Script: Kaz Torments a Politician

'''This is a script from a prewritten scene. There may be some inconsistencies with the podcast. Scripts are not consistently stylized, and are taken directly from our documents. Mileage may vary.'''

A heavy fog settles across the Old Quarter. It obscures the metalwork of the streetlights, letting ghostly spheres of light float in the grey twilight of early dawn. Densely packed red-brick townhouses line brick-paved sidewalks. Later in the day, tourists will walk by manicured exteriors and wonder if they'll ever be able to afford one of the multi-million dollar single bedroom homes. Right now, the streets are silent, and their only passengers are the mist.

A horrible screech cuts through the thick air. A door slams open, and a man stumbles out. His half-unbuttoned Italian white dress shirt is crumpled and ruined with wine, and the designer tighty-whities underneath are visibly but unidentifiably stained.

“Help, help, please, God, someone help me!"

He staggers back from the yawning void of his open doorway, unable to look away from whatever he sees within. Tears and snot stream over a face bloated with alcohol and flushed by a spider web of livid veins. He lurches backwards, tumbling over himself, scrambling for purchase on harsh stone stairs. His head falls to the ground with a thump, skinning one side of his face. A desperate cry for help echoes through the empty street.

A woman in a plush bathrobe pulls aside her curtain and peers out, dialing 911 without leaving the perceived safety of her home. A teenager’s cell phone peeks from an open second-story window, recording the man’s breakdown. The doors of concerned neighbors creak open, and a woman in slippers stops short of the street when she realizes there is no real assailant.

The man's hands and feet scrabble across the ground as he continues to push himself away from the doorway. Shadows curl out of it, blurring into and merging with the mist. Fat lips blubber mindless apologies through hiccups and sobs as blood runs into one of his eyes. Gaudy cufflinks scrape against the pavement.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I– I–” he cuts off his own words with a strangled cry. He curls up, rocking back and forth as he cries.

Within the apartment, bright green eyes peek down through railing and into a living room. Her father sleeps on the couch downstairs and gives her the bed on the nights he has custody. She knows he drinks at night, and she knows it upsets her mother, but he still always wakes up early to make her breakfast before school. The room looks like it's full of smoke, only just stopping short of choking her, swirling around the floor. Shapes and silhouettes she cannot understand swirl within it. She only knows she's afraid. She's afraid, and she needs to stay quiet, in case it comes for her.

By the time the police arrive, the swirling shadow has dissapeared. The only thing out of place is a frying pan smoking on the stove.