We open at 8:50 in the morning inside a mostly abandoned warehouse. It's a scam telemarketer building; they're raising money for a bogus child organization. We watch a sweaty, pasty man read his script over the phone to Lois Fibroy of Carson, California. He asks, "Good morning! How would you like to save a child's life?" We can see his script on his computer screen, telling him to say that Sammy Jo McCreely is a ten-year-old girl living in Stockton, California with her mother and four brothers, and that she's got a rare form of childhood bone cancer. The woman on the phone is buying it, even though this man has yet to say anything that sounds even slightly medical. She gives the excuse that she's living on a pension and can't really afford any charity money right now. Our sweaty hero hangs up on her and asks for a break. His boss tells him that someone else is on break right now, but he can go at nine. Shot of another clock: still ten to nine. He takes another call. It's shot very dramatically -- the clicking of the mouse to roll the next call. It's Chris Griggs of 107 Lyndover Dr., Carson, California, 91214. Quick check of Yahoo! Maps tells us that 91214 isn't Carson, CA, but it is north of Burbank. Our sweaty guy has a box of raisins on his desk. They are strangely placed. Once he gives the "save a child's life" bullshit, the voice at the other end says, "Help me! He's going to kill me! God, I'm bleeding!" Sweaty calls his boss over, thinking it's some joke crank call that apparently people do to telemarketers all the time. The boss listens in on the call, which is now two people arguing about an affair. An intruder says that not only is he about to kill the bleeding man, but he's going to Laura's noon doctor's appointment to kill her next. "Laura's my wife!" one of them is screaming, saying he followed them home and watched them have sex right there. "You freaking freakshow," the soon-to-be-dead one shouts. "She thinks you're a joke!" Gunshots. Three. Sweaty knocks his coffee cup over in an obvious move. "How 'bout that -- is that a joke?" the murderer calmly asks his victim. Sweaty and the Boss sit still, listening.

I mentioned on the forums last week that I recapped the pilot from a screener copy of the show, which had, I guess, extra scenes that didn't make it to the final airing. It also didn't have these opening credits. Did you see them? They're the most over-dramatic credits I've seen since last summer when HBO claimed to have invented Sundays. Man, that Andrea's got some cold, dead eyes.