🚨 | Disaster Dad | Tod Roberts

SCENE START

The fluorescent lights of the Pineridge Community Center multipurpose room buzzed like angry hornets, casting a sickly green pallor over the twelve folding chairs arranged in a semi-circle. Six of them were occupied.

Tod Roberts adjusted the lapel of his brown corduroy blazer, cleared his throat, and leaned into the microphone, which let out a sharp shriek of feedback. The six attendees—two elderly women knitting, a man asleep with his mouth open, a teenager scrolling on his phone, and a bored-looking reporter from the Pineridge Gazette—all flinched.

“Sorry about that,” Tod boomed, his voice echoing in the cavernous, mostly empty room. “Technical difficulties. Won’t be a problem in my administration, that’s for sure.” He offered a wide, practiced grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was standing behind a collapsible table draped with a blue bedsheet. A hand-painted poster board sign leaned against it, reading: TOD ROBERTS: A FRESH START FOR PINERIDGE! The exclamation point was dripping slightly.

“Now,” he began, puffing out his chest. “Some of you may remember me from last election cycle. For those who don’t, I’m Tod Roberts. Local business owner, community pillar, and your next Mayor.” He paused, waiting for applause that didn’t come. One of the knitters dropped a stitch and muttered something.

Undeterred, Tod launched into his pitch. “For too long, Pineridge has been languishing under the... the regime of the current mayor. A man who I will not name, but whose policies smell distinctly of... rodent.” He nodded sagely. The sleeping man snored.

“My platform is simple. Common sense! First: the potholes on Main Street. My plan? Fill ‘em in. Revolutionary, I know.” He held up a finger. “Second: the downtown decorative flower baskets. Last summer, they were petunias. This summer, we upgrade. Marigolds. More durable. You’re welcome.”

The teenager looked up from his phone. “Dude, the circus museum roof is leaking into the big top tent. My friend works there.”

Tod waved a dismissive hand. “A minor issue. Under a Roberts administration, we’ll form a committee to study the feasibility of forming a sub-committee to look into potential moisture ingress. It’ll be the most well-studied leak in Wisconsin history.”

The Gazette reporter scribbled half-heartedly. One of the elderly women leaned over to the other and whispered, loudly, “Is this the one who tried to sell grilled cheese sandwiches out of that converted school bus?”

“The very same,” the other whispered back.

Tod caught the tail end of it. His smile tightened. “The ‘Meltmobile’ was ahead of its time!” he declared, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “A victim of... over-regulation. Which brings me to point three: cutting red tape for local entrepreneurs. Like myself.”

He was building up a head of steam now, pacing behind the table. “We need a leader with vision! A leader with experience! A leader who isn’t afraid to tell it like it is! A leader who—”

The door at the back of the room creaked open. A tall, broad-shouldered figure in a perfectly tailored navy suit stepped inside, his blonde hair catching the ugly light. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a faint, polished smile on his handsome face.

Mark Hastings.

Tod’s sentence died in his throat. The air seemed to get heavier. The snoring man chose that moment to wake up with a snort.

Mark’s voice, smooth as syrup, cut through the silence. “Don’t let me interrupt, Tod. Please, continue.” His blue eyes were bright with amused condescension. “I always love hearing your... ideas.”

All eyes, even the knitters’, were now on Tod. The gauntlet had been thrown. From the doorway, Mark watched him, the picture of relaxed, mayoral authority.

Tod’s jaw worked. He grabbed the edges of the table, his knuckles whitening. He leaned back into the microphone, his voice dropping to a low, theatrical growl aimed directly at the man in the doorway.

“Excuse me,” Tod said, the words sharp and loud. “This is a campaign event. If you’re not here to listen to the future of Pineridge, you can see yourself out.” He tried to sound commanding. It came out sounding like a man whose lawn was being trespassed upon.

He turned back to his meager audience, his bravado visibly patched back together, stitch by shaky stitch. “Now, as I was saying... marigolds.”

[INTRO - "ON CINEMA" YOUTUBE VIDEO]

(Camera glitches on. Grainy synth beat plays. Title card: “ON CINEMA – MOVIE REVIEWS FROM THE HEARTLAND” flashes in Comic Sans over a rotating 3D popcorn kernel. Cut to: a cluttered basement setup. A banner behind the hosts reads “PAGES & PROSE PRESENTS: ON CINEMA” in peeling letters. Tod sits center frame in a lawn chair, Crieg on a milk crate to his left, crunching popcorn from a wok.)

Crieg: (beaming, mouth half-full) It’s movie time!

Tod: Watch it! (slaps Crieg’s knee) You don’t just—hijack the intro like that. I’m the host.

Crieg: You were stalling. I counted. Three minutes and twelve seconds of you adjusting the mic, scratching your gut, and saying “Wait, wait, not yet—my shirt’s wrinkled.”

Tod: Excuse me! That’s called presence. I’m a professional. Unlike some people who wear socks with sandals on camera.

(Crieg looks down at his white socks and Chucks. Shrugs. Eats more popcorn.)

Crieg: We saw Interceptor 4: Sky Siege this week. Directed by Dirk McAction. Stars Flex Hardbody, Jean-Claude Blam, and a drone with emotional depth.

Tod: I didn’t see it.

(Beat. Crieg stops chewing. Camera holds. A fly buzzes the lens.)

Crieg: ...You didn’t see it.

Tod: No. I watched it at home. On my 65-inch. My way.

Crieg: It’s a theatrical review show, Tod.

Tod: And I’m a content creator. I adapt. Besides, the theater’s full of rats. (Spits slightly.) Especially that Rat Hastings—he was there. In the lobby. Smiling. Like he won something.

Crieg: You ran against a city manager in a school board election. Nobody lost but you.

Tod: Watch it! That election was rigged. And I had policies. I had vision. Like... lower taxes on patriotism.

(Crieg stares. Pops one kernel into his mouth like a sad metronome.)

Crieg: So... you’re reviewing a movie you didn’t see in the theater... based on a pirated screener you got from a guy named Big Tony at the coin shop?

Tod: I prefer “independent distribution network.” And yes. My review stands. Five stars. It’s patriotic. There’s a flag. A lot of explosions. And a dog saves a child from a collapsing missile silo. That’s art.

Crieg: The dog was CGI. And the missile sil fo was a model made of foam.

Tod: So? It’s belief, Crieg. Belief in America. In dogs. In me. (Leans into camera.) I’m Tod Roberts. And this is On Cinema.

(Crieg sighs. Tosses a handful of popcorn into the air. Misses his mouth. It rains on the floor.)

Crieg: And I’m Crieg Turkington. And despite everything... it’s still movie time.

(Outro music blares — a MIDI version of “Born in the USA.” Fade to black. Text appears: “Like, comment, and believe.”)

BLANK