The Office of the Pappy’s Pawn of Putnam proprietor.
A dusty ceiling fan turns sluggishly overhead. Reclining in a squeaky office chair, a young man scrolls on his phone, lost in the endless wormhole of short-form videos. The air is thick with mildew and resignation, the walls adorned with faded posters of bands that had broken up well before he was born.
He’s doomscrolling–alternating between wrestling clips, conspiracy theories, and thirst traps—when the sudden click of bootheels echoes through the room. He jerks upright, nearly tipping his chair, his attention snapping to the doorway.
His jaw drops faster than his phone, which clatters onto the desk. Standing there, framed in the doorway, is none other than The Mothman himself, Montague Cervantes. The younger man freezes, his expression swaying between disbelief and awe.
The Doctor-Professor meets the boy’s wide-eyed stare with an air of bemused gravitas, as though he’s been patiently waiting for far longer than he actually has. Leon’s gaping mouth quivers before he stammers a sound that might’ve been, “Montague,” or possibly just a nervous squeak.
Montague, unimpressed by the lack of decorum, glances at the phone screen laying face-up on the desk. He tilts his head, recognizing the loop of a “Money Maker” compilation video.
Montague: Ah, I see. You’re a mesmerized fan. Permit me.
With a flourish, Montague extends his hand, pulling an almost reflexive handshake from the young man.
Leon: Uh—I'm Leon.
The contact seems to snap Leon out of his daze. He swallows hard, straightens his posture, and clears his throat.
Montague: Very well, Leon. I was expecting to meet with a Leon, but you appear entirely unprepared for my arrival.
Leon: Oh, uh, yeah—well, I’m Leon Jr. My granddad, Leon Sr. owns the shop. I’m just holding down the fort while he’s out.
Montague’s gaze sweeps the room, his brow furrowing at the lack of an elder Leon.
Leon: He’s at some picker convention today. Left me in charge.
Montague’s lips purse, and he exhales sharply, nodding once, before turning on his heel to leave.
Montague: I see. A wasted effort, then.
Leon panics. He bolts upright, nearly knocking over his chair in the process.
Leon: Wait! Maybe I can help you?
Without breaking stride, Montague dismisses him with a casual wave.
Montague: Highly doubtful, my young friend. If you weren’t expecting me, how could you possibly…?
Leon scrambles after him, his confidence suddenly swelling.
Leon: No, seriously, I know this place better than anyone! If it’s here, I’ll find it.
Montague pauses mid-step, his curiosity piqued. Slowly, he turns, fixing the boy with a scrutinizing look.
Montague: Very well. I need a laserdisc containing the 1991 film Oscar.
Leon blinks, processing the request, his eyes darting around the cluttered shelves and cases. He hesitates just long enough for Montague to raise a skeptical eyebrow.
Then, Leon’s face lights up.
Leon: Old Bill!
Montague: Old Bill?
Leon grins, enthusiastically clapping his hands once.
Leon: Yeah! There’s this old guy at the swap meet—Bill. He’s got laserdiscs. I bet grandad was going to send you to him!
Montague: And where might I find this swap meet?
Leon slaps the cash register, popping the drawer open. He snatches a set of keys and brandishes them triumphantly.
Leon: I’ll take you there myself!
Montague’s mouth quirks into a wry smirk. He gestures toward the door with a flourish.
Montague: Lead on, Junior.
—
—
Gravel crunches underfoot, kicking up little puffs of dust as Leon leads Montague through the vast sprawl of the swap meet. The marketplace stretches for acres, a cacophony of haggling voices, restless livestock, and the occasional bark of a mongrel standing guard over a questionable selection of goods. The riotous patchwork of stalls makes the Showman feels right at home.
They pass a young woman peddling mismatched mannequin parts, an elderly man hawking off-brand action figures—Iron Cop, Galactic Warrior Zok—when Leon suddenly grips Montague’s sleeve, eyes alight.
Leon: There.
The booth stands at the end of the aisle, pressed beside a rusty food truck boasting Corn Dogs and More! On a creaking metal stool far too small for his bulk, Old Bill surveys his kingdom through one good eye, the other clouded over and milky. Deep wrinkles carve his face into a relief map of hard living. A battered cowboy hat sits askew on his head, and across his lap rests a thick, gnarled club with a bent handle worn smooth from years of use.
Montague steps forward and clears his throat. Bill does not look up.
Montague: Are you Bill?
Old Bill: Might be. You buyin' or browsin'?
Montague’s eyes flick to the milk crates stacked in the back, their plastic cases catching the dim light.
