Lardbucket Detective
Issue One

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DISCLAIMER

This story has absolutely no basis in fact; it is completely ficticious. The characters and situations are imaginary and have no relation or reference to any person living or dead.

A suburban scene. Railroad tracks run from the distance toward the reader. A train is coming. To the right of the tracks is a golf course with a few golfers. One golfer is just setting a ball on the tee. To the left of the tracks is a road running roughly parallel to the tracks. Trees (maples if possible) along the road at discrete intervals, houses, gas streetlamps.

A woman is walking up the street toward us, but we can't see her face: she is wearing a hat and her head is down. She is in her early thirties and attractive, but not extremely so. She wears a dress and a jacket and has her hands in her pockets. Clothes are nice but not stylish or flashy in any way.

In the foreground is a thin two-story house - it is the Lardbuckets' house. A front window in the upper story is open. The front door is beneath that window. Both the road and the railroad make a very dramatic dogleg around this house - you could easily imagine a driver coming from the reader's direction plowing right into the Lardbucket living room.

TITLE: A LITTLE HELP FROM THE BIG MAN

NARRATIVE:

What a strange world. What a strange life. If they told you when you were a child that it would be this way, that it would be this hard, what would you have said? What would you have felt?

Now here it is: a year to the day since it all came apart and you were left alone in Mabelwood, New Jersey, of all places - where you hardly know a soul...

What could have prepared you for it? How could you know that one day you'd be walking up an unfamiliar street in an unfamiliar town - a woman alone with an unsolvable problem, trying the one last chance...

After a year of waiting, a year of runarounds and come-back-laters, a year of "Sorry, we can't help you" and "It's against company policy"...

The police let you down, the lawyers took your money and then they let you down... Thank God at least you've got your health, some clothes, and a roof over your head, even if it is in Mabelwood...

And thank God there is one last chance, even if it is a strange one - even if a weird cop with a big head sends you looking for a cheap detective with a funny reputation...

You just keep thinking how improbable it all is -

Golfer about to tee off.

NARRATIVE:

- when another improbable cuts loose.

GOLFER:

FORE!

The train is getting closer.

Closeup of the woman's face. She is pretty but depressed.

The golfer strikes the ball.

NARRATIVE:

A little too much spin

SFX:

THWOFF

GOLFER:

Arrgh! Not again!

We see the woman in the road. She is nearly even with the Lardbucket residence. So is the train. The golfball, instead of flying down the fairway, is heading for the Lardbuckets' back windows.

A man on the train. Through window behind him we see the golf course. He was reading the paper (it is unfolded in front of him) but now he is startled: eyes wide, back arched. Newspaper headline: MISSISSIPPI TRUNK MURDER SHELVED.

NARRATIVE:

Intercepted!

SFX:

BOOM

The outside of the train. Golfball has ricocheted off the roof of the train, leaving a dent. Ball is given a new spin and is shooting almost straight up into the sky.

Woman is at the Lardbuckets' front door, checking the address against a little slip of paper she holds.

The ball is high in the air directly above the house, having hit the top of its curve and beginning to fall.

Through the open second story window we see Max Lardbucket sleeping. He is about six feet tall and undeniably fat. Though he is almighty fat, it seems a fat with power, something like Orson Welles or Jackie Gleason at their heavy prime.

Woman is about to ring the doorbell as golfball descends to middle of the street behind her.

Ball strikes the center of the road at an uneven point that gives a third spin to the ball.

SFX:

THOK

Woman at the door turns to see what the sound was as ball flies above her head - so she sees nothing.

The mighty Lardbucket is struck soundly on the top of the head by the ball, waking him violently. We see the ball leaving through the open window.

The woman is at the door, ringing the bell. The ball drops into her jacket pocket, though she doesn't notice.

SFX: (the doorbell)

DRIN DRIN

View from inside the Lardbucket house. Little Joe Lardbucket, the archetypal fat boy (small, round, no neck), opens the door for the woman. (Her name is Ammonia Boisterhaven.)

AMMONIA:

Hello, I'm looking for Mr. Max Lardbucket.

LITTLE JOE:

Are you Ms. Boisterhaven?

AMMONIA:

Yes! How did you know?

Max descending the stairs, nursing the bump on the back of his head.

MAX: (thinks)

Another mystery...

The Lardbucket living room.

LITTLE JOE:

Max! Visitor!

MAX:

Ms. Boisterhaven?

AMMONIA:

Why, yes, but how do you know my name?

