Missing Cat, Missing Budget

A cramped municipal call center. Fluorescent lights. A banner droops: “CIVIC PANIC HOTLINE: ONE NUMBER. INFINITE REGRET.”

JAX MALLORY, headset on, stares into the middle distance like it owes him money. DEPUTY HANK LORR wrestles a printer jam labeled “URGENT: PAPER.”

The phone line BLARES.

Civic Panic Hotline. If it’s on fire, say “fire.” If it’s emotional, say “therapist.”

INTERCUT WITH:

A WOMAN, 40s, furious, points through a window at a neighbor using a LEAF BLOWER like it’s a jet engine.

My neighbor’s leaf blower is screaming at my hydrangeas. It’s a hate crime against peace.

Ma’am, that’s… noise. Like, legally.

Also my cat is missing.

And you led with… the leaf blower.

Priorities. The cat can fend for itself. The hydrangeas cannot.

HANK slides a form toward Jax: “FORM 19-B: SEASONAL NOISE (NON-TRAUMATIC).” He’s sweating like it’s surgery.

Just check “Seasonal.” It’s seasonal.

Leaf blowers are a season now?

Everything’s a season if you stop enforcing laws.

Okay. Address?

Brixley Heights. House with the “Live Laugh Litigation” sign.

JAX clicks a button.

Dispatching… someone. Please don’t weaponize your HOA.

He hits an intercom.

Sable. We got a leaf blower… and maybe a cat.

A chair SPINS into frame. SABLE ORTIZ lounges in tactical gear that’s too serious for municipal work. Night-vision goggles on her forehead. She sips from a coffee cup labeled “EVIDENCE.”

A leaf blower’s a gateway noise. Today it’s leaves. Tomorrow it’s dissent.

It’s… a lawn.

All insurgencies start with landscaping.

Can you just… tell him to be quieter?

SABLE snaps on a vest: “FIELD RESPONDER.”

I’ll neutralize the acoustic threat and extract the feline asset.

We don’t have feline assets.

Not with that attitude.

CUTAWAY - EXT. DRAMATIC ACTION MOVIE ROOFTOP - NIGHT

SABLE in full spy-thriller mode whispers into a mic.

Whisper protocol. The target is… extremely suburban.

A LEAF BLOWER ROARS off-screen like a dragon.

SABLE (CONT’D)

Mother of decibels.

A pristine cul-de-sac. SABLE crouches behind a MAILBOX like it’s cover. The LEAF BLOWER GUY, 50s, blissfully unaware, blasts leaves into the street.

SABLE speaks into a tiny radio.

Target acquired. Confirm: hostile airflow.

JAX (V.O., RADIO)

Sable, you don’t need a radio. You have my number. You’re literally doing this for my number.

Comm silence. He can hear fear.

She rolls a small device across the pavement: a CITY-ISSUED CONE. It wobbles and stops.

SABLE (CONT’D)

Deploying perimeter.

She slaps “OFFICIAL” caution tape between two garden gnomes.

Hey! What are you doing?

Municipal compliance. Your blower violates Code— uh—

She checks a laminated card: “BRIXLEY HOTLINE QUICK LAWS.”

SABLE (CONT’D)

—Code 7: Loud stuff near… feelings.

Is this real?

SABLE leans in, deadly serious.

Nothing here is real. Turn it off.

He does. The neighborhood suddenly hears birds. The silence is unsettling.

From under a porch: a CAT darts out, carrying something shiny.

Visual on feline asset.

The cat sprints past her— straight into the open garage of the WOMAN’S HOUSE.

The WOMAN appears, holding a phone like a weapon.

Oh. There you are. Give me my ring, you furry criminal!

The cat leaps onto a shelf and knocks over a tower of paint cans.

SABLE, in panic, hits her radio.

Jax. Escalation. Possible chemical spill. Also the cat is armed with jewelry.

JAX pinches the bridge of his nose.

How did this become—

HANK is already stamping paperwork with manic speed.

Seasonal noise, seasonal cat, seasonal ring. I can fix this with categories.

A DOOR BURSTS open. MAYOR TILDA GRUME storms in, camera crew behind her for a surprise “competence capture.” She’s all teeth and panic.

I heard “chemical spill” and I smelled a photo op!

It’s paint. In a garage.

Paint is liquid. Liquid is basically a flood. Floods are disasters. Disasters are brand opportunities.

She grabs a headset.

MAYOR GRUME (CONT’D)

Attention Brixley! For your safety, we are initiating a TEMPORARY, PROACTIVE CURFEW.

What— No—

Curfew form? Do we have a curfew form?

We do now! Hank, invent one with a patriotic watermark.

SABLE watches as NEIGHBORS’ PHONES all BLARE an emergency alert:

“BRIXLEY CURFEW IN EFFECT. REMAIN INDOORS. AVOID: NOISE, PAINT, AND POSSIBLE CATS.”

SABLE straightens, proud.

Perimeter achieved.

The LEAF BLOWER GUY, now terrified, slowly closes his blinds.

I knew leaves were government.

The WOMAN emerges, clutching her cat and ring, victorious.

So… are my hydrangeas safe now?

Ma’am, your hydrangeas are under municipal protection.

She slaps a tiny “DO NOT DISTURB” sign into the flower bed.

The call queue EXPLODES. Phones scream. JAX watches the “CALLS WAITING” number climb like a slot machine.

Curfew. For a leaf blower.

Correction: for COMMUNITY WELLNESS.

HANK holds up his new form: “FORM 88-C: CURFEW (PATRIOTIC).” It’s covered in clip art eagles.

I filed it as “seasonal.”

Of course you did.

SABLE strolls in, calm, holding a confiscated leaf blower nozzle like a trophy.

Operation completed. Noise neutralized. Cat recovered. Neighborhood subdued.

We subdued… a cul-de-sac.

Cul-de-sacs are where freedom goes to die, Jax.

The phones keep ringing. A new call punches through.

Civic Panic Hotline—

A MAN’S VOICE, frantic.

MAN (V.O.)

I’m calling because there’s a curfew and my leaf blower is stuck ON.

JAX stares at the ceiling.

Please hold for the apocalypse.

He hits HOLD.

ON HOLD MUSIC: an overly cheerful tune, instantly enraging.