Narrator 1: There are quite a few people here tonight. For now, we are interested in just one of them. 

[Sounds of indistinct conversation. Plates and glasses clinking] 

Narrator 2: It’s that old guy sitting at the bar in a patchy suit. We figured you’d want the chance to meet him now. 

Narrator 3: He’s a nice guy. 

1: If you were to spend any time with him, you would be immediately charmed by his charisma, by his excellent grooming, by his fantastic, somewhat ill-fitting, but really nice suit. He really puts the effort into his appearance. And also, by his eye contact. He really pays attention, he really listens. 

3: He’s a genuine sort of soul. Too bad he’s not going to be around for much longer. 2: Because someone’s gonna murder him. He’s too dangerous to let live. [Main theme] 

1: There’s a happy hour going on right now here at the Black Candle Cabaret. You remember this place, right? We’ve been here before. We’re back. 

2: It was closed last time we were here, pretty dead, just some dancers getting ready. 

1: There’re still dancers getting ready now, except that they have way fewer clothes this time and they’re much closer to showtime than they were previously. 

2: But the bar is actually packed with patrons at this hour. It is hopping. 

1: Fuze, who we just mentioned, he is here. He is at the bar. He’s literally just hanging out. He has no business here, he’s not really here to see anyone in particular, he’s not even here for the show later. He just likes the Cabaret. He likes to come, he likes to sit at the bar, he likes the conversation. People here know him.

3: He has that retired quality about him, someone who has spent their entire life whiling away at a very particular task. They did their time and made it out moderately unscathed on the other side, but here he is enjoying his free time. 

1: But what is he drinking? He has a small glass, no ice, partly because ice is a rare and expensive commodity. 

2: Roads come before ice. 

3: Priorities. 

2: So anyway, Fuze, he likes to treat himself to a night at the Black Candle Cabaret regularly, but it’s not like he can afford to splurge on iced drinks all the time, not if he hopes to make it a regular habit, and he really enjoys being a REGULAR at places. 

1: He sips his drink with deep and obvious satisfaction, his bristly mustache whispering the edge of the glass. Let’s actually zero in on that just for a moment. [background sounds fade out] His mustache is very grand, very distinctive, well-groomed. It’s as robust as it is partly as a statement in and of itself, and partly to hide his mouth, which is upside down. 

2: Oh. Yeah. That. 

3: He had been doing his job for a number of years, and unfortunately, as these things do happen, experienced a fold tearror. 

2: Anyway, it caused his mouth to turn upside down, so he grew this really grand, robust mustache to kind of compensate for it, cover it up. When he’s talking to people, he wants to have a nice conversation with them and have the focus be on what they’re saying to each other, not the fact that his mouth is upside down, and can ya blame him? 

1: So he’s a sensitive guy, socially adept. People here like him. 

3: He’s been chatting with the bartender, exchanging pleasantries with the other patrons. 

[Background sounds fade back in]

1: One of his favorite patrons is sidling over to him now: a teen girl, the same teen girl from earlier. Do you remember her? She was here at the bar the last time we were here. She was sketching. 

2: She’s the bartender’s daughter. Sherman’s daughter. 

1: Her name is Tzila. She’s 13. 

2: She’s 12 and a half! 

3: Anyway, here she comes. 

2: She’s got a sketchbook under one arm. It’s still open. There’s a half-finished drawing of what looks like some ballerinas warming up, only more boobs. 

1: Yeah, they’re definitely not ballerinas. They’re the girls from the other room. 

2: Tzila’s happy to see Fuze. They’re kind of friends. I mean, he’s basically friends with everyone he meets, almost. 

1: He also doesn’t meet that many kids, for that matter. Tzila sits down right next to him and says, (as Tzila) “Hi Fuze.” 

3 (as Fuze): “Tzila, how good to see you!” 

