All language subtitles for The.Shards.S01E03.1080p.HEVC.x265-MeGusta[EZTVx.to]

What do you do when your friends
think you're the boy who cried wolf?

Matt Kellner had gone missing in the dead
of night sometime in September of 1981.

But oddly, no one in my social
circle was that concerned about it.

Looking back, I realize that's
the gift of youth.

You think you'll live forever.

I bet Matt moved to Big Sur to
deal drugs, get out of the LA rat race.

I agree.

I mean, who wouldn't? I hear
the Esalen Institute's amazing.

What?

That's lunacy. What about the
blood-stained backpack they found?

Hon, I love you, but why are you
so drawn to worst-case scenarios?

You didn't even know him.

Don't mourn a death that
hasn't officially happened.

- Can we talk about happier things?
- Please. I need a cig.

But then came October 1st, the
so-called first day of spooky season.

October 1st was officially
The Day the Fun Died.

Because that's the day
The Trawler got Really Rhonda.

Really Rhonda was in our
class, and everyone loved her.

Everyone thought she was hilarious.

Her father was a big ICM agent
who represented Sally Kellerman.

He paid the school
a handsome fee every year

to assure that Rhonda
would be assimilated

and not locked away in the dungeon
that was a special needs class.

If X and B are both
positive real numbers...

Today we would understand

that Rhonda suffered
from a neurological condition,

but back then we just thought
she was darkly and convulsively...

impulsive.

Rhonda, please stop it.

I wanna fuck Chewbacca, motherfucker.

And a real truth teller.

Rhonda, do you want detention?

George Washington sucks cocks
in hell, motherfucker!

Suck it, lick it, fucking ass-face! Fuck.

Really, Rhonda? Really?

And from that moment on,
that's what we all called her.

Really Rhonda.

I always felt an affection for Rhonda.

Because during one of her outbursts,

she could have easily
told the truth about me,

called me a fag or a gay face,

but she was kind to me.

I felt she purposely edited out
my secret truth.

Protected me somehow from the
pubescent cruelty of the other kids.

My favorite thing about Rhonda

was that she would not get off the
disco roller trend long after it was over.

She just didn't care
what people thought about her.

Can you imagine the gift of that?

Really Rhonda is such a good
skater. She's even better than Cher.

Disco roller skating
is important to this tale,

because that's what she was
doing when she was taken.

There was only one disco roller
derby place left in town in 1981.

And Rhonda was the only patron
at Wheels that night of October 1st.

The Trawler knew that,
the loneliness of the place.

And on that night, he snatched
Really Rhonda from her happy place.

And out of all of our lives.

When Rhonda missed her curfew...

her parents reported her missing.

The police immediately
checked out the scene at Wheels.

- I'll check around back.
- Got it.

And that's when they found bloodstains.

Over here.

Telltale clues of a violent struggle.

I went to the scene
of the crime the next day,

oddly, instinctively.

The place Rhonda had joyously
twirled the night before was deserted.

The rotating disco ball, once a symbol
of joy, seemed sad to me, mournful.

Slowly twirling like a flag at half-mast

to announce all the ends of
things that 1981 had taken from us.

Matt.

Roller disco.

Really Rhonda.

And our sense of security.

Please, please.

Please, please, help me.

Eat it.

It took about three days for
everything to go back to normal,

and for everyone to forget about Matt

and Rhonda.

My God.

I love it when we skip lunch on
the quad and kick it at the Hamlet.

Yeah, me too.

Anyone want half my lunch?

Okay.

Okay, listen up.

Don't forget to take your
Flintstones vitamins this month...

Or your diet pills.

Saturday is Robert's,
and next Thursday is Dance Off!

And no one is allowed to be hungover

because on Sunday,
we all need to practice.

Seriously?

That Dance Off!
Thing is really happening?

My God. I thought you were joking.

Does it look like I'm joking, Bret?

Dance Off!
Was a daily televised cable access show

that featured regular teenagers
dancing to the hot hits of the day.

Teenagers like us.

A Los Angeles institution,

it had its heyday in 1974
and refused to die.

Debbie had been obsessed with the idea

ever since Corazon Cha Cha Rodriguez
had gone on and held the camera's attention

for the length of an entire Blondie song.

And not just any Blondie song.

"Rapture," six minutes and 31 seconds.

Debbie saw that hot lava fame
and she wanted it for herself.

Becoming a star was her secret ambition,
but she was too cool to ever admit it.

