The success of the pilot rests entirely on the shoulders of its leads.
The next morning is unnaturally beautiful. Sunlight filters through the pines. Norma wears a floral sundress and whistles while she mops the kitchen floor. The mop water is pink.
Norman is in the bathroom, scrubbing Keith’s blood from under his fingernails. He looks at himself in the mirror—the reflection is sharp, every pore visible in 720p glory. He practices a smile. It looks like a grimace.
A knock at the door.
Sheriff Alex Romero—a man carved from granite and bad decisions—stands on the porch. His deputy, Zack Shelby, flanks him. Romero’s eyes scan the motel, lingering on the freshly tilled soil near the shed.
"Mrs. Bates," Romero says, tipping his hat. "Welcome to White Pine Bay. Keith Summers was supposed to meet me an hour ago. Man owes me a favor. Seen him?"
Norma’s performance is astonishing. She tilts her head, makes her eyes big and wet. "Keith? No. He left last night. Said something about a lady in Portland. He was drunk. I’m sorry—is everything all right?"
Romero stares at her for a long beat. The camera holds. The silence is encoded with near-zero background noise—an EZTV exclusive clean audio track.
"Everything is never all right in White Pine Bay," Romero says. "But that's not your problem. Yet."
He leaves. Norma locks the door, leans against it, and exhales a breath she has been holding since 1975.
That night, Norman finds his mother in the office, staring at a photograph. The picture is old, creased. It shows a man—handsome, cruel-mouthed—standing in front of the same motel.
"Who is that?" Norman asks.
"Your half-brother," Norma says. "Dylan. I never told you about him. He's not allowed here."
The episode ends not with a jump scare, but with a quiet, terrible realization. Norman walks past Room 9. The door is ajar. Inside, the shower curtain is new. White. Unstained.
He hears the faint sound of water running.
And then, very softly, a woman sobbing.
But when he looks through the crack, the bathroom is empty.
The screen fades to black.
Post-Credits Scene (Exclusive to this EZTV release):
A wide shot of the shed. The door creaks open in the moonlight. Keith Summers is not inside. But something else is: a single, bloodied porcelain shepherdess, placed on a shelf next to a jar of pickled eggs.
And in the dirt, fresh tracks. Not boots.
Bare feet. Small. Running toward the road.
END OF FILE | Runtime 41:23 | CRC32: 0xDEADBEEF
The motel sign hummed in the humid dusk as if trying to remember the words it once flashed each night. Bates Motel—white letters over a rusting metal frame—gave off a tired glow that pooled on the cracked asphalt, and the highway beyond whispered with the tired hiss of distant headlights. Inside Room 6, a steady fan kept time with the distant cicadas; the television, small and boxy, hummed a low deafness of static. Someone long ago had jammed the volume knob between Off and Low. No modern comforts here—just the same laminated dresser, a mirror that caught half a face, and a bed whose springs knew the shape of every body that had ever tried to sleep in it.
Norman Bates liked to stand at that mirror in the blue light and imagine he could take inventory of himself like a taxman balancing books. He checked the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the faint crescent of a bruise he’d earned that afternoon when the world pressed wrong against him. He would list the things that made him small: the motel’s paycheck, the way other people’s laughter ricocheted off the empty office and left him hollow, the rooms that smelled of last week’s perfume and yesterday’s regret. Then he would catch the slick shape of something else behind his eyes—the part of him that watched and cataloged, that could replay a single expression until it fit a better script.
On the other side of the property, the house perched on the hill like an opinion. Painted in a color that once meant dignity, it now bore the softened patina of too many winters. Curtains that had never quite matched the upholstery draped the windows; all the shutters were functional and all the hinges were tight. Norma Bates, who ran the motel with a righteousness that sometimes resembled cruelty, moved through the house as if she were dusting off the past before it could stain tomorrow. She arranged her hair, cinched her waist, and set her mouth in the kind of smile that declared everything was in order even when the china cabinet lay open with a missing plate.
They were two halves of the same pattern: a fierce, tidy love that wanted to protect and a minor terror that wanted to be loved back without negotiation. Norma’s love came packaged in rules—what to eat, how to stand, who to trust. She measured Norman in inches and admonitions. “No more late nights,” she said at dinner, her voice soft but exact, like the clip of a metronome. Norman glanced at her across the table, his fork suspended like a signal flag. He wanted to say he was trying. Sometimes he’d practice the words in his head—“I am trying, Mother.” But the words felt too blunt, too honest. He had a vocabulary for obedience and a vocabulary for fear, but he could never find the grammar that would let him say both at once.
