THE LONE GUNMEN Episode 2x03: "Take Me Out" Written by: Doug Skiles TEASER OPEN FADE IN INT. ORIOLE PARK - FIELD - DAY Yes, the baseball stadium. We're about as "interior" as the main area of Oriole Park gets, anyway, considering that it's wide open to the daytime sky. And we get a LEGEND on-screen: ORIOLE PARK AT CAMDEN YARDS BALTIMORE, MARYLAND 2:11 P.M. The stadium is jammed with excited fans. Many of them are holding up signs along the lines of "WOLPERS WILL WIN IT" and "WALTER - HIT ONE OUT!" But we're more interested in what's happening on the field. There, a man is up at bat for the Orioles. This is who we'll come to know as WALTER WOLPERS. He's knocking dirt from his shoes, straightening into his stance after a recently-completed swing. The pitcher, for the White Sox, sweats up on the mound. Not from the heat... he looks nervous. Dreading this. He glances over at first base, where a runner for the Orioles lies in wait. Then, he spins, fast, and flings the ball towards home plate. Wolpers whiffs through the air and misses, the ball slamming into the catcher's glove. The umpire, behind him, stands and raises a fist. UMPIRE Strike two! The crowd boos. Wolpers just grins and shakes it off, unflapped, as the catcher tosses the ball back to the mound. The pitcher watches the catcher intently, looking for a sign. He sees the signal - a change-up. He throws the pitch... WHAM! Wolpers belts it. The crowd leaps to their feet, roaring. It sails easily into the upper stands. Wolpers, all smiles, drops his bat and jogs lightly around the bases. His teammate on first base takes the lead. The Sox all look a bit dejected. Back behind home plate, the Orioles emerge from the dugout, standing up and cheering between it and home plate. The crowd is cheering. Then, the cheers fade into chants. CROWD (at once) WOL-PERS! WOL-PERS! WOL-PERS! Walter steps in to home behind his teammate, giving a brief wave to the crowd, and picks up his trademark bat. Walking back towards his team, he pauses to hand off his bat to the batboy... who we recognize as LANGLY, dressed in a team uniform that says "BAT BOY" across the back. He is wearing a subtle, flesh-tone earpiece tucked into his ear. WOLPERS Here you go, uh... LANGLY (phony smile) Ringo. Wolpers nods and grins, heading off. As Wolpers goes over to join his teammates, who high five him and bash fists with him, Langly looks around suspiciously, watching to see if anyone notices him. Then, he goes into the dugout. But rather than heading over to the bat rack, he heads down the stairs and through the entrance to the locker room. VOICE (O.S.) Hey, bat boy! Langly freezes. Turns around. There, at the top of the dugout stairs, is team manager MIKE HARGROVE. A shorter man, grey hair and showing signs of the stress in the business. HARGROVE Where're you goin' with that bat? Rack's over there. Langly's eyes dart around, looking for a way out of this one. LANGLY Uh, I was just... um... going to... Hargrove eyes him suspiciously. Langly knows he's been had. His eyes go wide under Hargrove's gaze. Then, he BOLTS. He turns and races deeper into the locker room, carrying Wolpers' bat. Hargrove grumbles, pulling a radio off of his belt. HARGROVE (into radio) Security? Looks like we got another Wolpers fanboy out to steal a souvenir. INT. ORIOLE PARK - LOCKER ROOM - LOCKER AREA He runs past a wall of lockers, carrying the bat tightly in one hand, hurdling over a bench. LANGLY Guys? INT. VW BUS - DAY Outside, on the street in front of the stadium, the van is illegally parked in a fire lane. Byers and Frohike are here, working at some equipment in the back. Both wear headsets. BYERS We read you, Langly. INT. ORIOLE PARK - LOCKER ROOM - LOCKER AREA LANGLY I've got it, but I think we've got trouble... BYERS (O.S., through earpiece) Roger that. We'll be ready to go when you get here. INT. ORIOLE PARK - LOCKER ROOM - SHOWER AREA Langly runs into the next section of the locker room, and finds himself in the showers. There's another exit across from the way he just came in and to the right. The showers are off, but as soon as he takes a step, he immediately slips and falls on his back, letting out a yelp, sliding halfway across the wet floor before his body slips to a stop. Warily, he gets back to his feet, just as two security guards rush into the room behind him. They're not police officers - no guns, just billy clubs, radios, the like. GUARD #1 Hold it! Langly shoots a look of dread at them before taking off out the side exit closest to him. INT. ORIOLE PARK - LOCKER ROOM - HALL/OFFICE AREA A short hallway is here. It branches off into a managers office at the side - and a metal door is at the end of the hall. Langly immediately runs for it. The guards run in behind him, yelling at him to stop all the while. Obviously, he doesn't. He races to the door and flings it open, running into the entrance stairwell, the two security guys behind him by six or seven good strides. INT. STAIRWELL And up the stairs Langly goes, flinging himself around the corners as he charges up the floors. He's taking two stairs at a time, trying desperately to gain a good lead on the men behind him. LANGLY (muttering, to himself) Oh man oh man oh man... The security guys rush in behind him. They've given up on the yelling tactic. They try to jog up the stairs as fast as they can, but Langly's pulling ahead. Two floors up, they stop, heaving, and watch as Langly slips through the exit door the fourth flight up. Guard #1 pulls his radio from his belt. GUARD #1 (into radio) He's two levels up from the ground. He's the bat boy, got a uniform on. Can somebody up on three get 'im? INT. ORIOLE PARK - CONCOURSE LEVEL 3 - DAY Langly emerges from the stairwell onto one of the many concourse walkways going around the park on the outside, exposed to the air. This is where all the concession stands, restrooms and souvenir stands sit for customers filing in and out of the park. It's pretty crowded, with a noticeable line standing at a nearby concession stand that's built into the wall. Langly heads over there, and leans against the front counter, next to the line of customers. He tries to slink down, hiding amongst the crowd, as he looks around the concourse, trying to find a ramp down to the next level. - LANGLY'S P.O.V. From his vantage point, we see a slow scan of the walkway, panning left. The metal railing that protects people from falling down the floors goes along the entire area. Finally, at the far left, he spots a ramp, about 30 yards from his current position. BACK TO THIRD PERSON Back in our previous vantage point, we see Langly straighten and grin, ready to make good his escape. And then - A hand reaches out from behind him and grabs him! He spins, to see an old man behind the counter at the concession stand CONCESSION MAN You the new... (squinting) ...uh, girl? Langly looks baffled at first, then looks the Old Man over. He's wearing what appears to be an Orioles uniform. He looks down the counter... sure enough, the two employees standing at the first two registers (with an empty one beyond) are also wearing those uniforms. Then Langly looks down at himself - at his own uniform - and realizes. He rolls his eyes and groans. LANGLY (annoyed) No, I am NOT the new GIRL! CONCESSION MAN Whatever. You're an hour late. We need you at register three. Langly shakes his head vehemently. LANGLY You don't understand, I'm- He stops. Something catches his eye to the left. He turns and sees two more guards (#3 and #4) heading down the concourse. Both