#every interview has to be a repartee....

[erikkarlsson]

erik karlsson post-game interview 1.18.23

[rudranshsinha]

Laughter Unleashed: The Kapil Sharma Show – A Comedic Extravaganza That Resonates Across Generations

In the vast landscape of Indian television, one show stands out as a beacon of laughter, entertainment, and sheer joy – "The Kapil Sharma Show." This blog aims to dive into the heart of this comedic extravaganza, exploring its origins, its unparalleled success, and the timeless charm that has made it a household favorite across generations.

Genesis of Giggles:

The Kapil Sharma Show made its debut in 2016, marking the return of the beloved comedian Kapil Sharma to the small screen after the immensely popular "Comedy Nights with Kapil." With a new format and an ensemble cast, the show promised to bring forth a fresh wave of laughter and entertainment, and it did not disappoint.

The Ensemble Cast:

At the heart of the show's success is its exceptional ensemble cast. Kapil Sharma leads the pack with his impeccable comic timing, wit, and the unique ability to connect with his audience. The supporting cast, including standout performers like Kiku Sharda, Chandan Prabhakar, and Sumona Chakravarti, complements Kapil's humor, creating a comedic symphony that resonates with viewers.

Celebrity Banter and Beyond:

What sets The Kapil Sharma Show apart is its format, which seamlessly blends celebrity interviews with gut-busting comedy sketches. Celebrities from various walks of life grace the stage, engaging in witty banter with Kapil and his team. This mix of humor and candid conversations creates an atmosphere of spontaneity, making each episode a delightful surprise.

Kapil Sharma's Unique Brand of Comedy:

Kapil Sharma's comedic style is a perfect amalgamation of observational humor, quick repartees, and an innate ability to find humor in everyday situations. His interactions with the audience, spontaneous one-liners, and the way he effortlessly incorporates current events into his jokes contribute to the universal appeal of his brand of comedy.

Recurring Characters and Iconic Sketches:

"The Kapil Sharma Show" introduces viewers to a host of recurring characters, each bringing their own flavor of humor to the table. From the boisterous Bachcha Yadav to the affable Bumper, these characters have become iconic and are eagerly anticipated by fans in every episode. The show's success is also attributed to its ability to create sketches that leave a lasting impression, becoming a part of popular culture.

Kapil's Endearing Bond with Celebrities:

While the laughter is at the forefront, what makes the show truly special is the camaraderie Kapil Sharma shares with his celebrity guests. The atmosphere on the set feels less like an interview and more like a gathering of friends sharing anecdotes and laughter. This unique bond has made "The Kapil Sharma Show" a preferred platform for celebrities to promote their projects.

The Healing Power of Laughter:

In a world filled with stress and uncertainties, "The Kapil Sharma Show" emerges as a therapeutic escape. The healing power of laughter is evident as families gather around their television screens, forgetting their worries for a while and indulging in pure, unadulterated mirth. The show's ability to bring smiles to faces is a testament to the universal language of laughter.

Impact on Pop Culture:

"The Kapil Sharma Show" has etched itself into the annals of pop culture. Dialogues from the show have become catchphrases, and the characters have found a place in the hearts of millions. Whether it's the "Babaji ka thullu" gesture or the quirky antics of Dr. Mashoor Gulati, the show has left an indelible mark on the cultural landscape of Indian entertainment.

Challenges and Comebacks:

Like any long-running show, "The Kapil Sharma Show" has faced its share of challenges. From temporary hiatuses to changes in the cast, the journey has had its ups and downs. However, what stands out is Kapil Sharma's resilience and his ability to bounce back, reaffirming the show's popularity.

Beyond the Laughter:

While the primary focus is on humor, "The Kapil Sharma Show" occasionally delves into more profound narratives. Heartwarming stories, messages of unity, and social commentary are seamlessly woven into the comedic fabric, adding layers of depth that resonate with viewers on a more emotional level.

Conclusion:

In a world where laughter is a precious commodity, "The Kapil Sharma Show" emerges as a lighthouse, guiding viewers through the tumultuous seas of life with its infectious humor and timeless appeal. It's not just a show; it's a cultural phenomenon that transcends generations, bringing families together and creating a shared tapestry of joy. As long as the world needs a good laugh, Kapil Sharma and his team will continue to weave the magic of laughter, ensuring that "The Kapil Sharma Show" remains an eternal source of happiness in the hearts of its audience. The stage is set, the laughter echoes, and the show goes on.

[eyoricka]

Pete’s assistant - Pete Davidson

Words: 2160

Warning: 2 curse words

Requested: yes

You had been Pete’s assistant for many years now. You had begun as an intern at NBC and that’s how you met Pete. The two of you immediately clicked, there was like a strange bond between you like you always knew each other or were meant to meet, to work together. So at the end of your internship, Pete asked you if you wanted to be his assistant, to help him with pretty much everything. He wasn’t famous enough to really have a publicist, so you also fill up this role. It was funny at first. Pete was nice to you, never asking for anything impossible to get. Contrary to many other celebs with their assistant, he treated you like his equal. Planning interviews was something you enjoyed, he was mostly in some presented by his friends, so it was pretty chill, and you learnt so much. You let Pete took charge of his social media presence, he was more than okay at it, was natural and able to create a connection with his fans.

However, at some point everything changed. Pete got way bigger, he was famous like really famous, not just known by SNL and stand-ups afficionados.  Things got out of hand quickly. You still liked to work for Pete, he was still adorable to you but handling negative comments, the infamous song about him, people reactions and the repercussions on his mental health was a nightmare. You had too much to think about: to make sure he was feeling okay or at least not too bad, to make sure he would sleep, eat, not take too much drugs, go to work, go outside, try to stop the continuous harassment… Pete hired a publicist to take some weight out of your shoulders and have someone who would focus only on his impacted public image. Even though, Pete was probably at rock bottom, it was nice to see that he would still be kind to you, trying to smile a bit when you were ding your best to cheer him up.

And this is how the problems began for you. You knew the rule number one of any assistant: never fall for your boss. But you couldn’t help it. You had always loved his personality however you never considered having feelings for him. However, seeing him hurt, fragile but still caring about his close circle, still trying his best everyday for people he loved, still being nice when he could easily be an ass and take the heartbreak as an excuse, was enough to make you acknowledged that maybe you wanted to be more than a friend to him.

You decided to keep your emotions for yourself. You didn’t want to make a fool of yourself or lose your job and friend for feelings that would never be reciprocated. To forget about them, you went on dates with several people, it was a failure. Every time you could stop yourself from comparing your date with Pete. Even if some people were funny enough, smart enough, kind enough, they were simply not enough. A date with them was pleasant but you couldn’t picture more, and it would be cruel to force a relationship with someone you didn’t have feelings for just to hide your current crush. So after some dates you gave up on the idea of finding someone for the moment and preferred to take time for yourself. As the year went on, you were the witness of Pete’s different and non-working relationships. You were happy for him, truly. He was able to move on which was great and he felt more like himself. But it still hurt to see him get far too involved in relations that were doomed to fail. He was too intense and passionate for his own good. You advised him to follow your example and take time for himself, to love himself and understand what he wanted, needed from a partner. Surprisingly, he did it and it did good on him.

A few months later, you were at a small gathering to celebrate Pete’s Netflix comedy special. The reviews were good, and the audience was following, it was great to watch Pete’s career on track to success, he would finally be recognized for his art. You were talking to Dave about the process of writing when you are down and how cathartic humor is. You glanced distractedly several times in Pete’s direction confident that you were discreet. As your drink was empty, you scanned the room to find the nearest bottle of a beverage you like. Your eyes met Colson’s ones and he grinned mischievously at you. You rose an eyebrow wondering why he looked like a devious elf and quickly manage to appease your thoughts, rationalizing that it was only Colson being his drunk and high self.  