I gotta say, I hate that show.

Okay, well, it's a rite of passage
classic in this town, and it's happening.

Guys, don't you think it's kind of
a bad look to be partying on TV

- with classmates missing?
- Okay.

Well, it's what I want. It's
done, and you're all coming.

You're welcome.

Okay, so that's it then?

We just don't care anymore
about Rhonda or Matt?

Look, Bret, I'm not trying
to speak for the group here,

but I'm gonna speak for the group.

- Rhonda and Matt what's-his-face...
- Kellner.

They're missing. They haven't
been declared dead.

Maybe they ran away.

Bret, before I forget,

do you want to go shopping with
me after school for homecoming?

- Tuxedo Warehouse?
- Tuxedo Warehouse?

- Is it too...
- - You guys have that on the coast?

I don't know, GQ?

I think maybe not GQ enough.

Homecoming. I don't even want to go.

What do you mean you don't wanna go?
W-Why do you keep saying that repeatedly?

You have to go.

You and Thom are totally gonna
win homecoming king and queen.

Aren't we a little old for homecoming?

I would agree with that.

Homecoming feels like a word
that's, you know,

partial to overweight Midwesterners

who make floats out of toilet
paper scraps and suffer from gout.

It's not like I even have an outfit.

You know what you would look great in?

A simple black slip dress,
something fresh, modern.

No jewelry.

Just décolletage.

Décolletage?

Maybe we should cancel
the party too, you know.

It's Robert's big welcome party, Bret.

It's my big welcome party, Bret.

It's gonna be like
Capote's Black and White Ball.

I'm so excited, thrilled.

Et cetera.

Bret's right.

We should do something.

Maybe we should post flyers.

That's a great idea.
Do something proactive.

Why don't me and you
do it together, Susan?

Waitress, some more fries, please.

We're asking anyone with information
about Rhonda to please come forward.

You won't be in trouble.

The only way we're gonna
find these kids is if we look.

Or if they show up.

Right.

All of us have been haunted
by the story of Etan Patz,

six-year-old boy who disappeared
outside his home in SoHo, New York.

Was he kidnapped?

Was he murdered?

We don't know.

What we do know

is that because his picture appeared
on every milk carton in America,

his face is burned into the minds of the
people who are going to bring him home.

That is why we are handing out
bottles of Really Rhonda water

to increase awareness...

And hydration.

If you can't find a Perrier, reach
for a Really Rhonda bottled water.

Thanks again to Rhonda's dad
and all the heroes at ICM

for sponsoring our flyer, hydration,
and the Rescue Rhonda Fund.

Bravo, ICM.

Now, AV club, hit it.

Zero mention of Matt.

- Unbelievable.
- I'm sure they'll get to him.

I think the line of awareness products
for Matt Kellner could be historic.

I think the line of awareness products for Matt
Kellner could be historic. "Bring Matt Home" pencils.

"Bring Matt Home" pencils.

"Where Is Matt?" terry cloth come rags.

It's not funny, Thom.

I know,

but my dad used to tell me
to look on the sunny side,

and that's what I'm trying to do for you.

What are you wearing?

Kouros.

It smells so sexy.

Thanks.

It's for men.

Yeah, you can really tell.

- Hi. For Rhonda. Rescue Rhonda.
- Help Rhonda.

- Let's bring her home.
- If she wanted to,

she could be such a slut.

There's nothing stopping her.

I've always admired that.

You're a really good friend.

I am.

It's sparkling, like Rhonda.

You are really gunning for homecoming.

That's not what this is.

God, Thom, it's the '80s.
Don't be so cynical.

So tell me what your script is about.

I dropped the treatment off
with Steven. Did he not...

Yeah, I received it. I read it.

Steven loves it, by the way.

I just don't know what it's about.

I-I mean, why this story? Why now?

Well, the character is me.

A version of me anyway.

His name is Bret Ellis.

Well, that makes it interesting to you.

That doesn't make
it interesting to others.

Listen, every great movie
ever made is about loss.

The loss of love, friendship,
innocence, ideals, personal injury lawsuit.

So what has Bret Ellis lost?

Like...

my virginity?

Speak on that.

Where are we going?

Secret street. Connects
Beverly Hills to the Valley.

I thought that was just an urban legend.

No, not an urban legend,
a suburban fact.

And only three people that I know
of have the combination to the gates.

Beatty.

Nicholson.

And me.

8-1-7-0-6-6-6.

Sometimes I come up here to be alone.

