Agent Calendar's Hot Date 2: Boogie Nights

A ROUNDERHOUSE Joint

1990 — 18 months before the Undervegas Incident

SUBJECT: Hello, little man.

BOSCH: You and your little gang have caused quite the little stir for us, you know that?

BOSCH: Regardless, whatever you three have going on has left us with hundreds of thousands of dollars in property damage, multiple innocent bystanders in the hospital, and most appallingly of all, a two-hour delay on I-15. So unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a cell,

SUBJECT: It's… difficult to explain.

BOSCH: Look around…. whatever you are. We've got nothing but time. So go ahead and take it from the start.

SUBJECT: I don't have a name and I'm from Hell.

BOSCH: Yeah, join the club, wiseass. Seriously.

SUBJECT: I am serious. My mother never gave me a name; she thought it would be redundant because everyone would know me from the ground quaking when I approached.

BOSCH: You are on the bigger side. And what's with the getup?

SUBJECT: What getup?

BOSCH: The fake horns and the body paint.

SUBJECT: The horns are real. Wanna feel 'em?

BOSCH: I'll pass. And the red skin?

SUBJECT: I have eczema.

SUBJECT: My name is Unit 5a82.

BOSCH: First name Unit, last name 5a82. No middle initial? Occupation?

SUBJECT: I am a trained soldier and weapon of war from the planet Kepler. I was an enforcer for a totalitarian regime until I defected and allowed my body to become a testing ground for one of the most dangerous biological weapons ever produced.

BOSCH: Okay, so I'm just gonna put down 'unemployed' for now, and we can change that if it comes up, okay?

SUBJECT: Sorry, copper, if there's one thing I know, it's that talking to the fuzz don't give you nothing but mold and problems. And I'm in no shortage of either right now, know what I'm saying?

BOSCH: What is this? What— are you a '50s detective? Is this your thing?

SUBJECT: Don't try to grab the smoke in the air, pops. You just end up spreading it around even more. Y'seeeee?

BOSCH: Jesus Christ. Okay, whatever. What brings you to Vegas, Casablanca?

SUBJECT: Casablanca wasn't a detective—

BOSCH: Shut up and answer the question.

SUBJECT: Love, Stan. That fickle, fecund mistress. I'm from Brooklyn, see, and the West sang out to me, to a place where my love could be more accepted. It sounded like hope and smelled like promise. So I said goodbye to all I'd ever known, embraced my fledgling lover, and took to the road.

BOSCH: Wow. Merciless, huh? What'd they do?

SUBJECT: I was told it was part of the sport. First I broke Jacob's leg, but he got better and we became… friends. Then he broke the leader of the Lizards' leg, then I think the Lizards broke the Foundations' legs, and then it all got very confusing. Lots of broken legs, very few casts.

BOSCH: Uh huh. Wait, hold on, what are the Lizards?

BOSCH: Wow, you're just a fount of knowledge, aren't you, sweetheart?

SUBJECT: Look, bucko, one minute I was four bodies deep in my hotel suite sleeping off a wild night in Succubustown with a fruity Pride demon facedown in my chest and the next I was popping into some shitty burned-out factory in the Bronx. I was lucky I managed to pull my clothes on before I was face-to-snout with a bunch of lizards.

BOSCH: Wait, what?

SUBJECT: They summoned me. I guess they're a dance gang, or something. Did you know that's a thing now? Just gangs of young men and women, going around and dancing. Wild stuff.

[Silence.]

SUBJECT: Anyway they were stomping around and all that, and ended up trampling a sigil into the floor — my passion sigil, specifically. Just my luck. So I told them the breaks — passion sigil, Wrath demon, means they've summoned me to kill someone, fuck someone, or both. They broke into an extended, dramatic backstory that I paid much attention to and could recall perfectly if someone asked, then told me the mark: some kind of blue twink from another planet. I'd never punched an alien before anyway, so I was down.

BOSCH: And that would be Mr. 58a2.

SUBJECT: Is that his name? Huh. Sounds ethnic.

BOSCH: Okay, so, you had to track down Mr. Dylan and his partner after they left town. But how did you get from New York to Las Vegas?

SUBJECT: I ran, you silly duck.

BOSCH: You… ran.

SUBJECT: Skipped for some of it, if we're being honest.