As you made your way to the counter full of bottles to pour you a glass, you felt two hands clapped your shoulders. You turned promptly and faced Colson who was smirking even wider.

“What do you want?” You asked not surprised by his presence but cautious about what he was about to say.

“Well just to chat with a lovely assistant, it has been a while since we haven’t talk.” He replied sweetly, an innocent smile replacing his smirk and you understood fully well why so many girls were crazy about him.

“Cut the crap” You deadpanned, not in the mood for his banter.

“I still wonder why I try to sugarcoat things with you” he mumbled certainly more for himself. After some long seconds of silence, he let out in a charming voice: “Don’t you think that would be the perfect night?”

You weren’t sure of what he was implying. He liked flirting but you seriously doubt that he was since he would never cross that border, maybe he was just bored or wanted to tease you. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer that would fuel his joust.

“You don’t ask me the perfect night for what?” He added kind of amused by your lack of reaction. “Well I will tell you anyway because else it wouldn’t be funny. So my dear don’t you think it would be the perfect night to admit your badly hidden feelings for you know who.”

You gulped at those words. You attempt to come back with a witty, chill repartee that would show that you were diverted by this non-sense and not knowing about what he was talking about, but your mind was blank. You were sure that tonight before sleeping while your mind would replay this scene, you would think of many clever replies.

“Still no answer, I bet that this time it is not for the same reason, right” Colson joked, and you cursed yourself.

“I just don’t understand what you mean” you eventually managed to say, cringing at this lame attempt to act cool.

“Your blushing cheeks and stiff body are telling the opposite” Nice even your own body was now betraying you.

“I get that you are bored Colson and even if it would probably be the funniest thing of your night, I don’t plan on becoming the biggest idiot of the party for your entertainment. I know Pete doesn’t like me and it is okay, you can’t control someone’s feelings and…”

“I hope you realize that you already are the biggest idiot of the night” He cut you “and Pete is too. I can’t get my head around the fact that you are both blind, incapable of seeing the way the other looks at you. Shshshsh don’t reply, don’t want to waste my time on hearing you tell me that I am lying, imagining stuffs, and complaining about my behavior, I‘ve already had this long speech from Pete. You can do whatever you want, go tell him or don’t but just know that you don’t risk much. And don’t count on him to come, he is sure he has no chance. So please have the balls for the both you.” He was about to leave you there with many contradictory thoughts filling your head when he leaned to whisper: “But really please do tell him tonight, I bet some bucks with John that you would be the brave one, don’t prove me wrong.”

You nudged him and he burst out of laughter as you showered him with imaginative curses. You decided to sit few minutes just to take time to reflect. You needed to process what you just heard. If indeed had feelings for you, things would change drastically. You felt yourself slowly but surely drifting into panic. A part of your brain was screaming that it was lies maybe because it was easier to accept than the truth. You had dreamt of this but it was a dream and you weren’t sure that you were ready for that right now. Intrusive thoughts were running in your head defeating your ounce of rationality and calm. One of your hand was clenched on your drink firmly and you closed your eyes while inhaling and exhaling to relax yourself. From the outside you certainly looked crazy but you didn’t care, it didn’t even crossed your mind.

You were so focused on your breath that you didn’t notice someone siting next to you and neither feel this person hand on yours. When you opened your eyes, you detect that you were no longer alone and the person with you was none other than Pete. He softly smiled at you and you felt like dying inside, this smile was enough to make you forget any doubts, anything, to appease. You smiled back at him kindly. He seemed to be struggling to say something and you took the lead.

“I guess that Colson talks to you too, huh?” You questioned, your voice was a bit shaking and you had eaten half of your words however you knew that he had understood you.

“Kind of” he stated and your next words died in your throat, you were losing your confidence. Those tow simple words held a clear message: yes we talk but no I don’t like you. “Actually, John did most of the talking” he joked or at least try to. He was also way to stress to really be funny.

You wanted to say something, to admit what was consuming you inside nevertheless you were scared, you refuse to be too blunt on this. You had to be subtle, to find a way to make him realize but without saying it, so if the feelings were not reciprocal it would not be too awkward.

“Colson mentioned a bet on us” You hid your reddening face behind your drink and casually take a sip or at least as casually as you can considering your current position.

“I heard about it too” His fingers were drumming against his tights in nervousness. “I am kind of bother by it you see.” You nodded, you felt crushed inside, of course he would be bothered, who would not be bothered to be shipped with someone they don’t have feelings for. You did everything you could to remain still and not crack, not now, not in front of him, of his friends. “I don’t really any of them to get this money like I guess I want them to be right, but I don’t like them betting on us”. You blinked several times not sure if you were on the same page. “I am not very clear, I am? Well obviously, I am not, I have never been very clear in those situations. Maybe clearer than now, because now what I am saying is a mess, well normally it is confused but understandable. And I am rambling right now and I don’t even know why. Maybe because it is intimidating, like we know each other for so long and what I am saying is that it is different.”  

He had lost you with his confused sentences, was he trying to reject you or the contrary. You wanted a certain answer, not an interpretation based on a wrong reading of the situation, actually you did not want this answer, you needed it. He was still digressing when you took the courage to interrupt him: “Pete please listen to me okay.” He shut up and looked at you in the eyes, sort of hanging of the words you would pronounce. “I like you Pete and not like I like Ricky or John, I mean not like a friend. Do you understand?”

There were few awfully long seconds of silence before you felt Pete’s forehead against yours and his hands on yours. “Fuck, you are a lot better at verbalizing this than I am” He smiled brightly, he was so beautiful when he was happy. “Can I kiss you?” He asked still quite unsure and you gently pressed your lips against his. It was a short and sweet kiss, the kind that promise wonderful tomorrows full of love, full of life.

[gayenerd]

An interview with Mike when Warning came out that I don’t even have a source for - sorry!

Laughing Off a "Warning" With Green Day 

Bassist Mike Dirnt's green thumb, punk perspective and personal dominatrix 

If Mike Dirnt wasn't in one of the most enduring and influential punk bands making the scene, the Green Day bassist could easily be a hilarious stand-up comic. Instead, he's devoting his insightful social commentary laced with witty repartee to the business (and funny business) at hand -- the band's sixth studio album, Warning. While Green Day's Nimrod and (especially) Dookie humor doesn't seep through in this seemingly ominous album title, it may be because these Bay Area hooligans -- Billie Joe Armstrong (vocals, guitar), Tre Cool (drums, percussion) and Dirnt -- have accepted and submitted to certain rites of passage other than platinum-selling discs. But it's definitely not as ominous as all that. We bantered with Dirnt to gauge the barometer of Warning, life as a prankster punk and his bid for world domination as Armstrong's presidential running mate. What would you like to talk about? Probably not myself (laughs). … It gets you so self-involved and self-absorbed, [that] it makes it difficult to change your perspective for an hour or two after you're done doing interviews. It's not so much narcissistic as it is dwelling. It's like being on tour and coming back and decompressing and acclimating to your home life again, because your surroundings are all about you, you, you for so long, that you need to stop and go home and realize, 'Hey, wait a minute. Other people aren't asking for a lot. I'm probably just self-absorbed still, and being an assh*le for a while and don't realize it.' And you need to take a breath and go, 'OK, how can I focus on the smaller things in my life, like getting up in the morning and making my girlfriend coffee? Or making my daughter breakfast.' And taking the focus off yourself for awhile. I think that's important. 

What's fun to talk about? I'm growing a huge pot plant in my back yard right now. My friend gave me this pot plant and I just left it in the window and left the light on it forever, and it grew and grew and grew, and got pretty big. So then I put it in my backyard just to see what would happen, and I came home and it's f*cking enormous! (Laughs) It's of the superskunk variety. It is nasty. Pretty cool. [My friend] is very proud of me. He said, 'Wow, Mike, that's beyond a plant -- that's a crime.' I smoke pot once a month. I take one hit. So I'm gonna give it all to friends.