The motel drew its own kind of people—the ones who believed they could be anonymous and the ones desperate to remain so. That afternoon, a car with a dented bumper and a license plate from a coast away had pulled up to Room 8. The man who stepped out carried in his hand the impression of a life abruptly rearranged. He left behind him a small debris field: an air of urgency, a smell of cigarettes, and a suitcase whose zip had split like a seam on a heart too full. He checked in with a name that might have been true, paid cash, and told Norman in a quick, clipped voice that he needed a room for the night.
Norman watched the man through the registration book’s oval window. He liked the way strangers created patterns on the motel ledger—the neat columns of names and dates, the registry of chance. It let him imagine the stories that refused to be told out loud, which he replayed in a tiny theater behind his eyes. He would invent lines for them and then test the lines on the air in his head, practicing an empathy that was safer when it didn’t have to be returned.
Night fell like a curtain. Norma locked the office and curled the daily receipts into an orderly roll. She stood in the doorway watching Norman as he walked across the parking lot, shadowed by the soft halo of the neon sign. There was an expression on her face that folded up like origami—protective, wary, weary. When she called to him, her voice carried the mild authority of habit. “Don’t let anyone cause trouble.” bates motel s01e01 hdtv x2642hd eztv exclusive
Norman stopped and turned. “Yes, Mother.”
It was a small line, but it carried all the weights of confession and absolution. The motel’s fluorescent lights buzzed and the vacant rooms inhaled the night.
Inside Room 8, the stranger moved like a man who thought some things could be erased by speed. He kept the curtains closed and spoke on his phone in brief, clipped phrases. Once, he stepped outside and paced the strip of cracked sidewalk in front of the neon sign, the yellow light painting him in rumors. He was not looking for company, but the motel had a way of finding two people who needed to hurt and soothed them into proximity. Norman watched him from the office window and felt a curiosity sharpen like a knife.
Curiosity for Norman was not simply question; it was a factory where possible selves were assembled. He imagined the stranger’s life changing in small increments: a missed train, a bad night, an argument—then the split, the parting, the decision to keep moving. Norman collected those fragments, gave names to them, and shuffled them like deck cards, arranging them into scenes he could inhabit without consequence. But tonight the cards resisted being neatly stacked. The stranger’s shadow had edges that the motel’s light could not soften.
Late, when the cicadas fell into a long, rhythmic hush, Norman’s hand found the telephone in the lobby with the same reflex he used to press the light switch. He dialed the house and listened to the ring counted in his chest. Norma answered on the second ring, her voice brisk and composed.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, Mother. Just… a man in Room 8.”
Her pause was a small fissure in her composed face. “You know what to do.”
“I do.”
Sometimes “what to do” meant the rote tasks—check the room, take the plate off the table, change the sheets. Sometimes it meant the subtler things: telling stories about his mother’s life that made the strangers feel less alone, rearranging the knickknacks in the office until each one landed in its place of comfort. The motel, Norman thought, offered its guests a bargain: anonymity for a night, memory for a price.
He slipped into the long corridor like a whisper. The doors stood closed, each with a peephole like a little eye. He pressed his ear to one and heard the soft lowing of a television through the wood. Room 8’s door yielded under his cautious knock.
“Yes?” The voice was rough-marbled with stress. When Norman opened the door a little wider, he saw a man whose life looked like it had been sketched in haste—the creases on his shirt, the dark rings under his eyes, the way his hands trembled when he poured coffee.
“Room’s quiet,” Norman offered, like someone reporting the weather.
The man laughed once, low and without humor. “Good,” he said. “I needed it to be quiet.”
Norman stepped in on the permission of the gesture. The room smelled of bitter coffee and old perfume. In the dimness, the man unzipped his suitcase like a surgeon opening a chest. There were papers—loose, significant, folded tight—as if they had been plucked mid-fall from a life that had been dismantled.
“Where you headed?” Norman asked.
“Out.” The man’s voice was a taut string. “Far away. Soon.”
