EXT. ROOF TOP — NIGHT.
The caw-caw of a crow foreshadows the arrival of a large, black raven before it comes swooping down to land on the eave of one of many historic buildings looming above the dark, empty streets of Savannah, Georgia. ANGLE ON the raven. A worm dangles from its beak. In one quick movement, it tosses the wriggling invertebrate into the air, opens its beak, and swallows it whole.
I’ve been meaning to tell you 
I’ve got this feelin’ that won’t subside
The raven beats its wings and takes off. The effort releases a single feather to float through the air. It teeter-totters at the mercy of the wind in a hypnotizing dance in a way that tugs at the memory of an old film, except instead of a bright, sunny day set against an uplifting musical score, this feather drifts down to a vacant town square after dark, to the sound of wind pushing through dense, foreboding oak trees.
It avoids capture in the Spanish moss hanging like decaying spiderwebs from the creaking, groaning branches and spirals down to the sidewalk. After a beat, a pair of black crocodile-skinned boots with silver-tipped toes enters the frame and stops. The legs of the jeans crimp around the calves, then a single hand reaches down to pick up the feather between two fingers. The hand is powerful but feminine, with long fingers subtly marked with scars from long forgotten injuries.
I look at you and fantasize You’re mine and tonight
The hand disappears with the feather and the boots continue walking. The camera TRUCK’S LEFT, following them several paces.
Now I’ve… got you in… my sights…
The boots stop in front of a bench, turn, and the jeans stretch up the shin to the knee as the owner of the legs sits down. MOVE UP and over knees to their lap, where an unopened box of chocolates rests across their thighs. Above the waist is a double-rider leather jacket over a lean but powerful frame cinched in a tight catsuit with low-cut neck to show the round curves of cleavage. There are two buttons pinned to the lapels. One reads Hang In There It Gets Worse around an animated bomb. The other shows the face of David Berkowitz on a white background encircled by the words You’re Never Alone If You Hear Voices.
The boots stop in front of a bench, turn, and the jeans stretch up the shin to the knee as the owner of the legs sits down. MOVE UP and over knees to their lap, where an unopened box of chocolates rests across their thighs. Above the waist is a double-rider leather jacket over a lean but powerful frame cinched in a tight catsuit with low-cut neck to show the round curves of cleavage. There are two buttons pinned to the lapels. One reads Hang In There It Gets Worse around an animated bomb. The other shows the face of David Berkowitz on a white background encircled by the words You’re Never Alone If You Hear Voices.
With these… Hungry Eyes One look at you and I can’t disguise
Above the collar is a perfect face with perfectly smooth skin, other than the vertical scar on the left cheek, and the wrinkles on either side of their mouth, bookending the corners of their lips which are stretched unnervingly across their teeth in a way that is far from welcoming.
I’ve got… Hungry Eyes I feel the magic between you and I
A black leather mask is tight around the upper-half of their face and in place of eyes, two pink LED hearts flash dramatically.
Seeing is believing, isn’t that how the ol’ saying goes? Growing up, no one saw you, did they, Damon? At least not in the way you wanted. We bet you were the bell of the ball back in Inglewood. Everyone wanted a piece of you, amirite?
By the way, before we get started, bravo.
Their hands raise into frame and sarcastically give a slow-clapping ovation.
You did the world a favor knocking Griffith Hawkins down a peg. If anyone deserves a good reminder that he is, in fact, fallible, it’s Jesus Christ Superstar. Unfortunately in the process you went and made yourself a target all over again.
But you don’t fret, do you precious? Nah, you’re a tough guy from the hood. You’ve faced worse than us, yeah? Here’s the rub, pal. Your confidence is as fragile as your skin.
They hold up two hands and give a whoa there.
Settle down. We’re not gonna go down the easy path of making fun of your tattoos. It’s your body, your choice, but let’s not pretend like it’s some great expression of your inner spirit. Let’s call it like it is, Damon. Your tattoos are a security blanket and you hide under them like a child from the coming storm. Well, bucko, guess what?
We are the storm.
Did you ever have nightmares way back when knowing the hell you’d face out on the streets-ses? Did you fear that the other kids were gonna tear you to piece-ses? You probably thought you were done running from the bad things in the world. You probably think you can stand and fight anything that comes atcha.
You’re wrong. You just haven’t met something worse. Something like us.
You have what we want and we want it because you have it. Funny how that works. You fought tooth and nail to prove all that hard work was worth the sacrifice and now that you have your proof, here we come along to take it from you. Not because we need a pat on the back. We already have three titles, in case you weren’t aware.
But the Vortex championship means the world to you, and that is what we covet. Not the physical belt but the value you have placed in it, the pain you will feel when we snatch it from you, and every moment thereafter you see it around on our waist.
Our ancestors didn’t collect belts. They collected heads. Of course in modern society we have to settle for the thing you covet most in the world. Well, maybe second most. We’ve seen your wife.
Their tongue slips through their teeth to run slowly and suggestively across their upper lip.
Maybe you have more for us than simply your belt. Maybe baby girl needs some tender loving. It is Valentine’s Day week, after all. What do you think, Aurora? We’re technically off the market, but our darling Mari might give us an exception. Especially if she can watch and call you nasty names during the festivities.
Imagine that. Two victories in one. We take your Vortex champion and your wife takes a dip in our lady pond. We bet she’s sweet as candy but you, Damon. You’re bitter as unsweetened cocoa. Speaking of…
There is a quick scuffle of a box being opened, followed immediately by their hand rising into view holding a small piece of chocolate curiously in the shape of Damon’s head.
Daddy always said a Grave is like a box of chocolates. Tough on the outside, soft on the inside, and always disappointing.
So let it be written.
So let it be done.
They pop the chocolate into their mouth and chew.
CUT TO BLACK.