EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT
NARRATOR: Since the beginning of time, human beings have been motivated to do many things for many reasons. Some people are driven by their peers, some by family and friends, some by their consciences. Some are driven to greatness, and some to degradation. Some are driven by the desire to achieve a goal at any cost, driven to make a name for themselves no matter what. And some people are just driven, in ... A Strange World...
INT. JOE’S CAR - MOVING - LATER
Fifty yards ahead of him in the darkness, Joe sees a young man, in his late twenties, hitch-hiking. Almost to the man, Joe slows down.
JILL (O.S.): Still feel like company, Joe?
Looking up into his rear-view mirror, Joe sees Jill’s face gazing back at him again. Her hypnotic eyes beckon him.
JOE (grinning): Sure. You know I love company.
JILL: This guy looks the type. Why don’t we stop and see if we can help him out.
Joe slows the car down and pulls off to the side of the road. Moving past the young man, the car comes to a complete stop in the emergency lane. The young man grabs his knapsack and starts to run to Joe’s car.
JOE: You really think he’s a drifter?
JILL: Of course, he’s a drifter, Joe. He’s perfect, just perfect.
Story Continues Below
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Story Continues From Above
As the young man nears the passenger door, he starts to reach for the handle.
JOE: Perfect, huh? That suits me just fine.
The man opens the door and starts to hop in just as Joe and Jill let out a venomous GROWL in unison.
JOE & JILL (in unison): Surprise, Darrell, you lose!
Via the young man’s POINT OF VIEW, we see a pistol in Joe’s hand and it’s aimed directly at us. It lets out a single BLAST and a flash of fire.
INT. TV STUDIO MAKE-UP ROOM - NIGHT
A fussy make-up man is working over a well-past middle-aged man seated in a chair surrounded by mirrors and bright lights. We hear FOOTSTEPS.
MAN’S VOICE (O.S.): I’m looking for a Detective Callahan.
The make-up man stops what he’s doing, obviously annoyed. The man in the chair gives a nod, and there is one last swipe of the sponge. He swivels in his chair to see a clean-cut news reporter, in his early twenties, donning an over-sized press pass on his lapel. He has his pen and his notepad to go along with his obnoxious smile. As the make-up man exits through an open door, a stage hand sticks his head in.
STAGE HAND: You’re on in ten minutes, Detective.
The reporter’s grin disappears.
REPORTER: Oh ... You’re Detective Callahan?
At first, Callahan just sits in his chair, looking as crusty as ever. Casually, he reaches over, pours some sugar into a cup of coffee, and stirs it as he decides how he wants to respond to this fellow.
CALLAHAN: Don’t tell me ... You were expecting Clint Eastwood?
The reporter hangs his head, a little embarrassed.
CALLAHAN (CONT’D): You must be new around here.
REPORTER (grinning cheerfully again): Yes, sir, I sure am. As a matter of fact, I just moved out here six months ago. I’m going to write for the movies someday, so I thought I’d try my hand at writing for the newspapers first, and work my way up...
Callahan proceeds to take a sip of his coffee, and grimaces.
REPORTER (CONT’D): You know, sir, doctors nowadays are saying that coffee is very bad for your health...
Flashing him a peculiar look, Callahan just grabs the sugar dispenser and dumps even more in.
REPORTER (CONT’D): Of course, it’s still not as unhealthy as granulated sugar.
CALLAHAN: Why are you here, young man?
REPORTER: Well, sir, I’d like to know if there is anything you can tell me about the case you’re working on? I mean, about this person who is killing hitch-hikers in county after county. Is there anything at all that you can let us in on—for my column, that is.
CALLAHAN: I’ll be discussing all that on the program tonight. Everything you’ll need to know about the case will be mentioned then.
REPORTER: Fair enough ... but tell me, Detective, are there any extemporaneous facts, any at all? Possibly some special clue that could help break the case wide open.
CALLAHAN: Look, son, this is not some Hollywood cop show you’re writing for prime-time. It’s not that simple.
Callahan sets his coffee down, and pulls himself to his feet.
REPORTER: Come on, Detective Callahan. Even you must have a computer somewhere. What does it say about all this? There must be a profile sheet a mile long by now, from five different counties, I’m told.
CALLAHAN: Computer, huh? I’m telling you, fella, there are no instant answers. Face it, the so-called 'Magic of Science' is as much a myth as the 'Magic of Hollywood.' What do you expect from me?
REPORTER: Something, sir. Anything. Just throw a rookie a bone, will ya?