TATE

8:00 a.m., Murder House, Los Angeles

Drip. Drip. Drip. Blood spattered on the cold, hardwood floor. Drip. Drip. tears swirled themselves into the red puddle. Smash. A mirror is broken, and what looks like a crime scene forms on the ground; shards of glass litter the floor, accompanying the mixture of body fluids. A lump of what appears to be a human hunches over the mess, sandy, knotty hair straggling in its eyes. A pathetic squeal, much like the noise a calf makes as he is being taken away from his mother, is emitted from what must be our tormented character's mouth.

This young man (as you may have assumed), is a teenage boy named Tate Langdon. He was once alive for 17 years, but his second life is never-ending. Tate is a ghost, shot down by feds and trapped in the same house he was executed in for infinity.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Tate thinks to himself, "I'm already dead, it's not like I can just kill myself, slit my wrists and then go to heaven, or hell, or wherever and whatever is up or down. Should I just put down the razors, and pretend I'm fine, go back to Hayden and peep on that "big happy family" that makes me so miserable? Or should I just be a whiny kid that hasn't accepted his fate? It doesn't seem like anything is really that great of an option."

Our melancholy friend mopes over to the toilet, and rests on it with his head in his hands, his legs folded beneath him.

"What...what the fuck am I even doing here," he mutters, rocking back and forth hypnotically, "No, c'mon, getting rid of those assholes was totally worth it, who cares if I'm stuck here for forever. Not like my life was going to be any better to begin with."

MARSELLUS

12:05 p.m., Jay's Bar, Los Angeles

"Hey, yeah, I'll take another of that good scotch. And keep it coming," a gruff voice orders out of nowhere. The year has not been a good one for Mr. Marsellus Wallace. Because of some cracker who thought he was a fucking big shot screwed him out of a bet, he got fucked in the ass by some hillbilly cracker. His wife left him for some director out in Hollywood. And now his cartel is starting to dry up, and he can't afford the mortgage for that luxury mansion he's got.

Dressed in a cheap sport coat he got from some seedy thrift store, Marsellus swaggered over to the magazine rack, ready to begin a house search.

"..Here we go," he brooded, "Let's see what I can actually fucking get that isn't a piece of shit."

The largely built African-American man flipped through the thin pages of the 'zine, disappointed in what he saw. Wallace scanned down the next page, until an impossible house appeared to him.

"1120 Westerchester Pl, Los Angeles, six bedroom, seven bath, classic old-Hollywood design, fully renovated, $300,000"

Marsellus was in shock. He stared back at the picture, trying to piece together why such a beautiful estate was on the market for such a low price. It can't be the utilities, he mused, it says here that it's fully renovated.

It was time for Marsellus Wallace to take his first tour of the infamous Murder House.