Grease Trap Prophecies
In a 24-hour diner where the coffee pot brews visions of the future, a waitress gets an order she can't refuse and sees a horrifying truth in the dregs.
TITLE: GREASE TRAP PROPHECIES
INT. THE GREASY SPOON DINER - PRE-DAWN
SOUND of a low hum from fluorescent lights, the gurgle and hiss of a coffee percolator
An island of weary light in an ocean of dark. The sign outside is missing a 'G', reading 'REASY SPOON'.
Inside, JUDY (30s), tired but resolute, wipes down the long formica counter. Her damp cloth smears old grease into new, abstract patterns.
Her eyes drift to the source of the sound: an ancient, dented chrome percolator. It sits on its hot plate like a sleeping dragon, the glass bubble on top showing a dark brew churning.
The bell over the door JINGLES.
PAULIE (40s) shuffles in, looking like a ghost. His eyes are hollowed out, hands buried in a jacket too thin for the autumn chill. He avoids the other two patrons—a long-haul trucker and a night nurse—and slides onto a stool at the far end.
He doesn't look at the menu. He looks at Judy. A silent plea.
PAULIE
> The usual, Judy?
His voice is a dry rasp. The "usual" hangs in the air. It's a code.
Judy's hand pauses its wiping. She glances toward the manager's office. A sliver of light under the door. DENNY is in there. She feels a familiar knot of anxiety.
JUDY
> (low)
> Coffee's a bit strong this morning, Paulie. Might keep you up.
Her warning. His out.
PAULIE
> I haven't slept in three days. I need something to cut through the fog.
His gaze flickers to the manager's office, then back to her. Desperate. Confirmation.
Judy gives a short, reluctant nod. She turns her back to the office and approaches the percolator.
CLOSE ON the coffee, bubbling, thick and black as crude oil.
She grabs a heavy ceramic mug from under the counter. It's old, mapped with a web of hairline fractures. The vessel matters.
Leaning close, as if checking the brew, she whispers into the rising steam, her breath fogging the chrome.
JUDY
> (to the percolator)
> Show me what's hunting him. Show me the way out.
She pulls the pot and pours. The black liquid swirls into the cracked mug. Her hand is steady, but a tremor runs up her arm.
She slides the mug down the counter. It stops perfectly in front of him.
JUDY
> Careful. It's hot.
Paulie wraps his chapped hands around the mug, seeking warmth, seeking a connection.
Judy moves to the register, pretending to count receipts. Her eyes are on the slips of paper, but her mind is wide open, waiting.
It comes on fast.
The world doesn't vanish. It warps.
SOUND of bacon sizzling on the grill DEEPENS, morphing into the sharp CRACKLE OF A BONFIRE.
The air shifts. The smell of frying onions is choked out by the acrid, metallic scent of SULPHUR.
ANGLE ON Paulie. He flickers. For a beat, his thin jacket is replaced by heavy, archaic robes. A strange sigil is embroidered over his heart.
THE VISION SHARPENS --
INT. RITUAL CHAMBER - NIGHT (VISION)
Paulie stands before a stone altar in a dark, cold room. He isn't running. He's chanting, his voice a low, powerful drone, stealing something small and dark from the stone.
BACK TO SCENE
Judy's breath hitches. The vision shifts again, violently.
It shows her the hunter. A figure cloaked in shadow. The face is obscured, but one hand is perfectly clear, reaching forward.
CLOSE ON THE HAND
A silver ring on the third finger. A single, unblinking eye of obsidian is set into it, seeming to drink the light.
Judy's blood turns to ice. She knows that ring.
The vision SHATTERS.
INT. THE GREASY SPOON DINER - CONTINUOUS
SOUND of the diner rushes back in—the sizzle, the hum, the low murmur of the other patrons.
Judy gasps, gripping the edge of the counter to keep from falling. The room spins.
Paulie is staring at her, his face ashen.
PAULIE
> (whispering)
> Did you see it? What did you see?
Judy can only shake her head, trying to clear the image of the ring. Her fear is no longer for him. It's for herself.
JUDY
> (a choked whisper)
> It's not what you think. You didn't just take something... You took it from *him*.
PAULIE
> From who? Who is it?
Before she can answer--
JINGLE.
The bell on the door chimes again, sharp and final.
A MAN stands silhouetted against the grey pre-dawn light. Tall. Imposing. His face is lost in shadow.
He pushes the door closed behind him.
As his hand leaves the door, the weak diner light catches it.
CLOSE ON HIS HAND
The glint of silver. The cold, dead stare of an obsidian eye set in a ring.
THE MENTOR.