No "jurassic monkeys" [joints] for you? Not this year.

Any special reason? Three months before my daughter was even conceived, I stopped smokin' pot and I stopped for about a year and a half, just to clean up my act. After that, it's never been the same. I haven't smoked as much pot ever since. I would hate to think that if she needed me, I was impaired by weed.

Warning seems to have been shrouded in a huge amount of secrecy and I have my theories as to why, but I'm hoping you could provide some perspective. We took a break so as not to hate what we do. We really toured the heck out of the last record [Nimrod] for about 238 shows, and we were like, 'OK, it's time to take a real break -- for once.' And instead of writing in the fashion of, 'OK, let's go in and write the next record and pound it out and pound it out' … [for] the last record we wrote about 40-some songs and then let the songs pop out and figure out what the record was from that … [this time] songs stood out on their own and we said, 'OK, this is the album' … Billie waited for inspired moments. And as a band, we practiced when it was working, and we only worked on the songs that already inspired us … instead of forcing it. We had about 14 or 15 songs, and we were like, 'We're totally ready.' And it was pretty obvious at the time which 12 songs were gonna be on the record. There's the dealio. (Laughs) … As far as the secrecy thing, we will sell no wine until its time. [But] go on Napster and check out a couple songs. (Laughs) I know they're there.

What is your point of view on Napster? I think it's gonna work itself out. Everyone keeps sayin', 'What's the deal?' I don't believe their schtick about 'Hey, we started doing this for poor college students and blah-blah-blah.' Well, first of all, if you can afford to go to college, [and if] you can afford a computer that can actually burn a f*ckin' CD and you can afford to pay the online bill, then you're probably not starvin', OK? When I was goin' to junior college, I was worryin' about where my next packet of Top Ramen was comin' from, OK? So, I don't wanna hear that. But do I think [Napster] is all evil? No. There's definitely two sides to it. I make comp tapes at home (granted, they're albums I've purchased). But when I was a kid, I would buy tapes at the flea market. When you're a kid, the only thing you can afford at the flea market is a tape or a pair of sunglasses. I don't think bands should be made to look evil just because they don't wanna be a grasshopper (hence, The Ant and the Grasshopper [fable]). The other side of that is people don't wanna purchase the record (laughs). I'm not gonna dwell on it. It might hurt you if you've only got one hit [on an album]. [But] we definitely have a full package.

How does Warning differ from your past efforts? I think this record definitely has an overtone of independence throughout the whole thing. I think that we've overcome a lot of adversity. We produced this record ourselves and it has a sense of honesty…. There's an overtone of hope to the whole record that says, 'It's up to you to choose to have hope.' And whether or not most people in the world want to admit that they want hope for their world … they do. If you really don't want any hope, well I have friends who didn't want any hope and they killed themselves.

What are some of the adversities that Green Day has managed to overcome? Everybody thinking, 'Here we are today, gone tomorrow.' Friends [thinking], 'They're becoming huge as a band,' and all of the family turmoil, friend turmoil. … I think the adversity is also that this is a Green Day-quality record. Every song on this record is good. And people giving up on rock-and-roll and punk rock ... [We're] being honest with ourselves and remaining who we are and what we are.

And with regards to remaining who you are and what you are, the band caught a lot of sh*t for "Time of Your Life" because.... … it was such a good song. (Laughs) It's funny, because the people who gave us sh*t about that … obviously hadn't heard our first two records [1039/Smoothed Out Slappy Hour and Kerplunk]. Songs like 'Words I Might Have Ate' from Kerplunk and 'Rest' on 39/Smooth [have] touched on -- what can I say? -- our sensitive side. If you reach into your vulnerable side and you bleed on the plate for people, I think that takes a lot more balls than to just go out there a scream your head off and call it punk rock. Punk rock means no limits, no rules and breaking rules -- to us -- and there's a lot of punk rock on this new record. And if you think punk rock is just distorted guitars and hair-dos, you got another thing comin'. You need to listen to "Minority" and "Warning" [both from Warning].

Then can we look forward to songs like "Time of Your Life" and "Words I Might Have Ate" on Warning? No. (Laughs) There's definitely a sense of hope in some of these songs, but it's from a different perspective of where we're at this point in our lives. I'll give you an example: 'Minority.' That's a song about how … my next door neighbor's mom has a nose ring and my other next door neighbor is a jock with green hair. Everybody wants to look different and be different and act different, but ultimately, nowadays, you need to look inside yourself and find your individuality. With 'Minority,' everything has its suit -- its uniform. It's up to you inside to break the mold. With 'Warning,' that's a song about questioning everything. There's this false sense of freedom we have in the United States. There's all these signs tellin' you, 'Don't do this' and 'Don't do that,' and you just gotta read between the lines and figure out, 'What are those things really sayin'? Is it for someone else's convenience that I'm told to not go here, or that I can't do this or that? Or is it because it's really dangerous?'

Green Day traditionally has been trailed by a lot of controversy. What are some of your favorite controversies? It's weird. There are a lot of controversies, but it's a matter of how close to home you take 'em. Obviously, [there's the] whole sell-out thing, and I'm so over that. If selling out is compromising your musical intentions, I don't even know what that means. I guess that's a big one. (Laughs) At one point in my life it was -- now I'm over it. And I think most people are, too. Every time you spend a dollar, you're making that sell-out statement and casting a vote. Like, 'You're gonna slam me for being on a major label, and yet you smoke cigarettes? OK. (Laughs) Your shoe's on backwards, buddy.' Maybe you dug that controversy when Tre [Cool, drummer] climbed the Universal Studios globe after the MTV Video Music Awards. That was my idea. I'm so accident-prone, that I would have fallen off and broke my neck, so Tre did it. (Laughs) I said, 'Why don't you climb that?' and Tre's running up and down and I'm like, 'Good man.' Tre's got balls bigger than that globe, anyway. You gotta let the [music] industry know who's runnin' it -- and that's the artists. What our album is to a lot of people is a product. What our album is to us is our child. And often, when we turn a record over to the record company, when we finish it, it's like handing your child to a nurse after she was born -- all bloody, a purple tail, ready to go. (Laughs)

Have you settled the score on your past "disagreement" with Third Eye Blind? I really don't think anybody can mistake a kiwi for a banana. Third Eye Blind -- that whole thing. I was probably off the hook; I shouldn't have been fighting in the first place [backstage at a festival concert] and whoever hit me [over the head] with a bottle from behind was a f*ckin' coward. I shouldn't have been fightin' and they shouldn't have been fightin', and that's what boys do. To quote Eminem, 'Tomorrow we'll be boys again.' (Laughs)

Since Billie Joe is campaigning for president and you're his vice presidential running mate [and Tre is the ugly wife], what are you gonna do to keep him in line? Oh, he's a lame duck from the get-go. I'll be runnin' sh*t. (Laughs) I'll start out by lowering the price of alcohol and cigarettes, and shortly thereafter, we should take the 'explicit language' stickers off of albums, so f*ck Tipper Gore. I just think kids should be able to buy [the Clash's] London Calling. What kind of crap is that? That was a controversial record that got the explicit lyrics [campaign rolling]. It's the line, 'He who f*cks the nuns/Will later join the church.'

It was extremely magnanimous of Green Day to bring in dominatrix Mistress Simone for Warning's engineer Tone. Are we, then, to believe that the band didn't get spankings all around? Oh, no. I receive my floggings in the privacy of my own home. Under the watchful eye [and sure hand] of my gal. My girlfriend wouldn't have it. [My girlfriend's called] Mistress Sarah.

Where are you guys with the horror film you were planning, and have you signed Gwen Stefani yet? I think we got so involved in the new record that it became more important than anything else. I think we've decided to follow through on our own script that we've been working on, which is a much better script. Except that if I told you any more, I'd have to kill you.

