[CONRAD’S FRONT PORCH, AUGUST 2023]

Same house, quieter now. Only the low hum of wind through bare branches.

CONRAD WELLS, older by a decade, steps onto the porch in slippers and a faded flannel. He looks across the yard — birdbath frozen, feeder empty.

He bends, sprinkles the last scoop of seed from an old tin.
A single sparrow lands before he’s done.
Then another. Then another.

CONRAD:
Well look at that… word travels fast.

VOICE (gentle, amused):
You’re late, landlord.

Conrad freezes. Looks up.
Jesus sits on the porch rail — denim jacket, half-smile, sipping from Conrad’s coffee mug.

CONRAD (quiet):
You again.

JESUS:
Always me.
(contemplative)
You’re kind of a cheapskate, Conrad. Agree?

CONRAD:
You gonna shame a widower now?

JESUS:
Nah. Just reminding you: love’s expensive.
Don’t do the math. Just feed ’em.

Conrad smirks despite himself.
The birds peck around his slippers.

CONRAD:
I’m not running a soup kitchen.

JESUS:
That’s what they said about the loaves and fishes, too.

He gestures toward the yard — suddenly alive with wings.
More birds materialize, fluttering, chirping, filling the air.

JESUS (grinning):
See? Franchise expansion.

CONRAD:
You got jokes, Lord.

JESUS:
Always did.
(pauses, soft)
Make it holy.

Conrad’s eyes glisten. He nods.

Jesus disappears, leaving only the sound of a hundred birds eating.
Conrad stands, watching, overwhelmed and oddly calm.

NARRATOR (V-O):
The first sermon of the Bird King was preached with birdseed.
No choir, no pulpit — just the whisper of wings and a man learning to listen again.

FADE OUT on the front yard —
alive with motion, every branch shaking like applause.

[BACK YARD -- APRIL 2027 -- AFTERNOON]

A gray Michigan sky. Dead leaves, sticks, half-melted snow.

CONRAD WELLS, now gray-bearded, sleeves rolled, rake in hand, hums to a ‘70s tune playing from a tinny speaker.

ELLIE, a twelve-pound pomeranian, trots beside him like a furry foreman.

CONRAD:
All right, Ellie, we make it pretty, then we hit the hot tub.

He tugs a stubborn branch still clinging to the maple above the deck.
SNAP.
The branch gives—and a ROBIN’S NEST drops with it.

Two chicks tumble under the deck.
Instantly, SCREECHING CHAOS.
Parent robins dive-bomb like fighter jets.
Ellie barks her head off, thrilled.

CONRAD (ducking):
Jesus Christ Superstar—RETREAT!

A robin clips his hair; another grazes his shoulder.
He covers his head with the rake like a medieval shield and bolts for the sliding door.

CONRAD:
We’re under siege, Ellie! Fall back!

They dive inside, slam the sliding glass door.
He stands there, panting, watching wings flash outside the glass.
Feathers drift down like snow.

ELLIE:
(soft whimper)

CONRAD:
Yeah… I know, girl. We didn’t mean to.

He looks at the rake—one tiny feather stuck to it.
Sets it gently on the counter like evidence.

Cut to – later that night
Desk lamp, notebook open, handwriting shaky.

April 14 — Pulled the wrong branch. Two downed. Parents furious. Lord, forgive the landlord.

He stares at the words, sighs.

CONRAD (murmuring):
They trusted me. I broke the lease.

From outside, faint robin cries echo in the dusk.
He turns off the light.

NARRATOR (V-O):
He didn’t know it then, but the eviction notice had been served—to his peace, not the birds.
By morning, the yard would never feel the same again.

FADE OUT -- on the empty deck, moonlight on the fallen branch.

[LIVING ROOM – NIGHT]

Low lamp light, cartoons frozen on TV. Toys scattered, pizza box open. YOUNG FATHER (late-30s, kind-eyed, rumpled) tucks his son Teddy into the couch-fort “tent.”

TEDDY:
Can you read me the bug story?

FATHER:
Sure, let’s see what you’ve got here… The Insects and the Vote?
(half-laughs)

TEDDY (sleepy):
Mom said it teaches about teamwork.

FATHER:
Right. Teamwork. Okay, here goes.
(reads)

“Out of hatred for the ants, the cockroaches voted for insecticide.
They all died — including the house flies, who didn’t even vote.”

He blinks.

