTAL And I care for you too... BOB And I respect you as a person... CRYSTAL Hey, I respect myself. What can I say? I’m good at what I do. Now backed against the wall, Bob tries to keep her at arm’s length. BOB We both know that our relationship can never be sexual. Ever. And we both have to respect that. Seeing in his eyes she’s getting nowhere. CRYSTAL Don’t get so full of yourself, “Bishop” Bob. You’re not all that. Crystal turns, heads out, stopping at the door. CRYSTAL (CONT’D) For someone who was preaching tolerance to a 300-plus mass-count not fifteen minutes ago - you sure are one intolerant bastard you know that? She exits, SLAMMING the door behind her. BOB (looking up to God) Be honest. It really is all some kind of sick joke, isn’t it? EXT. CEMETERY - GRAVE SITE CUT TO: In full Bishop regalia (replete with mitre) Bob stands side-by-side with Archie at the grave of Archie’s life partner, Gordon. BOB ...for dust thou art, so to dust thou shall return. Amen. Bob closes the bible, crosses himself, and turns to Archie. BOB (CONT’D) I wish I could have done more. Archie hugs him. INT. LIMO ARCHIE Thanks for wearing the hat. CUT TO: Dwayne sits behind the wheel, watching, with a smile. INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT - EVENING Bishop Bob and Margo’s father, T.G. RICHARDS (50s),PENNSYLVANIA GENERAL ASSEMBLY’S SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE, are dining. BOB Your daughter’s quite a thinker. T.G. RICHARDS That’s one way of putting it. BOB Individuality has its merits. T.G. RICHARDS Not for her long-suffering father, I’m afraid. It’s my hope that marrying in the Church might set her on a more “serious” path in life. BOB She told you why that can’t happen? T.G. RICHARDS That’s just her talking. She’ll come around. BOB Mr. Speaker... T.G. RICHARDS Please, it’s T.G. BOB T.G. T.G. RICHARDS Listen Bishop, I’m not known for beating around the bush. I’ve asked around. You’re off to a good start. (MORE) T.G. RICHARDS (CONT'D) But I wouldn’t book your flight to the Vatican just yet. BOB Mr. Richards... T.G. RICHARDS T.G. BOB T.G., I appreciate... T.G. RICHARDS Your diocese is a notorious sinkhole. Always has been. When the novelty of “you” wears off, then what? Bob begins to smile. T.G. RICHARDS (CONT’D) See what I mean? Now I don’t want to over-step my bounds here but every campaign, political or otherwise, is built on financing. A steady stream of in-coming equity. A hefty collection plate at every Mass, if you catch my drift. BOB In many ways we’re both judged by our ability to reach the masses. T.G. RICHARDS So how does ten grand a year for the next five years sound? BOB Like a bribe? T.G. laughs. T.G. RICHARDS Consider it a retainer then - for future “indulgences” let’s say. BOB T.G., we wouldn’t be having this conversation if we both didn’t carry in our hearts a deep love for the Church... T.G. RICHARDS -$15,000 a year for the next six years. BOB I think we’re more alike than we give each other credit for. T.G. RICHARDS -coming in under an “anonymous donation” line, of course. Bob zeros in on T.G. BOB Why is a Catholic marriage for your daughter so important to you? T.G. RICHARDS I was born and raised Catholic. In your very diocese as a matter of fact. BOB And I may have been born at night but it wasn’t last night. T.G. RICHARDS As you may be aware, I’ve been painted in the press recently as having certain political alliances which my opponents mis-characterize as “anti-Catholic”. BOB If you’re referring to the pro-choice rally... T.G. RICHARDS -let’s just say that it’d behoove me at this juncture to secure my district’s traditional voter base, if you know what I mean. BOB I think I do. Bob looks around. BOB (CONT’D) Waiter, could we get our meal to go please? CUT TO: INT. BISHOP BOB’S CATHEDRAL - EVENING Bob and T.G. Richards sit in the upper balcony of the otherwise empty Cathedral, eating their take-out while listening to the HEAVENLY SOUNDS of the PIPE ORGANIST and CHOIR practicing beneath them, both enveloped by the majesty of the moment. EXT. OUTSIDE CHURCH - LATER With Dwayne holding the door open to the limo behind him, BOB Like I said - it’s bigger than the both of us, T.G. T.G. RICHARDS Hey, I’m Scrooge on Christmas Day - I get it... T.G. and Bob shake hands. T.G. RICHARDS (CONT’D) ...but I’m also used to getting my way. CUT TO: INT. TOSCANA SOCIAL CLUB Sal, Murray