1: His voice is funky. His mouth is upside down, remember. This means exactly what you think it means: his tongue is on the roof of his mouth, his roof of his mouth is on the bottom of his mouth, etcetera. 

3 (as Fuze): “What have you got there?” 

2 (Tzila): “I was just drawing the dancers warming up.” 

3 (Fuze): “Oh, is it alright if I see?” 

2 (Tzila): “It’s not very good.” 

1 (Fuze): “Well, let me be the judge of that. I’m sure it’ll be fantastic.” 2: Tzila shrugs. She slides the sketchbook to him along the bar.

1 (Fuze): “You know, these, I even recognize them, I see the, I see the likeness, the, the uh, this one.” 

2 (Tzila): “Yeah, that one’s Ettie.” 

1: He’s a nice guy, Fuze. His sense of humor is sometimes somewhat impenetrable. 

3: His occupation wasn’t a particularly social one, but we’ll learn more about that a little later on. 

2: He’s making up for lost time now by having as many pleasant conversations as he can. 

3: As many regular social diversions, like happy hours, times at the Cabaret, or times spent hanging out with perfectly pleasant citizens here in Stationary Hill. 

2: He loves going out to breakfast, getting a newspaper, rolling it under one arm, strolling out into the street tipping his hat at whoever he may happen to meet, his lovely neighbors. 

1: Enjoying a good cigarette that he bought himself. He lights one now at the bar. Tzila sees the matchbook. (as Tzila) “Hey, can I see the matchbook trick again?” 

3 (Fuze): “Keep your eye on it!” he says. 

2 (Fuze): “Tryin’ to decipher my secrets, are we?” 

1 (Tzila): “Well, yeah,” Tzila says. 

3: Fuze holds aloft the matchbook, twiddling it between his very dexterous and nimble fingers. 

2 (Fuze): “Keep your eye on it!” Tzila does. He makes a showy, deft, practiced movement, a flourish of his hands, and the matchbook disappears. She’s seen it before, but she can never quite figure out the precise moment when it disappears into his sleeve or pocket or wherever it goes. 

1: Mostly she gasps because he really seems to appreciate it. This big smile. Have we made this clear? He’s a nice guy. God, it’s so sad that he has to die.

2: Yeah, just wait till you see how it happens. 

3: We’re getting ahead of ourselves. 

2: Fuze invites Tzila to check his sleeves, look inside his hat, goes through the whole routine. She can’t find it. She thinks he has a secret lining in one of his pockets or maybe inside his shirt sleeve, but she’ll never let him down by knowing that she’s slowly figuring it out. 

3 (Fuze): “Tzila, there’s something in your hair.” 

2 (Tzila): “What?” 

3: He reaches his nimbly-bimbly fingers over… 

2: …and he makes a plucking motion from within Tzila’s curly hair. 

1: He produces the matchbook. She smiles, he smiles. He starts to hand her the matchbook, and then abruptly his eyes go cold, the smile disappears, he shrinks back into himself, he sits back at the table, and says, (as Fuze) “But enough of that, we don’t need to, we don’t need to talk about this anymore, that’s enough of that.” He starts mumbling a lot, he gets very fidgety, his eyes dart around the room. This is done. This is the end of this conversation. 

2: And he no longer has any attention or smiles or warmth for Tzila. 

1: He is looking at something over her shoulder, not very much, trying not to, mostly looking at the floor, looking at his hands. Tzila turns to look. 

3: There’s a nervous energy in his fingers and he scoots his little glass around, back and forth, one hand to the other on the surface of the bar… 

2: …his shoulders stiff. Cold. 

3: A familiar figure has entered the bar. 

1: A familiar silhouette. You will recognize the hat, you will recognize the hair, you will recognize the confident, self-assured, easy stride. 

2: Lark enters the Cabaret and walks up to the bar, to Sherman.

1: They’re well-acquainted. He greets her by name. 

2: He’s happy to see her. 

3: And Tzila is, too. 

2: Tzila thinks she’s REALLY cool. 