FATHER (under his breath):
Whoa.
That is some children’s fable.
Where did your mom get this book?
Who wrote this thing?
Probably someone who has watched an election or two.

He flips the title page, squints.
The publisher’s logo reads: “deBos Enterprises Publishing LLC.”
He just stares for a beat, blinks twice.

FATHER (deadpan, to himself):
…of course it is.

He shuts the book with a sigh and tucks the boy’s blanket.

FATHER (soft):
Sleep tight, kiddo. No politics in your dreams, okay?

He turns off the light, heads to the couch, flicks on the NEWS.

[LIVING ROOM – LATER]

TV ANCHOR (Voice-Over):
“…tensions remain high after another contentious day of campaigning…”

He sighs, half-watching, half-scrolling his phone. The sound of political pundits dissolves into white noise as his eyelids droop. 

[DREAM SEQUENCE – THE POLLINATION HALL]

A surreal insect parliament.
Ants in worker helmets, cockroaches in slick suits, bees buzzing over ballot boxes.
A housefly buzzes past a sign reading: “VOTING IN PROGRESS – STAY OUT OF IT.”

WASP MODERATOR:
Order! Order in the hive!
Proposal 14-B: Eradication of the ant colonies via approved spray.

COCKROACH DELEGATE:
They multiply! They hoard! They think they own the crumbs!

ANT LEADER:
We clean what you drop, parasite!

HOUSEFLY (to itself):
Politics. Always sticky.

WASP MODERATOR:
All in favor of insecticide, say “Aye.”

A thunder of AYE! wings through the chamber.
The Fly drifts backward, shaking its head.

HOUSEFLY:
Count me out.

[DREAM MONTAGE – THE FALLOUT]

Slow motion: a shimmering mist of spray descends.
Ants freeze mid-march; roaches collapse; bees fall from the rafters.
The Fly returns later—everything silent, food untouched.

HOUSEFLY (whispering):
Guess not voting doesn’t save you either.

It lands on an empty chip bag. A giant HUMAN FOOT slams down—

CRASH CUT TO —

[LIVING ROOM – PRE-DAWN]

The father jolts awake. TV flickers a sunrise newscast.

ANCHOR (Voice-Over):
…both sides claim victory, though experts warn of collateral fallout…

He stares at the dark window, rubs his face, glances at the book on the floor.

FATHER (quietly):
Yeah… I bet they do.

He walks to his son’s fort, kisses his forehead. 
Still half-asleep, he picks up the book again, re-reads the fable line silently:

“Out of hatred for the ants, the cockroaches voted for insecticide.
They all died — including the house flies, who didn’t even vote.”

FATHER (murmuring to his sleeping son):
Sleep well, little fly.

[KOMPANIONS STADIUM -- KENT COUNTY -- SATURDAY NIGHT]

Sellout crowd. Concession lines stretch to parking lot. Vendors holler over organ riff. Madame Zella is pacing the aisle of her box seat, phone wedged under her chin. 
Camera pans the upper deck — where Frank is seated in the nosebleed section vibrating with the stomp of 36,000 feet.

Camera tilts up to the press box.
Dan Poplin adjusts his headset —
flashing that
Hall-of-Fame grin.

DAN POPLIN (on-air):
This is it. The home stretch.
Brian Mountcastle crushed two more homers last night to keep the dream alive. 
One more win clinches the wildcard berth —
and one woman still swears it all depends on who’s in the booth.

Frank dials Madame Zella on his cell phone, still grumbling about his seat.

FRANK (on cell phone):
Eighty bucks for binoculars, twenty for peanuts, and my seat is closer to the moon than the infield.

MADAME (beaming, scarf flapping in the wind):
It’s a sellout, Frank —
you’re lucky to be in the building, deciding to come last-minute.
You want luxury? Go watch golf.

Frank folds his arms, pouting, then glances at the empty seat beside her halfway down the section, and rushes down to sit with his wife.

MADAME:
Frank, I told you — I felt it the minute I stepped through Gate C.
Somethin’ in the air’s thicker than chili night at the Moose Lodge.

FRANK (dry):
Pat, it’s the humidity again. Sit down before somebody trips on your aura.

MADAME:
You hush, old man.
They’re here again.
The Kompanions.

She shivers theatrically. Nearby fans glance over.

SEASON-TICKET FAN #1 (muttering):
Oh Lord, she brought the tambourine again.

