Creepshow (2019–…): Season 1, Episode 2 - Episode #1.2 - full transcript
- We're under attack!
- Run, run, run, run!
Come on, Brendan,
get up! Get up!
- Anyone not dead, fall back!
- Quist, come on!
Head for that building!
Run, run, run!
Move it!
Move, move, move!
- Clear!
- Doc, Rivers,
cover those windows.
Quist, cover our tail with Doc.
- Stay low.
Watch for a second wave.
- Doc, anyone out there?
- Negative. Nothing moving
over here.
- Looks like we lost 'em.
Stay sharp, people.
- Cap, what about
Glenn and Denards?
Shouldn't we go back?
Or at least--
Glenn and
Denards are dead, Rivers.
We're all that's left
of B Company.
We're on our own.
- Tell you what.
This whole freaking mission
has been
a goddamn shit sandwich
since Normandy.
We got Krauts to the left.
Freaking minefields
to the right.
How you gonna get us
out of this one, Talby?
- Captain Talby.
- Whatever, wiseass.
- I'm thinking about it.
- Really?
That makes me feel a whole
lot better...Captain.
What the hell is this
place supposed to be anyway?
- It appears to have been
a local police station.
- Looks like they
had some trouble, too.
- Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.
- What the fuck happened here?
Jesus.
- Ooh!
Dear God.
Hey, we got a man down.
We got a couple of 'em.
Oh, would you look at
this shit on my boot, man?
So sorry, sir.
I'm so sorry. I just--
- You goddamn baby.
What the fuck's
the matter with you?
- Leave him be, Quist.
- This piss tank just
yacked all over my foot.
- And I said leave him be.
Stop being an asshole
for two seconds.
- Oh, I'm being the asshole?
- No, Bugs Bunny's the asshole.
Of course you are.
- Gentlemen, this is the last
thing we need right now.
- Hail Mary full of grace.
- What happened here?
- Captain, his
throat's slashed.
He can't talk.
- He's dead.
- Boo fucking hoo.
Hey, Rivers, you wanna
light a candle for him?
- Hans.
You foolish, foolish boy.
How could my...only son...
allow this?
You have dishonored
the Schmelzgerat name.
But I will find
these American dogs
responsible for this.
And they--
they will suffer...greatly.
- Sir?
What are we gonna do?
- We got a map here.
- Hail Mary full of grace,
the Lord is with thee.
Bless--
- Village of
10 kilometers.
- We're near Le Monge.
- Yeah, yeah, yeah,
hey, that's our rally point.
Alright, we make it there, our
asses our saved. We gotta go.
- Hell ya.
Prepare to move out.
- Jesus!
- Jesus, man.
- You shot a civilian, Rivers.
- She grabbed me.
I didn't know
anybody was in there.
- I'm--I'm so sorry, ma'am.
I didn't mean--
- Captain, she'll bleed out
if I don't get in there soon.
- Find the keys. They must be
around here somewhere.
- Whoa, whoa, whoa,
Cap, Cap, listen to me.
Every goddamn wienerschnitzel
in this whole goddamn
German army
would have heard that shot.
- Ah!
- We gotta am-scray now.
- You wanna get out
of here, find the keys.
- I can't find them.
I--I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
- Sorry.
They're in the jail!
- Oh my God.
- Get those keys, Rivers.
- I can't. They're too far.
- Here.
Snag 'em with this.
- Listen, Talby.
Listen to me, we're good
as dead if we stay here,
and you know it.
- Button your lip, Sergeant,
or I'll button it for real.
- I got 'em!
I got 'em!
No!
- No! no! No!
- It's okay.
- Help me hold her down!
- Christ, she's strong.
Doc, what is she saying?
- "Don't kill me.
Go away, I think."
- She might also be saying,
"Go away or I'll kill you."
- Kill us?
- This is crazy, man.
She's gonna give
away our position.
- Fuck this!
- Quist, put that gun away!
- I don't think so, Tommy.
Either way I'm getting
killed over some fog bitch.
- No!
- Ah!
You guys are all a bunch
of goddamn lunatics!
- What happened to you, Quist?
You used to be
someone I could trust.
War changes a man.
- Bastard!
- Sorry, boys.
- Come back here, Quist!
- Can't risk a bullet
in the back.
- Quist!
Quist!
Quist!
Shit!
- Captain, what
are we gonna do?
- I'll get us out of here,
Rivers, come hell or high water.