Norman nodded as if he understood long distances like a precise measurement. He listed the things he thought would help: a map, a bus schedule, a list of quiet towns where a man could be small without being lonely. He knew the names of towns he’d never visit and the solace they implied. The stranger took none of it. Instead, he reached into his pocket and produced a photograph—the kind with a glossy sheen and a rule of permanence in its edges. A woman smiled from it like a half-remembered hymn. Her hair was windblown in a place where road and horizon met.
Norman’s own face softened in the reflection of the mirror opposite the bed as he looked at the photograph. There is a tenderness that rises unbidden when people show you the things they love and have lost. He felt something in him respond that did not have a clear name—not exactly empathy, not quite hunger. Norma would have called it vulnerability and tightened the screws of her protection. Norman called it import: a soft weight he carried for others’ tragedies the way a bellhop carries luggage nobody has asked him to accept.
The man left before morning. He took his coffee cold and left a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray like a lit question. Norman watched him go until the neon light swallowed his silhouette. After the car’s taillights winked out behind the bend, Norman stood on the motel steps and felt the night press like a palm against his chest. The world felt too big and too small at once.
Later, Norma would accuse him of nurturing trouble. She would tidy his hair with her fingers like a woman pressing a flower into a book to keep it from falling apart. “You have to be careful, Norman,” she would say. “People like that bring their storms.” Her voice carried both fear and a careful, practiced righteousness. She believed the world could be straightened into neat rows of cause and effect, but she didn’t know how to fix the spirals that began in a person’s chest.
Norman listened and stored her syllables in the ledger of his mind. He tried to obey. He rehearsed the phrases she taught him—how to be reasonable, how to refuse temptation. And yet, between the bones of that obedience, something else grew: an appetite for the truth of other people’s faces when they thought no one was looking. He watched their hands, the way they laced their fingers through a story, the tremor that betrayed fear. He loved the edges of them that gave way to tenderness when they spoke of their grief. He loved, in a way that made him small and large at once, the vulnerability of being needed.
Days stacked into each other like motel receipts, each carrying the thin imprint of someone’s passing. The motel became a kind of ledger where moments were accounted for in whispers and folded laundry. Norma kept the books; Norman kept the people’s secrets. He polished plates by day and observed smiles by night. The office light allowed him to watch the strip of highway as if it were a film reel, and in the dark he constructed scenes that never happened and then believed them a little too much.
He began to speak to the mirror with other voices—voices he had learned from the transactions of strangers. Some of them were rough and brittle; some had the warmth of old bread. Norman tried them on like coats, feeling each one’s seams against his shoulders. It was a private craft, an intimacy born from necessity. He learned to answer questions before they were asked, to soothe before the pain surfaced. The mirror, fogged at the edges, took the shape of each voice and gave it back as if it had always been waiting.
One evening, a girl arrived with a dog that smelled of summer and a suitcase patched in places like a life stitched together from good intentions. She checked in with a laugh that spilled like coins. Her name was Marion, and she carried an uncomplicated urgency about her—an aim toward something she couldn’t yet name. Marion found the motel less hostile than the highway and less sort-of-home than it needed to be. She asked Norman for directions and then sat on the office steps as if deciding where to deposit herself in the world.
Norman brought her coffee—bad hotel coffee that tasted like metal—and it became an exchange: a caffeine pledge in which two people admitted they could be simple with one another. He told her about a bakery in the nearest town, the kind of place with sticky buns and proprietors who remembered faces. She smiled like a map unfolding.
Over the next days, Marion’s easy way of filling space began to loosen the careful knots in Norman. She talked about work she might take, a job that would let her stay awhile. She spoke about leaving without slamming the doors of her story. Norma watched them with a suspicion that bloom into a worry. “You don’t want to get attached,” she reminded Norman one night, tucking a loose thread from his shirt into the pocket of her instruction. “People come and go.”
Norman did not want to break the rules. But there was in him a hunger that preferred being compromised to being correct. Marion’s laugh loosened something in him that made the world seem less like a ledger and more like a place where things could be forgiven. He felt brave in small, quiet ways—able to hold a plate without shaking, able to speak with a person without rehearsing his lines in the mirror. Once, he reached for her hand to show where the bakery lay on a newspaper clipping and, for a moment, the world narrowed to the warmth of that touch. The trembling he’d always taken for anxiety felt, briefly and without precedent, like possibility.
