Mr. Late Night
by Daniel Beadle - Tuesday, July 24, 2007
In darkness, we can hear the sound of rain hitting wet pavement. Fading up, we see a man sitting on a curb on a dark city street. His black hair is plastered against his face. He is a thin man, somewhere in his late thirties, and the scrapes and scratches that cover his face are washed clean in the downpour. And even though we have no evidence of it, the man’s name is Jake Alberts.His black clothes and light spring jacket do little to keep him dry, but he has a look on his face that suggests he doesn’t care. Jake’s face is angular, and mildly emaciated. His eyes are blackened pits, and his five o’clock shadow looks like a ten o’clock shadow. His left arm sits limply at his side, made obvious as he struggles to reach a box of cigarettes stashed in his left coat pocket with his right arm. He winces in pain as he finally pulls out the box. He flicks the top open to see a half dozen soggy cigarettes. He plucks one out with his teeth and tosses the box into the gutter. He coughs softly as he looks to the sky, not fully noticing the small spatter of blood that drips down his chin. His right hand pats his jacket and his pants, but a lighter is not found. Jake sighs as a quiet rage builds within him that isn’t quite verbalized. He spits the cigarette into the gutter and watches it wash away in the rain.
His eyes fall to the Colt revolver in his numb left hand and wonders if he should speed things up. Jake leans forward, wincing in pain as he grasps his stomach. When he pulls his hand away, it is now covered in blood. Jake coughs again, and a mixture of blood and saliva drip off of his lower lip. He reaches for the revolver, plucking it from his dead hand. He checks the chamber with his good eye, and pulls back the hammer.
There is a moment here that even though is only a matter of seconds, it feels like a lifetime for this man known as Jake. His memories aren’t pleasant. For a man who believes in God, and Jake does, his life shows no evidence of it. He remembers beatings, he remembers deaths. He remembers screams for mercy, and the sounds of agony. He remembers odd conclusions about life, he remembers acts of depravity that make him sick. He remembers all these things, all these horrible acts of violence, and he musters a quiet chuckle. Because he caused them all. And, for this brief moment, he thinks, Hell can’t be much worse.
Suddenly, Jake raises the revolver to his head. He smiles and blood oozes out from in-between his yellow teeth.
ONE YEAR EARLIER
The sound of rain increases as our view shifts from this lonely city street to flat-cell animation of the same, albeit in a stylized, almost art deco design. The patter of raindrops morphs into the thunderous applause of a studio audience, coupled with the rising sounds of a big band orchestra.
The animation shows a cartoon equivalent of Jake in a black suit, running around the city committing random acts of violence and vandalism. The animated police, whom he evades at every turn, chase him. The flawless voice of a television announcer cuts in from off-screen:
“From the late night studio in Burbank, California… it’s the Jake Alberts Show!” The applause rises as the title card comes up:
The Jake Alberts Show
The announcer continues. “…with Jake’s special guests: Rodney Williams!” A caricature of Rodney Williams comes up on screen. “And Carrie Harperson!” A caricature of Carrie Harperson. “Featuring the talents of Trickledown!” A caricature of the band.
The animation cuts out as the camera swoops above a studio audience, with a band adjacent, and stage at the center of the fanfare, with a desk and fake city backdrop. “And now, here’s your host: JAKE ALBERTS!”
The cheers spike as Jake runs out on stage, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and loosened black tie. He waves at the audience and bows to the band. The music drum rolls as Jake sprints the length of the audience, slapping hands with the entire front row. The band plays a crashing finale as Jake makes the appropriate hand gestures, coupled with a few that aren’t so appropriate. The music cuts out, but the audience continues to applaud. Jake starts laughing, and points charismatically at a big-breasted woman in the front row. He makes a phone gesture with his right hand as he looks at her. He looks at the audience, taking in the full scope of the artificial appreciation, and puts his hands in his pockets. He allows himself a chuckle, and then makes a “cut it out” gesture with his hand.
“ALL RIGHT! Yeah!” He smiles broadly as the applause tapers off. “Are we having fun yet?” The applause lingers, and Jake looks at his left wrist. “All right, all right, I have somewhere to be after this.” A light chuckle from the audience allows the applause to finally expire. As Jake looks out on the audience, he has a brief image of the most revolting thing he’s ever done, and a smile that is as sinister as it is jovial crosses his face. He looks directly into the camera. “We have one hell of a show for you tonight.”