I promise.
- Captain, come here.
- She not gonna make it, Doc?
- My God.
What are you?
- "I locked myself
in this cage."
- I cannot die.
- The curse make me
do so many bad things.
- I kill people.
- Kill--
- --children.
- No more death.
- No more killing.
- Please just let me die.
- Loup garou!
- Lugaroo?
- Loup garou.
It means...wolf man.
- Or wolf woman.
- She wasn't trying
to grab me before.
She wanted my cross.
- "Please just let me die."
- It's silver.
Attention, American soldiers!
We know you are inside.
My men have
the building surrounded.
- Perfect timing.
- I will be, as you Americans
like to say, to the point.
One of you...killed...
my only son today,
who causes all of you will die!
But I am a man of honor,
and so I offer you a choice.
If...you come out now
unarmed and accept your fate,
your death will be
quick and painless.
But if you force me
to risk the lives of my men...
to expel your filthy hides...
you will die in unimaginable...
agony.
I await your response.
- Damn.
- Here, ma'am, take it.
It'll do you more
good than it did us.
- Hold up.
- But before you die, we need
you to do something for us.
- This is
Captain Lawrence Talby
of the United Stated Army.
And I've considered your offer.
- What is your answer,
Captain Talby
of the United States Army?
Let me
be to the point!
If you want our filthy hides...
come in here and get 'em!
- Good.
That is good.
We are going in.
Attack at sundown.
- Hurry, let her do it.
- Deploy smoke grenades.
- Thank you.
You...
- I don't feel
any different.
- What if it ain't
gonna work on us?
- Captain?
- Captain?
- I promised I'd get
you out of here.
Come hell or high water.
- My God, wolf man.
- Fire!
- Ah! Ah! Ah!
- You filthy dog!
- Hello, Sergeant.
- Talby.
- I thought you'd
never wake up.
- Ssshh.
- Doc and Rivers wish they
could've been here, but they're,
um, grabbing a bite to
eat with some Germans.
So it's just you...and me.
- Talby, I'm
so sorry--I'm so sorry about
what happened back there.
I was scared.
Talby! Talby!
You're--you're--you're
not the kind of guy
that would hurt
a defenseless asshole like me.
- It's like you said, Sergeant.
War changes a man.
My name
is Clark Wilson.
And I gotta say, there's some
pretty weird shit going on.
Now, I usually consider myself
a guy who has his shit together,
because most of the time,
well--I'll get into that later.
But in this case, this is all
a bit out of the ordinary,
I gotta say.
I can hear you.
I got a big fucking gun here!
But I don't want
to get too ahead of myself,
so let me start over.
You know how they say
nobody walks in L.A.?
Well, I'm the guy
who walks in L.A.
Like I said before, my
name is Clark Wilson.
I have what you might call
a passion for found objects.
You know, everyday things that
have been lost, thrown away,
or abandoned.
Take this lock for instance.
This used to be new once.
It had a purpose.
It was useful once.
And now it's been forsaken.
Kinda like me, if you
wanna get right down to it.
Now, I had this friend
once who had this dog.
Now, he claimed that if you fed
this dog some weed
in a rolling paper,
it would poop out
a perfectly rolled joint.
Now, I never saw the dog do it.
And I never really
believed that story.
But...actually,
come to think of it,
you're probably not gonna
believe this story either.
The last thing
I expected that night
was to get
the finger...for real.
It was verification that the
whole world was flipping me off.
"Hey, fuck you, loser."
Or maybe...just maybe,
it was the other way around.
I guess I'm just your average,
ordinary, so-called citizen.
Mortgage sucks.
Job prospects suck.
Abandoned by my so-called
family three years ago.
Anyway, I got this house
when Samantha divorced me.
I got the crap house,
the shit mortgage,
the lamentable car,
and a career in web design.
Which is a cute way of saying
I'm mostly unemployed.
I hang on.
I telecommute.
Well, that's what I tell people.
I tell them I
tele--you know what?
Never mind.
Armadillo? No.
Raccoon?
No.
Is it a possum?
Uh, no.
- Fuck!
Ugh! Goddamn it.
- Wow.
That's noteworthy.
You, my friend, are a keeper.
This is
a call from a debt collector.
This call may be recorded
for quality assurance.
Your account is important to us.
- Why don't you
just fucking die?
Die, die, die,
you fucking vampires!
Sorry.
I'm not normally
this...um, agro.
