A middle-aged couple is walking down the sidewalk as the husband bitches about the play they're on their way to see. The wife exposits that the director, her best friend's only son, invited them, so they're basically obligated to be there. As they get their tickets, the husband carps, "Why do people invite anybody to anything?" "I have no idea," is the response. Well, from what I've heard about the L.A. theater scene, it's just about the only way to get an audience to show up.
Cut to later, inside the theater, where we're somewhere in act four of an incredibly earnest production of The Seagull (I think?). The husband starts coughing in his seat. He tries to keep it together, but his wife quickly realizes there's something wrong. She starts unbuttoning his shirt to help him breathe, but his distress becomes louder, to the extent that the actors onstage are starting to get distracted. That's because they're bad actors, as we already saw before hubby started hacking. Pretty soon they're all just standing up there on their marks, staring blankly into the audience. Nobody has risen to help, but it's too late anyway, because the husband is already sitting dead in his seat. "Oh, no, Peter," wails the wife, sotto voce, because raising your voice during a play just isn't done. "What should we do?" asks one of the actors. Well, standing there isn't working out so well. And that's the final curtain for Peter Thomas Burns (1948-2005). Talk about a showstopper. But judging by what we saw of that production, I'd say he did the rest of the audience a favor. Next time, try to cack during the first act, okay?
Nate's asleep in bed, until he's awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of a phone ringing. Brenda's spot next to him is empty, although some set dresser did a nice job of leaving a dent in her pillow where her fucked-up head would have been. Nate gets up and walks down the darkened hallway to Maya's room. Although I've never mentioned it before, Maya has one of those tabletop nightlights with a multicolored, rotating shade. Normally it's cute and soothing, but now that the many-hued light is illuminating the sinister spectacle of her mysteriously empty bed, it makes the abandoned room look like a bit like a portal into a hell dimension. Angel could have saved so much money on special effects if they'd just bought a few of those. Nate proceeds down the hallway and picks up the still-ringing phone in the living room, but nobody's at the other end. And then someone is, but it's just a staticky voice saying something unintelligible, like a telemarketer from beyond the grave. "Who is this?" Nate demands. "Where's my wife? And where's my daughter?" The mumbling just gets louder. It's creepy as fuck, and Nate's starting to panic. He slams down the phone, which immediately starts ringing again.