1: Not cool in like a celebrity way, cool in kind of a scary important way. Not really hero worship. They’re not very well acquainted, they don’t know each other very well. Tzila hears plenty about Lark from her father, and that is very mysterious and interesting. Tzila glances over at Fuze. He has withdrawn completely. He will not look at Lark. He’s pretending she’s not here. His fingers drum on the table. He reads his newspaper furiously. 

3: And pointedly, Lark does not make notice of Fuze. 

2: The way they are not looking at each other is so pointed, that it’s completely obvious that they’re very aware of each other’s presence. 

1: And YOU can be aware of this. The funny thing is that nobody else in the Cabaret notices. There are a lot of people here, there’s a lot going on. 

2: And they don’t have US there to explain things to them so clearly. 

1: Tzila fidgets a bit, and seeing that she’s not going to get another word out of Fuze, separates from this part of the bar, and heading back around to the stage, moves off to loiter with the dancers. 

2: Remember how we mentioned earlier that Lark didn’t really have very many friends? Well, Sherman is one of the very few people that could be counted among her friends. Not that they really hang out all that often, but they have a definite rapport, bordering on a trust. Lark is slow to trust, Sherman much quicker. But there’s something there. 

1: They have what you might call a functional acquaintanceship. 

2: There’s not as MUCH there as Sherman might like, but give her time. 

1: Take from that what you will. You can take from that precisely what we’re trying to give you, if you want.

3: Let’s hear what Lark has to say. This is the first time we get to hear her. 2 (as Lark): “Give me the usual. No, make it… five ounces today.” 

1: Sherman knows what she’s talking about. 

3 (Sherman): “Anything to drink as well?” he says, turning around to face the bar. He does not immediately reach for a bottle, but instead pulls open a drawer and withdraws from the drawer a small lockbox which he then unlocks. 

1: He then pours a drink. The drink itself doesn’t matter; it’s something he can hand her across the bar to mask a second item which he passes over as well. She takes the drink in hand. The other thing, from the lockbox, goes covertly into her pocket. 

2: Lark seems indecisive about staying for the actual drink that Sherman has poured for her, but… 

1: She does. She’s had a long day. 

3: In point of fact, here COMES the end of the day, 

2: sweeping through the room, a solid dark presence. You’ve seen it before. 

3: It was going the other way last time. A curtain of darkness, an obsidian plate, translating through the walls, the booths, the curtains, the very fabric of the Black Candle Cabaret, smoothly transitions over all those assembled. 

2: It’s like the whole room is slowly filling up with ink, only sideways. 

1: The sheer edge of this darkness moves slowly, at about a fast walk. It glides, it issues silently, silkily, with a rippling liquid sheen, passaging effortlessly over every object in the room. Soon the entire Cabaret is submerged, the chamber deep with a dark, rich fog. It has no real substance. It feels ever-so-slightly humid, but otherwise undetectable. The room is now dense with a strange darkness, a strange fog, what we call here the Fold. 

2: In here, it’s a romantic, complex sort of twilight. The Black Candle Cabaret was really designed for the Fold.

1: Light bulbs everywhere are coming on one by one. They gently pulsate now that they’re illuminated, not a flat brightness, a gentle ebb and flow, brighter, dimmer, brighter, dimmer, a slow pulsation, a slow heartbeat. 

2: The rhythm of this pulsation is not exactly regular, but has a slight chaos, a slight unpredictability, a randomness to it. 

3: The light bulbs themselves are also pieces of fine craftsmanship. The glass upon them appears to be tempered. Within, the mechanism of the fuse is very assiduously assembled. 

1: We’ve zeroed in on all these bulbs because they’re worth knowing about, but no one here pays any attention to them. They’re in every light fixture, they’re in every sconce, they’re in every chandelier, they’re on every table: normal pulsating light bulbs, just like you have. 

3: Lark takes a tentative sip of her beverage. 