It's just--I mean, come on.
You hate them, too, right?
Those anonymous people,
who aren't even really people.
Don't you just wish you
could make them suffer?
Suffer the way they've
made you suffer?
Anyway, the instant
family from hell, right?
Had reached its sell-by date.
Samantha eventually needed
someone who could do more
than get things off
a high shelf,
fetch her tampons,
run out to the store at 3:00AM
to buy those pretentious
little cigarettes.
Her idiot son, Ricky, stole
my car and tried to hock it.
Her daughter once offered me
a blowjob to keep quiet
about her meth habit
and the fact that
her latest fiancée
was doing time for murder.
But, hey, it's
the American dream, right?
Domestic bliss.
Sam used to say, "It's the way
it's supposed to be."
No, it's not.
Blogs? Seriously?
What year is this, Blurserno?
2006?
They're clients, Clark.
They're digitally challenged.
It's work, for fuck's sake.
- It's donkey work.
I'm not doing it.
It's donkey work that pays.
- Let me call you back.
- Goddamn it.
- Holy hell.
And within 24 hours,
I had myself a whole arm.
The suspense was killing me.
I'm beginning to think maybe
I need to call a grownup.
What would an adult do?
- Maybe I should call a museum.
Or a mad scientist.
Or maybe, just maybe...
I can wait
a little while longer.
This wasn't like
misplacing a set of keys.
This was the first time
something I had salvaged,
something I had
saved...
abandoned me.
- Fuckers.
- I can hear you.
- I've got a big
fucking gun here!
What the holy hell?
- That's--that's a heart.
- Yeah, what?
I mean, hi.
Can I help you?
- Mr. Wilson?
Clark Wilson?
- Yeah, that's me, alright.
- Sorry to disturb
you at this hour.
I'm Detective Moseley.
This is Detective Walsh.
We have ourselves a situation.
Samantha Brown Demara was
your ex-wife, correct?
- Was?
- There was a disturbance
at her condo...earlier today.
Samantha Brown
Demara--
- Ooh, that went on for
like 20 more minutes.
But you get the gist of it.
All I can say is, thank God they
didn't have search warrant.
--she
actually passed away.
- Oh, dear God, no.
No. Not my Samantha.
Not my beautiful Samantha.
Tell me you're lying.
Tell me she's okay.
Please, tell me she's not--
Do you need
us to call anybody for you?
Bitch didn't
even have any contacts,
that's how much
everyone hated her.
Well, except her ex-husband.
Me.
And of course, no one could find
her kids--the unholy spawn.
Anyway, inquiries
have been initiated,
I would be kept informed.
Hooray. Three cheers for me.
But I was scared.
I needed to sort
this the fuck out.
They're gonna come back.
You'll see.
They'll want pictures.
They always want pictures.
More questions.
"Where were you
on the night of?"
They'll be excuses,
alibis, lies.
Pictures.
Where's that picture?
I must have shot that.
Little shits.
- Ah!
- Hi.
- What are you?
Do you need to go outside?
Right, right, right.
If you need to go outside,
you'll go outside.
I'm just gonna take a
little picture, alright?
- They'll be just
a little flash.
Don't be scared.
- So what do I call you?
Bob? You like that?
- Bob.
Well, alright then.
- Now, let's not go tearing
anyone else's heart out tonight.
- There, so much better.
Turns out,
that Bob likes long,
four multi-arc
television dramas.
You know, soap opera writ large.
The kind of story
that never actually ends.
- And popcorn.
He really likes popcorn.
- How much you wanna bet
that's the police
with just a few more questions?
- Yeah?
- This is a call
from a debt collector.
This call may be recorded--
- Fuck off, you Nazi bitch!
Fuck off and leave me alone!
- Oh, no.
No, no, no, no, I wasn't
yelling at you, no.
Yeah, see, it's okay.
I threw that
away last night, didn't I?
Bob's little offering to me.
You know how to
fetch, don't you?
Oh, Christ.
- Forget locks and doors.
Bob wants to go out,
he goes out.
- Hey, goddamn it!
- Hey, fuck you, asshole!
- Well, fuck you too
you fuckity fuck-fuck!
- Asshole.
- So Bob went out last night,
and he brought back
the truck balls.
And he brought back
the guy's real balls as well.
I had to look up testicles to
find out what they were made of.
Basically fibrous tissue.
Not nearly as tough, I assumed,
as a heart muscle.
And then
Bob just disappeared.