[vex-bittys]

Flufftober 2020: Day Three

Prompt: College/University AU

Pairing: SpicyHoney

Category: Romantic

----------

Stretch walked into his Human Cultural Studies classroom on his first day of college and nearly turned around and walked right back out again. Of course his brother had criticized him about his decision to delay college for a few years… and then a few years more, but he never imagined that he’d put off his education long enough that a childhood friend (and unrequited high school crush) would end up being his professor.

Obviously, Edge considered his education and career a priority and had focused on it immediately following their high school graduation. It didn’t surprise Stretch. He admired the goal-driven skeleton for his ambition and tenacity, the very same attributes that made scoring a date with the other skeleton extremely unlikely for a dedicated ne’er-do-well like himself. As if to underscore this fact, Edge scowled at him the moment he slouched into the classroom and sank into a seat in the back of the room.

The scowl maintained its position on Edge’s angular features as the skeleton professor prowled through the room, handing each student a hefty course syllabus. When he arrived at Stretch’s seat, the scowl transformed into a smirk. Stretch reached for the syllabus, and Edge yanked it away, holding it just out of his reach.

“NICE TO SEE THAT YOUR MODUS OPERANDI OF PROCRASTINATION AND LAZINESS HAS SUBSIDED, CARROT,” Edge said, voice pitched low so that only Stretch could hear his words. Stretch could see that Edge’s tongue was still as sharp as his cheekbones, but he loved antagonistic repartee. 

“wrong as ever, Edgy McEdgelord. i intend to procrastinate lazily throughout my entire indenture as a student here until i receive a degree that i will never use as i pursue my preferred career of wasting my life entirely through inactivity,” quipped Stretch, loudly enough for the other students to overhear. Several of his classmates tittered, but Edge just gave him a slow, knowing smile.

“GOOD LUCK TRYING TO PASS MY CLASS THEN.” He slammed the syllabus down on the tabletop in front of Stretch and stalked off with his usual grace, though his usual grace involved a hip sway that Stretch couldn’t help staring at.

It was going to be a long semester.

The first near-perfect test score might have been a fluke, but the next few established a pattern that Edge couldn’t deny. He stood next to Stretch’s usual seat near the door, shuffling through mediocre and abysmal papers to present the highest score in the class to the student that he had expected to do the worst. Secretly, though, the grumpy skeleton professor was proud of Stretch for applying himself and showing off the intelligence that few knew he possessed.

“TOP SCORE AGAIN, CARROT. AT LEAST SOMEONE IN THIS CLASS IS PAYING ATTENTION.” He actually handed the paper with its marked absence of red ink to Stretch instead of tossing it down onto the table as he so often did.

“when you’re up front lecturing, i just can’t look away,” Stretch admitted honestly. His SOUL ached, feelings that he thought had been laid to rest long ago stirring again any time the professor so much as glanced his way with those dangerous red eyelights. “to be honest, though, i’m surprised you remembered me that first day. i didn’t think you ever noticed me in high school.” Stretch winced at his own babbling.

“OF COURSE I REMEMBER YOU. HOW COULD I FORGET SUCH A-” Edge closed his mouth abruptly, scrambling for a word to replace “handsome” and change the tone of the sentence “- SUCH AN UNRELENTING SLACKER.” Edge lifted the other students’ test results to cover his blush and hurried back to his own desk.

It was going to be a long semester.

By the time the course ended, the tension between the two skeletons had only gotten stronger. Edge avoided Stretch like a highly contagious plague, and Stretch’s notebook contained more sketches of his professor than lecture notes. The end of the class should’ve been the end of the awkward teacher-student interactions, but Stretch couldn’t help checking the online course list for more classes taught by his rekindled crush.

Stretch’s eyelights scoured the classroom for any sign of seating and found none. Perplexed, he watched Edge stroll into the classroom, wearing something that definitely was not his usual tailored shirt, tie, and slacks. To Stretch’s untrained fashion eye(socket), the outfit resembled pajamas- something Stretch might wear on the first day of class, but Edge would never leave his house in under normal circumstances.

Stretch hid his confusion by calling out a question as Edge strode past him. “what am i in for this semester, Edgelord? philosophy of ancient civilizations? monster-human history and politics?” Stretch had picked a more advanced course, looking for a challenge… and another chance to impress the other skeleton.

“THIS IS ADVANCED JUDO,” Edge stated flatly. 

For once, Stretch had no response, and a wide smile crept across Edge’s features when he realized that he had the upper hand. Moving as swiftly as a striking cobra, Edge grabbed Stretch, spun, leaned, and tossed the slacker over his shoulder and onto the mat. Stretch laid on his back on the ground with an audible “oof,” completely stunned and just a little bit in love. 

“nice pajamas,” he wheezed.

“IT’S A JUDO GI,” sniffed Edge loftily, staring down at his student. “I AM GUESSING THAT YOU SIGNED UP FOR THIS CLASS SO THAT YOU COULD SPEND YOUR TIME LOLLYGAGGING AND BEING UNCONSCIOUS ON THE FLOOR, BUT I AM HERE TO TEACH YOU. NOW GET UP.”

Edge offered Stretch his hand. Not suspecting any foul play, Stretch tried not to blush when their hands touched. Edge tugged Stretch upwards, then dropped backwards, falling to his back and using one leg to propel Stretch over his body and onto the mat behind him.

It was going to be a long semester… but Stretch kind of liked it.

The moment enrollment opened after the summer break, Stretch sat at his computer, scrolling through a list of professors to see which classes were available from Edge. He considered filling his entire semester exclusively with those classes, but he needed to work his way through the recommended curriculum if he actually wanted a degree and not just a chance to stare longingly at a handsome skeleton professor.

“is this advanced judo 2?” Stretch asked, a picture of innocence as he sank gratefully into a chair at the back of the classroom. Edge paused midway through writing a lesson outline on the whiteboard.

“NO. THIS IS PHILOSOPHY OF ANCIENT CIVILIZATIONS, THOUGH I’M NOT ABOVE PUNCTUATING MY LECTURES WITH JUDO FLIPS IF YOU’D PREFER THAT METHOD OF LEARNING.” The writing resumed.

The judo flips proved to be unnecessary; Stretch aced the course as easily as he’d aced the others. The lanky skeleton was a single semester away from an Associate’s Degree with a sterling 4.0 grade point average and the acclamation of every professor and department head that he encountered. His chosen degree entailed English credits, though, and Stretch could no longer put them off. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that Edge led the English department and handled all of the high level courses personally. 

Basic English and literature classes filled quickly, but the high level classes required Edge’s personal stamp of approval for any student who dared to request them. Stretch submitted his course schedule online, and Edge invited him for an interview the very next day. This would be a one-on-one meeting in Edge’s office, and Stretch found himself uncharacteristically nervous at the thought of facing Edge alone.

Stretch knocked on the door to the English administrative office, and when Edge called for him to enter, he did so with an attempt at his trademark humor.

“is this the Doki Doki Literature Club?” he asked, stepping into Edge’s unsurprisingly spartan workspace.

“I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT IS,” Edge answered drily, “AND I SUGGEST YOU ACTUALLY READ YOUR COURSE DESCRIPTIONS IN THE FUTURE. NOW HAVE A SEAT, OR WOULD YOU RATHER CONDUCT OUR MEETING FROM YOUR BACK ON THE FLOOR.”

Stretch pretended to consider the offer, and Edge stood up and reached for him across the desk as if to grab him for a flip. His face moved close to Stretch’s, and without thinking, the lazybones leaned forward and kissed him.