Max gestures toward the stairs. Little Joe is sniffing an aroma that arrives from the kitchen.

MAX:

Sgt. Wildface called and said you might be coming.

AMMONIA:

He's the one with the big head.

MAX:

Exactly. Shall we step into my office?

They climb the stairs; we see them from behind. Ammonia is ahead of Max. There is a lump on Max's head the size of a golfball. He is gingerly touching the lump. At the same time, he sees the bulge of the golfball in her jacket pocket.

They enter Max's bedroom/office. Everything is neat and tidy. The door has a frosted window in it with two lines of lettering: LARDBUCKET DETECTIVE and LICENSED INVESTIGATOR, although we don't need to see it all. There is not much in the room: the bed (which is made), a few chairs, some books on criminology, and a few photos on the wall along with his framed detective license.

The two remain standing for the whole of pages four and five.

AMMONIA: (thinks)

This is not what I expected at all.

MAX:

Ms. Boisterhaven -

AMMONIA:

Oh, please don't call me "Ms. Boisterhaven." It makes me feel like I'm 90 years old.

You can call me Ammonia. My friends call me Ammy.

MAX:

Ammonia? Well, that's an unusual name.

AMMONIA:

Everybody says that, but it's just not so! Where I come from it's a very common name!

MAX:

Really? And where is that?

AMMONIA:

Emery Board, Pennsylvania.

Ammonia is fishing in her jacket pockets with a shocked expression on her face.

MAX:

Hmmm. Well, uh - Ammonia, do you mind if I have a look at the golfball you're carrying in your jacket pocket?

AMMONIA:

But I don't have a - WHAT!?

Closeup of her open hand. A golfball sits in the center of her palm. There is a hair stuck to the ball. Max's big fingers are about to take the hair.

AMMONIA:

A golfball! Well I -

MAX:

Just as I thought!

Max examines the hair.

MAX:

Yes, it's one of mine.

AMMONIA:

What do mean, it's one of yours?

MAX:

Well, evidently when some golfer teed off he put too much English on the ball. But instead of striking the back of our house, it hit the passing train which gave a second spin and carried the ball over this house -

At the window, Max points out the dent in the road.

MAX:

It struck that defect, rebounded and struck me on the head, left by the same window and landed in your pocket as you stood at the door.

AMMONIA:

Preposterous!

MAX:

Have you another explanation?

AMMONIA:

Well, no, but -

MAX:

The same thing happened about a year ago. Out of curiosity I actually found the golfer and the train. The ball left a pretty good dent on the corner of the train roof.

In any case, I'd say you must have heard the ball strike the road as you were standing at the door.

She is looking at the floor, depressed.

NARRATIVE:

You start having second thoughts...

AMMONIA:

Well, ah -

(thinks) What kind of nuthouse is this? Why did that weird cop send me here? This is just too crazy! Things are hard enough as it is!

Max lays the hair on his desk. Ammonia is gazing upward, with a sad, yearning look.

NARRATIVE:

But you remember that beggars can't be choosers.

She looks at Max's friendly face. He is waiting to listen to her.

AMMONIA:

Uh -

AMMONIA:

That detective with the big head -

MAX:

Sgt. Wildface

AMMONIA:

He said I should ask you to tell me about the Flagpole Case.

MAX:

Ah, yes, the Flagpole Murder. That was quite an unusual case. The Death of the Flagpole Sitter. Have you heard of Aldo Mozzicone?

We see Mozzicone at the top of a flagpole. He is thin, wiry, with curly hair, intense eyes - looks like a fanatic. He is standing on a small wooden platform that has been placed on top of a high flagpole. The platform has a wooden railing, and he is leaning with both hands on the railing, looking out upon humanity spread beneath him.

NARRATIVE:

"Mozzicone was the country's foremost flagpole sitter. He once sat for six months on a flagpole at the nation's capitol."

Landscape: a park with trees and grass, a woman walking her dog, joggers, etc. A hill rises in the background, and a massive, tall flagpole stands at the crest of the hill. On top of the flagpole, Mozzicone's platform and Mozzicone, silhouetted against the sky.

NARRATIVE:

"He came to Mabelwood to break his own record atop the huge flagpole in the park."

Max and Ammonia, sitting in Max's room, talking.

AMMONIA:

Did he break the record? How long did he stay up?

MAX:

No, he didn't break the record. He was up there a mere 36 hours. He ascended at dawn on a beautiful Monday in May...