Ever had
your child kidnapped?
No?
Ever look out into the yard to
see that your favorite pet
isn't there all of the sudden?
This was a lot like that.
Bob!
- Bob?
Bob!
- Bob's back.
- Bob.
- He always naps after one
of his little excursions.
- I didn't recognize
this one at first.
That is a tongue.
He knew.
Somehow Bob knew who and where.
This is
a call from a debt collector.
This call may be recorded
for quality assurance.
Your account is important to us.
It was
her--the Nazi bitch.
Even though--God, where was she?
Did Bob fly all the way
to a call center in Texas?
Georgia?
India?
And, naturally,
just like I said,
the nice police persons came
back for the pictures
of Samantha's
kids--Shannon and Ricky.
- Shannon and Ricky, who now
just as naturally
cannot be found.
Because guess who
got there first?
I promise, uh, look, I've just
got so much work on right now.
How 'bout if I call you--
- You, uh--you got
something on your shirt.
- Oh yeah.
Uh, that's just a red sauce.
You know, Bolognese.
'Cause Bob had opted for another
one of his day trips
or night flights.
Bob!
- Bob.
- What?
- That's terrific, Bob.
That's just great.
- Now, if I take those
all the way across town
and drop them in the ocean,
you're just gonna
bring them right back here,
aren't you?
- You little shit.
Just great.
- I couldn't kill
Bob or get rid of him.
I-I-I couldn't even hurt him.
And why would I?
All he wanted was to
eliminate anyone who hurt me.
Isn't that love?
I didn't do those things.
Bob did those things.
Like I told you before, all
I did was find this finger.
And this finger grew into this
little critter called Bob.
And like I told you before,
I already knew
you weren't going
to believe this story.
- How many people annoy you?
Do you really ever
run out of candidates?
The loudmouth ahead of
you in line in the market.
The lunatic on the street
who wants your cigarettes,
your spare change, enough of
your time to tell you
his entire life tragedy.
The bartender who ignores you.
The lover who decides you're not
attractive enough,
smart enough,
or rich enough.
Jehovah's Witnesses.
But he will come.
I'll hear him scratching
right up here.
It's just a matter of time.
You know Bob.
If wants to come in,
he'll come in.
Bob loves me.
- Bob loves me.
- Run, run, run, run!
Come on, Brendan,
get up! Get up!
- Anyone not dead, fall back!
- Quist, come on!
Head for that building!
Run, run, run!
Move it!
Move, move, move!
- Clear!
- Doc, Rivers,
cover those windows.
Quist, cover our tail with Doc.
- Stay low.
Watch for a second wave.
- Doc, anyone out there?
- Negative. Nothing moving
over here.
- Looks like we lost 'em.
Stay sharp, people.
- Cap, what about
Glenn and Denards?
Shouldn't we go back?
Or at least--
Glenn and
Denards are dead, Rivers.
We're all that's left
of B Company.
We're on our own.
- Tell you what.
This whole freaking mission
has been
a goddamn shit sandwich
since Normandy.
We got Krauts to the left.
Freaking minefields
to the right.
How you gonna get us
out of this one, Talby?
- Captain Talby.
- Whatever, wiseass.
- I'm thinking about it.
- Really?
That makes me feel a whole
lot better...Captain.
What the hell is this
place supposed to be anyway?
- It appears to have been
a local police station.
- Looks like they
had some trouble, too.
- Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.
- What the fuck happened here?
Jesus.
- Ooh!
Dear God.
Hey, we got a man down.
We got a couple of 'em.
Oh, would you look at
this shit on my boot, man?
So sorry, sir.
I'm so sorry. I just--
- You goddamn baby.
What the fuck's
the matter with you?
- Leave him be, Quist.
- This piss tank just
yacked all over my foot.
- And I said leave him be.
Stop being an asshole
for two seconds.
- Oh, I'm being the asshole?
- No, Bugs Bunny's the asshole.
Of course you are.
- Gentlemen, this is the last
thing we need right now.
- Hail Mary full of grace.
- What happened here?
- Captain, his
throat's slashed.
He can't talk.
- He's dead.
- Boo fucking hoo.
Hey, Rivers, you wanna
light a candle for him?
- Hans.
You foolish, foolish boy.
How could my...only son...
allow this?
You have dishonored
the Schmelzgerat name.
But I will find
these American dogs
responsible for this.
And they--
they will suffer...greatly.