Norma watched. Her protective instincts sharpened into edges. In her mind, the motel was a shelter from a world that wanted to assimilate its people into stories not meant for them. Marion’s presence worried her—not because Marion was dangerous, but because she represented a loss. Norma had constructed Norman like a wooden figure in a case, articulating his limbs by necessity and keeping them pristine. The idea of him touching the outside rawly was not just frightening; it was intolerable. The success of the pilot rests entirely on
The body of the story thickened with small betrayals: a late-night diner tab left unpaid, a key misplaced and found in the folds of a jacket, a conversation overheard through the thin walls that revealed a man who wanted a second chance. The motel revealed, as all small towns eventually do, the architecture of need: its rooms filled with regrets that had not yet been cataloged, its chairs with people who had long ago decided anonymity was the only dignity left.
And then, on a morning that began with a sky scrubbed clean after rain, a radio in Room 8 sang the news with the bluntness of public facts. There had been an accident, the announcer said. Names appeared like the jagged edges of a sudden winter. The stranger from two nights ago was gone from the registry but not from the rooms he had warmed. Norman held the paper against his chest like a thing that could stop the world from turning.
It mattered to Norman because it was material—proof that lives could be altered without ceremony. He had, in his private way, formed a small kinship with the passing traveler. His grief was not theatrical; it was the hush you get when a season turns without warning. Norma saw it differently. Loss was a vulnerability she could not allow to take root. She wanted to fix the world into order again, to sterilize it of the messy truths that bled through motel walls.
Grief is a private taxonomy. Norman cataloged the emptiness like a new species in the ledger of himself. He learned how to fold absence the way Norma folded bedsheets—smooth the corners so there would be no evidence of trouble left in the room. He rehearsed the duties of comfort: the right angle to place a pillow, the exact tone to say “I’m sorry,” the measured way to hand someone a cup of coffee and let them go.
For Norma, the day-to-day was a series of tiny battles to keep their map intact. She mended laundry, barred the curtains at dusk, and laid down rules like a seamstress setting seams. Her love was a regimen. It was also, she knew, a fortress. Inside its stone, she kept Norman as one might keep a delicate heirloom—safe from weather, safe from theft. But the fortress itself grew narrow with each rule she added. The more she tried to protect him, the more she sealed off the spaces where Norman might come into being on his own terms.
There were moments when Norman wanted to test the walls. He would stand at the top of the hill and look at the highway like a question he could answer by walking. He imagined leaving, taking his patterned suitcases and his small practiced kindness out into the world. He found he could list all the reasons not to leave with the same ease he could list the names of persons who had checked into Room 3. There was a part of him that needed duty like oxygen. There was another part that wanted the city lights and the chance to be someone else.
One winter night, when the wind had come down from the high country and the sign’s neon flickered like a pulse, Norma found Norman in the office with the curtains open. He’d let a little of the outdoors in—just a sliver—and she regarded him like one regards a child who has smudged a face with jam.
“You’ve been talking to her,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You know what happens when you let people in.”
Norman’s answer was small. “Sometimes people help.”
“Sometimes they leave.”
They stood like that, parent and child, each holding a script the other did not trust. Norma could not see, or would not see, that Norman was not simply borrowing other people’s faces to get by—he was learning them in order to understand what to keep and what to surrender. She mistook his curiosity for weakness. He mistook her caution for a barricade.
The motel has a way of recording history in the margins. There are cigarette burns in sofas, ledger pages damp with forgotten tears, offsets of footsteps in dusty corners. It catalogs the quiet betrayals and small mercies that make up human life. For every person who passed through, the Bates family left a fingerprint—an embroidered piece of pity, a folded towel, a rule bent to leave the night smoother.
When the weather turned too hot, the fan in Room 6 would shudder and throw a different kind of sound into the air; Norman’s voice would split off into others and the house on the hill would exhale like an animal settling down to sleep. Norma would tuck the curtains, counting herself brave in the act of closing—closing against the world, closing to keep her son small and unbroken. But people change like seasons; the act of closing is not always enough to stop the soil from shifting beneath the foundation.