Montague: I’m searching for a very particular laserdisc—the 1991 film Oscar, starring Sylvester Stallone.
Old Bill: Never heard of it.
Montague exhales slowly, patience thinning. His shoulders slump.
Montague: So you don’t have it…
Old Bill: Didn’t say that.
He gestures vaguely at the crates behind him.
Old Bill: Help yourself. Ain’t like I’m gettin’ up.
A flicker of irritation tightens Montague’s jaw, but he strides past the old man and kneels by the stack. His fingers sift through titles—The Last Action Hero, Cyborg Cop—until, unbelievably, his fingers land on his prize. He hoists it aloft, triumphant.
Montague: I have it!
Old Bill: Fifty.
The price drops like a hammer, but Old Bill doesn’t even turn his head.
Montague raises an eyebrow at Leon, who shrugs.
Montague: Did you say fifty?
Old Bill: Dollars. That’s the price.
Montague’s expression softens, setting the laserdisc back down with exaggerated care before turning to reason with the man.
Montague: I can find laserdiscs online for less than ten.
For the first time, Old Bill lifts his cane, pointing it directly at Montague like a gnarled finger of fate.
Old Bill: But not that one. You wouldn’t be here if you could.
Montague’s lips purse. Shrewd old bastard.
Montague: It’s a box office failure. Almost no one’s heard of it.
Bill shrugs, already turning his attention back to the marketplace.
Montague glances at Leon, who seems to have lost interest, now casually inspecting a display of homemade slime at the next booth. Then, with subtle precision, the young pawnbroker glances up at Montague, taps his nose with one hand and then his coat with the other. He winks.
Montague barely suppresses a smirk.
Old Bill: We got a deal, or you moving on?
Montague exhales, shaking his head.
Montague: I’ll take my chances. Good day, sir.
With a dramatic flip of his cloak, he turns on his heel and strides away, Leon falling into step beside him.
—
—
They make it almost to the parking lot before Montague throws out an arm, stopping Leon in his tracks. Ahead, two security guards stand at the exit, arms crossed, eyes locked onto them.
Without hesitation, Montague yanks Leon sideways, disappearing down an aisle.
Security Guard: Hey! Stop them!
From somewhere, a stereo system cranks to life—Hans Zimmer’s "Coward" from Rango. Montague spots an unattended Vespa, its dull red paint barely catching the sun.
Montague: Get on.
Leon: Seriously?
Montague swings a leg over the seat.
Montague: Do you have a better idea?
Leon hesitates only a second before hopping on. The Vespa roars to life with an unexpectedly throaty growl, and they peel out, kicking up dust and gravel in their wake.
The guards give chase, their furious shouts drowned by the rising music. Montague weaves through narrow aisles, skimming past tables stacked with fragile antiques. A makeshift display of plastic dinosaurs teeters ahead, balanced precariously on a plank across two barrels. Without missing a beat, Montague flicks a hand into his coat, pulls out a pilfered laserdisc—The Rocketeer—and flings it into the barrels.
Clong
The makeshift structure collapses, the board tilting into a perfect ramp.
Montague guns the Vespa. They hit the ramp and launch into the air in glorious slow motion, a flock of startled ducks bursting skyward around them.
Leon: Is this really happening??
Montague grins, reveling in the spectacle.
Montague: It’s all part of the show!
Behind them, a guard commandeers a golf cart, roaring after them in absurd pursuit.
Leon: This thing’s got an onboard computer!
He reaches around Monty and fumbles with buttons. The Vespa clicks ominously, tiny missile launchers sliding from its sides.
Leon: Defense mode!
A volley of mini-rockets explodes a fruit stand, sending gunk of every color flying. The Vespa streaks through the billowing flames, neither rider looking back at the mushroom cloud that grows behind them.
As they turn another corner, Leon glances over his shoulder.
Leon: That didn’t stop them!
Montague, unfazed, pulls another stack of stolen laserdiscs and begins frisbeeing them at their pursuers. Discs ricochet wildly, toppling security guards like bowling pins. Unfortunately, one clips a wire, sending a massive Antique Farming Tools banner draping down over the Vespa.
The Vespa skids to a halt, entangled.
Leon: Now what?!
Before they can formulate an escape, an old blue pickup truck screeches to a stop between them and the security guards. Behind the wheel, a man eerily similar to Leon smirks down at them.
Leon Sr.: Get in!
Monty and Leon tear free from the banner, vault over the truck’s fender, and land in the bed just as Leon Sr. peels out.