The flagpole seen from below. In the foreground a puzzled face gazes upward, where in the distance Mozzicone's tiny foot is seen hanging over the edge of the platform.

NARRATIVE:

"On Tuesday morning, however, there were no signs of life."

A hook-and-ladder truck is parked near the flagpole. Its ladder is propped against the pole, but only reaches three-quarters of the way to the top. A fireman in coat and helmet is climbing the ladder. The sun has just set.

The fireman is shimmying up the pole toward the platform. A searchlight illuminates the pole.

The fireman is now on the platform. His mouth opens in astonishment. Mozzicone lies dead.

Ammonia and Max, sitting in Max's room.

AMMONIA:

He was dead?

MAX:

Yes, the great Mozzicone was dead.

Fireman descends the ladder, carrying Mozzicone on his shoulders. A crowd has gathered.

NARRATIVE:

"Perhaps the last of that truly American breed of romantic: the flagpole sitter."

Mozzicone's lifeless body is laid on the sidewalk.

NARRATIVE:

"He was a light, a model, an inspiration, yet his life was snuffed out by - what?"

Ammonia and Max.

AMMONIA:

What?

MAX:

That is the question. What killed Aldo Mozzicone?

AMMONIA:

You can't say it was murder! It's impossible!

Mozzicone's body, now on a stretcher and covered by a sheet, is loaded in the back of an ambulance. Mozzicone's wife stands nearby, crying.

NARRATIVE:

"No, no one thought it was murder. The autopsy showed that his heart simply stopped. There were no signs of foul play."

Mozzicone's wife, much later, at the police station. She stands before a desk, talking to a stony-faced policeman. She has her handkerchief in her hand.

NARRATIVE:

"No, no one thought it was murder... no one, that is, other than Mrs. Mozzicone.

"She insisted that her husband had been killed, but of course no one believed her."

Max at the foot of the flagpole, looking up at the empty platform.

Max and Ammonia.

MAX:

The police refused to help her. After all, what proof did she have? No motive, no opportunity, no suspect, no clues.

AMMONIA:

But you believed her?

MAX:

It's hard to say...

Night. Max sits on a bench by the Duck Pond in the park. In front of him, beyond the Duck Pond, is the flagpole in the distance. The platform is no longer there.

NARRATIVE:

"I did what I could. There was nothing to go on. I thought at least I could help her come to terms with her loss, when..."

The same scene. Max is taking out his handkerchief. A white dove sits on a branch, watching him. A light breeze is stirring.

The same scene, but Max has accidentally let go of the handkerchief, and the breeze is carrying it into the pond.

MAX:

Oh!

Same scene; the handkerchief is in the water out of Max's reach. The dove is spreading its wings.

MAX:

Darn!

Closeup: the dove hovers above the water and pushes the handkerchief under with its feet.

Max watches as the dove gets a better grip on the handkerchief with its feet.

Max watches as the dove flies away, carrying the wet handkerchief.

MAX:

Hey!

Max watches as the dove's white body and the white handkerchief approach the flagpole, silhouetted against the sky.

MAX:

Hmmm...

Closeup of the bird draping the wet handkerchief over the ball at the top of the pole.

Max and Ammonia.

MAX:

As I watched, the handkerchief dried and the wind carried it off the ball. The dove caught it, rewet it, and draped it once again over the ball. It kept this up for six hours.

AMMONIA:

But what did it mean?

Max on the bench by the Duck Pond. He watches the dove, who sleeps on a branch.

NARRATIVE:

"I watched the dove all night, and followed it when it flew away at dawn."

Max and Ammonia.

AMMONIA:

You followed the dove?

MAX:

The first day it lost me, but the next morning I succeeded in tracing the bird to the man who'd trained it.

AMMONIA:

You mean -

Suburban street. Max, on a tiny moped, observes the dove light on the hand of a man. The man is standing on the lawn in front of a house. The front door of the house is open. The man wears dark glasses, has scraggly black hair, a white lab coat, and army boots.

With the bird on his arm, the man enters the house. Max continues to observe.

NARRATIVE:

"I recognized him immediately: it was none other than Dr. Bean, the notorious Bean Killer active in Arkansas in the early seventies."

Max and Ammonia.

MAX:

He'd never paid for his crimes as the Bean Killer; he'd been let off on a technicality. But this time I had him.

Not for murder one, unfortunately; the best I could do was to get him for manslaughter.

AMMONIA:

How awful! But I don't understand how he killed the man.