are scanning the area for something - clearly, Langly. One of them, #3 is leading a large dog, most likely used to sniff out drugs. Back at the concession stand, Langly swallows hard and turns back to the Old Man. LANGLY Yeah, sure. Three. Got it. He then scrambles awkwardly ONTO the counter, and leaps over it, into the service area, still holding the bat in one hand. The Concession Man rolls his eyes. CONCESSION MAN Try to act PROFESSIONALLY, will you? Lose the bat. (beat, looking at him) And cut your hair. LANGLY (through gritted teeth) Yessir. Langly goes down to register three and punches a couple of buttons on it, leaning the bat up against the counter beside him. LANGLY (mumbling) "Cut your hair," I'll show you how to cut something, you- (interrupting himself, louder) Can I help someone? A little old lady comes up to the stand, moving out from the other line. More people follow her, lining up at this newly open register. The little OLD LADY looks up at the menu, pondering. OLD LADY Let's see... I'll haaave... one hot dog, a bag of chips, and a Dr. Pepper. Langly nods, punching in some numbers. LANGLY Yeah, okay. It's $5.27. The old lady puts down a five dollar bill, then starts to fish around in her purse. OLD LADY Let's see... I know I had some change in here... Langly taps his foot anxiously. As he peers out over the crowd, he sees the two security guards are heading for the concession stand, looking through the crowd. Langly averts his eyes, growing nervous as they come closer. Meanwhile, the old lady is counting out her change. OLD LADY Twenty-one... twenty-two... twenty-three... LANGLY (interrupting, annoyed) Hurry it up, you old bag! The whole line gasps. The old lady freezes. The security guards turn at the sound of the crowd's shock, and see Langly behind the counter. They nod to each other. OLD LADY (appalled) Well! She takes back her money and stomps off. The guards, meanwhile, are heading over. GUARD #4 (to line at stand) Ladies and gentlemen, could you please step away from the concession stand? The crowd, murmuring, does so, but sticks around to see what's about to go down. Langly, ready to take action, climbs back onto the counter, and hops over into the main concourse again. GUARD #3 Hold it right there, sir! As soon as the guard speaks, his dog looks up Langly and begins to bark continuously. Langly reaches his arm back over the counter, feeling around for something. LANGLY Just stay back! I've got a - He pulls his arm back over the counter, revealing - a hot dog. He's holding an uncooked hot dog. He stares at it. This isn't what he had in mind. LANGLY (staring at hot dog, puzzled) A... um... Suddenly, the dog LEAPS up. Langly yelps and cringes, shutting his eyes, as it snatches the hot dog out of his hand and lands back on the ground, beginning to munch on it. Opening his eyes, he looks down to see what the dog is doing. LANGLY (frustrated) Oh, man... he ate my wiener. INT. VW BUS - DAY Frohike and Byers, still in their headsets, exchange puzzled looks. FROHIKE Uh, say again? INT. ORIOLE PARK - CONCOURSE LEVEL 3 - DAY Langly shakes his head. LANGLY Never mind. He turns and reaches over the counter again as the guards resume advancing on him. This time, he pulls out the bat. He holds the bat in his right hand, keeping it in front of him by the handle, outstretched, like it's some kind of a sword. LANGLY Keep your distance! He glances over towards the ramp, and starts to inch his way to the left, hoping to make a break for it. GUARD #3 Sir, please... just put the club down... And the dog LEAPS out again, this time snatching the end of the bat! Langly continues to pull on his end, as the large dog starts to tug on the other end. LANGLY Hey! Let go! I need that! And with one strong tug, the dog wrenches the bat from Langly's hand. He stumbles over slightly, but regains his balance. LANGLY Dammit, give it back! GUARD #4 Get him! Langly sees that Guards #3 and #4 are rushing at him, and he quickly jumps to the left, dodging, and runs for the ramp. They turn and recover from their missed lunge, giving chase, the dog running along with them. Guard #4 unlatches his billy club from his belt. Guard #3 pulls off his radio as he runs, shouting into it. GUARD #3 Suspect is headed down to level 2! We need some backup for this guy! INT. ORIOLE PARK - CONCOURSE LEVEL 2 - DAY Langly rushes down the ramp and onto the main concourse, only to see three new security guards (#5, #6, and #7) heading towards him, coming from the same direction that he's going! GUARD #6 We've got him. Langly turns back, and sees that Guards #4 and #5 are headed down the ramp. There's no way out. He backs up against the railing - and turns. Looks down. Turns back and looks at the guards. Then looks down again. LANGLY (dreading this) Oh, god... And he vaults over the side of the railing and falls... INT. ORIOLE PARK - GROUND LEVEL CONCOURSE - DAY A small, standalone souvenir shop right next to the entrance turnstiles. It's basically a portable plywood stand. The two shelves it houses hold lines of stuffed versions of the Oriole bird mascot. The cash register sits on a separate podium. There's a woman working here, and two other people in front of her - a girl who can't be older than six, and her mother - obviously customers. As the Souvenir Woman slips money into her register, she reaches back, behind herself, and takes down one of the birds. Then, smiling, she crouches down and hands it to the little girl. SOUVENIR WOMAN Here you go, sweetie - CRASH! She's interrupted as Langly slams down on top of her plywood stand, smashing it to the ground. Splinters fly out, and Langly groans. He's laying on top of a pile of both the wood and the stuffed animals - all things considered, a relatively soft landing. The Souvenir Woman's jaw is dropped open. She can barely make a noise. The same goes for the mother. The girl, on the other hand, points at Langly and giggles as he stands up, reaching to pick up his glasses, which landed to one side. GIRL (pointing at Langly) Look at the funny-looking lady, mommy! Langly puts his glasses back on and shoots a look at the girl. LANGLY Oh, BITE ME. She shuts up, her eyes bulging in shock from the reproach. LANGLY (shaking his head, muttering) ...filthy moppet... GUARD #6 (O.S.) He jumped! He's down below! Langly rolls his eyes and starts over to the adjacent entrance. It's one-way only, so he's forced to try to jump over the turnstile. Unfortunately, his foot catches on it, and he crashes to the concrete again. LANGLY Oh god... He pulls himself up again, as the sound of trampling feet comes closer. The guards are advancing. LANGLY (to himself) C'mon... gotta go... He limps his way out. EXT. ORIOLE PARK - DAY Langly tries to run, but he's limping now. He trucks it out across the sidewalk, and over the street regardless, to where the VW is parked along the curb. INT. VW BUS - DAY The door slides open, and he stumbles in. Byers is in the driver's seat now. FROHIKE You okay? Langly's only answer is to point back towards the entrance, where the guards are climbing over the turnstiles, still coming after him. FROHIKE (warning tone) You brought friends... Frohike slides the door shut before he and Byers are seen. BYERS Let's not give them our home address. Byers flips a switch on the radio console. EXT. VW BUS - DAY The license plate on the van flips up, out of sight, and it takes off down the road. The guards make it to the curb just in time to watch it go. INT. VW BUS - DAY Byers checks the rearview