MADAME:
That’s not a tambourine—it’s for calibration.
(beat)
And maybe rhythm.

Crowd erupts as the first batter cracks a single.
She gasps, snatches her binoculars.

MADAME (to nobody):
There! Left field shimmer—see it?
Right behind the scoreboard letters—like fog in training.
That’s them warming up.

FRANK:
You’re warming up too, Pat.
Maybe bring a fan next time instead of the Holy Ghost.

MADAME:
Don’t sass me.
When the Kompanions show, this team don’t lose at home.
That’s data, not drama.

Listening, a young kid nearby tugs her sleeve.

KID:
Lady, are the Kompanions like Pokémon?

MADAME (smiles, kneels):
Better. They catch you when you fall.

The kid blinks, awed. She sways.

[20 MINUTES LATER]

MADAME (to herself):
All right, Lord, if the Kompanions win this game,
I promise to stop charging $35 for readings.

CRACK! — a long fly ball sails over center-field wall.
Home run. Crowd explodes.

She gasps, then laughs, hands raised.

MADAME:
All right, fine — half-price Fridays it is!

Fans around her cheer, clueless she’s bargaining with heaven.

Camera pans upward to the scoreboard lights flaring brighter than usual—
a faint silhouette of something winged in the glow.

MADAME (softly):
See? I told you, Frank… they’re home.

[FADE OUT — organ music blends into light gospel riff.]

The Kompanions go up 6–0 by the 5th inning. Fans high-five. Organ riff hits.

Then — one bloop single. One error. Two walks. Another error.

FRANK:
Pat, they’re still winning.
You sure you wanna ruin that by standing up?

MADAME:
You hush. I feel a chill — a bad booth breeze.

Cut to: Press box — Dan Poplin leans over the booth, grinning for the camera and the home crowd. The crowd cheers.
Madame Zella freezes mid-bite.

MADAME (whispers):
Oh no… not him again.

FRANK:
That’s Dan Poplin! Hall-of-Famer, hometown hero!

MADAME:
No kidding. We’ve lost 10 of the last 11 with him on the headset.

FRANK:
You and your voodoo math.

DAN POPLIN (on-air, trying to stay calm):
Top of the eighth, Kompanions still leading 7-5 …
(beat)
…let’s just… hope that continues.

Cut to Madame Zella in the stands: “He’s learning.”

Texts between them appear on screen:
MADAME: “Don’t say ‘control’ again.”
POPLIN: “Copy that. Switched to ‘momentum.’”
MADAME: “That’s worse.”
POPLIN: “Pray for me.”

Madame Zella has her earbuds in, listening to the broadcast. She flips out.

MADAME (ranting in her seat):
You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.
The network is playing that ‘Rally House’ ditty during the commercial break again? —
In the middle of the opposing team’s late-inning rally?
Rally House, Rally House, Rally House!
Geez … Not during the other team’s rally!

POPLIN (on-air):
Ahh, we’ll be fine.
You can feel it when a pitcher is in complete control.

Next pitch — CRACK.
Three-run homer.
Crowd deflates like a balloon.

Cut to — Madame Zella, arms raised like Moses.

MADAME:
That’s the exact phrase he used in Cleveland — “in complete control.”
Every time he says it, the bullpen dies.

* * * * *
POPLIN (on-air):
Bottom of the 9th inning, it’s now 10-7, visitors.
The Kompanions are down to their last out.

Frank folds his nacho tray in surrender.

FRANK:
I’m just gonna call an Uber for your faith.

To Be Continued….

The Kent County Kompanions could probably benefit from superfan Madame Zella’s visions to help engineer their recent bullpen woes.

[WRITERS ROOM -- COMMERCIAL BREAK]

RICKLES:
So Danny Poplin is cursed, blessed, and mildly traumatized.
Hell of a season arc.

KAT:
I love that Madame Zella sees through luck into empathy.
He thinks he’s hexed — she sees he’s haunted.

LORENZO (grinning):
And somewhere Vanessa Spriggs is already pitching the Netflix doc:
“The Poplin Curse: Faith, Baseball, and the Woman Who Knew.”

LUNDY:
I’d watch that.
Unless Rickles is the color commentator in the booth.

(Laughter as the screen fades to a gospel-organ reprise of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”)  

DAN POPLIN: “Ahh, we’ll be fine. You can feel it when the pitcher is in complete control.”