Startled, Edge kissed back, taking far too long to shove the other skeleton away. “SUCH BEHAVIOR IS INAPPROPRIATE BETWEEN TEACHERS AND STUDENTS,” he rasped, shaken, and Stretch, face flaming with an orange blush, fled the office and the campus. Edge regretted his severity immediately, but immediately was too late.

Taking any English classes at the college would now be impossible for Stretch. The conflict of interest could cost Edge his career as a professor. Edge had rejected him anyway; seeing him on campus would hurt too much.

The counselor, unaware of Stretch’s reason for dropping out of college in his final semester, argued for him to stay. Stretch refused. Dropping out of college seemed fitting for someone with such slothful habits. The only thing he truly regretted was running away without telling Edge how he felt. Hood pulled over his lowered head, Stretch left campus for the last time…

… and bumped into someone carrying a box full of odds and ends.

“WATCH OU- CARROT?”

“professor?”

“WHY AREN’T YOU IN CLASS?”

“i dropped out. i didn’t want you to risk your job…”

“I QUIT MY JOB,” said Edge. “I DIDN’T WANT YOU TO DROP OUT IF…”

“if?”

“IF WE STARTED DATING.”

The two skeletons stared at each other. Edge had already resigned. Stretch had already dropped out. The staring continued until Stretch broke the silence.

“soooo, boyfriends then?”

Edge let out a long-suffering sigh. “YES. BOYFRIENDS.”

READ ON AO3

DAY TWO | INDEX | DAY FOUR

[tvwriteups]

ESC SF2

Going to add those “read more” breaks when I can edit this on a computer.

[EDIT]

San Marino Totally feels like something you’d see on an awards show but with tons of pyro. Maybe the most polished entry from San Marino. Taking advantage of the pre-recorded backing vocals.

Estonia This is boring. I’m not an anti-ballad person, BTW. I don’t like video inserts.

Czech Republic It’s like everything I hated about this song got hidden. I still don’t like the song though.

Greece Not fond of these types of presentations. Also, I missed a lot of this because my living room is doubling as someone else’s office right now so I’m a little bit pissed off.

Austria I know this guy’s had a rough year. This song is appropriately sad. A lot better live.

Poland Oh, one of those throwback retro songs. Another song that seems to be taking advantage of prerecorded backing vocals. Very mid-80s sound with early 90s aesthetic. Just sort of the same thing over and over though.

Moldova More of this aesthetic — like a lot of the staging has been inspired by screensavers. Fun but blending in.

Iceland Poor pre-recorded iceland. Every ESC fan weeping or mad. Hmm... hmm... There’s a part of me that suspects that iceland would win just because of Dadi’s Internet coolness factor but they’re totally legit as is.

Serbia Nice, singing in their own language. It’s not just them but I’m not a fan of a lot of the black costumes this year. Pretty good for just the three of them and some wind machines. Lots of energy.

Georgia Feels like a mood song on an independent movie that plays during the movie. He sounds out of tune in parts, unfortunately. I mean, he’s probably not getting out of this semi but I actually like it.

Albania Singing in their own language! Weird to get solo singers in row with totally different songs.

Portugal Taking throwback very seriously. B&W and a 3:4 ratio. It could be the drugs I’m on but everything is working for me today so far. I’m really digging that light screen. Wow, that song went fast...which I was not expecting from Portugal.

Helena Paparizou interview.

Bulgaria This is very well put together. Is she singing the right words though? (I’ve only heard this song once before today.)

Finland Ahhhh, very welcome change of pace here with rock. Seems like the purpose of this song is just to be very loud and use a lot of pyro.

Latvia More pagan/witchy stuff! Totally not my jam though. I like that they’re not dressed in head-to-toe black. You know, this song feels like you took a bunch of the other songs, shoved them in a blender, and funkified it.

Switzerland I’d have staged that differently. As in “simpler.” Because the vocals do a lot of the work. It’s like throwing something on top of the vocals that you don’t need.

Denmark Back to the 80s. Eurovision of the 80s. I mean, wasn’t it the last time the Dutch won? Could play it off as a tribute to the last time the Dutch hosted or something. Their energies are different. Not sure if that’s on purpose. And then it feels very repetitive in the last 30.

Only really concerned about Iceland getting through. Won’t feel like I’ll suffer during the Grand Final if any of my least favorites make it through (but would probably consider them for a snack or bathroom break).

Maybe I’m just very happy to have the ESC back that I’m not as critical.

I’m not really an interpretative dance person. AND THERE IS THE DUTCH TRIBUTE TO BICYCLES! LOL

I don’t have the ESC app currently installed at this moment but will for the GF so I could get the background info and find out what the lyrics are for some of these songs.

Oh, “In Your Eyes.” I’m just all “Better the Devil.”

I guess we know which former winners will be performing on Saturday.

Not sure about this particular ESC Tutorial.

Oh, awkward delegation repartee! Actually, not awkward by ESC standards.

France No one could dispute that that’s the French song.

UK I always feel like I have to judge the UK as if they were a Sweden. Like “How well would this song do if Sweden sent it?”

Spain Ahhhhhhh. Hmm, last year’s song was better. Not like Spain knows how to stage a song.

“Martin Osterdahl” is not as fun to say as “Jon Ola Sand.”

Albania (good on you singing in your own language), Serbia (same), Bulgaria, Moldova, Portugal!!!, Iceland (most obs!), San Marino, Switzerland, Greece (I always wonder about them when Cyprus isn’t in the same SF), Finland (which I expected).

I think the other SF might have been more interesting but this one was good too.

I will be shocked if Italy, Iceland and Ukraine don’t make the Top 5 on Saturday. I also will rage if somehow Sweden ends up with the most jury votes again.

[blackhavilliard]

Modern Manorian AU - Royals Magazine - Feature: Dorian Havilliard

And Dorian’s feaure is finally here! Hope you all enjoy it. Manon’s feature is coming afterwards and I’m soooo excited for that ;D

Includes full interview under the cut. Read on AO3 here.

Tagging: @rufousnmacska​, @heir2chaos​ and @gimmedafood​ (to say thank you for your comment!) Let me know if you want to be included or you can also subscribe on AO3 too :)

In the midst of a geopolitical crisis that had threatened the existence of the realm of Erilea stood a young king bent, broken but unbowed as he raced against time to thwart the enemy that has long kept his father's kingdom and now his own in its shadows. Now, years after the passing of the storm, King Dorian Havilliard II finds himself in reflection of the years lost and the years found as he governs Adarlan in stride.

Since the first appearance of the then heir apparent on the tabloids of the Rifthold Journal in a splendid attire fit for the handsome royal, it was a lascivious rumour of the young prince’s escapades inside the glass palace that permanently marked Dorian as that of an aristocratic hedonist whose existence lived off the extravagance and luxuries of the wealthy, knowing that he could absolutely get away with it.

While Dorian played the game of pomp and distraction amongst celebrity A-listers, prime ministers, and the one percent, a sinister plot by political conspirators had slowly been brewing – the overthrow of the Havilliard bloodline that has governed Adarlan for a thousand generations.

In the highest tower of Rifthold Palace is where Dorian prefers to spend his time perched on a deep-red velvet armchair sipping on a cold glass of what looked to be a fruity beverage as he pores over the latest fiction novel – a pleasure he shares with his dear friend, Queen Aelin of Terrasen. Their shared bookshelf, The Royal Fleetfoot Bookclub (named after Aelin’s beloved golden retriever, a present from the king one Yulemas) is Erilea’s most popular Book Club. And decidedly so.

Dorian’s misplaced faith on his father, then King Dorian Havilliard I, had been his constant companion after his untimely death that led to Dorian’s premature appointment as sovereign. But as the war raged on between the countries of Erilea, the formalities accustomed to a monarch were lost, which ultimately led to Dorian’s displacement from Adarlan. The young king was lost, angry, and untethered as he navigated the political landscape alongside his powerful friends: Queen Aelin of Terrasen, Lord Rowan of Doranelle, Queen Manon of the Wastes, and his closest friend and confidante, Lord Westfall, whom he sent as an envoy to the Khaganate in the Southern Continent. Dorian became known as The King Without a Crown.

