#scematic

[NOTE: Betty has a brother. His name is Bronson. He remembers a time back when D and Betty used to date.  Like this time.]

DEATH BETTY:  “NEGATIVE FEEDBACK LOOP”  Death Betty Created by Ryan Winn & Adam Jackman Written by Adam Jackman

They’re fighting. Again. Always. They’re always fighting. Bickering. Squabbling. Foreplay. Yawn. 

They’re fighting, and I’m in the back seat of the car, like I’m eight years old, being driven around by my sister’s boyfriend, driving to nowhere. 

Oh, hold up now. It’s quiet. Betty’s looking at D with her I’m Gonna Bring The Hammer face, and she’s gone silent, with her lips all closed-tight in that way she does, like she just loaded the rocket onto the shoulder mount and the shoulder mount is her mouth, and then she holds onto that big fat silent moment ‘cuz if you’re gonna bring the hammer, you need to clear some space first to get a good swing. 

“You’re being passive aggressive.” 

D was expecting a blow-up; he wasn’t ready for the indirect projectile I Know You Are But What Am I. He says “I’m not being passive aggressive, I just really, actually, literally, genuinely, no lie, I have zero opinion about what we eat right now.” 

Bad move, D. You think you’re gonna win this relationship with that sad-ass attempt at honest communication? She’s the master. She doesn’t even answer that limp pile of words. Stay silent, man. It’s the only way you can even hope to get back to a level playing field. 

“We went to the Dash ‘n Dine last night, so I know you don’t want to eat there.” 

Going on the offensive. Bold move. Dumb. 

“I don’t want to be the guy who always dictates where we go, just because of my work.” 

Her eyes just rolled so far back in her head, they landed in my lap. 

“You wanna go get fruit ‘n fries?” 

D, you’re killing me. Don’t try to make it about her when she’s acting like you have a decision here. Just pick a place, so she can say no to it, so you can pick another place until she says yes. 

Wait, wait, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it worked. She’s opening her mouth. Without looking at me in the back seat, she says, “Bronson, you pick.” 

Oh, hell no. 

In the time since D picked me and Betty up, in all that time driving aimlessly nowhere while they fight about where we’re eating and then not-fight about where we’re not eating, the past twenty-whatever minutes, I’ve managed to dismantle the interior light over the door, unpack it to its component parts, then re-assemble them as a tiny handheld helicopter. There isn’t enough juice in the bulb to make it fly, but it looks slick. This is how I don’t scream. 

Outside the passenger-side window is a woman who is not our age. “Woah, is that Amy Lancaster?” It’s not. It never was. “No, no, it’s not. I heard she got fat. Good for her.” 

The car is silent again. Dodged that bullet. Thanks, Not Amy Lancaster. “If you’re not hungry,” D flails, “we could just head down to the pier.” “Oh, you’re not even hungry?” Watch out, D. It’s a trap. He steps right in: “No, I’m hungry.” 

“Then pick something.” 

It’s weird, watching him be so hopeless at this. I’ve seen him doing his job, and he seems reasonably good at it. What are the qualifications for being the guy who ushers souls off to immortal whatever, that they don’t include not being so stupidly rookie about negotiating dinner plans with one measly mortal girlfriend? 

D squishes up his face and starts another colossal mistake: “You know what?” 

“What. Tell me what. I really want to hear WHAT.” She was ready for that. Seriously, D, stop talking. Would you just drive the car into a tree already, and put us all out of our misery? 

“Nothing.” 

Ugh. Retreat? Surrender?! You’ve met the enemy, you’re in it, you can’t back off now. She will eat you alive. 

Yup. Silence. She’s got you, man. You’ve got no game, no hope—it’s over. This is painful to watch. The servos in the window brrrrzzzz to the tune of Betty flipping the switch: up, down, up, down, up up, down down down. 

He’s pulling over. He’s finally giving up the ghost. Or taking a stand. This should be good. 

What is this burger dive? Leave it to D to frequent the grease shack where they invented Heart Disease. Betty is not going to... she is not frowning. 