- Sir?
What are we gonna do?
- We got a map here.
- Hail Mary full of grace,
the Lord is with thee.
Bless--
- Village of
10 kilometers.
- We're near Le Monge.
- Yeah, yeah, yeah,
hey, that's our rally point.
Alright, we make it there, our
asses our saved. We gotta go.
- Hell ya.
Prepare to move out.
- Jesus!
- Jesus, man.
- You shot a civilian, Rivers.
- She grabbed me.
I didn't know
anybody was in there.
- I'm--I'm so sorry, ma'am.
I didn't mean--
- Captain, she'll bleed out
if I don't get in there soon.
- Find the keys. They must be
around here somewhere.
- Whoa, whoa, whoa,
Cap, Cap, listen to me.
Every goddamn wienerschnitzel
in this whole goddamn
German army
would have heard that shot.
- Ah!
- We gotta am-scray now.
- You wanna get out
of here, find the keys.
- I can't find them.
I--I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
- Sorry.
They're in the jail!
- Oh my God.
- Get those keys, Rivers.
- I can't. They're too far.
- Here.
Snag 'em with this.
- Listen, Talby.
Listen to me, we're good
as dead if we stay here,
and you know it.
- Button your lip, Sergeant,
or I'll button it for real.
- I got 'em!
I got 'em!
No!
- No! no! No!
- It's okay.
- Help me hold her down!
- Christ, she's strong.
Doc, what is she saying?
- "Don't kill me.
Go away, I think."
- She might also be saying,
"Go away or I'll kill you."
- Kill us?
- This is crazy, man.
She's gonna give
away our position.
- Fuck this!
- Quist, put that gun away!
- I don't think so, Tommy.
Either way I'm getting
killed over some fog bitch.
- No!
- Ah!
You guys are all a bunch
of goddamn lunatics!
- What happened to you, Quist?
You used to be
someone I could trust.
War changes a man.
- Bastard!
- Sorry, boys.
- Come back here, Quist!
- Can't risk a bullet
in the back.
- Quist!
Quist!
Quist!
Shit!
- Captain, what
are we gonna do?
- I'll get us out of here,
Rivers, come hell or high water.
I promise.
- Captain, come here.
- She not gonna make it, Doc?
- My God.
What are you?
- "I locked myself
in this cage."
- I cannot die.
- The curse make me
do so many bad things.
- I kill people.
- Kill--
- --children.
- No more death.
- No more killing.
- Please just let me die.
- Loup garou!
- Lugaroo?
- Loup garou.
It means...wolf man.
- Or wolf woman.
- She wasn't trying
to grab me before.
She wanted my cross.
- "Please just let me die."
- It's silver.
Attention, American soldiers!
We know you are inside.
My men have
the building surrounded.
- Perfect timing.
- I will be, as you Americans
like to say, to the point.
One of you...killed...
my only son today,
who causes all of you will die!
But I am a man of honor,
and so I offer you a choice.
If...you come out now
unarmed and accept your fate,
your death will be
quick and painless.
But if you force me
to risk the lives of my men...
to expel your filthy hides...
you will die in unimaginable...
agony.
I await your response.
- Damn.
- Here, ma'am, take it.
It'll do you more
good than it did us.
- Hold up.
- But before you die, we need
you to do something for us.
- This is
Captain Lawrence Talby
of the United Stated Army.
And I've considered your offer.
- What is your answer,
Captain Talby
of the United States Army?
Let me
be to the point!
If you want our filthy hides...
come in here and get 'em!
- Good.
That is good.
We are going in.
Attack at sundown.
- Hurry, let her do it.
- Deploy smoke grenades.
- Thank you.
You...
- I don't feel
any different.
- What if it ain't
gonna work on us?
- Captain?
- Captain?
- I promised I'd get
you out of here.
Come hell or high water.
- My God, wolf man.
- Fire!
- Ah! Ah! Ah!
- You filthy dog!
- Hello, Sergeant.
- Talby.
- I thought you'd
never wake up.
- Ssshh.
- Doc and Rivers wish they
could've been here, but they're,
um, grabbing a bite to
eat with some Germans.
So it's just you...and me.
- Talby, I'm
so sorry--I'm so sorry about
what happened back there.
I was scared.
Talby! Talby!
You're--you're--you're
not the kind of guy
that would hurt
a defenseless asshole like me.
- It's like you said, Sergeant.
War changes a man.
My name
is Clark Wilson.