Dorian ushers me to a leathered couch next to an occasional table where he pours a cup of brewed tea. He asks if I’d be interested in something stronger and I decline. He winks, a promise of our eventual liquored celebration after the successful sit-down.

King Dorian is charming, refined and a proud intellectual with a taste of an epicurean. Delegates from all over Erilea would comment on the king’s graceful charisma as he fulfilled his role of a sovereign in all its stringent social specifications. It’s as if the dark years of his early adulthood never existed when you’re in his presence. Dorian is adored by the masses and the politicians alike, and it isn’t hard to see why.

While we share a few niceties – he’s become quite a dear friend over the years – you can’t miss the way his sapphire eyes would steal longing glances out the open balcony. One can observe that it overlooks Rifthold Palace’s private airstrip, and soon everything makes more sense.

King Dorian’s wife Queen Manon Blackbeak rules from her kingdom in the Western Wastes, a two-hour plane ride from the Adarlan capital. After settling into their roles as respective monarchs of their kingdoms, the pair continued their relationship, much to delight of the common people, who were far too enamoured by their relationship for it to be considered healthy. No surprises there though. They’re really that pairing that’s pretty much straight out of a YA fantasy novel with their unbelievable good looks, seemingly opposite yet highly complementary personalities and the kind of sexual tension you could only dream of.

Nonetheless, despite the distance and their responsibilities, no one can deny just how smitten the king is of his wife. He assures me, in his usual playful charm, that she’s most likely missing him more than he is. I laugh. Even he doesn’t believe his own lie.

He makes himself comfortable, draping his suit jacket on the back of his armchair as he settles down and shows off his polished Derbys almost as if he’d like to take them off.

LYSANDRA: Should we both take our shoes off? I think we should both take our shoes off.

DORIAN: I thought you’d never ask!

LYSANDRA: I may not be born royal, Your Majesty, but I do know when someone just wants to let loose.

DORIAN: Gods, I want to let loose all the time. Do you think they’ll conspire against me if I do?

LYSANDRA: Judging from your friends in all the high and right places, I’d say there’s a higher chance of Aelin breathing ice than that happening. And even if they tried, I’m sure no one would get past Manon Blackbeak’s wrath.

DORIAN: She’s terrifying, isn’t she?

LYSANDRA: You don’t sound scared of the fact.

DORIAN: Are you scared of your husband, Lady Lysandra?

LYSANDRA: He’s a soft little mushy bear.

DORIAN: Exactly my description of Manon.

LYSANDRA: I really have to ask – for me, for Rowan and for your rabid fans. How did you convince the High Queen of the Witches to get married? Was it ever in the books for you two?

DORIAN: It wasn’t so much as my convincing her as her convincing me.

LYSANDRA: Oh, please.

DORIAN: You’d be surprised to know that she asked me to marry her first. Of course, it was all political expedience at that time coupled with a reasonable amount of care and affection.

LYSANDRA: And you said no?

DORIAN: Not technically.

LYSANDRA: So… technically yes?

DORIAN: I was drunk on self-loathing. I didn’t think I deserved her.

LYSANDRA: Doesn’t love usually overcome these sorts of things?

DORIAN: To some extent. We were at the climax of the war and we both needed to make important decisions for ourselves, for both our kingdoms and for the future we desperately wanted to have. It wasn’t the right time.

LYSANDRA: But you wanted to say yes to her, didn’t you?

DORIAN: Desperately.

LYSANDRA: If it helps, I was really rooting for you both.

DORIAN: So was I.

LYSANDRA: You know, I admit this is quite a treat being your very own interrogator.

DORIAN: Our plans to make Aelin jealous are succeeding.

LYSANDRA: Oh, she'll definitely be furious.

DORIAN: I've always admired her fiery rage. Despite it being extremely dangerous to those unfortunate enough to be close in range.

LYSANDRA: I've had my share of that.

DORIAN: I think we all have.

LYSANDRA: Tell us about Adarlan's relations with Terrasen. Even better, tell us about yours and Queen Aelin's.

DORIAN: It's tabloid worthy.

LYSANDRA: I'm not saying I've read all about it...

DORIAN: I met Celaena first before I met Aelin. And in some ways Aelin also met some counterpart of myself all those years ago. We were young and generally when you’re that young, you’re also that stupid.

LYSANDRA: But isn't it just a perfect time to make mistakes?

DORIAN: Not for a prince. Though, I did not care at that time. Sometimes I still think I don’t. But you want to know about Aelin. One thing, you see her more than I do, and I admit, it does break my heart.

LYSANDRA: Technology helps though, doesn’t it? I can’t remember how many times I’ve interrupted one of your virtual repartees.

DORIAN: She can get quite heated in our discussions. Especially if she has to wait a year or more for the next instalment of a book series.

LYSANDRA: What makes the great King Dorian Havilliard furiously out of element?

DORIAN: The monarchy.

LYSANDRA: Do you ever think back on the good old days?

DORIAN: Mm.

LYSANDRA: What did that consist of for you?

DORIAN: Well, I don’t know if I could really call it the good old days. As heir, I wasted away on frivolity and debauchery. Chaol once remarked on my depravity, and I could have resented him if it hadn’t opened my eyes to the truth.

LYSANDRA: Well, that’s an insight. I noticed the construction of the new palace has been coming along nicely.

DORIAN: It is.

LYSANDRA: The Glass Palace once stood as a symbol of Adarlan’s wealth and power. Now, you’ve opted to modernise the construction except for the addition of the thirteen towers.

DORIAN: The Rifthold Journal has been nagging me about their meaning since the blueprints were made public. They’re relentless.

LYSANDRA: I don’t want to be that friend but I’m dying to know…thirteen? Really?

DORIAN: You caught me.

LYSANDRA: Gods, I knew it. Rowan will have a fit.

DORIAN: As much as I’d like to take credit for being a Royal Romeo (but feel free to use that from now on), they each symbolise an iteration of hope, love and life. Every single one of them deserves their own monument.

LYSANDRA: What a beautiful gesture, Your Majesty. And it’s true. I will never forget them.

DORIAN: Sobering thought for a Yulemas special, isn’t it?

LYSANDRA: More like a winter exclusive, so we’re good there. But speaking of, I do have a serious bone to pick with you, Your Majesty.

DORIAN: Don’t tell me it’s the time I coerced you and Aedion to go on that Giant Swing when we were in Terrasen, is it? If I remembered correctly, you really enjoyed that.

LYSANDRA: We almost died!

DORIAN: And that makes it more exciting, doesn’t it?

LYSANDRA: You’d be surprised at how many people who don’t think of near-death experiences as something exciting.

DORIAN: [laughs] Am I that cruel?

LYSANDRA: Remember that snow leopard bobble head I once gifted you for Yulemas? Remind me again what you did to it, Your Majesty?

DORIAN: It was godsdamned terrifying, Lysandra. Why are the eyes glowing? Why are they glowing green!

LYSANDRA: That was the whole point of Bad Yulemas!

DORIAN: Manon fished it out of the trash anyway. She has it on my side of the bed at the Wastes. Should I be concerned with this friendship?

LYSANDRA: You and Aedion are lucky bastards, Your Majesty.

DORIAN: Touché

Lysandra Ennar is the Lady of Caraverre and the editor for ROYALS magazine.

~

MANON: I don't think this will go well.

DORIAN: You think? I really had to charm my way to do this, you know.

MANON: You charm your way out of everything.

DORIAN: And into things too.

MANON: Your favourite past time.

DORIAN: Are you angry? Here, let me compliment you.

MANON: Dorian...

DORIAN: Witchling.