[NOTE: Betty has a brother. His name is Bronson. He remembers a time back when D and Betty used to date.  Like this time.]

DEATH BETTY:  “NEGATIVE FEEDBACK LOOP”  Death Betty Created by Ryan Winn & Adam Jackman Written by Adam Jackman

They’re fighting. Again. Always. They’re always fighting. Bickering. Squabbling. Foreplay. Yawn. 

They’re fighting, and I’m in the back seat of the car, like I’m eight years old, being driven around by my sister’s boyfriend, driving to nowhere. 

Oh, hold up now. It’s quiet. Betty’s looking at D with her I’m Gonna Bring The Hammer face, and she’s gone silent, with her lips all closed-tight in that way she does, like she just loaded the rocket onto the shoulder mount and the shoulder mount is her mouth, and then she holds onto that big fat silent moment ‘cuz if you’re gonna bring the hammer, you need to clear some space first to get a good swing. 

“You’re being passive aggressive.” 

D was expecting a blow-up; he wasn’t ready for the indirect projectile I Know You Are But What Am I. He says “I’m not being passive aggressive, I just really, actually, literally, genuinely, no lie, I have zero opinion about what we eat right now.” 

Bad move, D. You think you’re gonna win this relationship with that sad-ass attempt at honest communication? She’s the master. She doesn’t even answer that limp pile of words. Stay silent, man. It’s the only way you can even hope to get back to a level playing field. 

“We went to the Dash ‘n Dine last night, so I know you don’t want to eat there.” 

Going on the offensive. Bold move. Dumb. 

“I don’t want to be the guy who always dictates where we go, just because of my work.” 

Her eyes just rolled so far back in her head, they landed in my lap. 

“You wanna go get fruit ‘n fries?” 

D, you’re killing me. Don’t try to make it about her when she’s acting like you have a decision here. Just pick a place, so she can say no to it, so you can pick another place until she says yes. 

Wait, wait, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it worked. She’s opening her mouth. Without looking at me in the back seat, she says, “Bronson, you pick.” 

Oh, hell no. 

In the time since D picked me and Betty up, in all that time driving aimlessly nowhere while they fight about where we’re eating and then not-fight about where we’re not eating, the past twenty-whatever minutes, I’ve managed to dismantle the interior light over the door, unpack it to its component parts, then re-assemble them as a tiny handheld helicopter. There isn’t enough juice in the bulb to make it fly, but it looks slick. This is how I don’t scream. 

Outside the passenger-side window is a woman who is not our age. “Woah, is that Amy Lancaster?” It’s not. It never was. “No, no, it’s not. I heard she got fat. Good for her.” 

The car is silent again. Dodged that bullet. Thanks, Not Amy Lancaster. “If you’re not hungry,” D flails, “we could just head down to the pier.” “Oh, you’re not even hungry?” Watch out, D. It’s a trap. He steps right in: “No, I’m hungry.” 

“Then pick something.” 

It’s weird, watching him be so hopeless at this. I’ve seen him doing his job, and he seems reasonably good at it. What are the qualifications for being the guy who ushers souls off to immortal whatever, that they don’t include not being so stupidly rookie about negotiating dinner plans with one measly mortal girlfriend? 

D squishes up his face and starts another colossal mistake: “You know what?” 

“What. Tell me what. I really want to hear WHAT.” She was ready for that. Seriously, D, stop talking. Would you just drive the car into a tree already, and put us all out of our misery? 

“Nothing.” 

Ugh. Retreat? Surrender?! You’ve met the enemy, you’re in it, you can’t back off now. She will eat you alive. 

Yup. Silence. She’s got you, man. You’ve got no game, no hope—it’s over. This is painful to watch. The servos in the window brrrrzzzz to the tune of Betty flipping the switch: up, down, up, down, up up, down down down. 

He’s pulling over. He’s finally giving up the ghost. Or taking a stand. This should be good. 

What is this burger dive? Leave it to D to frequent the grease shack where they invented Heart Disease. Betty is not going to... she is not frowning.