And I gotta say, there's some
pretty weird shit going on.
Now, I usually consider myself
a guy who has his shit together,
because most of the time,
well--I'll get into that later.
But in this case, this is all
a bit out of the ordinary,
I gotta say.
I can hear you.
I got a big fucking gun here!
But I don't want
to get too ahead of myself,
so let me start over.
You know how they say
nobody walks in L.A.?
Well, I'm the guy
who walks in L.A.
Like I said before, my
name is Clark Wilson.
I have what you might call
a passion for found objects.
You know, everyday things that
have been lost, thrown away,
or abandoned.
Take this lock for instance.
This used to be new once.
It had a purpose.
It was useful once.
And now it's been forsaken.
Kinda like me, if you
wanna get right down to it.
Now, I had this friend
once who had this dog.
Now, he claimed that if you fed
this dog some weed
in a rolling paper,
it would poop out
a perfectly rolled joint.
Now, I never saw the dog do it.
And I never really
believed that story.
But...actually,
come to think of it,
you're probably not gonna
believe this story either.
The last thing
I expected that night
was to get
the finger...for real.
It was verification that the
whole world was flipping me off.
"Hey, fuck you, loser."
Or maybe...just maybe,
it was the other way around.
I guess I'm just your average,
ordinary, so-called citizen.
Mortgage sucks.
Job prospects suck.
Abandoned by my so-called
family three years ago.
Anyway, I got this house
when Samantha divorced me.
I got the crap house,
the shit mortgage,
the lamentable car,
and a career in web design.
Which is a cute way of saying
I'm mostly unemployed.
I hang on.
I telecommute.
Well, that's what I tell people.
I tell them I
tele--you know what?
Never mind.
Armadillo? No.
Raccoon?
No.
Is it a possum?
Uh, no.
- Fuck!
Ugh! Goddamn it.
- Wow.
That's noteworthy.
You, my friend, are a keeper.
This is
a call from a debt collector.
This call may be recorded
for quality assurance.
Your account is important to us.
- Why don't you
just fucking die?
Die, die, die,
you fucking vampires!
Sorry.
I'm not normally
this...um, agro.
It's just--I mean, come on.
You hate them, too, right?
Those anonymous people,
who aren't even really people.
Don't you just wish you
could make them suffer?
Suffer the way they've
made you suffer?
Anyway, the instant
family from hell, right?
Had reached its sell-by date.
Samantha eventually needed
someone who could do more
than get things off
a high shelf,
fetch her tampons,
run out to the store at 3:00AM
to buy those pretentious
little cigarettes.
Her idiot son, Ricky, stole
my car and tried to hock it.
Her daughter once offered me
a blowjob to keep quiet
about her meth habit
and the fact that
her latest fiancée
was doing time for murder.
But, hey, it's
the American dream, right?
Domestic bliss.
Sam used to say, "It's the way
it's supposed to be."
No, it's not.
Blogs? Seriously?
What year is this, Blurserno?
2006?
They're clients, Clark.
They're digitally challenged.
It's work, for fuck's sake.
- It's donkey work.
I'm not doing it.
It's donkey work that pays.
- Let me call you back.
- Goddamn it.
- Holy hell.
And within 24 hours,
I had myself a whole arm.
The suspense was killing me.
I'm beginning to think maybe
I need to call a grownup.
What would an adult do?
- Maybe I should call a museum.
Or a mad scientist.
Or maybe, just maybe...
I can wait
a little while longer.
This wasn't like
misplacing a set of keys.
This was the first time
something I had salvaged,
something I had
saved...
abandoned me.
- Fuckers.
- I can hear you.
- I've got a big
fucking gun here!
What the holy hell?
- That's--that's a heart.
- Yeah, what?
I mean, hi.
Can I help you?
- Mr. Wilson?
Clark Wilson?
- Yeah, that's me, alright.
- Sorry to disturb
you at this hour.
I'm Detective Moseley.
This is Detective Walsh.
We have ourselves a situation.
Samantha Brown Demara was
your ex-wife, correct?
- Was?
- There was a disturbance
at her condo...earlier today.
Samantha Brown
Demara--
- Ooh, that went on for
like 20 more minutes.
But you get the gist of it.
All I can say is, thank God they
didn't have search warrant.
--she
actually passed away.
- Oh, dear God, no.
No. Not my Samantha.
Not my beautiful Samantha.
Tell me you're lying.