BOSCH: You're telling me you ran across the entire continental United States, from New York to Las Vegas, a distance of two-and-a-half-thousand miles?

SUBJECT: It was leg day, anyway.

BOSCH: Adorable.

SUBJECT: We drove, we worked odd jobs here and there, slept in the back of the van under overpasses and over underpasses. Lemme tell you, the back of that van saw stuff.

BOSCH: Less adorable. So you pack up your stuff, burn your bridges, and chase the horizon until… what?

SUBJECT: Until the other inexorable mistress money caught up with us. We blew through my meager savings pretty fast, and jobs aren't really consistent on the road. That old lady was NOT a trustworthy careermaker, regardless of what she said from the backseat of her Lincoln. After we had a run of bad luck outside Flagstaff, we decided our best options were heading for Vegas, seeing if our luck flipped.

BOSCH: Most people come to Vegas because they have an excess of dead presidents, not a dearth of them.

SUBJECT: Oh, wow, look at Mr. College Degree, using the two-dollar words.

BOSCH: Do you not know what excess means?

SUBJECT: We weren't gonna gamble what we had, I just figured that an enterprising young business-minded fella and a deceptively tough hottie could make a handy wad in Vegas.

[Silence.]

SUBJECT: Money. A wad of money.

BOSCH: Riiiight.

SUBJECT: Well. We didn't plan on gambling what we had.

BOSCH: There it is.

BOSCH: I've lived in Vegas for twenty years and I still don't understand it, kid.

SUBJECT: What's so attractive about taking intentionally terrible, stacked odds?

BOSCH: Because maybe you might win, I guess. Same primal urge that makes us stick our hands in the hive for some honey.

SUBJECT: They could at least attempt to even the odds in their favor.

BOSCH: Casinos don't take kindly to that, generally speaking.

SUBJECT: Yes, I noticed. Jacob had me address the men that threatened him while he kept gaining more money.

BOSCH: Oh Jesus.

SUBJECT: Eventually we were forced out. So we went to the next one across the street, and so on and so forth, and by the time we'd completed our circuit, no one remembered us at the first establishment.

BOSCH: There's a word for this.

SUBJECT: Hm?

BOSCH: Yeah, it's called 'incredibly fucking stupid'.

BOSCH: How's that?

SUBJECT: Van might've survived hitting a 200lb ball of muscle with horns bullrushing us down I-15. Little Italian thing? Not so much.

«BEGIN EXCERPT»

[A tiny yellow Miata jets along the Las Vegas Freeway, weaving in and out of of traffic in the sweltering summer sun. It squeezes between much larger Hummers and Chryslers, cruising along without a particular direction.]

[Suddenly, a dark red blur flashes in the corner of the screen for a split-second. In the next frame, it has moved across 4 lanes of traffic and collided head-on with the Miata, sending shrapnel and parts flying off in every direction. The surrounding vehicles swerve wildly out of the way, some directly into concrete barriers.]

[The obstruction that collided with the Miata slowly rises, revealing it as a humanoid — Jane Doe. She is seven feet tall, with large portruding white horns, and her skin is hued red. A thick tail extends behind her. She begins sticking her hands into the wreckage, trying to unbend the car's frame from around her body. After some time, she succeeds, and peers into the mangled frame.]

DOE: Hi! Wait, this is a family of three. Was, anyway. Wait…

[Doe continues unbending the car until she can inspect the hood.]

DOE: This isn't Italian at all! Shit. Well, the family inside looked kind of ethnically ambiguous.

[Another car enters the frame, skidding to a stop — a yellow Maserati. Jacob Dylan and Unit 5a82 are visible in the driver's and passenger's seats, respectively. Doe's eyes fall on them.]

DOE: Hey, you guys!

[She waves cheerfully, trying to kick herself free of the car's wreckage. She finally extricates herself, and begins making her way to the Maserati, footfalls shaking the damaged concrete.]

DYLAN: Who in Sam Hill are you?

DOE: Just a girl trying to get a workout in, hun. Which one of you is the space alien?

DYLAN: [Slowly] … Me.

[Unit 5a82 is silent, watching this play out.]

DOE: Okay! I trust you, little man. Come on, let's get outta here.

