He went to sleep. Decidedly cold and uncomfortable - he thought about leaving if it wasn’t for the company he kept. A simple girl who didn’t ask for much, but wanted him there. Often drifting off and thinking about the goings-on, he stopped to occasionally remind himself that the makeshift bed he slept in was akin to a grave. Underground and lonely, he often asked why he was there. Besides thinking about his failed attempts at love, his nights were occupied with the trouble that lay before him. Here was a woman who loved him, and he knew in his hearts of hearts that this wasn’t what he wanted.

Always waiting for something in the distance, he knew the time he shared with anyone was a lie, and what he didn’t want, or, did see for himself in the future. After a long stint working on himself and the world around him, he thought the world owed him something. Not material objects, or money, but experiences that should have been worthy of the work. And at this time, the work was all he had - and he often wondered if the work was all he was going to have. To him, the work was sacrifice. It was being lonely, and that was the way it was. Simple, he thought.

That was the way it had to be done and there was nothing he can do about it. But the constant nagging in the back of his head told him otherwise. He wasn’t doing the right thing, and as he focused on his small microcosm of literary work, the world was passing him by. The liquor he drank, the drugs he took, even the way he walked. All felt selfish and greedy. As if he wasn’t doing these things and realizing it, but dragging along until what he wanted came to fruition. But what did he want? A big bang screaming his name?

Picking up where this pathetic loser left off, we find Malcolm swamped by irate customers, a shotgun to his face, and a bag of questionable funds. And damn, it’s only Tuesday.

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Because you love them. New episode this Friday.

He was used to the comfort of a simple tree surrounded by tall grass and scentless pedestrians. He never experienced the full seasons, but didn’t mind - the Winter was too bitter anyway. Jane always left during the Fall and so did he shortly after. The lake they used to catch reflections in was soon going to become ice, and as the lake faded, so did Jane. She liked the country, but only when it was convenient.

Winter brought nasty reminders of the New Year and future plans she had made in the Spring - and never returning home was one of them. The look, the smell - the way the pines seemed to roll down the hill side for miles and miles - this was home. Almost too much like home. She could lick the wind and remember the past twenty something years like it was yesterday. Drunk arguments with her Father, the way her little Sister’s hand clutched her blouse on the way back from school, the lady who insisted that she was her new Mother, and the quiet boy who lived down the road. He was used to the comfort of a simple tree surrounded by tall grass and scentless pedestrians like herself. Sitting under the tree with a book, the quiet boy was the half-way marker home from the bus stop, and a constant reminder of the threat that awaited her at home.

Though he really loved Joyce, Beckett was the closest thing to him, and more accessible. He’d wanted to be a poet, but after realizing his lack of talent and reading Faulkner’s Biography (he realized that portraying the human condition in fourteen lines was too difficult for him), he settled with short stories. After three months, two days, and eleven hours, he decided on the title of his short: ‘City connectedness’, based off the geese that flew over the small lake behind his house. Contrary to Jane and the others in the country, he was inspired by the fact that the geese didn’t stop to look at the reflection of themselves over the water.

A man talks on a pay phone. We enter midway into the conversation.

Baby, baby,…wait. Calm down, breath. Are you listening to me? It’s alr…,yes, yes I’m here. I’m breaking up? No,…yes I can hear,..wait, slow down. Just have a seat somewhere. I know, yes, I know it’s dirty but just have a seat. I’m not going anywhere. Are you sitting? Alright, just keep,…yes. Just keep breathing.

Now look, I know the past year has been rough. Yes, the economy,…I know. It’s been rou…,It’s been rough for everyone, not just filmmak….,yes, I understand. Of course he’s a communist. Yes,…yes. I agree, it’s difficult to get work anywhere. Hello? Hello? Okay, it’s better now, I can here you. I can here you!

Yes, It’s a lot of things,…yes, everything. And it’s not your fault. I know, I know,…but there’s only so much you can do. You were there, and you did it! Now wait,…stop, please. Stop crying. C’mon. Listen,…are you there? Good, listen to me. It was me, it was all me. The paperwork, the changes, the schedule - It was all me. No,…no. I know exactly what it was. I could ha…look, that was my responsibility. I didn’t get it done, and when I did it was late or…,no, it shows. No one else can see it, but I can. No,…of course not, you did great. What are you talking about? They didn’t see it, I saw the footage and it’s the last thing you have to…,It was great, they loved you. No, no one complained and they all loved working with you. Yeah? I think…,really? No,..I had no idea. Well, I’m not surprised….No, you’re gorgeous.

I know. I love yo…,Hello?…Can you hear me? Hello? Yeah, yeah. I’m here. Did you hear what I said? Like ten seconds ago…yeah, right before the phone cut out. No?

Once we all had women we could call our own. Just ask The Welling. A mess of a man who’s lost his eye sight and any feeling from the waist down from being locked in a deep dungeon working on a certain beast of a project. Times are interesting for a filmmaker. If the proof isn’t in his work, perhaps it can be found in the confessions of the past woman in his life. Frustrated, reclusive, and Kubrick-like might surmise their definitions of him, excuse me, it. And to those few choice woman, I say thank you. Thank you for stating the obvious. I’m assuming you met in a dark alley, stumbling home from a bar while balancing like a tight rope walker on those things you call high heels. The conversation was quick, almost a formality, save for the fact that you thought it was cute and decided to stop. A reasonable excuse, we all stop for cute or interesting people, which is funny, because you were neither. You asked what it did, and it simply responded with a middle finger and continued on its way. Frustrated? Yeah, maybe a little bit.

The Welling, as all enlightened beings, has reached such a state of consciousness that woman, nary human, can understand his gibberish. Seemingly a dick, he actually did the woman a favor. Being rude to a lady was hardly his style, but this saved time for what she would have eventually found out later on the first date, the time they made love to 2001, and years later when he escaped from the altar via helicopter. The entity known as The Welling was an uncommitted nut. Woman, a day job, his last lovers mix tape, was all trivial. Mere dust on Atlas shoulders. The man was his work! And no thing or no one else! Revealing the work by hanging himself inside out across the sky like a canvas-this is…

Malcolm Martins job is simple: Find a monster, and hunt it. This premiere episode brings us

into the world of We Do Monsters, and we join our hero as he starts his business anew.

But there are things lurking out there, waiting, and he’s about to come face to face with…..BIGFOOT.

See that? I spelt it in ALL CAPS.