You could too, you know.

Think about your script.

To get inspiration as an artist.

This view is so inspirational.

We could...

We could come be alone together.

I thought you said only three
people have the code to this road.

I said that I know of.

Could just be Jack's gardener
or picture hanger.

Who knows?

Terry?

Yeah?

Could you...

take me home?

Homework.

Yeah.

After Terry dropped me
off, I knew automatically

that I would be heading
to Matt Kellner's house.

When I turned onto Haskell Avenue,

When I turned onto Haskell Avenue, I was suddenly
struck with a fear I had never experienced before.

I was suddenly struck with a fear
I had never experienced before.

It was an adrenaline that acted
as a warning for me to save myself,

but also mixed with an overwhelming
compulsion to move forward...

no matter how I felt,

how afraid I was.

This was the last place I had seen Matt.

I missed him.

I wanted him back.

I was on a mission to find
clues about his disappearance.

I found them.

As I sat there in the soft moonlight,

I realized that, at 18, I was
already staring into my past.

I remember this being
one of my first moments

when I realized how
powerful memory was.

Or at least it was the
first time it hurt the most.

Hello.

Hello.

Where's Matt?

What have you done with him?

Where's Rhonda?

Why are you doing this?

Robert.

Robert!

Wow.

Thank you.

Thank you so much.

Most people who win this award

thank everybody that helped
them get to this moment.

Instead, I'd like to take this brief time
I have here in the white-hot spotlight...

to say what I really feel
about how I got here.

How I clawed my way up
that mountain of success

alone.

To my first modeling agent

who told me I had an ass like a pear

and would probably be a
Sears catalog model at best...

fuck you, bitch.

Look at me now.

To my daughter who's watching tonight...

you are the disappointment of my life.

And to my husband...

To my husband...

who regularly reminds me that
I am a worthless piece of shit...

Lizzie.

Are you still holding on to
that actress thing?

How deeply sad.

You go ahead and make fun of me, Terry.

I'm fucking used to it, you know.

But I know I could have been
more than this,

more than just your stupid wife
rattling around this mausoleum

like a fucking ghost.

Sue told me I have an "it" factor.

Sue Mengers told you that
at a dinner party

where she was stoned out of her mind.

Everybody feels sorry for you,
Liz, so they fill your addled mind

with positive reinforcement
that you don't deserve.

Haven't all the therapists I paid
for helped you understand that?

If you would have let me,

I could have pursued my dream
and been somebody,

instead of your fucking plus-one.

Sure, absolutely.

Keep practicing your speech,
babe, with one of my three Oscars.

But don't forget to thank
your coke dealer.

I already knew Robert Mallory was a liar.

He was the only one at lunch
who didn't show

a flicker of concern
about the missing kids.

Almost like he knew
they were already gone.

I committed myself to
the pursuit of a single goal:

track Robert and prove
he was The Trawler.

Cielo Drive.

This is where,
almost exactly 12 years ago,

three members of the Manson
Family stabbed and killed.

Jay Sebring, Abigail Folger,
Wojciech Frykowski,

Steven Parent, and
nine-months-pregnant Sharon Tate.

I was obsessed with Joan Didion's
account of the Manson murders.

I read it over and over again.

I retyped the sentences on my typewriter,
trying to understand their architecture.

Like all aspiring writers of my generation,

I wanted to write like Didion.

With restraint,

economy,

and total control.

If I could write like that...

I could be like that.

Or so I thought.

I didn't know what he was doing there.

I only knew what I was doing there:

"Telling myself a story in order to live."

Part of me just wanted to knock
on the door or force my way in.

What if Matt was in there right now?

Or Really Rhonda?

Who knew what sort of
hideous agony he was inflicting?

Were they lying there bloody
and beaten, mangled and mutilated,

screaming out for someone,
anyone, to come to the rescue?

Being afraid is so lame,
I kept telling myself.

Being afraid is so lame
and you're not a pussy.

Eventually I would find out that
this remote mysterious house

was a rental property
of Robert Mallory's aunt.

Later, when the police interviewed me,

I told them the truth about
what I suspected was in the bag.

A human head.

Hello.

Hello?

Being afraid is so lame.

Don't be lame.

Hello?

Please, please, please,
just please let me go home.

Please let me go home.
Motherfucker, cock, shit, cunt licker.

Fuck. I'm sorry. No, I'm sorry.

Fuck.

Please, please, please.

No, no, no!

Get the fuck off of me!