Night. The park: duck pond in the foreground; in the background, silhouette of pole with platform. Dove, carrying wet handkerchief, flies toward the pole.

NARRATIVE:

"It's simple."

Closeup of the dove laying the wet handkerchief over Mozzicone's face.

NARRATIVE:

"While Mozzicone slept, the bird covered his face with wet handkerchiefs."

The duck pond. Dr. Bean tossing a handkerchief into the pond. The dove is returning, heading for the handkerchief. Bean has a pile of handkerchiefs in his hand.

NARRATIVE:

"Bean threw a number of handkerchiefs in the pond. The bird draped them on Mozzicone's face, and the poor man suffocated."

Closeup of the dove laying a wet handkerchief on Mozzicone's face. There are seven or eight handkerchiefs already on his face.

Dawn. The flagpole in the park on the top of the hill. Woman with dog, joggers, etc. We see handkerchiefs in the air to the right of the flagpole. Mozzicone's foot visible over the edge of the platform.

NARRATIVE:

"In the morning, as the handkerchiefs dried, they blew off. The wind carried them to who knows where, and every shred of evidence was gone."

Max and Ammonia.

AMMONIA:

Incredible!

MAX:

Yes, it was a tricky one. I don't suppose that your difficulty can be as convoluted.

AMMONIA:

Well, I don't know...

It is pretty complicated.

Max has his mouth open, as if about to speak.

AMMONIA:

My father's name is Acrimony J. Boisterhaven. As you may know from reading the newspapers, he disappeared and was killed over a year ago.

And please don't tell me that he has an unusual name! I'm tired of hearing it! Back in Emery Board nobody thought it was unusual!

Max holds his hands up, palms facing her, in a reassuring, calming gesture.

MAX:

There, there, now - I'm sure it is.

Can you tell me, Ammonia, when and why you moved from Emery Board?

AMMONIA:

Oh, what a mistake that was!

We see Ammonia's father, a wiry, smiling old man with wire-rimmed glasses and sparse white hair. He is imagining the word MABELWOOD: it is in brilliant letters above his head.

NARRATIVE:

"Somebody told him a long time ago that Mabelwood would be a good place to retire. Once he got the idea in his head, nothing could change his mind."

We see Ammonia's father's face, and what he is imagining: fat old ladies and skinny old men playing shuffleboard on a seaside boardwalk. Sunshine. Everyone wearing summer clothes.

NARRATIVE:

"I guess he expected some kind of retirement community."

Ammonia's father, looking old and sad, dressed in a winter coat, is walking. He is slightly bent (as old men often are) and is watching small children playing ball.

NARRATIVE:

"But Mabelwood turned out to be full of young couples and children."

Ammonia and Max sitting.

MAX:

Sounds like he should have moved to Florida.

AMMONIA:

That's what I told him! I'd been telling him that for years!

MAX:

Didn't he visit before he moved here?

AMMONIA:

No, that's how stubborn he was.

Ammonia's father, still in the winter coat, still looking sad and old, watches children climb a tree.

NARRATIVE:

"He was so sad. It seemed like all the life just drained out of him. Until about three months before he disappeared..."

View from the inside of Ammonia's house. Her father entering, wearing a sunny smile, standing tall, radiating joy. Ammonia's astonished face in the foreground.

NARRATIVE:

"He arrived home one day, beaming. He was happier than I'd ever seen him."

Father sitting in comfortable chair, Ammonia standing next to the chair. Father shakes his head and waves his hand in gesture of denial.

NARRATIVE:

"But he refused to say where he'd been or what it was that made him so glad."

Max and Ammonia.

MAX:

Do you think he could have found a girlfriend?

AMMONIA:

No, it couldn't have been that.

MAX:

Why not?

We see Ammonia standing outside the closed door to her father's bedroom. She is straining to listen for a clue as to what he might be doing in there. But there is nothing to hear.

NARRATIVE:

"Because he started staying in his room all day long, every day."

We see the father inside the bedroom. We can see his face, which registers surprise and the guilt of someone caught at something... but we can't see his hands, we don't know what he's up to. The door is behind him.

NARRATIVE:

"He wouldn't even come out to eat if I didn't go and pound on the door."

SFX:

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Ammonia and her father outside his bedroom door. The father, smiling so much his eyes nearly shut, is wagging one index finger - signifying refusal to speak. Ammonia has her arms outstretched and pointing down as she pleads with the man.

NARRATIVE:

"I begged and I pleaded with him to tell me what he was doing, but he always refused."