The story is not one of sudden violence or grand revelation. It is one of patience—of small transactions that build a life with seams visible to anyone who looks hard enough. It is about the way two people try to hold one another together when the glue available to them is only instruction and fear. It is about a young man learning the languages of other people so he can speak to them, and a woman shaping a world with rules so she can feel safe.
In the end, the Bates Motel is a ledger of all the things not said. Its rooms keep secret the footprints of the passing and the staying. It remembers, in the press of its upholstery and the whine of its neon, the small kindnesses that do not appear in any receipt. Norman keeps his friends in the privacy of his mirror and in the anonymity of the ledger. Norma keeps hers in the book of rules and folded linens.
They love each other in the only way they know how: Norma in the maintenance of order, Norman in the collection of other people’s stories. Both are forms of preservation, both of which try—and fail—to make human complexity into tidy rows. Outside, the highway runs on, and inside, the television hums on a station that only static seems to remember. The sign above the motel flickers like a watchful eye, and somewhere, against the small theatre of the world, people cross thresholds and leave pieces of themselves behind.
In the hush after midnight, Norman would sometimes stand at the office window and watch a dark silhouette pass the neon sign like a ghost. He would imagine the life of that silhouette—its pleasures, its missteps—and he would feel the soft throb of kinship. He would smooth the ledger’s pages and, in the almost-silence of doing so, he would hear his mother moving above him like a promise that is also a rule. The house on the hill would keep watch, and the motel would record each passing as if it were a small sacred text.
If there is a lesson here, it is not in a single dramatic moment but in the slow accrual of small acts—the making of beds, the folding of towels, the giving of a cup of coffee. The motel is not merely a place; it is a way of looking, a taxonomy of kindness and fear. Norman and Norma are not monsters or saints; they are people kept honest by the limits and the habits they inherit. They live in a place that accepts them without high demands, and yet asks everything in the price of loneliness.
The neon sign buzzed as dawn edged the sky, and Norman closed the ledger with a soft hand. He tidied the pencils in the tray, aligned the forms, and set the key for the empty room in its place. Upstairs, Norma smoothed the sheet she had tucked under the mattress. Both of them performed the rituals that made their world tolerable. Both of them hoped, in the way people hope—quietly, insistently—that the next arrival might be the one who would knit the margins back together.
Bates Motel series premiere, "First You Dream, Then You Die," establishes a modern-day prequel to
, highlighting the intense, dysfunctional relationship between Norma and Norman Bates after moving to Oregon. The episode centers on the duo covering up the murder of the motel's former owner, a pivotal event that binds them through a shared, dark secret. For a detailed breakdown of the episode, read the recap on
The text "bates motel s01e01 hdtv x264-2hd eztv exclusive" refers to the high-definition digital release of the series premiere of Bates Motel, titled "First You Dream, Then You Die," which originally aired on March 18, 2013, on the A&E Network. Episode Overview: "First You Dream, Then You Die"
The series serves as a "contemporary prequel" to Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 classic Psycho, resetting the origin of Norman Bates in a modern-day environment.
The Premise: Following the sudden and bloody death of her husband, Norma Bates (played by Vera Farmiga) purchases a foreclosed motel in the coastal town of White Pine Bay, Oregon, to start a new life with her 17-year-old son, Norman (Freddie Highmore). Key Plot Points:
The Conflict: The Bateses are immediately met with hostility from Keith Summers, the previous owner whose family held the property for generations.
The Turning Point: After Summers violently attacks Norma, she kills him in self-defense. Norman helps her dispose of the body, creating a dark, binding secret between them that sets the tone for the entire series.
The Discovery: While exploring the motel, Norman finds a mysterious sketchbook hidden under a carpet, containing disturbing hand-drawn illustrations that hint at the town's darker side. Cast and Creative Team Once you let me know the specific topic and format (e
This guide covers Bates Motel Season 1, Episode 1, titled "First You Dream, Then You Die," including its plot details and an explanation of the specific technical file naming conventions you mentioned. 1. Episode Overview: "First You Dream, Then You Die" Original Air Date: March 18, 2013 on A&E.
Premise: A contemporary prequel to Alfred Hitchcock's 1960 film Psycho, exploring the formative years of Norman Bates and his complicated bond with his mother, Norma. 2. Detailed Plot Summary First You Dream, Then You Die | Bates Motel Wiki | Fandom
I notice you’ve provided a string that appears to reference a specific video file (“Bates Motel” season 1, episode 1, with release group and encoding details). However, you’ve asked to “create a paper.”