mirror. BYERS They're not chasing us. I don't see any cars. Frohike, in the back, looks around Langly, concerned. FROHIKE Hey... where's the bat? Langly looks up at him, glaring. FROHIKE (off Langly's look) What?! FADE OUT END TEASER OPENING CREDITS OPEN ACT I FADE IN INT. GUNMEN HQ - DAY The door opens, and the Gunmen traipse in, looking worn. Langly is still limping. Jimmy is sitting in the easy chair in front of the TV, watching cartoons. When the guys enter, he turns around and gets on his knees in the chair, looking back at them. JIMMY How'd it go? FROHIKE Lousy. You taped the game like we told you to, right? JIMMY Yeah... LANGLY (grunting) Good. Langly almost falls onto the seat in front of his computer. His legs just dangle there as he leans over onto the table and simply enjoys breathing. Byers goes over to the VCR, and begins rewinding its contents. JIMMY (to Langly) What happened to you? FROHIKE He got pummeled pretty bad running from security. Nothing too bad, just a bunch of bumps and bruises. LANGLY ...over every inch of my body, yeah. JIMMY Why not just let them capture you? It's not like you haven't been arrested before. LANGLY Yeah, but they knew what I was after. If they figured out I was a journalist, they'd probably want to know WHY I was after it. BYERS And there goes our investigation. (beat, looking at TV curiously as tape rewinds) What ARE you watching, Jimmy? JIMMY Spongebob Squarepants. You really think that that e-mail you got was telling the truth? Langly nods weakly. LANGLY He was certainly telling the truth about those homeruns. BYERS Looks like it. Take a look at this one. Frohike and Jimmy move over towards the TV as Byers, now playing the tape, rewinds it on-screen. Langly just looks over at it from his seat. BYERS (pointing at the screen) See this? Just like the others. The speed of the swing is still less than the batter before him. FROHIKE (nodding) And from the looks of it, the one after, too. BYERS Yeah, but look at this. He plays the homerun hit we all saw earlier, in regular speed. BYERS There it is again. Just like the other clips. Trajectory's off. FROHIKE From the angle he hit that, there's no way it could've gone to the upper stands. BYERS He sure didn't have the force behind it. But video doesn't lie. Byers shuts off the tape. FROHIKE He's definitely packing something in that stick of his. JIMMY So what? So what if he is? This doesn't seem like what we usually do. It's just a baseball scam. BYERS It's more than that. If this "Mr. Slider" is right, this is top-level stuff. A lie being perpetrated on the American people for the sake of profit. FROHIKE (to Jimmy) Think about it. Ever since the mid-90s strike, baseball's never really recovered. What's the one thing since that's gotten all kinds of people interested? McGuire, Sosa... the big hitters. The record-breakers. JIMMY (putting it together) So... Walter Wolpers is corking his bat to break records? To get people interested in baseball again? BYERS (correcting him) To sell tickets. (beat) But we don't think it's Wolpers doing this on his own. LANGLY Yeah. He doesn't seem like the sharpest knife in the drawer. Slider implied it's bigger fish. JIMMY Bigger like who? They all give him a moment, waiting for him to get it. After a beat, realization dawns on his face. JIMMY (saddened) Oh, man, you don't mean Mike Hargrove? FROHIKE 'fraid so, Jimbo. He's gotta be a prime suspect. BYERS (hesitantly) But, while Slider's e-mail does imply Hargrove's involvement, it sounds like it may go even higher. JIMMY Higher like who? LANGLY Like the top. Who'd have the most to gain by making the game interesting again? Who'd get the most money from the ticket sales? FROHIKE These things are divided into percentages. And one of the largest chunks goes to the MLB. JIMMY (shocked) Major League Baseball? BYERS It's actually the most logical answer. But for right now, we're running on speculation and a vague e-mail. FROHIKE Which is why we need that bat. LANGLY Hey man, the bat isn't going to cut it. Okay? That'll prove that something's up, but we need more if we're gonna get to the source. BYERS (nodding) Maybe some memos, or maybe employees of Major League Baseball visit frequently and we could get photos, or video... LANGLY But again, like you said, this is speculation. We really need somebody on the inside. FROHIKE We HAD somebody, until you fouled it up. LANGLY (starting to rise from his seat) You want a piece of - (stops, groans) Oh! (mumbling) Nevermind. 'Sokay. He sits back down. Frohike smirks, ever the tough guy. JIMMY Well they only saw Langly, right? So what about the rest of us? FROHIKE "Us"? I don't recall inviting you along on this fantastic voyage. BYERS No, he's right. Frohike looks at Byers with one eyebrow cocked, and his sarcasm clearly ready to fire. BYERS He is. There's still three of us. We keep Langly out of sight, send one or two of us in now, save one more team member in case the operation falls apart again. And Jimmy's the most athletic of us all. If we want an inside man who can blend in, he's the obvious choice. Frohike and Langly share a look that says it all - "Oh boy." CUT TO - EXT. ORIOLE PARK - DAY It's the next day, around late morning by now, maybe early afternoon. The van rolls up with Frohike at the wheel. A bit behind it, Jimmy's Trans Am comes to a stop. Byers is riding with him. Byers and Jimmy climb out and head up to the side of the van, Jimmy sliding the door open. Langly is sitting in the back. Frohike scrambles through the front seats to join him. LANGLY (to Byers, glancing at Jimmy) You sure about this? Byers looks towards Jimmy momentarily, then turns back to Langly. BYERS I'm sure. I'm a high-powered sports agent, he's a prospective player of, well, some kind... I think they'll buy it. FROHIKE (not buying it) I think you're reaching. BYERS Just stay nearby in case anything goes south. And go someplace out of sight. It's bad enough that Langly was seen by everyone on the grounds. We don't need them recognizing the van while we're at it. FROHIKE Okay. We'll go a block or so over. Byers nods his acceptance of that, and he goes off, Jimmy along with him. INT. ORIOLE PARK - FIELD - DAY The team is spread around on the field, tossing the ball around, lobbing it to batters. It's practice time. A few pitchers are doing their best in the bullpen. Some fans are here in the stands, watching the practice with interest, but obviously there's not many - the day's game is still a few hours away. Just a few loyalists are checking out the proceedings. Jimmy and Byers are down in the lowest level of the stands, progressing to the bottom of them, going down the steps and finally arrive the wall that separates the fans from the field. Jimmy vaults over it with relative ease, then turns back to help Byers over and onto the track. Mike Hargrove is conversing with a pitcher who's on the mound, when he looks back and sees this unusual sight. Annoyed, he moves toward them. HARGROVE (angry) Hey! No fans on the field! He charges towards Byers and Jimmy. Jimmy, unsure of what to do, looks to Byers for aid. Byers steps forward, adjusting his tie, and tries his best. BYERS (stammering a bit) We, we're uh, we're not fans... I'm John, um, Fitzgerald, the high-powered sports agent... Byers flinches inwardly at his own choice of words. Hargrove raises an eyebrow skeptically. BYERS (continued, gesturing to Jimmy) And this is my- HARGROVE (interrupting, extending a hand to Jimmy) The new pitching coach. Of course. Tito Meyer. You're