and Russell are seated at a back table. SAL We want this one handled a special way, right Mur? MURRAY Shut up , Sal, you’re wasting Russell’s time. (to Russell) Like Sal said, we want this one handled a special way. RUSSELL Special? Meaning? MURRAY I think you’ll see what I mean. Murray passes Russell an 8-by-10 photo. Close on photo: It’s the SAME PRESS PHOTO OF BISHOP BOB we saw in the beginning. OFF RUSSELL’s REACTION we... INT. “NBC10” - NEWS SOUNDSTAGE Bob sits on stage while the SOUND ASSISTANT fits him with a lapel microphone and the MAKE-UP ASSISTANT gives his face a final pat-down. He looks over, smiling at: ANGLE ON: Tawney Winnbock and Clive Sutton seated across from him, smiling back, whispering to each other without moving their lips. TAWNEY You are not going to regret this. 1ST A.D (O.S.) We’re back in five... CLIVE Don’t worry. If I do, so will you. 1ST A.D ...three...two... CLIVE And then some. Silently, the 1ST A.D. hand-cues Clive. CLIVE (CONT’D) (into camera) Welcome back to “Philly-Beat”. I’m joined today with Bishop Robert Briscoe - newly-minted Bishop of Scranton and the youngest Bishop in America. A leading fund raiser - (a ‘wink’ to camera) - and hell raiser - of today’s new Catholic Church. Welcome Bishop Briscoe, thanks for stopping by. BOB My pleasure. Happy to be here. CLIVE Word has it you’re really mixing things up out there in Scranton. BOB Our biggest challenge is bringing people back to the church. But once we get them back I think they’ll want to stay. ANGLE ON: CLIVE Seems that one of your biggest obstacles to overcome are the continuing allegations of sexual abuse by Catholic priests both here and abroad. Despite the Vatican’s consistent effort to cover them up. BOB Understandably there’s a great deal of pain from what has happened in the past but I wouldn’t be sitting with you here today if I didn’t believe those days were over. CLIVE Interesting, because also sitting here with me today is our own investigative reporter, Tawney Winnbock - Tawney, welcome... TAWNEY Thank you Clive. CLIVE Tawney you’ve been tracking a story for a while. Fill us in. What’s going on here? TAWNEY (directly to camera, a true pro) Clive, what’s going here is a classic case of Catholic cover-up. ANGLE ON BOB: BOB Excuse me? TAWNEY Tell me, Bishop, do you know a certain Father Martin? Off Bob’s reaction we... INT. CHANCERY - BOB’S OFFICE CUT TO: Watching Bob’s interview on TV, Lenore drops her iced tea. CUT TO: INT. BISHOP GARCIA’S OFFICE Watching Bob’s interview on TV, Garcia begins to smile. CUT TO: INT. CARDINAL’S CHANCERY Watching Bob’s interview on TV, Cardinal Rochester leans forward in anticipation of Bob’s response. INT. “NBC10” - NEWS SOUNDSTAGE BOB Father Martin?? TAWNEY Yes, Father Thomas Martin. Former pastor of the St. Matthias parish in Buck’s County? Bob opens his mouth but nothing comes out. TAWNEY (CONT’D) You do know him, don’t you? Suddenly Bob’s iPhone RINGS in his pocket. BOB I’m so sorry. I should have turned this off. As he goes for his phone... ANGLE ON: CUT BACK TO: ANGLE ON: 1ST A.D (into his microphone) Go to station break. CLIVE (to camera) And we’ll be back with the Bishop’s answer after this. I’m Clive Sutton and you’re watching “Philly Beat”. ANGLE ON: Dwayne, standing just off-stage, cellphone in hand. WE CLOSE IN on the monitor as they cut to commercial... END TEASER THE COMMERCIAL: WE SEE a COLLAGE of FAMOUS CELEBRITIES receiving Academy Awards, Emmys, Grammys - caught in the moment they acknowledge God in their acceptance speech... BOB’S VOICE-OVER What do all these people have in common?… ...and FAMOUS ATHLETES winning races, scoring touchdowns, hitting a home runs, all caught in the moment they cross themselves, point up in thanks to God... BOB’S VOICE-OVER (CONT’D) They’re all Catholics... CUT TO: BISHOP BOB - looking directly into CAMERA: BOB Shouldn’t you be too? The CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal Bob standing on an idyllic mountain side, surrounded by SMILING CHILDREN. BOB (CONT’D) Today’s Catholic Church – our door’s never been more open. We PULL BACK TO REVEAL… INT. THE VATICAN - POPE’S CHAMBERS Bob’s COMMERCIAL is being screened by THE POPE (shot from behind) while his entire STAFF of CARDINALS wait on egg-shells for his reaction. Slowly, the Pope gives a “thumbs up”. The Cardinals break out in APPLAUSE. I cleared my throat and began…