Tell me she's okay.
Please, tell me she's not--
Do you need
us to call anybody for you?
Bitch didn't
even have any contacts,
that's how much
everyone hated her.
Well, except her ex-husband.
Me.
And of course, no one could find
her kids--the unholy spawn.
Anyway, inquiries
have been initiated,
I would be kept informed.
Hooray. Three cheers for me.
But I was scared.
I needed to sort
this the fuck out.
They're gonna come back.
You'll see.
They'll want pictures.
They always want pictures.
More questions.
"Where were you
on the night of?"
They'll be excuses,
alibis, lies.
Pictures.
Where's that picture?
I must have shot that.
Little shits.
- Ah!
- Hi.
- What are you?
Do you need to go outside?
Right, right, right.
If you need to go outside,
you'll go outside.
I'm just gonna take a
little picture, alright?
- They'll be just
a little flash.
Don't be scared.
- So what do I call you?
Bob? You like that?
- Bob.
Well, alright then.
- Now, let's not go tearing
anyone else's heart out tonight.
- There, so much better.
Turns out,
that Bob likes long,
four multi-arc
television dramas.
You know, soap opera writ large.
The kind of story
that never actually ends.
- And popcorn.
He really likes popcorn.
- How much you wanna bet
that's the police
with just a few more questions?
- Yeah?
- This is a call
from a debt collector.
This call may be recorded--
- Fuck off, you Nazi bitch!
Fuck off and leave me alone!
- Oh, no.
No, no, no, no, I wasn't
yelling at you, no.
Yeah, see, it's okay.
I threw that
away last night, didn't I?
Bob's little offering to me.
You know how to
fetch, don't you?
Oh, Christ.
- Forget locks and doors.
Bob wants to go out,
he goes out.
- Hey, goddamn it!
- Hey, fuck you, asshole!
- Well, fuck you too
you fuckity fuck-fuck!
- Asshole.
- So Bob went out last night,
and he brought back
the truck balls.
And he brought back
the guy's real balls as well.
I had to look up testicles to
find out what they were made of.
Basically fibrous tissue.
Not nearly as tough, I assumed,
as a heart muscle.
And then
Bob just disappeared.
Ever had
your child kidnapped?
No?
Ever look out into the yard to
see that your favorite pet
isn't there all of the sudden?
This was a lot like that.
Bob!
- Bob?
Bob!
- Bob's back.
- Bob.
- He always naps after one
of his little excursions.
- I didn't recognize
this one at first.
That is a tongue.
He knew.
Somehow Bob knew who and where.
This is
a call from a debt collector.
This call may be recorded
for quality assurance.
Your account is important to us.
It was
her--the Nazi bitch.
Even though--God, where was she?
Did Bob fly all the way
to a call center in Texas?
Georgia?
India?
And, naturally,
just like I said,
the nice police persons came
back for the pictures
of Samantha's
kids--Shannon and Ricky.
- Shannon and Ricky, who now
just as naturally
cannot be found.
Because guess who
got there first?
I promise, uh, look, I've just
got so much work on right now.
How 'bout if I call you--
- You, uh--you got
something on your shirt.
- Oh yeah.
Uh, that's just a red sauce.
You know, Bolognese.
'Cause Bob had opted for another
one of his day trips
or night flights.
Bob!
- Bob.
- What?
- That's terrific, Bob.
That's just great.
- Now, if I take those
all the way across town
and drop them in the ocean,
you're just gonna
bring them right back here,
aren't you?
- You little shit.
Just great.
- I couldn't kill
Bob or get rid of him.
I-I-I couldn't even hurt him.
And why would I?
All he wanted was to
eliminate anyone who hurt me.
Isn't that love?
I didn't do those things.
Bob did those things.
Like I told you before, all
I did was find this finger.
And this finger grew into this
little critter called Bob.
And like I told you before,
I already knew
you weren't going
to believe this story.
- How many people annoy you?
Do you really ever
run out of candidates?
The loudmouth ahead of
you in line in the market.
The lunatic on the street
who wants your cigarettes,
your spare change, enough of
your time to tell you
his entire life tragedy.
The bartender who ignores you.
The lover who decides you're not
attractive enough,
smart enough,
or rich enough.
Jehovah's Witnesses.
But he will come.
I'll hear him scratching
right up here.
It's just a matter of time.
You know Bob.
If wants to come in,
he'll come in.
Bob loves me.
- Bob loves me.