A security SUV pulls alongside. Leon Sr. grimaces, yanking the wheel hard. The vehicles collide—metal groans, tires scream—and the SUV careens into a stall selling acrid homemade perfumes. The resulting explosion rocks the truck.
Leon Sr. tries to restart the engine. Nothing.
Leon Sr.: I’m getting too old for this shit.
Montague and Leon bolt from the truck, sprinting through the gate—only to find Leon’s car surrounded by actual cops.
Leon: We’re trapped!
Montague smirks, tilting his chin skyward.
Above them, a helicopter descends, a rope ladder swinging freely.
Leon: Where did that come from?!
Montague waves a hand dismissively before grabbing hold.
As they climb into the cockpit, Leon yanks the Oscar laserdisc from his pocket, waving it triumphantly.
Montague puts on a headset and leans back, utterly satisfied.
Montague: Mission accomplished.
—
—
The Office of the Pappy’s Pawn of Putnam proprietor.
Montague lounges in the same office chair where he’d first met Leon, boots arrogantly planted on the blotter. Out in the lobby, the telltale sounds of frantic rummaging betray Junior’s location, but Montague pays it no mind.
His attention is elsewhere, fixed on the laserdisc cradled in his hands. Fingers glide along the cover, savoring every detail—like Logan longing for Morph, but with satisfaction instead of sorrow. Then, without preamble, he speaks.
Montague: You collect accolades like I collect lost relics, Donovan. But here’s the difference—I cherish mine. You, on the other hand, stack names like plastic trophies in your kids’ playroom, barely letting the dust settle before you start hunting for the next one. This company has been your personal sandbox for years, and you’ve sculpted the landscape to suit your perfect little narrative. You’ve manipulated the office, twisted the system, ensured that everything aligns with your legacy.
His voice darkens, sharpened to a razor’s edge.
Montague: And somehow, you’ve gotten away with it. That is—until you made the mistake of penciling me in as another checked box on your ever-growing ledger.
His smirk curls into something predatory.
Montague: Right now, you think of me as just another laurel, another notch in your self-aggrandizing saga where you play the righteous hero. But Donovan, this game you’re playing is about to turn on you. You believe you’ve mapped it all out, that you’ve accounted for every variable. But see, you can’t plan for me.
He leans forward, fingers tapping idly against the desk, his gaze glinting with malice.
Montague: You love playing the grand architect, stacking your bricks just so, ensuring every piece fits into place. But I’m the bastard wind that knocks it all down.
The contempt in his tone drips like venom as he practically spits out his next words.
Montague: "The List of Hastings."
His eyes roll before he waves a dismissive hand.
Montague: That concept is so old and tired that even Dave Rydell has adopted it lately. And the most egregious error with the list? You’re already looking past me. I’m not the foremost name in your head, am I? No, you’re already lining up Alan, Zane, or Phrixus…
At the mention of the former Creative Director, Montague’s gaze flickers toward a large, leafy fern in the corner. He cocks his head, listening. Then, without hesitation, he snatches up an ancient counting machine from the desk and hurls it into the plant with a deafening crash.
A beat of silence.
Leon’s head pokes through the office door, unimpressed. Montague meets his stare with equal impatience. After a moment, Leon simply shakes his head and disappears back into the lobby.
Montague exhales through his nose, his irritation simmering beneath the surface.
Montague: There’s an anniversary show coming up, and it’s clear just how desperately you want to be standing at the pinnacle of it all. Donovan Hastings, headlining Coalescence—what a beautiful dream you’ve woven for yourself.
His smirk widens.
Montague: But your desperation has inspired me. Now, it has become equally important to me that you don’t.
He leans back, stretching his arms behind his head as if settling into a throne.
Montague: Between now and then, we have four shows. The first one sees your precious championship at risk. I would strongly suggest you realign your focus, Donovan, because if you think you can coast through this, you’re making a grave miscalculation.
His grin fades into something more resolute.
Montague: You’ve been so busy curating your collection, ensuring every piece fits neatly onto your shelf. But I promise you this—whether I take the title from you or not, I will make damn sure you don’t make it to that headline spot. I’ll be your shadow, your constant, unshakable reminder that you don’t control everything.
He shrugs.
Montague: So go ahead—try to look past me. I dare you. Because I’ll be right here, forcing you to stare at me for far longer than those few fleeting seconds you spare for a trinket in your cabinet.
Leon: Got it!
Montague glances up just as Leon strides into the room, triumphantly brandishing a laserdisc player.
Leon: Told you we had one.
Montague grins.