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The string "bates motel s01e01 hdtv x264-2hd eztv exclusive" is more than just a sequence of random characters; for many, it represents the digital "fingerprint" of a pivotal moment in modern television history. It marks the precise file naming convention used by release groups when the Bates Motel pilot, "First You Dream, Then You Die," first hit the internet in 2013.
Here is a look back at why this specific episode changed the landscape of psychological horror and how it successfully reimagined a cinematic legend. The Anatomy of the Title: Decoding the "Release"
To understand the significance of this keyword, one must look at the era of its origin.
Bates Motel S01E01: The launch of A&E’s ambitious prequel to Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho.
HDTV x264: The technical standard of the time, signifying a High-Definition rip using the H.264 codec, balancing file size with visual clarity.
2HD / EZTV: References to the legendary release groups and torrent syndicates that dominated the early 2010s digital landscape. A Modern Prequel to a Masterpiece
When A&E announced a contemporary prequel to Psycho, fans were skeptical. How could anyone fill the shoes of Anthony Perkins, or recapture the gothic dread of the original 1960 film?
The pilot episode, "First You Dream, Then You Die," answered these questions immediately. By setting the story in the modern day (complete with iPhones and contemporary fashion) while keeping the Bates family in their 1950s-style home, the show created a "timeless" sense of unease. It wasn't just a reboot; it was a character study. The Powerhouse Duo: Farmiga and Highmore
The success of the first episode—and the entire series—rested on the shoulders of two actors:
Vera Farmiga as Norma Bates: Instead of the screaming, controlling ghost we knew from the films, Farmiga presented Norma as a fierce, deeply flawed, and tragically protective mother. She was magnetic, making the audience sympathize with a woman they knew was doomed.
Freddie Highmore as Norman Bates: Highmore’s performance began with an eerie sweetness. In S01E01, we don't see a monster; we see a socially awkward teenager caught in the orbit of his mother’s intense personality. The Plot of the Pilot
The episode begins with the suspicious death of Norman’s father, leading Norma to buy a derelict motel in White Pine Bay, Oregon, to start a new life. The premiere quickly establishes that the town is just as broken as the Bates family. Between the discovery of a dark sketchbook left by a previous tenant and a violent confrontation that results in the first "Bates" cover-up, the pilot proved that this show was not going to be a slow-burn—it was a visceral thriller. Why It Still Matters
Looking back at the "bates motel s01e01" era, we see the beginning of the "prequel peak" in television. It paved the way for shows like Better Call Saul and Hannibal, proving that you could take iconic cinematic lore and expand it into a multi-season psychological epic.
Whether you watched it live on A&E or found it through the digital channels indicated by those release tags, the first episode of Bates Motel remains a masterclass in building tension and redefining a legend for a new generation.
The text you provided appears to be a filename for a digital copy of the Bates Motel pilot episode, titled " First You Dream, Then You Die
." Originally aired on March 18, 2013, on A&E, this episode serves as a modern-day prequel to Alfred Hitchcock's classic 1960 film Psycho. Episode Summary
After the sudden and mysterious death of her husband, Norma Bates (Vera Farmiga) purchases a foreclosed, rundown motel in the coastal town of White Pine Bay, Oregon, to start a new life with her 17-year-old son, Norman (Freddie Highmore).
Initial Conflict: The former owner, Keith Summers, is furious about the foreclosure and threatens the Bates family.
The Incident: While Norman is attending a party with local high school girls, Summers breaks into the house and rapes Norma. Norman returns in time to knock Summers out, after which Norma stabs Summers to death.
The Cover-up: Fearing they won't be believed, they decide to dispose of the body in the local harbor rather than call the police.
Town Secrets: The episode ends with the local Sheriff, Alex Romero, and Deputy Zack Shelby visiting the motel, while Norman discovers a disturbing sketchbook in one of the rooms, hinting at a darker side to White Pine Bay. Core Cast
Since this review covers the specific HDTV release, it is worth noting the technical presentation.
File Name: Bates.Motel.S01E01.HDTV.x264-2HD.mp4 Runtime: 41:23 Resolution: 720p