1: Good stuff. Strong. 

2: She closes her eyes in momentary pleasure, letting herself enjoy the drink. 

1: She’s a bit of an odd fixture here. Let’s look around for a moment. We have all these wannabe callous sophisticates. We have all these people trying to be somebody. Most of the people here in the Cabaret — there is a show coming, remember, soon — most of the people who are here, are here early for the show. They’re dressed up a little bit, trying to look good. Many of them are here because they’re attempting to hook up. Everyone is projecting some veneer of urban sophistication, even though the town of Stationary Hill is far from urban and definitely far removed from sophistication, and Lark is neither urban nor sophisticated with her handmade rustic costume, her hat, her boots. She’s spattered with oil. 

2: Her coating of red dust. 

1: Nevertheless, Tzila is not the only one who thinks she’s cool. There are a couple of dancers lurking around the corner eyeing her. 

2: There’s Sherman.

1: He’s eyeing her too. She’s distinctive. She’s unusual. Everyone here knows her. Not everyone knows her by name, but everybody knows her on sight. Distinctive silhouette, we mentioned. The dancers have made up their mind. Two of them, Ettie and Ellie, come forward — 

2: these were the twins that Tzila was sketching earlier 

1: — crawling over each other a bit, a little bit nervous, a little bit excited, and sidle up to the bar, and, propping themselves up next to Lark, make eye contact with her. She looks at them and looks away, disinterested. 

3: One of them titters nervously. It’s a defense mechanism. 

1: Lark raises an eyebrow. 

2 (Lark): “What?” 

1: Sherman snorts, puts away the lockbox. 

2 (Ellie): “Um… We… That is, ETTIE wanted to know if you… Um… Do you take appointments?” 

1: Lark doesn’t look at them. 

2 (Lark): “For what?” 

1: (She says.) 

2: They look at each other, somewhat caught off guard by the question. [Ellie:] “The fortune-telling?” 

1: She puts her drink down. She regards them. 

2 (Lark): “Sure.” 

1 (Ettie): “Is there a charge?” Ettie asks. 

3 (Ellie): “Or a certain time when we should come?” says Ellie. 

2 (Lark): “Yes. To both things.”

1: Lark has a way of making everyone feel like an idiot. 

2 (as Lark): “Do you know where I live?” This question comes across not really as an invitation, but kind of a threat? A challenge? 

1 (Ettie): “But you don’t… Do we come to your…” 

3 (Ellie): “You’re not in town, are you?” 

2 (Lark): “I’ll draw you a map.” She pulls a cocktail napkin towards her across the counter and looks up at Sherman, a nonverbal request for a pen or something to write with. 

1: Fuze, across the bar, has had quite enough of this and is beginning to wrap up his affairs. He is closing out his tab, trying to get Sherman’s attention, but Sherman’s attention is, well, focused a bit here. He’s distracted. 

3 (as Fuze): “Just put it on my tab, Sherman.” And Fuze excuses himself abruptly. 

2: And his seat at the bar is immediately filled by someone much easier on the eyes. Oh, it’s Atticus Concord. We know him. He’s a regular at the Black Candle Cabaret too, now. 

1: If having come here twice now constitutes a pattern, then sure, yeah, he’s a regular. 

2: So, Lark was drawing a map for these girls, these twins. Sherman has handed her a pen and she’s sketching out a rudimentary little map of the desert. An X marks the location of her home. 

1 (Ettie): “When, when should we come to see you? And what should we, do we need to prepare—?” 

2 (Lark): “Fold. Tomorrow. And no.” 

1 (Ettie): “We’ll be there, we’ll find a way to get there, we’ll take a, a wagon or some, you know, a bocular horse or something.” 

2: Lark has already dismissed them. She’s returning to her drink. 