a couple days early. (beat, looking him over) And you don't look like a Tito. Byers and Jimmy share a quick look. Lucky. Then, Jimmy focuses again on Hargrove. JIMMY (shrugging) Ah, well, I like to... y'know, get a jump on things. Always eager to get in the game. (beat) And my mom speaks Mexican. Hargrove nods appreciatively, evidently ignoring that last remark. Then he shoots a disapproving look at Byers. HARGROVE (to Jimmy) Your agent seems a little... green. You sure you need him here? Jimmy puts an arm around Byers, pulling the smaller man up into his side, grinning. JIMMY (grinning) Definitely. He's my little buddy. HARGROVE Like Gilligan? BYERS (deadpan) Yes. Like Gilligan. Hargrove turns and starts towards the bullpen. Byers and Jimmy follow him as he walks. HARGROVE Real shame we had to lose Mark Wiley like that. But, that was beyond my control. (sighs) So, what do you think, Mr. Meyer? You know the squad, I presume. What's would you say are some of our problem areas? Strengths? Byers bites his lower lip, looking up to Jimmy anxiously. This is it. They're made. JIMMY (smiling casually) Well, Mercedes' new style of windup seems to really be working with him. Bringing it to the chest instead of over his head. It might be good to see how that works on Kohlmeier. Ponson needs to stick to two-seam fastballs, curves and change-ups, and forget flinging a steady stream of 90 mile-an-hour-plus fastballs. He loses some velocity with the two-seams, but he gets a lot more control, and it shows. I'd recommend you forget about trading him, he's working out his own shortcomings pretty solidly. As for Parrish... Hargrove raises a hand, all smiles. HARGROVE That'll do, Tito. That'll do. Jimmy smiles back. Byers is equally grinning, although his expression is one of disbelief. He looks up to Jimmy in shock as Hargrove steps off. BYERS (disbelieving) Jimmy... He trails off, unsure of what to say. Jimmy shrugs. JIMMY (grinning) Football isn't my only sport. Byers lets out a stifled chuckle, still exceedingly shocked and pleased. Hargrove returns now, a man in a business suit in tow. This guy's more like Jimmy's height, but with darker hair and a slight goatee. He can't be more than 30. HARGROVE Tito, Mr. Fitzgerald, I'd like you to meet our new owner. Mr. Samuel Maide. Purchased us recently. What can I say, money talks in this business, but still, he's been very good to us. Mr. Maide, this is Tito, our new pitching coach. Maide shakes Jimmy's hand, then Byers'. MAIDE (smiling, to Jimmy) I'm just giving the team the ol' once-over. Glad to have you aboard. (beat) You don't look like a Tito. Jimmy looks ready to object... CUT TO - INT. VW BUS - DAY Frohike is leaned back against a panel. He sighs. Langly, at his laptop, checks his watch. They're bored. That'll stay true for about two seconds. Because that's when the door slides open, sunlight streaming in, causing both of our boys to jump to attention. LANGLY What the - ?! And in leans... Yves Adele Harlow. Outside, across this generic city street, we see she's parked her BMW. Frohike squints at her. Langly just smirks in annoyance. YVES (slight smile) So I'm watching the evening news, and during the 'Wacky World of Sports' segment, a home video clip is aired showing what the newscaster termed a 'possibly male or female batperson' sprinting away from two security guards and a dog with a large stick of wood in its mouth. (not really a question) I wonder who that could have been. LANGLY Adam West. Go to hell. FROHIKE (annoyed) What do you want, Yves? Yves steps up, into the van, closing the door behind her. Frohike sits down, waiting impatiently. Yves squats in the corner comfortably. YVES Oh, I simply HAVE to hear this. Can we start with why Langly was using sporting equipment to play fetch with a drug-sniffing hound? FROHIKE Can it. YVES Or perhaps why he dressed up like a ballplayer and destroyed a stuffed animal stand? FROHIKE (losing his patience) YVES... YVES (suddenly serious) I think you'd better take a look at this. She holds up a small camcorder. As she turns her back on the guys and flips up the small viewscreen on the side, Langly and Frohike approach from behind, curiously, peering over her shoulders. ANGLE ON - CAMERA VIEWSCREEN On the screen, the camera pans over the outer grounds of Oriole Park. LANGLY (O.S.) What the hell are we looking for? YVES (O.S.) There. As she says it, we see a man step into frame, walking around outside the entrance. He's wearing a black suit and black tie. Dark shades. A regular "Man in Black" look. He surveys the grounds, as though expecting something. BACK TO LAST We see the whole gang again. Frohike looks suspicious. FROHIKE Security? YVES Hardly. Langly already encountered the park's security force. They're decidedly less well-dressed. LANGLY So? So there's some thug wandering around outside, so what? Probably the bouncer for the Stadium Club or something. YVES No. Not just outside. ANGLE ON - CAMERA VIEWSCREEN On the video, the camera pans up to the second level concourse. It focuses, zooming in, and we see another suited man walking around. YVES (O.S.) Also there... Then it pans right, and another suited man nods to the second one, on the same leve. YVES (O.S., continued) And there... The camera moves up, spotting another "man in black" standing still, scanning the scene. YVES (O.S., continued) And there... The camera moves right again... BACK TO LAST Langly shakes his head. He's had enough. YVES (continued) And there... LANGLY All right already! We get it! Yves shuts off the camera. FROHIKE Well, *I* don't get it. There's more suits over there than in Byers' closet. Just what're they up to? YVES I get the feeling they aren't sports agents. They seem to be looking for something. Langly's laptop makes a "jingling" noise. He goes over to check on it. FROHIKE Okay, but for what? YVES I don't know. LANGLY Maybe this guy does. They both turn to look at him. He turns back. LANGLY It's an e-mail from Slider. He wants to meet. And on that... FADE OUT END ACT I OPEN ACT II FADE IN INT. VW BUS - DAY We're at the exact moment where we left off. Yves smirks in disbelief. YVES "Slider"? Is your informant a fan of painfully low-budget sci-fi? FROHIKE Well, he's definitely not a fan of Walter Wolpers. Yves raises an eyebrow. YVES Is THAT what this is about? Langly cringes. Frohike doesn't look too happy. CUT TO - INT. ORIOLE PARK - FIELD - DAY Jimmy is in the bullpen, discussing technique with a young pitcher. Byers is looking on appreciatively, leaning against the field wall. A ring is heard. It's Byers' cell phone, attached to his belt. He unclips it and checks the screen to see the caller before hitting the button and pulling it to his ear. BYERS Yes, Frohike? FROHIKE (O.S., on phone) Slider sent us another message. He wants to meet up at some bar. BYERS A bar? (beat) Who's going? FROHIKE (O.S., on phone) That's the question. I figure one still-fully-functioning member of the team should stay behind. And I'm assuming that Jimmy is indisposed. You want to come out and head up the van operation? BYERS Um, no, that's okay... I think I'll meet up with Mr. Slider. Just give me the address. CUT TO - INT. ORIOLE PARK - BULLPEN - DAY A few moments later. We're now focused on Jimmy as Byers walks over towards him. BYERS Jimmy? Jimmy slaps the pitcher that he's talking to on the shoulder. JIMMY Take five. (turns to Byers, smiling) What's up Byers? BYERS Jimmy, I need you to give me your keys. Jimmy looks down, over himself, slightly baffled. JIMMY