[She grips Dylan's skull and squeezes, causing his eyes to bulge. He gasps for air. Doe begins dragging him down I-15.]

DYLAN: [Straining] Where?!

DOE: Trying to find a tall building. The iguana wanted me to throw you off a building a few times before I killed you, said to make sure your bones were dust. Seems like overkill to me when you seem like one good punch would hit you so hard your grandkids would feel it, but I'm a good employee. You like the MGM or the fake Mount Rushmore they've got over there?

DYLAN: That's… the Statue… of Liberty…

[Upon hearing this, Unit 5a82 begins to bound after the pair.]

5a82: Let go of him.

[Upon being ignored, 5a82 backs up before throwing himself against Doe's back, causing her to stumble and release Dylan.]

DOE: Wow! You're a tough little guy, aren't you? Wait. Wait, you're blue! Humans aren't blue unless they're trying to eat a pillow!

[She reaches out and good-naturedly smacks Dylan on the back. The force sends him careening into a nearby car.]

DOE: Good effort, but I think this little man's the space alien, isn't he?

5a82: It's me. So let go of him.

DOE: I already did. Boy, you're not the smartest, huh? Well, that's okay, me neither.

[She grips 5a82 around the head.]

DOE: I've never punched a space person before. I'm burning with questions!

[She slams 5a82 into the concrete, face-first.]

DOE: Do you have other colors on your planet too? Can you change colors?

[She slams him into the concrete again.]

DOE: Do you guys have ice cream on your planet? Are you all this twinky or is it just you? Do you celebrate your birthdays? Has anyone ever told you you remind them of a wet kitten?

[She punctuates each question with a slam into the concrete. Unit 5a82 is left increasingly dazed and confused after each slam, but finally retaliates with a kick to the jaw. Doe winds her arm back and sends him flying off I-15 into the nearby buildings before rubbing her jaw.]

DOE: Ow! That was mean. You're mean.

[The cameras follow Jane Doe as she jumps off the highway and treads deeper into the city, following where she threw Unit 5a82. Dylan retreats to the Maserati, pulling a handgun from the glove box before giving chase. They end up in a side street surrounded by apartment buildings and shops, where Unit 5a82 is lying at the base of a building. He appears to have collided with it, bringing the stone facade down with him and leaving him in a pile of debris. He struggles to his feet. Sirens are now audible.]

DOE: Look, you guys seem cute, but I really gotta get home, and I can't do that until I grab you for the iguana guy.

DYLAN: Wait, iguana guy? Oh, that motherfucking prick!

[He starts firing at Jane Doe, who stumbles but ultimately retains her footing, reacting to the gun with more confusion than anything.]

DOE: How did you punch me from all the way over there? That's impressive, little man. Very neat talent. Love that for you.

5a82: Jacob. Go.

DYLAN: Snowball's chance in an oven in hell I'm ditching you, you blueblood dimwit!

[Doe puts up her hands, now clearly exasperated.]

DOE: Look, I ran here all the way from the other side of the country, and I can't go home until I've killed or fucked at least one of you. And this place kind of sucks when there's no gigantic archdemon to punch in the throat, so you'll understand why I'm feeling kind of homesick.

DYLAN: We're not exactly — wait, what did you say you had to do?

[At this moment, a swarm of LVMPD vehicles turn onto the street, sirens blaring, and quickly surround the trio. Officers emerge with their guns drawn, shouting for them to get on the ground. Dylan immediately drops to the ground and 5a82 simply falls over from exertion. Jane Doe does not seem to understand until an officer approaches her from behind and slaps handcuffs on her wrists.]

DOE: Aw. I don't think I really did anything to deserve a gift but it's a nice bracelet, I guess.

«END EXCERPT»

BOSCH: … Ma'am, you're—

[Clatter as someone else enters the room.]

BOSCH: What? What the fuck is this?

UNKNOWN: Lieutenant Ron House, Naval Intelligence. We're taking custody of these prisoners.

BOSCH: What the fuck? I wasn't— this isn't how this works, you can't do this!

UNKNOWN: Officer Bosch, the decision has been made, at a level higher than you or me. Take it up with your superiors once I leave. As for now? You're gonna need to move. She's a big girl, and it's a small doorway. Besides — I have a feeling that in an hour you're barely gonna remember her.

2000