He isn't dead. And he has come for what was stolen.
Judy stares, paralyzed. He has also come for her.
FADE TO BLACK.
INT. THE GREASY SPOON DINER - PRE-DAWN
SOUND of a low hum from fluorescent lights, the gurgle and hiss of a coffee percolator
An island of weary light in an ocean of dark. The sign outside is missing a 'G', reading 'REASY SPOON'.
Inside, JUDY (30s), tired but resolute, wipes down the long formica counter. Her damp cloth smears old grease into new, abstract patterns.
Her eyes drift to the source of the sound: an ancient, dented chrome percolator. It sits on its hot plate like a sleeping dragon, the glass bubble on top showing a dark brew churning.
The bell over the door JINGLES.
PAULIE (40s) shuffles in, looking like a ghost. His eyes are hollowed out, hands buried in a jacket too thin for the autumn chill. He avoids the other two patrons—a long-haul trucker and a night nurse—and slides onto a stool at the far end.
He doesn't look at the menu. He looks at Judy. A silent plea.
PAULIE
> The usual, Judy?
His voice is a dry rasp. The "usual" hangs in the air. It's a code.
Judy's hand pauses its wiping. She glances toward the manager's office. A sliver of light under the door. DENNY is in there. She feels a familiar knot of anxiety.
JUDY
> (low)
> Coffee's a bit strong this morning, Paulie. Might keep you up.
Her warning. His out.
PAULIE
> I haven't slept in three days. I need something to cut through the fog.
His gaze flickers to the manager's office, then back to her. Desperate. Confirmation.
Judy gives a short, reluctant nod. She turns her back to the office and approaches the percolator.
CLOSE ON the coffee, bubbling, thick and black as crude oil.
She grabs a heavy ceramic mug from under the counter. It's old, mapped with a web of hairline fractures. The vessel matters.
Leaning close, as if checking the brew, she whispers into the rising steam, her breath fogging the chrome.
JUDY
> (to the percolator)
> Show me what's hunting him. Show me the way out.
She pulls the pot and pours. The black liquid swirls into the cracked mug. Her hand is steady, but a tremor runs up her arm.
She slides the mug down the counter. It stops perfectly in front of him.
JUDY
> Careful. It's hot.
Paulie wraps his chapped hands around the mug, seeking warmth, seeking a connection.
Judy moves to the register, pretending to count receipts. Her eyes are on the slips of paper, but her mind is wide open, waiting.
It comes on fast.
The world doesn't vanish. It warps.
SOUND of bacon sizzling on the grill DEEPENS, morphing into the sharp CRACKLE OF A BONFIRE.
The air shifts. The smell of frying onions is choked out by the acrid, metallic scent of SULPHUR.
ANGLE ON Paulie. He flickers. For a beat, his thin jacket is replaced by heavy, archaic robes. A strange sigil is embroidered over his heart.
THE VISION SHARPENS --
INT. RITUAL CHAMBER - NIGHT (VISION)
Paulie stands before a stone altar in a dark, cold room. He isn't running. He's chanting, his voice a low, powerful drone, stealing something small and dark from the stone.
BACK TO SCENE
Judy's breath hitches. The vision shifts again, violently.
It shows her the hunter. A figure cloaked in shadow. The face is obscured, but one hand is perfectly clear, reaching forward.
CLOSE ON THE HAND
A silver ring on the third finger. A single, unblinking eye of obsidian is set into it, seeming to drink the light.
Judy's blood turns to ice. She knows that ring.
The vision SHATTERS.
INT. THE GREASY SPOON DINER - CONTINUOUS
SOUND of the diner rushes back in—the sizzle, the hum, the low murmur of the other patrons.
Judy gasps, gripping the edge of the counter to keep from falling. The room spins.
Paulie is staring at her, his face ashen.
PAULIE
> (whispering)
> Did you see it? What did you see?
Judy can only shake her head, trying to clear the image of the ring. Her fear is no longer for him. It's for herself.
JUDY
> (a choked whisper)
> It's not what you think. You didn't just take something... You took it from *him*.
PAULIE
> From who? Who is it?
Before she can answer--
JINGLE.
The bell on the door chimes again, sharp and final.
A MAN stands silhouetted against the grey pre-dawn light. Tall. Imposing. His face is lost in shadow.
He pushes the door closed behind him.
As his hand leaves the door, the weak diner light catches it.
CLOSE ON HIS HAND
The glint of silver. The cold, dead stare of an obsidian eye set in a ring.
THE MENTOR.
He isn't dead. And he has come for what was stolen.
Judy stares, paralyzed. He has also come for her.
FADE TO BLACK.