Byers, I'm not DRUNK... (quick beat) I don't think... Byers shakes his head. BYERS No, Jimmy, it's just- He stops himself, looking around, and pulls Jimmy aside. BYERS (low) Mr. Slider sent us another e-mail. He wants to meet, I have to go. But Frohike and Langly are going to stay here and keep watch with you, so I need other means of transportation. JIMMY Okay... He produces his keys, handing them over to Byers. JIMMY ...but what about the bat? BYERS (not getting it) What ABOUT the bat? JIMMY Wolpers is finishing up his batting practice. He points behind Byers. Byers turns, and we see that, indeed, Wolpers is stepping away from the plate and heading down to the dugout. JIMMY He probably won't just leave his special bat in the rack... Byers nods, suddenly in a hurry. BYERS (quickly) Okay. I'll follow - but one more thing. Frohike said that some sort of suited men are swarming all over the stadium. They may be expecting something, so be careful. Jimmy looks at Byers like the shorter man is missing the obvious. JIMMY Maybe YOU should be careful. You're the one going after it. And as though Jimmy just reminded him of that, he nods once before he turns and jogs off for the dugout. INT. ORIOLE PARK - LOCKER ROOM - LOCKER AREA Walter Wolpers is sitting on a bench in front of his open locker, with his bat seated beside him. His shirt and hat are off. He stuffs them into an "Orioles" gym bag, then kicks off his shoes and pulls off his socks. As he starts to put his shoes and socks into the bag, we see Byers peering around the far corner, over by the entrance. Wolpers doesn't notice him as he pulls a towel out of the bag and then puts his bat in the bag afterwards, zipping it closed. He heads off to the right, towards the showers. Byers smiles. Tip-toeing his way over, he lifts up the gym back gingerly and then steps back, holding its strap by one hand, returning to the hall from which he came and moving right (towards the door Langly used in the teaser). EXT. CITY STREET - DAY This is where the van is parked, but it's just one item, along with Yves' BMW, that we see in this empty area. Slowly, we zoom in on it, where the door slides open and Yves hops out. Frohike is clearly visible through the door, behind her. YVES Maybe I should go see what I can learn about those men. FROHIKE Maybe you should wait for Byers to show first. YVES Why? FROHIKE Because he might have learned something at the stadium? YVES I don't think he's - This discourse is interrupted by the sound of a car turning down the street. They both turn to look, and their faces immediately show signs of relief. Sure enough, Jimmy's Trans Ampulls into frame, right behind Yves' car. Byers is at the wheel. He turns the car off and steps out, walking over towards the van. In his hand he carries, yup, the gym bag. BYERS I brought you something. Langly climbs up to the doorway now, hunching there beside Frohike. Yves leans against the van casually. He unzips the bag and hands it to Frohike. Frohike peers in. FROHIKE Laundry? Byers rolls his eyes and reaches in, pulling out... LANGLY A bat - (stopping himself) Wolpers'?! Byers nods. Frohike looks impressed. FROHIKE How'd you do it? BYERS I pretty much just... walked up and, well, took it. Frohike turns and gives Langly a look like he's ready to pounce. Langly shoots an equally dirty look back at him. LANGLY Not ONE word, man. YVES (smug) I guess you boys shouldn't have chosen a baseball game filled with a crowd of roughly 50,000 people as the time to try and smuggle out the icon of a beloved sports hero, hm? FROHIKE (ignoring her, to Byers) What about the suits? Didn't they notice you? Byers shrugs. BYERS Notice, yes. One or two even looked right at me, despite the fact that the crowds are starting to pick up for the game. YVES Maybe they're not after you. LANGLY Or maybe the gym bag was all the cover you needed. FROHIKE Gift horses. For now we need to concentrate on figuring out what's in the stick, if anything. BYERS (nodding) And I need to get to my appointment. Yves reaches over and takes the bat from Byers, looking it up and down. She turns it over in her hand. YVES I believe I can look into this for you. FROHIKE I thought you wanted to check out the men in black. YVES (smiling) I'd say they aren't much of a threat right now. She turns and heads for her car. FROHIKE Let us know as soon as you've got something. She waves casually in response, not looking back, and vaults over the side door to her car, quickly starting it up. BYERS (to Frohike and Langly) I'm gonna go, too. I'll call you after I've spoken with him. (he starts to go, stops) And be sure to watch out for Jimmy. Yves' car peels off as Frohike rolls his eyes. FROHIKE He's in the Planet of the Jocks. He'll fit right in. Byers smiles a little as he turns to go. CUT TO - INT. ORIOLE PARK - FIELD - DAY Maide is standing with Jimmy, who is still in the bullpen. We see a pitcher, Kohlmeier, fling the ball forward. Jimmy shakes his head. JIMMY No, no. To your chest, not over your head. That's the wind-back, or whatever. Jimmy's cell phone, hooked onto his belt, rings. JIMMY (to Kohlmeier) Just a sec. He unhooks the phone and flips it open, bringing it to his ear. JIMMY Hello? FROHIKE (O.S., on phone) Jimmy? It's Frohike. Jimmy is eying Kohlmeier, a disapproving look on his face. His mind is clearly not on the phone call. JIMMY (distracted) Yeah, hey. Listen, can you call back? I'm kinda busy here... FROHIKE (O.S., on phone) Busy searching for evidence or busy playing fantasy league? Jimmy looks down, almost as though he's trying to avert Frohike's non-existent gaze. JIMMY (sheepishly) Um... kinda that last one. FROHIKE (O.S., on phone, as to a child) All right, then. Now Jimmy, isn't there something more important that you could be doing? We've got the bat... look for something. Okay? LOOK. Jimmy rolls his eyes. JIMMY Sure. He hangs up without waiting for a response, then looks around. Over to Kohlmeier. JIMMY (to Kohlmeier) Take five, okay? Kohlmeier looks back and nods at Jimmy. Jimmy turns towards the dugout. JIMMY (to himself) Evidence, evidence... get evidence... we have a bat... He steps down into the dugout, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, concentrating. INT. ORIOLE FIELD - LOCKER ROOM - HALL/OFFICE AREA Jimmy traipses in, still scratching his head, looking around. He's not sure what he's looking for. He steps past the entrance to the locker area, continuing down the hall. JIMMY (to himself) Video? Byers said video... or a memo? He steps past the shower entrance, facing the exit door, and instead looks left - to the office that Langly ran past in the teaser. JIMMY (to himself) Memos... INT. ORIOLE FIELD - LOCKER ROOM - OFFICE - CONTINUOUS He steps into the office and looks at the large wooden desk against the cream-colored wall. Beside it, there's a dark green, wire-frame trash can. The walls are lined with pictures of various teams Hargrove has coached. A small mirror, too. Whether this is his main office or a backup is uncertain. There, on the desk, Jimmy sees a nameplate stating "Michael Hargrove, Orioles Manager"... along with two plastic boxes, one labeled "IN" and the other "OUT." "IN" has a large pile of papers in it. Naturally, Jimmy sees this and, smiling slightly, bellies up to the desk. He starts shuffling through the memos. JIMMY (to himself) Major League Baseball... Major League Baseball... Something about a bat, come ON, anything, a bat, Wolpers' bat... He's looking for those words, that logo... but he's not