Scene: A young, chiseled man with dark eyes and deep chestnut locks sits at table in what seems to be a police interview room. JJ Naughton. He clenches his jaw and rolls his knuckles against the table top.
Enter two detectives. One older and lanky, but composed–grayed, and with an air of distinction; another short and stocky, wearing a white beater shirt that has been stained around the creases–a loose cannon, by the looks of it. The shorter one thumbs through a manilla file and scowls, tossing it onto the table. The older one pulls up a chair and crosses his legs.
Older detective: Hey there, kid. How’s it going? My names detective Jason Pearson, this is my partner, detective Jacob Pearson. No relation.
JJ Naughton: Nods. How’s it going, officers? What’s this all about?
Older Detective Pearson: Smiling. Oh nothing, nothing. Routine, mostly. We’d just like to have a friendly chat with you is all. We want to talk about your progression in your class–he pulls the manilla folder to his face and adjusts his glasses–“Composing Digital Media.”
The stocky detective Pearson, who is now standing in the corner of the room with his arms crossed, huffs: Some fuckin’ “progression.”
The older Detective Pearson shoot him a look. He turns back to JJ Naughton: You know, before we begin, I think I’ll get something to drink. You want anything?
JJ Naughton: warily. No, thanks, I’m good.
The older Detective Pearson stands and exits. Stocky Detective Pearson is left scowling at JJ.
Stocky Detective Pearson: You must think you’re hot shit, don’t you, kid?
JJ: Beg your pardon..?
Stocky Detective Pearson: You heard me; You been prancin’ around all semester cropping animals onto each other’s faces, crapping out ridiculous blog posts, an’ talkin’ like yer some kind of digital cowboy, but let me tell you something–he darts across the room and positions himself behind JJ’s right shoulder–I seen cowboys an’ yer just some fool monkey boy; You can fool all them, maybe, but you can’t fool me–You don’t know shit ’bout what yer sellin’ an’ one day that’s gonna catch up with you.
JJ starts to turn to the detective, but is interrupted by the sound of the older detective Pearson entering the room, two coffees in hand. He sits at the table, placing the two coffees between them.
Detective Pearson: smiling. Well then. Where were we? Ah, yes, Composing Digital Media. I gotta say, we were pretty impressed with your work here, kid.
JJ: slightly off balance. Th-thanks.
Detective Pearson: I mean that audio documentary was a little rough around the edges, but man did it pack a punch–Had me all sorts of inspired. Wife hada’ talk me down from opening my own pizza shop. He laughs. And that documentary? The one about that gas station fella? …I really felt for him, you know? I wasn’t sure where you were going with all your communist-work babble, but it really hit home by the end there. You know, I was just saying they really represented the duality of work in post-modern society–ah but there I am going off on things again. Anyway, you got a gift, kid. I woul– he was interrupted by the sound of his beeper on his hip. Sorry, would you excuse me a minute? He pulls out his cell phone and exits.
As soon as he leaves the stock Detective Pearson picks up a chair and chucks it across the room.
JJ: Woah! Hey, man!
Detective Pearson:–you believe that!? Huh? You think that’s what your doing here!? You think you’re some kind of artist, huh!? Some kind of Marxian fuckin’ Picasso, huh!? No. No, I know what you are–He crosses behind JJ and leans into his ear. In a forcible whisper: You’re scum, kid, you’re a cancer. That photo narrative you did!? Where the hell where you going with that, huh? What about that one, smart guy? People text message now? Oh really? Was that your enlightening all of us underlings?
JJ: I just thought–
Stocky Detective Pearson:– No, you weren’t thinkin’. And let me tell you something else–that clump of code you call a website? It looks like the shit my 3 year old comes home with it from preschool; I’ve seen better concepts from disabled Japanese acrobat duos.
JJ: –I’m not really sure what that even mea–
Stocky Detective Pearson: swipes the coffee off the table in a fit. plasters smashes against the wall. Listen to me, punk, you don’t know shit. Okay?
The older detective Pearson storms back into the room: Pearson! What are you doing?
The stocky Pearson scowls and slams his fist into the table.
The older detective Pearson: Take a walk, Pearson! The stocky detective Pearson storms out in a fit. The older detective Pearson approaches JJ, smiling: Sorry about him. Sitting, and crossing his legs: So where were we? Of course, the course assignments. You know, I’ll tell you we were blown away by your remix assignment. Happy Days, now that’s the sound family humor I can get with. I mean your heart didn’t seem all the way in it but I–
The stocky detective Pearson storms back into the room and clamors over the table, yelling unintelligible grunts and reaching at JJ. JJ falls back and crawls to the wall. The older detective Pearson moves between them and grabs the younger Pearson by the shoulders. Easy! Hey, Captain, could we get some help in here!?
Two more officers enter, bearing stark resemblances to JJ, and help contain the younger detective. The older detective moves to JJ and helps him to his feet. I’m sorry about that, kid. JJ brushes himself off. The young detective yells from the grasp of the officers: He’s nothin like what you think he is! He’s just a punk! He’s nothing!
The older detective moves to speak, but JJ holds up his hand to silence him. Suddenly JJ rips off his own head, revealing a shark head with one cyborg eye. Then he rips off his jacket and pants, revealing a thick mane of fur and a mini gun where his left hand should be. All of the policemen are stuck with awe. The two auxiliary cops let go of the younger detective and dash for the door. The older detective Pearson removes his glasses: mother of God.
The monster of JJ moves to the younger detective Pearson who is frozen in amazement. He grabs him by the torso and flips him into the glass.
JJ: Well, you’re right about one thing, detective. I’m not who they say I am. He pressed against his back with his mini-gun and leaned into his ear. Scowling:
I am Vonbearshark.