3 (as Atticus Concord): “You know, it really is FASCINATING,”

1: —Concord says, settling onto a neighboring barstool, 

3 (Concord): “…to live just immersed in the Fold like this. It’s really very DIFFERENT, isn’t it?” Concord probably had a drink or two by this point. 

2: Lark doesn’t say anything. She just looks at him, drinking her drink unconcernedly. She’s not one of those people who feels the need to set you at ease by saying anything when you’re floundering in a conversation. She does not meet you halfway if you’re being an idiot. 

1: She kills monsters for a living. She drives around in a one-wheeled motorcycle. She lives in a hut in the desert by herself. She has a giant inky black scar on one side of her body. 

2: Oh, did we mention that? 

3: She’s pretty fucking hardcore, not to put too fine a point on it. 

2: Lark’s left hand, which is resting on the bar, is pitch black, inky black. If you could see underneath her sleeve, she’s got a scar running up her arm, an unusual sort of scar. If you’ve ever seen the type of scar that’s left behind when someone is struck by lightning, it’s reminiscent of that, except, well, pitch-black. It seems to be centered on her left palm, which over the years has condensed and filled in to a solid black, but as it runs up her arm it thins out, becoming a spidery latticework, and the uppermost extent of it reaches just onto her face, onto her left cheek. 

1: Concord doesn’t notice. He’s mostly just trying to make eye contact with her. He’s trying to strike up a conversation. 

2: Besides, a lot weirder things happen to people all the time in the Fold. 

1: Like mouths turning upside down. Or right now, for example, part of the bar is starting to reverse. [sound of a light bulb buzzing and bottles clinking] One of the light bulbs is starting to flicker a little bit which is causing a problem. A couple of bottles are starting to float off of the bar. Sherman quickly goes over and adjusts the bulb. 

[Bizarre sizzling and warping noises are beginning to manifest as the area’s realities start to slowly phase and skew.] 

3: Oh, he’s on it.

2 (as a bar patron): “Sherman!” 

1 (as another bar patron): “Better put that out, there, Sherman!” 

2 (as Sherman): “I know, I know.” 

1: A lot of people in the bar are sort of pointing out the anomaly as it’s beginning to occur. One man’s drink has, um, well, it’s turned into some kind of odd fire, which is not what he ordered, certainly. 

2: This is a minor tearror, nothing to get worked up about. 

1: The light bulb flickers, the Fold gets excited, weird shit happens. 3: It’s a reactive substance. 

1: Sherman fixes the bulb, no problem, and Concord’s conversation goes on essentially unhindered, if you can call it a conversation. Rather one-sided. 

2: Lark soon grows tired of this and flashes a wry smile at Sherman. (as Lark) “I’ve gotta get going, but… did you still need me to look after your daughter?” 

1 (Sherman): “Well, if you’re available, going in to Goe’s or whatever, just — Show’s not gonna be that long.” 

2 (Lark): “Yeah. I’ll do it.” 

1 (Sherman): “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow?” 

2 (Lark): “I’ll pick her up.” 

1: Sherman switches the lamp at the end of the bar on and off, just double-checking. Everything’s fine. The fire is extinguished, the butterflies have disappeared, the strange boiling crater on one side of the bar just under the lamp has evaporated, oddly. Everything’s back to normal. No mouths have been turned upside down, no injuries. Everyone’s fine. 

2: No scars.

1: The show is starting to get under way. The phonograph in the backroom is starting to wind up and more patrons are beginning to pour in through the doors. There’s even some semblance of a line beginning to form. This is maybe time for Lark’s exit. 

2: Crowd comes in, Lark goes out. That’s her cue. [as Lark] “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

1 (Concord): “Hey, I didn’t quite catch your name there,” Concord says to Lark as she retreats from the bar. 

2: No, he didn’t. And he won’t. 

1: She says nothing. She turns. She goes. She leaves. 

3: That distinctive silhouette moving OUT the door this time. 

1: Concord shrugs, turns back to the bar. “Sherman,” he says, “my friend. Pour me another.”