seeing them. Then a door is heard shutting out in the hall. Jimmy turns towards the sound, wads of paper still in his hands, to see Hargrove step in through the hallway, coming from the direction of the stairwell door. He's got a hot dog in his left hand, in a bun with ketchup already on it, mustard packets in his other hand. Clearly he just made a pit stop for a snack upstairs. Upon seeing Jimmy standing there, though, his eyes and mouth are wide open for a moment, before his face contorts into an enraged scowl. HARGROVE (angry) What the HELL are you doing?! Jimmy looks down at his hands. At the mess of papers. Up to the coach. His mouth opens, and nothing comes out. He has no answer. He's flustered. Finally, he starts to stumble over a response. JIMMY I was... uh... I just... had to... HARGROVE (angry) You were stealing! At that, Jimmy gets his bearings. JIMMY I wasn't STEALING! HARGROVE (definite) You WERE stealing! JIMMY (indignant) Why would I wanna STEAL your stupid old memos?! HARGROVE (angry) I'll give YOU a memo... And Hargrove charges towards a very shocked and unprepared Jimmy. Jimmy tries to jump out of the way, but the shorter Hargrove jumps up grabs him by the collar, dropping his mustard packets to the floor, putting Jimmy into a headlock under his right arm. JIMMY (choking) Hey- ! HARGROVE (enraged) EAT THIS! He swings the hot dog down and RAMS it into Jimmy's lips, splattering ketchup onto his cheeks. Hargrove pushes harder, the hot dog worming into Jimmy's mouth, but Jimmy shuts his mouth down tight, biting and ripping off one end of the wiener and bun. Hargrove continues to stab Jimmy's face with the end of the hot dog, splattering more ketchup on him, jabbing him around his cheeks, and then, ultimately - in the eye! Jimmy peers out of his good eye and looks down, them STOMPS, hard, slamming his foot down onto Hargrove's. Hargrove jumps back, letting go of Jimmy, yelping in pain. Jimmy then stands up to his full height and spits, hitting Hargrove in the nose with a mass of wet wiener and breading. HARGROVE (enraged and disgusted) GAH! Thieving BASTARD! Quickly, Jimmy kneels, sweeping up a mustard packet from the tile floor. Like a pistol, he aims it at the shorter man's face, holding the end between the fingers of one hand, and preparing to squeeze the back side with his other hand. Jimmy inhales, preparing to say something... well, hopefully badass... Hargrove moves, lunging again at Jimmy... JIMMY (deadly serious) Taste French's, you cad! And he squeezes the mustard, spurting it right into Hargrove's eyes. Hargrove SCREAMS, stumbling backwards. HARGROVE (terrified) My eyes! MY EYES! I'm BLIND! He stumbles around, fumbling, backing into a wall and slamming off of it, tripping forward, stepping into his trash can. He lets out a yelp again as he stumbles a step with the wire-frame trash can on his foot, tripping once more. Jimmy jumps out of the way as the blind Hargrove stumbles towards him, groping out with his hands, and steps onto the remaining mustard packets on the floor. Mustard squirts out from them onto the linoleum, and Hargrove steps into it, slipping across the floor, his feet sliding out from him. He lets out a final scream of horror as he falls backwards, SLAMMING his head onto the corner of his desk, then slumping to the floor. A beat. He just lies there, unconscious. Jimmy looks down at him and blinks. Slowly, he kneels to the manager's side. There, beside the resting body of Mike Hargrove, Jimmy reaches into his hand and pries out the remains of the bitten-off hot dog. Jimmy lifts the hot dog to his face and inspects it. Ultimately, he just shakes his head sadly and sighs. JIMMY (mildly annoyed) Hot dogs. Why does it always have to be hot dogs? He gives Hargrove a final look before he starts for the exit. FADE OUT END ACT II OPEN ACT III FADE IN EXT. PURGATORY BAR - DAY Jimmy's car rolls up into the nearly empty, cracked-pavement parking lot to this seedy establishment. A LEGEND tells us: PURGATORY BAR & GRILL BALTIMORE, MARYLAND 12:02 P.M. Byers, as we might expect, is at the wheel. He steps out of the car, taking a moment to examine the red, unlit neon sign which states "Purgatory Bar & Grill - Open 24 Hours" as he adjusts his suit. Then, he moves forth, towards the door. INT. PURGATORY BAR - DAY Weak, twangy country filters poorly through the dimly lit room. Byers takes a moment to look around, and we pan with his gaze, taking in the surroundings. Red leather booths, rotting wood walls. A stage covered with chicken wire stands at the back. The old-fashioned bar area is lined with red cushioned stools. It's a 1970s lounge meets a 1950s watering hole meets a 1980s country bar. At the bar, a tall, craggy-faced bartender is wiping things down. He gives Byers a look as our man steps over to him, sitting down on one of the stools. BARTENDER (gruff) Welcome to Purgatory. Byers looks around, examining the seedy joint with no small measure of distaste. BYERS From what I understand, that means things could actually get worse. BARTENDER (ignoring him) What you want? BYERS (uncomfortable) It's a little early for me... just a club soda will be fine. The bartender turns and grabs a glass. A hand appears on Byers' shoulder. Byers turns to reveal SLIDER. He's just wearing jeans and a simple white t-shirt. Byers turns at the touch. SLIDER John Byers? Byers nods. Shooting a glance at the bartender, Slider leads Byers away, taking him over to one of the red booths. There, Slider slips into one side, Byers into the other. BYERS Mr. Slider? Slider nods. SLIDER I recognized you from your photos. BYERS (contemplative) You... look familiar, too, actually. Slider nods. SLIDER Yeah, well, I did just lose my job recently. You probably saw it in all the papers. Byers eyes Slider suspiciously, thinking... BYERS (smiling, realizing) Of course! You're Mark Wiley, the old Orioles pitching coach! (quick beat) "Slider." Now I get it. Clever. Slider, aka WILEY, smiles and nods. WILEY You got it. (leaning in, quietly) But uh, don't shout my name, okay? All business once more, Byers nods. BYERS I'm sorry, I understand. (beat) So uh, why did you call me here? WILEY Wasn't sure if you believed me. I needed to know if you were going to do anything about this. BYERS We're already on it. Not many people would come to us with so bold a claim as yours. We take these kinds of tips very seriously. Wiley nods his approval. WILEY Good. I'm glad to hear it. (beat) You noticed the trajectory issues I mentioned? Byers nods back. BYERS Clear as day. I have to ask, though - did you find any evidence of your theories? Is that why you lost your job? WILEY No and yes, in that order. Byers frowns, confused. BYERS (confused) Then... how did you come to the conclusion that the MLB is involved? WILEY Deductive reasoning. I noticed the strange trajectories of Wolpers' hits. So, I tried to check his bat. It was weird, it didn't feel corked. It felt... heavy. BYERS (confused) Heavy? WILEY Yeah. Abnormally heavy. He was definitely using something, though not necessarily cork. BYERS Then, why did you tell us that you believed he was corking his bat? WILEY Because I didn't know. I knew that you guys would go after the evidence, and you'd find out what was really up with it. And I couldn't very well say "something is up with this hunk of wood and I don't know what." Byers sighs. BYERS Point taken, but you still could've explained what you knew in detail, rather than twisting the facts. WILEY And reveal who I am over an e-mail