Logline: A narcissistic TV host receives a most shocking letter in the mail- his own death certificate- prompting a journey of self-discovery and redemption, only to find it may be an elaborate prank hatched by his rival.

EXT. STREET, DOWNTOWN SACRAMENTO, CA — AFTERNOON

Gray. Dreary. And it’s Sacramento, so it’s extra depressing. A shabby building with a faded sign: OFFICE OF VITAL RECORDS

CHICO O.S.: Always hustling, since I was a kid. Drugs, guns, girls- you name it.
ASHLEY O.S.: Well, you made it here, so…

Title: SACRAMENTO, JUNE 2024

INT. LOBBY, OFFICE OF VITAL RECORDS

Plain. Ordinary. Except for the passageway that leads to the back room: looks like a full body scanner, the kind you step through at airport security. Strange.

CHICO O.S.: Made some changes.

BACK ROOM.

Cramped. Musty. Ancient computers and filing cabinets. A dusty clock on the wall reads 1:11. Tick-tick-tick.
Two workers scarf down boxes of fried chicken at their desks: ASHLEY (20s), a pretty Southern gal in a summer dress, and CHICO (50s), a wiry, reformed street hustler in a cheap suit.

CHICO: What about you?
ASHLEY: Nothing like that, I mean… I dunno… reckon I wasn’t always the most faithful girlfriend.

On the wall, one of those glass IN CASE OF EMERGENCY boxes. Instead of an ax, though, there’s an aged, black book inside. Something’s very odd about this place.

CHICO: Ah, you’re just a kid.
ASHLEY (softly): Was.

Instantly, a chill strangles the air.

CHICO: Should prob’ly get back to work.

Goes to wipe his hands, but there’s no napkins. Licks his greasy fingers, then clicks the mouse. Printer whirs…

CHICO: Don’t wanna upset the big man.
ASHLEY: ‘Specially my first day.

… Done eating, she collects her trash as Chico grabs the document from the printer. She shuffles to the garbage can- a plastic fork drops to the floor. Bends over to pick it up…
… Chico steals a glimpse at her tanned legs while stuffing the letter into a manila envelope, smudging it with his greasy fingers. The envelope’s addressed to BRADLEY ECKHART.

Title: LOS ANGELES

EXT. AMERICAN SPORTS NETWORK (ASN), CENTURY CITY

Sunlight shimmers off the sleek building.

INT. BRAD’S OFFICE, ASN

BRAD ECKHART (33), the Marlboro man with an LA makeover, studies his handsome face in a compact mirror, checking out the cut on his lip. He’s on speakerphone with his agent, MAX.

BRAD: It was good, right?

Video on his phone: Brad baits an NFL quarterback during an interview- calls him ‘Patty Cakes’- leading to a fistfight.

MAX V.O.: Kidding? Fantastic.

Plaques and awards and autographed jerseys cover the walls. The centerpiece is a large, glass frame containing six crumpled cocktail napkins, words scribbled all over ‘em.

BRAD: Tell ya, man, I was pumped. I was feeling it.

Struts around the room, towel around his neck like a boxer.

MAX V.O.: Eight million hits.
BRAD: Wish I woulda got a shot in.
MAX V.O.: Ah.
BRAD: Happened so fast.
MAX V.O.: Don’t want a lawsuit, believe me.
BRAD: Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.
MAX V.O.: How does Kimmel sound? Wanna do Kimmel?

Brad plunks down in his plush leather chair.

BRAD: What’s up with Paris?
MAX V.O.: That all you think about?
BRAD: Aside from firing you? Yes.
MAX V.O.: Told ya, I’m taking care of it.
BRAD: Not waiting four years.
MAX V.O.: Wheels are in motion, believe me.
BRAD: Lampley was thir-
MAX V.O.: Just take care of your passport.
BRAD: Hmph.
MAX V.O.: I’ll take care of the rest.
BRAD (grumbles): Need my birth certificate first.
MAX V.O.: Birth certificate?
BRAD: Ah, couldn’t find it. Had to send for a new one.
MAX V.O.: … Jesus…
BRAD: Like six weeks ago.
MAX V.O.: Fucking bureaucrats.
BRAD (big): Can’t miss Paris, Max.

Knock on the door- Brad hangs up. MELANIE MCFEELY (26), the show’s producer, steps inside. A slim brunette with Midwest morality, there’s beauty behind those glasses and pantsuit.

MELANIE: Your mom’s on line two.
BRAD: Great.
MELANIE: Want me to…
BRAD: … Prob’ly gonna ream me out…
MELANIE: … Tell her you’re in a meeting?
BRAD: You’re the best.
MELANIE: Talked to Sacramento. They mailed your birth certificate.
BRAD: Hmph. ‘Bout time. (beat) Whadda I got tonight?
MELANIE: Really need an assistant.
BRAD: Only one I trust.

She scans her phone as Brad checks her out… she’s kinda cute, even if he never really noticed before.

MELANIE: Let’s see, uh… dinner with Lori.
BRAD: Lori?
MELANIE: Podiatrist from Playa.
BRAD: Say that five times fast.
MELANIE: Podi-
BRAD: Melanie?

She stops, blushing.

BRAD: I was kidding.
MELANIE: Oh.
BRAD: Sure it’s not Lisa?
MELANIE: Dentist from Redondo.
BRAD: Ah. Right.

She treads out the door. Brad steals a glimpse at her ass.