An American Pursuit (first five pages)

This is the first few draft pages of my comic. It's the first part of a miniseries. All of the character and setting descriptions aren't in, so I apologize if there's any confusion.


Page 1


Full width aerial shot of a country road. Middle of the night, cloudless and starry sky. Corn fields spread for acres on both sides of the road with no houses in sight. A lone police cruiser is parked on the road's dusty shoulder beside a telephone pole; its dim lamp and the cruiser's headlights show a silhoetted man dragging another figure by his armpits toward the vehicle.


Caption
Found him there, lyin' in the corn. Tell you, at at the time, thought he was damn lucky my headlights caught him the way they did.


Tighten panel around the cruiser. The silhoetted figure gets the other into the backseat.


Caption
Why didn't you call it in?


The cruiser turns on its red and blue lights and speeds out of the panel. However, our focus remain on lighted area underneath the telephone pole where a third figure begins to emerge from the corn field.


Caption
Thought he was just a drunk, maybe passed out. He wasn't that far from the highway. And his head only has a scratch.


Caption
Damn it, Mead. That's no excuse. Was anyone nearby?


The figure steps directly underneath the telephone pole and begins to walk in the direction of the cruiser.


Caption
Not that I saw.


Suddenly we are looking at a nervous OFFICER DANIEL MEAD leading an angry SGT. JEFFREY YOUNG out of the police station toward us.


Caption
Shit. I guess I should feel lucky you didn't leave the body and head home for dinner.


MEAD and YOUNG are standing before the passenger side of the cruiser. The perspective is from behind both men. MEAD is reaching toward the handle of the back passenger side door.


Caption
Well, let's take a look.


Page 2


The perspective is over both of their shoulders, looking toward the inside of the car. Though we can't see it clearly, YOUNG is holding his belt buckle and squinting. Splayed across the backseat, head and exposed face in the foreground, is the dead body of JON PLUMMER. A brown stetson is visible on the floor of the backseat, barely touching PLUMMER's outstretched hand. There's a slight cut on the side of PLUMMER's head, as well as a bit of blood running from his nose.


Shot of MEAD looking nervously upon the body.


MEAD
Like I said, just a bump on the head. As far as how he got out there, there isn't a car parked either way for two miles.


Shot of YOUNG looking upon the body, his palm over his chin and his thumb and forefinger rubbing the ends of his mustache.


YOUNG
I don't recognize him and he seems a bit old to be from the university. You check his phone? Maybe his friend lives in town.


Shot of MEAD looking away.


MEAD
I didn't check.


Close-up of YOUNG turning to MEAD.


YOUNG
Well shit, Mead. Are you new?! Get in there and give me what's in that man's pockets.


Page 3


The perspective is from inside the vehicle facing outward. The frame is tight around MEAD, who's carefully crawling over PLUMMER. He's barely trying to touch PLUMMER, conscientously reaching inside of his jacket while averting his eyes.


Back to YOUNG, who's growing in trepidation.


YOUNG
Yeah, well, I'm going to have to think of something to put in the report to save your dumb ass.


Still arched over PLUMMER, MEAD turns to YOUNG.


MEAD
Sergeant Young--


The perspective is from behind MEAD, facing toward YOUNG. In the foreground, MEAD is lifting, with this fingertips, a polished 1858 Remington revolver by its barrel. In the background, YOUNG is perturbed, the weapon complicating what would have only been a small lie in his incident report.


Shot of MEAD.


MEAD
I don't think it's going to be that simple.


Page 4


INT.
A large classroom in a university. The town's mayoral debate. A relatively bustling affair for a small town debate, even in such a politically active college town. About thirty people are in the audience. The majority are seated in classroom desks. The local television crew are situated along the local papers' photographers and the university's student journalists. In front of them, standing before the classroom chalkboards—still wet from being wiped clean—are the two candidates. On one side is JUSTIN GOODENOUGH, a man in his late twenties/early thirties. He has dark black hair that's parted on the side and a mustache. Think evil western villain since that's the trope we are going for, after all. He's a wearing a white dress shirt with a blue tie and cream-colored slacks. When he talks he looks around the room, keeping an eye on the cameras and always smiling. He's a real estate agent and his success in these rough economic times has created an aura of confidence around him that exudes even on this stage.


On the other side, GEORGE DANIELSON is slouching over his podium, attentive and strained. He has a confused look over his face, his eyebrow arched toward his opponent. He is in his late forties; a history professor at the university. Though his interests are in the town's favor—both in spirit and historical perspective—he is a lecturer, not an orator, and his attitude toward GOODENOUGH is the same he has toward students inattentive, smartass students: outright scorn (which, as you can imagine, makes him the Nixon instad of the Kennedy in this debate). He is shorter than GOODENOUGH by a good four inches—GOODENOUGH should be around 6'3—has narrow shoulders, a bit of a stoop, graying brown hair in a horse-shoe with an island of ahir as his widow's peak. He's dressed in gray slacks and a brown sweater over a light tie and dress shirt.


