INT. SCOTTRADE CENTER ARENA - NIGHT The St.

A large the 2nd players Louis Blues are skating against the San Jose Sharks. game clock indicates there are less than a minute in period. The action is fast and furious, two Blues break away toward the goal. ANNOUNCER (O.S.) Verbarra breaks down the right wing, the defender has fallen. Conteur following up the center at the top of the crease. The crowd is going crazy. ANNOUNCER Verbarra cuts in. Verbarra to Conteur. Conteur. A CRACK. The crowd goes wild. ANNOUNCER GOOOOOOAAAALLLLLLLLLL! The loud buzz of the period ending. The crowd is absolutely going nuts. Cut to teams leaving the ice for the locker rooms. Cut to Stan Mercer, Stan "Zamboni Man" Callahan is nearly seventy years old. He is weathered but unbent by age, proud in the uniform of the ice repair staff. Stan gets into the zamboni, drives it onto the ice and begins his routine. A referree skates up and taps on the side of the zamboni. STAN Hey Jerry. REF JERRY Can't believe it... What are you gonna do with your time? Fish? STAN I had a good run. REF JERRY Forty years, yeah, you could say that. Well it's a hell of a game to retire on. STAN Yes indeed. Hey, make sure you keep an eye on Kulakov, he's been hooking Verbarra all game.

REF JERRY Got it. You stay cool Stan-o. The Ref pats the side of the zamboni, gives Stan a solemn nod. Stan starts the zamboni and continues on his way. EXT. SCOTTRADE CENTER ARENA - NIGHT Outside the stadium in St. Louis, cars lined up everywhere like small shiny beetles, the arena looming over them. The skies are dark, and incredibly violent looking clouds are swirling and converging on each other. A paper bag swirls around in an air pocket, round and round, its diameter growing larger. Then the paper bag is sucked straight up into the sky. SWOOSH A massive funnel has formed in the heavens. A tornado to end all tornados. Nearly spontaneously. INT. SCOTTRADE CENTER ARENA - NIGHT Stan tools around the ice in his trusty zamboni. EXT. SCOTTRADE CENTER ARENA - NIGHT The mega-tornado touhes down, horribly, right on the roof of the stadium, as though god almight was a Colorado Avalanche fan or some other heresy. The roof is torn clear off. INT. SCOTTRADE CENTER ARENA - NIGHT The crowd lively and basking in Conteur's goal one second, gasping in horror the next as the roof is torn off. People in the stands are sucked up into the sky. Pure mayhem. EXT. DESTROYED STADIUM - NIGHT All thats left is rubble, as far as the eye can see. In the rubble is the remains of the hockey rink dead center. Under a particularly large pile, a shape begins to take form.

Is it? Could it be? Yes. The broad outlines of a zamboni in the center of the ice and rubble. A creak. A pile of rubble falls. The zamboni's half door opens slowly. Stan steps out, cautiously. Stan looks around, he sees nobody. Emergency sirens from fire engines, cop cars, can be heard in the far distance. STAN Oh... Oh... Stan has no words. Stan steps out onto the ice. Dazed, he tries to make his way to the side of the rink. There is a huge column that has fallen and blocked his way. As he goes around, he sees the ice has been cracked as though split wide open, like a cartoon earthquake. He makes to go around, but then he notices something down under the ice, in the fissure. But it isn't right. The body that is under the ice could not have been there before the tornado, no way. STAN What the... Stan kneels down at the edge of the crevice, inspecting. Nope, no way that body could have been there. Close on Stan, realizing the body was under the ice before it was split wide open. STAN Mother of God... Stan stoops, pulls the man's leg, the entire body is now visible. Something is poking out of the man's well-preserved pinstripe suit pocket. A wallet. The emergency sirens are closing in.

Stan takes the wallet. He opens it and takes out an id card. Stan's wizened old face goes sheet white, his eyes wide from shock. He looks away, looks around, bewildered. He looks back at the ID card in his hand. Close on an outdated Michigan driver's license. The man in the photo is about 60, hair slicked with brillo. DOB: February 14, 1913 Name: James Riddle Hoffa STAN No... Fucking... Way... Stan spins around, totally discombobulated for a second amid the ruins, then gathers himself. Stan looks into the wallet again, there seems to be nothing. But then he finds a small envelope tucked inside. He unfolds it, cautiously, unbelieving. On one side of the envelope is the letterhead style printing in the top left corner. The originator of the envelope, but it is addressed to nobody. The text reads: "ASSN FOR CLIMATOLOGICAL STUDIES 211 Rupert Hall University of Colorado Boulder, Colorado 80309" Stan flips the envelope over. On the other side is written the name JENNY. Underneath it, what looks to be a telephone number. Stan, looks for a long moment, the takes out a cell phone. Scrutinizing the envelope, his eyes flash on the name. JENNY Close on the screen and touchpad of the phone. Stan's unsteady fingers type. 8

6 7 5 3 0 9 Close on the keypad: "867-5309" Stan presses send. Sound of a phone connection being made. Everything fades away to black. Screen completely black. A woman's voice answers. WOMAN Yes? STAN I'd like to speak to Jenny. END