A sneak peek of the Royals Spring Issue featuring Queen Manon Blackbeak and interviewd by King Dorian Havilliard.

[nicemom93]

In The Wreckage

Eight days. It’s been eight days since the horror of Season 4 dropped on us unexpectedly, messing up all of our plans to watch together, with personalized marshmallows (thanks, @jjmazzy) and Veronica-themed food. And while we all knew that we were going to lose someone, I don’t think anyone was ready for what we got, or how poorly it would be done. 

What I also never expected was a season that made me:

1. Wish that we’d never clamored for more Veronica Mars after MKAT;

2. Wonder if I could actually still enjoy old VM canon, since what S4 did to Veronica and her story was so awful.

I came across a Hulu forum (again, thanks, @jjmazzy ) and wrote more than I’ve been able to write in the last 8 days, explaining my unhappiness and my hope that Rob Thomas is not allowed to bring any more Veronica Mars canon to life, but it may have been too long and the damn thing won’t post. So, I’m sharing here, under the cut, to at least get this off my chest. 

Although it is inevitable that this show would have ended for good in 2007 without the steadfast support of its fans, I respect that a showrunner gets to run his show. He doesn’t have to cater to what has become disparagingly termed ‘fan service’. There are a couple of problems with that in the case of the Veronica Mars revival however. 

After the unprecedented fan response to bringing Veronica and company back for a movie, the fandom continued to keep the attention on the desire for more canon content. Rob Thomas and Kristen Bell did an admirable job continuing to mention their own wishes just often enough to keep the fans’ interest piqued. Then, last summer, a month before the formal revival announcement, the teasing began…we’re close, so close, so very close…and the fandom responded as expected, shouting our desire for more VM content from every forum available. I cannot believe that this deliberate tease and the fandom response did not help make the deal with Hulu. “Look at our built-in audience! This is a sure-fire money-maker.” For the next 11 months, we were then spoon fed the pieces and parts of the story that anyone with a brain would know was going to keep the interest high. Kristen Bell even finally declared herself ‘Team Logan’ after years of frustratingly stating that do-nothing Piz was better for her beloved character than the boyfriend who always had her back and knew exactly what she needed. What a great day that was – seeing her finally admit what the rest of us have thought all along. We should have known it was a scam to keep us on the hook, but, boy, did it work. Hulu has probably never gotten as much free advertising from a fandom as it did for Veronica Mars.

But the show we got in S4, and what is being proposed for S5, are not what we were sold. In S4, Veronica became a shell of who she has been in the past. That might be understandable given all of the trauma in her life, but when last we saw her, she was working toward understanding what she wanted out of her life and was learning to make better choices. What in the world happened to her between the end of MKAT and S4? Nothing is mentioned, but for a character to have such a significant change in outlook and behavior between chapters of a story, there really should have been some explanation. There is no question that Veronica's always been...troubled and kinda difficult, but that was earned by the circumstances of her life, and the people who cared about her still managed to ground her to a certain extent, no matter how hard she was on them.

In S4, she's hateful to everyone who has loved her, except for her dad, who she mostly ignores. Her disdain over Wallace's life choices was hard to stomach. Her treatment of Weevil was so self-righteous and horrible that I truly hated her in that last interaction...you know, the one before he saved her ass in spite of how awful she was. And her treatment of Logan was appalling. She spent most of the original series looking down on teenaged Logan because he wasn't as focused and driven and put together as she thought he should be (newsflash - she wasn't all that either), but here she's looking down on him because he’s gotten too focused, driven, and put together. I get why she had trouble with the fact that she's still a mess and he's not any longer, but the way she taunted and undermined him did not make her a character I would like to see again. Now, a Veronica who understands her own dynamic, and is trying to improve herself, that would be interesting, but there is nothing in how S4 concluded that would cause her to make this change. She now has a reason to be a shell of her former self, with no hope for anything good to ever come from her life.

Since S4 aired, we’ve heard from Rob Thomas and Kristen Bell telling us this was the only way to keep the show going. They’ve even had poor Jason Dohring out trying to sell that message, in spite of the completely disrespectful way he was treated after helping keep fan interest in this show over the long term. Not just because of the abs, although that’s the typical argument from those who want to see a fifth season of Veronica beaten down once again. No, it’s because Logan Echolls has had the best arc of character development on this entire show, and on most other television shows as well. It is difficult to fathom why no one wanted to continue to take advantage of that.   

However, this showrunner doesn’t think a married woman detective can be interesting. Rob Thomas has stated in interviews that he thinks Logan and Veronica in a perfect relationship would be boring. Umm, have you watched your own show, sir? That marriage is never going to be perfect. Watching them negotiate their new dynamic would be interesting to watch, but apparently not interesting, or maybe it's just not possible, for Mr. Thomas to write. He’s also stated that he needed Veronica to be the underdog again—that’s where she is best. I don’t disagree, but I’m not sure how more trauma piled on her translates to underdog. She’s always going to be the underdog because she takes up for the underdog. At least she used to. Her relationship status doesn’t change that. 

Mr. Thomas’s consistent message following the show’s drop has been that he wants this to be a pure mystery show, and take out the teenage soap element. He could have done that easily by not regressing Veronica back to the maturity level of a teenager. That was the only obvious aspect of teen soap that I saw in S4 and he chose to wrote her like that. He also chose to throw in the completely unnecessary love triangle tease, a ridiculous soapy twist for a character who has never been a cheater, at a fundamental core level because of what she has seen, and who has been in a reasonably stable and loving relationship for five years. We’re also told that the horrific trauma she endures at the close of the finale is what will finally get her to heal. There is no valid writing that would make that true. Over the last fifteen years, Rob Thomas has piled trauma after trauma on this character, and none of them have caused her to heal. Here, in spite of her fears, she again chooses a life with the love of her life, establishing that she does still have some hope for a better life, even when she knows so much can go wrong, and she is rewarded for this growth by being dealt the worst blow possible. What about that set-up sounds like a reason to finally choose to heal?

Our final sight of Veronica is of her again running away from what’s left of her life, including any type of support system. Mr. Thomas indicates he sees the future of this show only as Veronica traveling and solving mysteries on her own on the road. He wants a pure mystery show, although he admits, very accurately, that he doesn't do mystery that well. He also accurately assesses that humor/banter is where he excels, but where in the story of a lonely, bitter widow with no one in her life are we to find that humor? V's repartee with Keith and Logan especially are where that is easiest to find, and Logan’s dead and Keith will maybe be on the other end of a phone call. Why would we wish this dark and hopeless world on a character that we’ve loved for years in spite of her flaws (and her creator’s). As a longtime, very immersed fan, I wish I could travel back in time and let the fandom know what it’s like at the end of this time stream. If I believe in Marvel Time Travel, that still leaves us in a shattered world that we unwittingly asked for, but maybe I could at least save other versions of me and my fandom friends from the heartbreak of a Veronica Mars revival. Canon ended just fine with MKAT. I can only hope that the Hulu Powers That Be don’t continue to allow Mr. Thomas to continue to inflict his vision of more trauma porn on Veronica Mars. 

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. Four: Ha! Ha! Said the Clown

Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow; Sunday, May 2nd 1991

Malky gave the big chauffeur a sideways look, crossed his arms, casually leant on the door post and refused to shake the extended hand.

Gorringe wasn’t offended, just mildly surprised. He looked at his unshaken hand and frowned. He ummed & ahhed, looked left and right and spoke hesitantly, rubbing his neck as if about to ask a contention question, “Erm... see, the boss sent me ‘ere wiv a proposition... ‘E instructed me to... that is...” he paused, stepped up so that they were face-to-face and pleaded for relief with beseeching eyes, “Lissen mate, can I use your lavvy? I’ve been on the road fer ovah-an-hour ‘n that last cuppa I ‘ad before I left the ‘ahse is abaht to bust me bladdah!”

