April Chase has a problem. That's not her real name, you see. She was the star
of the 70s chick cop show APRIL CHASE, P.I. She had very strong ideas about
her role, but the producers disagreed. As she became more famous, she figured
she could ram 'em through -- she failed to learn the lesson of Suzanne Somers:
nobody's indispensible. So they fired her.
But April wasn't done. She couldn't let it go.
When night falls, April sneaks through Hollywood, with her .38, her badge and
business card, pathetically trying to gather clients and solve crimes. The cops,
the real police, are always trying to catch her, reel her in with increasingly
elaborate sting operations, but April, blessed with the preternatural ingenuity
of the mad, continually eludes their dragnets.
Leftover love. He stands at the kitchen counter, staring at the last bit of love,
just a dollop, in its forlorn foil pouch. They made so much love, you see, in the
heady days of their relationship, there was so much to go around, and she never
knew that he, on the sly, would save just a little bit each time, and squirrel it away
deep in the freezer where she would never go.
Well, fuck it. He gathers his works, dumps the last bit of love in the blackened
spoon, and starts cookin' her up.