Max and Ammonia. Ammonia is looking at the floor as she speaks.

AMMONIA:

At that same time, he started going out on Wednesday evenings. He always came home late, and he never said where he was going. I tried to follow him once, but he caught me and sent me home.

The only thing he'd ever say was that it would be a big surprise and that I'd be glad and proud of my dad when I saw what he'd done.

Ammonia looks up as she speaks.

AMMONIA:

Then, one Wednesday night, he went out and he never came back!

I went to the police and they said they'd keep their eyes open, but -

MAX:

He couldn't officially be declared missing until after three days. I know. Go on, Ammonia.

Closeup of Ammonia's tense face.

NARRATIVE:

Ammonia relives the whole horrible story once again:

AMMONIA:

He was gone for an entire month, and then -

A pack of wild dogs wreak havok on the streets of a suburban neighborhood. Woman holds little boy's hand. In other arm holds bag of groceries; some groceries spilling out. She and the boy are both very frightened as they confront the wild dogs. In the background, a man shouts and gestures with stick.

NARRATIVE:

The city of Washington, Missouri was terrorized by the unexplained appearance of a pack of wild dogs.

Suburban streets: mother pushing baby carriage; husband alongside carrying big stick; old woman and various others walking here and there, all carrying sticks, all looking around, but no sign of the dogs.

NARRATIVE:

Then, just as suddenly, the dogs disappeared.

The train station in Washington, MO. Five buildings stand along the tracks. The nicest one is labelled TICKETS/PASSENGERS/WAITING AREA. Another, more run-down is labelled LOST AND FOUND.

NARRATIVE:

Where did they come from...

The Lost and Found building. A man is putting a padlock on the door.

NARRATIVE:

and where did they go?

Inside Lost and Found. Boxes of various sizes and shapes are stacked all around. Umbrellas, suitcases, purses, are arrayed on shelves. The wild dogs are here and there, sitting on boxes, trunks, the floor, or pulling apart cartons and cases. In the foreground many are eating cookies from a carton they've broken open.

NARRATIVE:

Apparently they lived quite well in Lost and Found for almost a week

Still inside lost and found. A dog, down on four paws but inexplicably wearing a suit jacket, is howling.

NARRATIVE:

Until one day

WILD DOG:

Aiiouu! Aiiouu! Waff! Waff!

Outside the Lost and Found building. A man is opening the padlock.

MAN:

What the hell is all that racket?

SFX:

Aouuuu! Waff! Waff! Aouuu!

The man has opened the door. The dogs are pouring out, knocking him down. The dogs run off.

MAN:

Hey! Help! Ow! Ow! Help!

Man lies on the ground. The dogs are gone. Waves of odor are emanating from the opened door.

NARRATIVE:

There was a certain odor...

MAN:

Whew! Something really stinks in there!

Ammonia and Max, sitting in Max's room. She hangs her head.

MAX:

It was your father's body, there in Lost and Found?

AMMONIA:

He'd been in there a month. No one knows how he got there.

Ammonia sitting in an airplane.

NARRATIVE:

"The police called me. I went to Washington to identify the body."

Ammonia outside the airport, standing near a police car, talking to a man dressed in a suit. He is holding photographs in his hand.

NARRATIVE:

"They told me it wasn't necessary, but I came anyway."

Closeup of policeman's face with a grim expression.

NARRATIVE:

"First they refused to show me the body, because of the terrible state it was in. Then they told me it had been accidentally cremated."

Closeup of Max's face, registering shock.

MAX:

What!?

AMMONIA:

Then, but just because I insisted, they showed me pictures of my dad.

Ammonia, looking at the floor.

AMMONIA:

Then I fainted.

Max and Ammonia. Her head is still down. Max is looking at her with concern. Behind him is a jar of jellybeans.

MAX: (thinks)

This is the most awful story I've heard in a long while!

Max, sitting. Behind his left shoulder is the jar of jellybeans. He turns his head and looks at it.

He offers her the opened jar.

MAX:

Uh, jellybeans, Ammonia? Help yourself, they might give you a little boost.

Her hand digs into the jar.

MAX:

Help yourself.

AMMONIA:

Thanks.

He replaces the jar.

AMMONIA:

Aren't you having any?

MAX:

No, they're just for clients. It's a way for me to work on self-control.

AMMONIA:

Oh.

MAX:

Ammonia, I'm sorry to ask this, but I assume your father died of suffocation.

AMMONIA:

No, drowning.

MAX:

What? Was the trunk full of water?

