Fade up; it's dark, it's dank, it's the middle of nowhere. Quelle surprise. The camera pans over a weathervane in the shape of what looks like a demonic bat (how quaint! How cozy! How not.) on the top of a ramshackle old house, and pans to the road beyond, where a car is pulling up. The Handy Dandy Timeline tells us that we're in Burley, Idaho, and that it's 3:05 am. I guess that's not Avon calling.
The car rumbles to a halt in front of the house, and a truly creepy looking guy emerges from the driver's side. Or, I guess he's creepy; I suspect that everyone looks creepy in the middle of the night, as thunder rumbles overhead and lightning cracks in the background. Creepy, or, you know, doomed. Or both. Creepy, however, is truly and madly creepy, like the ill-gotten love child of Lurch and one of the Gentlemen from Buffy, with a little bit of BOB thrown in for good creepy measure. Creepy goes inside the house. Slowly.
Creepy stands in the doorway for a second, then walks, in the dark, through the house. Lightning crashes. Thunder booms. Chris Carter sticks his Care Bears bookmark into page 34 of Going Beyond Thunder and Lightning: Weather Clichés for The Artistically Tapped-Out, privately think that it's all bollocks, anyway, and calls cut.
Upstairs, in the ramshackle house, a mousy-looking older woman wakes as the thunder thunders and the lightning lightnings, and there is a creak on the stairway. "Land sakes, George, what are you trying to do?" she calls. George, formerly known as Creepy, opens the door and tells Mousy that he was trying to be quiet. Get it? He's not creepy, he's her husband. Mousy tells him irritably that she smelled him coming up the stairs and exposits helpfully that she's surprised that, after 39 years, his "embalming fluid doesn't wake the dead." She sends him outside to take his grotty embalmers-wear off, so she can get some sleep.
Poor Creepy George drops trou on the front porch. I'm pretty sure that's illegal, but I'm also pretty sure that after 39 years, he would have learned to change at the morgue before driving home to Mousy, so, there you go. At a small sound, George looks above him. "What the hell is that?" he wonders.
It's, yes, what looks like the a man-bat hybrid, just a-hanging there upside down on the porch, trying to get some sleep. ManBat (so called to as avoid the inevitable confusion with Batman, although, trust me, ManBat would not look nearly as nice in a pair of tights, and, as far as I know, ManBat is not involved in some kind of homosexual subtext with his smaller, cape-wearing sidekick) opens his beady ManBat eyes and squeaks maliciously and jumps poor George.