server? (scoffing) No, thank you. BYERS (giving in) Fine. Regardless... the MLB? WILEY Right. You see, Hargrove catches me playing around with the bat, and he told me to cut it out, y'know? He just picked it up and said it was too heavy to be corked, and said I should give it a rest. Blew me off. And then, suddenly, the next day, he fires me. BYERS Wouldn't that put Hargrove under suspicion? Wiley shakes his head. WILEY If it was him, he would've fired me straight out. Mike doesn't beat around the bush. It's not his style. (leaning in, quietly) But when he let me go, he told me it was beyond his control. He said "money talks in this business." I think we obviously know who the money - BYERS (interrupting, realizing) Oh, no. WILEY (concerned) What? BYERS I think you deduced and reasoned your way to the wrong culprit. I don't believe the MLB is doing this. Byers jumps up, walking quickly towards the door. WILEY (confused) What? Wiley stands up, following him out. WILEY (annoyed) WHO then?! The bartender, seeing that Byers just ran out, leans over the bar and shouts out the door BARTENDER HEY! WHAT ABOUT YOUR SODA?! CUT TO - INT. VW BUS - DAY Frohike is sitting in thought, watching Langly idly as he types away at some game on his laptop. After just a brief moment of this, a loud banging comes at the door. Frohike flings the door open... And, outside, in the sunlight, stands Jimmy. He's the worse for wear from his recent ordeal, ketchup still smeared across his face. JIMMY (horrified) I think I just knocked out Coach Hargrove! A beat. Langly and Frohike take this in. LANGLY (suddenly, erupting with glee) AWESOME! TOTALLY AWESOME! Jimmy looks confused. Frohike smacks Langly upside the head. LANGLY Hey! What the hell was that about?! FROHIKE (angry) Special Ed just blew his cover! Langly rolls his eyes before settling in to explain. LANGLY Maybe HIS, but not all of OURS. We're not out yet, plus we just got to administer a second-hand smackdown on the money-grubbers. Booyah. JIMMY (sheepish) Except, uh... Frohike raises an eyebrow at Jimmy. FROHIKE What? JIMMY Except, I don't think that he's in on it. I mean, I looked through his memos, and I didn't see anything... Frohike waves his hand dismissively, cutting him off. FROHIKE (to Jimmy) That doesn't mean anything. I don't think he'd be dumb enough to leave evidence lying around. (beat) Plus I doubt you could find any evidence if it bit you in the ass. Jimmy looks a little annoyed, but says nothing. Frohike's cell phone rings. He flips it open and hits the button. FROHIKE (into phone) Frohike. BYERS (on phone) I just talked to our Mr. Slider. I'm not sure the MLB is involved at all. Frohike sighs. FROHIKE What is this, a convention? CUT TO - INT. JIMMY'S TRANS AM - DAY Byers is zooming down a city street, talking into his cell phone. Not a very industrial area - mostly there's grass outside. BYERS Slider is Mark Wiley. FROHIKE (on phone) The pitching coach? BYERS One and the same. And the things he said made me realize that his theory on the source of the problem is little more than idle speculation. Poorly researched speculation. This is the kind of guy who would believe stories about kids with tails, and, and... (sputtering) ...alien babies! For a long beat, there is a silence on the other end of the line. FROHIKE (on phone) But, Byers... those things are real. BYERS (frustrated) I meant the fake kind! The kind the tabloids write about without any evidence whatsoever. CUT TO - INT. VW BUS - DAY Frohike nods patiently. FROHIKE Right, right. So, who's the big cheese, then? BYERS (on phone) Well, some of the details he mentioned seem to point towards the new owner, Maide. Over the phone line, we hear the sound of another call buzzing in. FROHIKE Hold that thought. Pulling the phone down, he hits a button and once more lifts it up to his ear. FROHIKE Frohike. YVES (on phone) Melvin, it's me. Frohike gives Langly a meaningful, "It's her" kind of look. FROHIKE Hey Yves, what you got? CUT TO - INT. DARK LAB - DAY A single window shines sunlight on Yves, who sits at a worktable. God only knows where she is. Tools rest on the table along with the baseball bat, now cut in two, the bottom half drilled into. She's peering into the bottom half's freshly drilled hole idly, holding the piece by the grip. YVES It's very peculiar. This bat isn't corked at all. It's filled with hard rubber. FROHIKE (on phone) Rubber? That'll put a bounce in your hits. YVES Definitely. It's probably the same kind of rubber used for the "donuts" that players attach to the bats for practice swings. FROHIKE (on phone) That's interesting, but why fill the bat with rubber? Why not just cork it? YVES That WOULD be easier. Then again, if someone noticed that Wolpers' hits had an usual trajectory, they might think to test the weight of the bat. Cork would make the bat lighter, but the rubber actually makes it HEAVIER. It might seem strange, but certainly no one would suspect that a heavy bat could be corked... CUT TO - INT. VW BUS - DAY Langly and Jimmy are both watching this conversation with interest. FROHIKE ...and no one would think of the possibility of rubber. After all, the stuff would have to be molten to get in there. Who has access to that kind of material for something so frivolous? YVES (on phone) Someone with a lot of money. The kind of money it would take to do the touch-up job afterwards. This bat looked perfectly smooth from the outside. The cleanup was flawless. A beat. Frohike ponders this, bringing the phone down. He holds the antenna to his mouth, staring straight ahead. LANGLY What? What'd she say? Finally, he lifts it back to his ear. FROHIKE I've got an idea... CUT TO - INT. ORIOLE FIELD - LOCKER ROOM - OFFICE Mike Hargrove stands here in front of the mirror. The trash can is off his foot, and on the floor, across the room. The mustard is wiped from his face. As he looks at himself now, he squints. In disbelief of what's happened? That's hard to say. He straightens his shirt a little. We begin to hear approaching footsteps, but the camera stays on Hargrove as he sighs, resigned to the coming conversation. And then, through the door steps Samuel Maide. He freezes there, in the doorway, not unlike Hargrove did when he first saw Jimmy. Maide is a bit disturbed at the mess on the floor. A hot dog, mustard smears, a knocked-over trash can with its contents spilled across the floor, and even numerous memos are strewn about. MAIDE What happened here? HARGROVE Uh... He pauses, looking down at the mess around him. HARGROVE I um... tripped. Hargrove sounds pretty embarrassed by the whole thing. Maide isn't buying, but he decides not to press the issue. MAIDE Sure. So, what's the big fuss? You said you had something urgent... HARGROVE I do. Journalists. They're on to your little ruse. MAIDE They're what to my which now? HARGROVE (annoyed) Your ruse! Your idiotic little... get-rich-quick scheme. MAIDE (confused) I um... I don't know what you're talking about. HARGROVE (angry) Don't try to act smart, it doesn't suit you. The wonderbat you made up for Wolpers. Kid's nice, and he's got a solid swing, but we both know he couldn't connect with the kind of slams he's been delivering, not on his own. MAIDE Oh, c'mon! He's a pretty strong guy, give him some credit! HARGROVE (annoyed) Oh? (raising an eyebrow) Then I guess I should credit him with the idea of giving his bat a solid rubber core? Maide bites his lip. He's caught, and nervous. MAIDE (nervous) You uh... found out about that, huh? Now Hargrove's face forms