We see the policeman from page 13 panel 4 standing by the trunk. It is full of breathing holes, like a kennel for a dog.

NARRATIVE:

"No, it was full of holes. But he was full of water. Mississippi River water. Somebody had put him in and fished him out."

The policeman is opening the trunk.

NARRATIVE:

"And was he dressed in the clothes in which you'd last seen him?"

"No, he was only wearing a bathing suit."

The policeman lifts a mail sack from inside the trunk.

NARRATIVE:

"There's something else you need to know: in the trunk he was closed inside a sealed mailbag."

Two sets of handcuffs: one bigger than the other.

NARRATIVE:

"And his feet and ankles were manacled."

Max and Ammonia. She is putting a jellybean in her mouth.

MAX:

Is that all?

AMMONIA:

Yes.

MAX:

What connection did he have with Washington, MO?

AMMONIA:

None at all.

AMMONIA:

He never went outside of Emery Board, PA from the day he was born to the day we moved here...

Oh, I wish we'd never moved here!

MAX:

Now, now, Ammonia...

Ammonia has her hand in her pocketbook.

AMMONIA:

The police haven't done anything, and neither has the FBI. They both want to drop it.

The insurance company hasn't done anything either, and they won't pay my father's life insurance policy.

MAX: (thinks)

Uh-oh!

Ammonia has pulled out a handkerchief. She is trembling and is a hair's breadth away from bursting uncontrollably into tears.

AMMONIA:

I begged and pleaded, I hired lawyers and spent all my money -

MAX: (thinks)

Great. No money. Another freebie.

AMMONIA:

I had to sell our house, and now I'm living in a little rented room...

MAX: (thinks)

I've got to talk to that Wildface...

MAX:

I get the picture, Ms. Boisterhaven. You can't afford to pay me.

AMMONIA:

No.

MAX:

And Sgt. Wildface told you that I'd help you anyway.

Ammonia's anxious face.

AMMONIA:

You will, won't you? The sergeant said that you were the best. If you can wait till I get the insurance money...

MAX:

Why won't they pay?

AMMONIA:

They say there are too many "ambiguities."

MAX:

Hmmph.

Closeup of Ammonia's face. She has an adorable, tear-streaked glow that is irresistable.

AMMONIA:

Will you help me, Mr. Lardbucket?

Max looks resigned.

MAX:

Yeah, sure I'll help. I might as well start now. Can I come with you and look over your father's personal effects?

AMMONIA:

No, I'm sorry. I had to get rid of everything when I sold the house.

Max is getting grim.

MAX:

Everything?

AMMONIA:

Everything.

Max looks grimmer.

MAX:

So let me get this straight: there's no body, there's no motive, no suspects, no clues, no personal effects, no leads of any kind?

AMMONIA:

I guess not. But Sgt. Wildface said that this kind of case is just your cup of tea.

Closeup of Max smiling a bright smile.

MAX:

Well, yeah, I guess it is. I guess it is exactly my cup of tea.

Max and Ammonia at the front door. Ammonia is leaving.

NARRATIVE:

Some moments later

MAX:

Just give me a couple of days to look around. I'll call you toward the end of the week. If you think of anything, you can call me here.

AMMONIA:

Thank you.

We see Ammonia in the street, the front door closing behind her.

AMMONIA: (thinks)

I wonder if I did the right thing. Can he really help me?

A few steps from the door. She takes the golfball from her pocket and looks down at it, thoughtful.

She stands at the funny dent in the middle of the road, arm high, about to hurl the ball with all her might at the dent.

Closeup of the ball striking the dent in the road.

SFX:

THOK

Still with her back to the Lardbucket house. The ball flies over her head; her head tilts back to watch it.

Her head turns left to look behind to see where the ball goes. Her mouth opens in astonishment.

Max in the window with one hand outstretched. The ball smacks into his ready palm.

SFX:

SMACK

MAX:

I knew you'd want to try it.

Max leans out the window.

MAX:

Don't worry, Ms. Boisterhaven. You've come to the right man. I'm on it, and I won't let it go till it's done. You'll see, it'll all work out okay. You've got the big man's word on it.

He tosses the ball back to her.

She catches it.

She looks at it in her hand.

Max at the window.

MAX:

Don't worry, Ammonia. It'll be alright.

Touched, Ammonia turns away, smiling a smile that's one step away from tears.

NEXT ISSUE: WHERE THE WILD DOGS ARE

[ 1 January 1998 ]