A group of three moderators are seated at a table in front of the candidates—an older black woman with gray hair, conservatively dressed in a dress and a sweater with a flowery pendant; a professional-looking female student representative from the university, with her blond hair in a bun, a dyed pink streak showing her youth; situated between the two women, in front of the microphone, is an elderly, bearded man in a white dress shirt, a black tie, and brown slacks. Hounddog face. His mouth is an inch away from the microphone as he talks.


MODERATOR
And now we come to the second to last question of this ninety minute debate.
(link)
I thank everyone once again for coming. It isn't often that these issues get to be addressed out of the town council, our minutes of which are available on our new website kindly put together by--


A MAN FROM THE CROWD:
Get on with it!


MODERATOR (tart face):
Of course. A few ladies are quite impatient for the next exchange, hmm? Let us begin, shall we?


(professional)
Mr. Danielson. We have heard from Mr. Goodenough's view on the recent loss of jobs in the town, what with the closing of shops down Artisan and Clover streets, and what he would do.
(link)
What is your position on the rezoning of town property along Prospect St. for commercial retail purposes?


DANIELSON coughs, sips his water, then leans over the lectern.


DANIELSON
If you own stock in McDonald's, it's a great idea. If, luckier still, you're like Mr. Goodenough and are able to draft the contracts to your businesses' interest, it's a great strategy for financial growth.
(link)
Unfortunately, Otterkill isn't composed entirely of the slovenly or the Goodenough family.


GOODENOUGH
Oh, come on!


DANIELSON
Our town, sir, was founded on corporate interest and for generations it has been corrupted through the fine financial sense of our corporate citizens. So you will excuse me if I don't “come on” and not point out the blatant conflict of interest your real estate business poses in this “rezoning”.
(link)
True, if my opponent's plan for a retail outlet was enacted, it would bring jobs to many of my students, but it would also sacrifice--


GOODENOUGH (smiling)
One moment. Ladies and gentlemen, did you catch that?
(link)
I'd be remiss if I didn't point out that Mr. Danielson just said I was right! My plan would bring in new jobs, jobs this town sorely needs more than some nostalgic park space. If we--


DANIELSON (to GOODENOUGH)
You can lie on your own time, Goodenough.


Page 5


DANIELSON turns to the moderator.


I'd like to reclaim my time, sir.


MODERATOR (off panel)
Go on then.


The perspective shifts to the back of the room where MEAD is standing in full uniform, his role as peacekeeper. He is against the door frame next to the last row of seated audience members. He is situated in the foreground with the debate occurring in the background. He is only slightly paying attention, his thoughts on the night before.


OFF PANEL (a whisper)
Hi Patrick.


MEAD turns; the perspective of the panel shifts with him. A young college girl is behind him. She's white, short, with a ponytail, a graphic tee, and jeans. Perhaps MEAD knows her from frequent party busts; ever shy, MEAD is awkward talking to her, constantly looking over his shoulder or down at his belt buckle.


MEAD
Evening, Jess. You coming in?
(link)
Seating is a bit tight.


JESS
If there aren't any seats, I'll read about it.


MEAD
That's fair.


JESS
Decide who you're voting for?


MEAD
Rather not say in mixed company.
(link)
Professor Danielson is a good man, though.


JESS
Yeah. I have him for 'The American West'.


MEAD
Huh.


JESS
So, I heard there was some excitement last night.


Silent panel of MEAD.


JESS
Heard the sirens coming down Main—was that you, Patrick?


MEAD
Yep. A stranger got stuck down near North Ohioville.
(link)
I just gave him a lift. No big deal.


JESS
Oh.
(link)
What did you need the sirens for, then?


MEAD
We should probably keep it down, Jess.
(link)
For the people nearby, you know? We'll talk later.


MEAD turns away from Jess, who seems a bit put off.


JESS
Uh, sure.


Like before, the perspective shifts with MEAD's attention. Bring us back to where we were with MEAD in the foreground, now standing with his hands on his belt, and the debate in the background.


Close-up of GOODENOUGH at his lectern. He is smiling, his shoulders shrugged.


GOODENOUGH
I mean, perhaps you are right. I know all the people who'll go homeless will really enjoy the park's beauty—to say nothing of its benches!


OFF PANEL (from the crowd)
Laughter.