An Intervention (incomplete)

Following up on posting unfinished works (varying formats) that will likely never be finished. This was a script loosely based off of an idea of a serial killer character of sorts mixing with the idea of when people coax you into Tupperware (et al.) parties.

I was in the process of rewriting the entire part once they left the house when I stopped, and that’s my only real memory of writing any of this.

Not An Intervention (incomplete)

Quiet home. Mid afternoon. Dust slowly slowly flows through peering bands of sunlight.

The door opens as TRAD walks in.

He spends half a minute setting down a cachet of bags, carry items, and coats. He sets down his laptop bag and looks up and freezes.

Two men (or at least people) are sitting on his furniture, patiently waiting for him to complete his entrance.

TRAD: The hell is this?

JOURN: Sit down, Trad.

TRAD: You’re in my house. Who is this?

He motions at the other, more intimidating stranger. The stranger straightens his posture and a proud, subtle smile seeps out of his face.

GRISBY: I’m Grisby.

JOURN: I referred you.

TRAD: Referred me?

JOURN: Yeah.

TRAD: So this isn’t one of those intervention things?

GRISBY: Not at all.

TRAD: Am I being robbed?

JOURN: If we were robbing you, why would we wait for you to get home?

TRAD: Good point.

There’s an awkward pause.

TRAD: So what’s going on again? You’re in my house.

GRISBY: We’re in your house.

TRAD: You broke into my house.

JOURN: No.

GRISBY: We used the spare key.

TRAD: You entered my house without permission.

GRISBY: I guess.

JOURN (slightly agitated): This couldn’t wait TRAD. Plus it’s Baltic Cold out there. Sit down already.

Trad takes two reluctant steps forward and sits on the couch.

TRAD: So this is some sort of emergency?

JOURN: Something like that.

GRISBY: No.

TRAD: What?

Grisby glances at JOURN real quick.

GRISBY: I’m sorry TRAD. It’s rude of us to just barge in like this, but JOURN told me that you two were close. We didn’t think it’d be a big deal.

TRAD: Haven’t seen him in 12 years.

JOURN: My 7th grade sleepover?

TRAD: Yeah

JOURN: Good times.

TRAD: True. Tim Hobbs pissed himself.

JOURN (looking at GRISBY): We’re Facebook Friends.

GRISBY: Perfect. JOURN and I met earlier this morning. We had a good talk, and he referred me to you.

TRAD: Referred for what?

JOURN: Shut up and listen, TRAD!

GRISBY: I’d love to give you the full pitch, TRAD, but you took too long to get home.

TRAD: Sorry, I was at work?

JOURN: You’re forgiven, bro.

TRAD: That was… never mind.

GRISBY: I’m going to need you to get up and come with us now.

TRAD: What? Out of the question!

GRISBY: TRAD, you don’t really have a choice.

Beat.

TRAD: Are you sure this isn’t an intervention?

GRISBY: This is an offer.

JOURN: An offer of a lifetime.

TRAD: Wait, shit, is this, like… (beat) a really personal Tupperware party?

GRISBY: I guess it’s kind of like a Tupperware party, but better.

JOURN stands up.

JOURN: C’mon TRAD.

GRISBY: TRAD, what do you know about SALVATION?

TRAD: Salvation or salvia? I’m not going anywhere. You two are welcome to leave, though.

GRISBY picks up a styrofoam cooler that has been sitting next to him.

GRISBY: You know what’s in this cooler, TRAD? Ice. Lots of ice– and 3 human hearts.

GRISBY motions to the door.

GRISBY: I think you’re going to come with us whether you want to or not.

TRAD (long beat): Oh, you’re serious?

GRISBY and JOURN just glare at TRAD.

TRAD: I don’t believe you.

GRISBY: You also don’t have the liberty to not believe me right now. Let’s go.

JOURN walks up to TRAD and prods him toward the door.

GRISBY: Carry it.

GRISBY stuffs the cooler into TRAD’S hand. TRAD takes a look at the dark clump of shadow through the foam cooler and chokes gulping down his own saliva.

EXT. SIDEWALK

The group is walking down a sidewalk, casually conversing. Everyone is calm and friendly.

TRAD: So, you’re saying you’re a Satanist or something?

GRISBY: No, you’re not listening. I have been studying Luciferian rituals.

TRAD: Sorry, you’re Luceferian.

GRISBY: No, I am an atheist.

TRAD: So, you’ve been performing Luciferian rituals, but you’re an atheist. Because?

GRISBY: I’m curious.

JOURN gets a phone call from an unrecognized number as the other two continue.

JOURN (on phone): Hello?

TRAD: Did you have some awful med school dropout experience or something?

PHONE VOICE: Hi! May I speak with JOURN MCDOWELL?

GRISBY: I just think that it is fascinating. And I’m tired of Luceferians getting a bad wrap, as confused as they are about their deity, they know how to put together a spectacular sacrifice.

JOURN (on phone): The hell is this?

MUFFLED PHONE VOICE: What if I told you that I could make your food last FOREVER?

TRAD: You’re full of it. There’s something you’re not telling me.

JOURN (on phone): Never call me again.

JOURN hangs up.

GRISBY: Careful with those claims, pah-tna.

TRAD: No. I’m good at reading people. You’re a poor obfuscator. What are you not telling me?

GRISBY stops walking, turns around and looks at the two.

GRISBY: TRAD, do you like ALGERIAN HISTORY?

EXT. A wooded, secluded area. There are 5 small lavender scented candles from Bed Bath and Beyond arranged in a circle.

TRAD is in the center digging a hole with a small spade.

GRISBY: Look, TRAD, yeah, I want that world record, but that doesn’t mean I’m not in the pursuit of knowledge. Like I told you, I’m curious.

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