into a big, slightly twisted grin. HARGROVE (grinning) Oh, yeah. The whole sordid thing. The newspaper boys told me. (anger building) What was it, exactly? Profit not coming in fast enough for you? Was Wolpers in on this?! Maide sits down on the desk, sweating. MAIDE He didn't know anything! Listen, the money from the purchase all came from the family fortune, okay? I wanted a fortune of my OWN making. And to say that I brought in more money each game han Peter Angelos ever did in his stint... man, that would be something to be proud of. So I saw McGuire, and how he was doing for St. Louis, just recently after August Busch sold, and it just - I wanted to make the team great, to set us up nicely for the post-Ripkin era. I wanted to be a self-made man. Hargrove grins again. A subtler, confident grin. HARGROVE That'll do, Sam. That'll do. Hargrove reaches into his mouth, and pulls out... a voice-altering mouthpiece. He holds it up for Maide to see. MAIDE What... you wear a retainer? Hargrove smiles. HARGROVE (voice of Frohike) Not exactly. Maide is visibly jolted by the sound of the voice. He leans slightly away, almost turning pale out of fear. MAIDE (frightened) What the... what's... who's... And into the room, from the right side of the door to the hall (the direction of the dugout) step Byers, Langly, Yves, and Jimmy. BYERS (to Maide) We've been listening in. We had the whole place bugged. Langly holds up a small tape recorder, as Hargrove (or, actually, Frohike) goes to stand with his friends. LANGLY And we taped it, to boot. One perfect confession, clean and clear. Maide's eyes betray his surprise. Still, he loses the sadness he was carrying just moments before, and shifts into anger. MAIDE (angry) Who are you people?! A sound from out in the hall. A door opening? Frohike begins to peel off the makeup around his face. Just enough to get a look at his features. BYERS (calm) We're journalists. We publish The Lone Gunmen. LANGLY (proud) We print the stories others are afraid to. Maide actually looks happy about that. MAIDE (smiling) Yeah. I know what you are. You're kooks. Tabloid writers. The kinds of guys who would write stories about Elvis being alive and alien babies or something. LANGLY (annoyed) Are you suggesting that The King is dead?! MAIDE (ignoring him) Well, sorry to say, but no one's going to care what you lunatics write about me. You can't even prove that that's really me on that tape! VOICE (O.S.) They don't have to. We heard the whole thing. Maide looks over the Gunmen, and goes pale again. Our boys (and lady) all spin around, and see standing there... one of the mysterious agents. A "man in black" if you will, though certainly not in the genuine, Morris Fletcher vein. The shades are off for this man, though, who's obviously old, with a worn look on his face. Light red hair, probably dyed. We'll just call him AGENT. AGENT (to Gunmen) Thanks for your help, but we'll take it from here. Yves raises an eyebrow at him. The Gunmen all look at each other, disbelieving... and aggravated. LANGLY (indignant) Like HELL you will. We busted this guy! YVES And who exactly are YOU gentlemen, anyway? The older man steps farther into the room, and a swarm of maybe as many as eight or nine more suited men in black, all wearing shades, rush in, circling Maide. They come from the left end of the hall this time, obviously teeming through the stairwell. MAIDE (frightened) Hey! What are you - ?! Leggo! I would've gotten away with this, if not for those meddling... (beat, unsure) ...putative adults! They roughly start to carry him towards the door. AGENT We're part of Major League Baseball. Jimmy looks confused. Yves, Byers, Langly, and Frohike, however, all lean forward a bit. They perk up, very interested in hearing this, although not quite convinced it's for real. FROHIKE (deadpan) Baseball. THE Major League Baseball. The man nods. LANGLY Shouldn't you be out like, hunting for illegally taped games or something? AGENT We like to keep an eye on our professionals. Don't like anyone straying from the code, especially not someone respected. Don't want a repeat of the Pete Rose incident. JIMMY (confused) But... but how can you always be watching? And how can you just... keep tabs on someone you think MIGHT be doing something wrong? (righteous) Don't these guys get any privacy? You can't just walk in somewhere and carry them out for punishment! AGENT It's not terribly harsh, son. We're just going to drum him out of any involvement with the league and publicize his disgrace. Not so unreasonable. JIMMY But still! Keeping tabs on people like that, carrying them off against their will?! The mature man steps forward, looking up into Jimmy's eyes. A hard glare. AGENT Young man, perhaps now you will realize that nothing in this league happens without the EXPRESS permission or consent... of Major League Baseball! And with that, he turns, shooting an angry glance at the Gunmen, and walks out, following his lackeys. Langly follows him to the doorway, looking in the direction of the stairwell door. LANGLY They came in through the stairwell. Guess they found where we dumped Hargrove. BYERS (still reeling) I'm uh... sure they'll wake him up and tell him about... this. Frohike looks over at Yves. FROHIKE (to Yves) Man, this makeup is great stuff. You really need to lend us a kit or something. Yves looks at the shorter man, and can't help but grin. With only the facial makeup peeled off, it looks like his face is somehow peering out from the manager's body. YVES (grinning) I'm sure I can spare one for you. BYERS Hey... guys? All eyes go to Byers. He's looking down at his cell phone's screen. BYERS (confused) Looks like someone left me a message while I had my phone off. You know... for the purpose of listening in. FROHIKE (curious) Well it obviously wasn't any of us... Byers brings the phone to his ear, listening. Surprise and concern gradually form on his face. BYERS It's Mulder... (beat) Scully gave birth in the early morning hours last night. They just sent her home from the hospital. LANGLY (concerned, almost hopeful) The baby... ? BYERS (smiling) Perfectly healthy... and normal. Though apparently there's quite a story attached... FROHIKE (all business) We've gotta see this for ourselves. I'll ditch the makeup in the car. Jimmy? Head home and warm up the computers for us. We're gonna have competing front pagers this week. LANGLY (smiling, to Byers) So much for our first photo of an alien baby, huh? BYERS (smiling) I wouldn't have it any other way. FROHIKE Alien baby conspiracies and MLB officials keeping tabs on players... (quick beat, amused) ...maybe we DO run some tabloid material. BYERS Maybe. But the ludicrous nature of some of our stories doesn't make them any less true. They idly start towards the door. Jimmy follows the main trio right behind, Yves lagging back a bit. LANGLY So, what do you think? Is our front page going to be miracle baby or sporting world scandal? FROHIKE I'd like to SEE the miracle baby first. BYERS But we DID personally help solve this one... They step out into the hall, and off-screen, heading toward the door. LANGLY (O.S.) Yeah... (beat) Did you hear what he called us? "Putative adults?" (quick beat) Are we old? I think I'm too young to be old. Jimmy shakes his head as he goes out behind them, and Yves smiles, stopping to look around the room one last time, the amusement still plastered on her face. And on a shot of the office, a disheveled mess, we see Yves walk out and... FADE TO BLACK CREDITS END