It was an old salesman’s ploy and Malky knew it, and the chauffeur knew he knew it, nevertheless he cringed and gritted his teeth, “No messin’ guv - I’m this close to pissin’ me strides!” He seemed genuinely stricken, so after a second or two’s deliberation, Malky decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and stood aside, issuing a caution as he dashed by, “Straight in-and-out, mind. And don’t use the urinals – they’re not plumbed-in yet – use one of the stalls! OK?”

Gorringe already halfway there, “I don’t care if it’s a bucket -- I gotta go!”

Just as the door to the gents closed, Zindy walked through from the kitchen, “Who is it? Sales rep? Reporter?” she asked, wiping her oil-blackened hands with a rag, her elfin face smeared with black smuts. Malky was still at the door, looking out at the darkened windows of the Rolls, “... no, he’s somebody’s chauffeur. You should see the car he’s driving.”

Zindy lifted the waiter hatch and struggled through, “Ooow, I’ve been bent over too long, I’m all stiffened-up!” she groaned, clutching the small of her back with both hands so that her swollen tummy popped out of her denim shirt revealing an oily palm-print on the ivory-white skin of her bump. Malky closed the door, “There’s quite a draught – you can look out through the window.”

“For God’s sake a bit of sea air will do me good!”

Malky tapped her butt, “Aye, because you’re doin’ bloody auto-repairs on the kitchen table and the place stinks to high-heaven of gloss, varnish, engine oil and Swarfega! That child o’ mine must be gettin’ high on the fumes!”

Zindy made yakety-yak signs with her hand and said “I’m trying to save us some money, it’d cost us a bomb to take that van to a mechanic.”

“... because you’ve fallen out with all the local mechanics, haven’t you?” he chided ironically, “There isn’t a garage within a 30-mile-radius who’ll touch it, is there? Anyway, it’s a false economy. It’ll breakdown in the middle of nowhere and you’ll have to ring one of the garages for a tow-truck and the whole shebang will cost us three times as much as it would if we’d gone to a garage in the first place -– that’s not factoring-in the chance of an accident - or you gettin’ stranded high and dry – then whoosh – your waters break!”

“Jeezus Christ! You’re startin’ to scare me!” she cried.

“It’s a possibility -- like what if you breakdown and you fall getting out of the van -- or somebody comes round the corner too fast and hits you or something leaks in the engine and it goes up in a ball of flames...?”

“Why dontcha just swaddle me in bubble-wrap, pack me in polystyrene, stick me in an air-conditioned coffin and feed me through a tube til September! Oh I say, tally-ho, chaps,” she’d seen the stranger’s car, “a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, no less,” she said, appreciatively, looking out of the window, “who comes to a place like this in a car like that?”

Meanwhile, Brooster was listening at the parlour door, “What’s goin’ on?” a voice whispered behind him, making him jump and almost fall over. It was Sammy, the silver-bearded, blood-spattered ghost of the inn’s elderly barman, crouching behind him with his hands on his knees. Brooster looked him in the eye and asked him with a thought: Why are you creeping about and whispering when only I can see and hear you?

Sammy stood up, stroked his beard and mused aloud, “Aye, I s’pose that’s true... Well then – I’ll just do this!” He walked through the wall, into the occupied cubicle, looked the urinator up-and-down and shouted to the old dog, “It’s a chauffeur. Big bloke. Ex-army – British army – he has a regimental pin. Big dick, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

Broo wasn't at all impressed by the resident phantom’s crude behaviour – one of these days the stupid old fool will walk in on a Sensitive and scare the life out of them (actually, that eventuality would be fortuitous – because escape from This Life and Ascent into The Next requires a death within the parameters of the haunting and in the three years since Sammy had been shot and killed by Barry McKee, the only candidate so far had been an elderly deep-sea fisherman suffering with angina and a bad case of hay-fever who died two days later after a particularly violent sneeze –- at home in his own bed. Sammy whined as he opined: “Why couldn't the auld eejit have snuffed-it here?! Some people have no manners at all! At this rate, I’ll have to wait for Malky to croak - and he’s got another ten years in him at least!”).

The chauffeur exited the gents and convened with Zindy and Malky. Zindy was friendly and bright and offered him a cup of tea; Malky was cagey and glum. But that’s Malky. Sammy, reclining on the couch to watch the movie, actually made an insightful comment, “He’s an Englishman and Zindy misses the company of Englishmen. She’ll bend his ear for an hour and then he’ll be off back to whoever he drives for: probably some auld oul’ banker or one of those rich pop stars who've been buying houses over here lately.” He pointed at the remote, “C’mon, turn the sound on. I love the old black and white fillums!”

The old dog was paying him no heed. He was enjoying familiar feelings of excitement and trepidation, that tingle in his pelt that told him the visitor was significant and he should prepare himself for important news. And sure enough, the chauffeur didn’t thank his hosts for the use of the amenities and return to his vehicle, he was taken to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat!

Sammy was still harping on, “Dog?! D’ya hear me? Hit the button that turns the sound back on!”

Oblivious, Brooster snuck down the hall, took-up position at the kitchen door and listened.

Sammy shouted from the parlour, “Ach, c’mon, you know I can’t press the buttons...?” Broo ignored him and harkened to the conversation around the kitchen table.

Once Gorringe had completed his ablutions and emerged from the gents refreshed, Zindy introduced herself and took him into the kitchen for a cuppa. They hadn't had much company lately and this was the first Englishman she’d met in ages so she was chatty and vivacious. Malky was characteristically sniffy and suspicious. He wouldn't sit down and slowly paced the floor by the backdoor and let Zindy do all the talking. She began by apologising for the engine parts on the kitchen table, told him to park his arse and have a Mikado. He took a biscuit, but kept well back from the table lest oil, paint or any other petroleum-based-product come into contact with his immaculate whistle, “Is that a Lancashire accent I ‘ear?” he asked, with a wry smile.

Zindy grinned, “Aye - Salford! ‘Ow can you tell?” she said, ironically.

“Heh-heh, two of me best mates is from Salford! Salts of the erf, they is, diamonds to a man. We ‘ad a couple of tours in Cyprus in the late fifties and then they was sent to... umm,” he suddenly stopped talking. He realised he was in the Republic of Ireland talking to a pair of total strangers about old friends serving in an occupying force and quickly changed the subject. He beheld her swollen belly and asked, sheepishly, “Ahem, ‘ow many mumphs ‘ave you got before the big day then, sweet’eart?”

“I’m due in late July or early August,” she replied, she replied, “Just wait til I’m at full-term, I’ll look like a two-legged Space Hopper in a pink-wig!”

Malky lost patience, coughed theatrically, walked forward and put an end to the sparkling repartee, “So, Mr Gorringe, what can we do for you?”

The chauffeur put up a hand and waived the formalities, “Oh, call me ‘Erbie, please, Mr Calvert. Nobody calls me Gorringe ‘cept the boss when ‘e’s in a bad mood. Everybody else calls me ‘Erbie.”

Malky sighed, “Then, what can we do for your boss, H-erbie?”

“Malky! - don’t be so rude!” Zindy snapped.

Herbie shook his head, “Nah, ‘e’s got every right to be wary, sweet’eart. I’m beatin’ arahnd the bush, as it were, I really should explain meself,” his face took on a pained expression of someone who knew that what he was going to say next would either elicit gales of laughter or get him forcibly ejected from the premises forthwith; he carefully set down his teacup, laced his fingers on his lap and spoke without looking at his hosts, “Well, y’see, my boss, see... ‘e’s not a superstitious man by nay-cha but, ‘e’s got it into ‘is ‘ead...” he sighed heavily, looked up at Malky and bit the bullet, “Look – ‘e thinks the ahse ‘as been invaded by ‘a poltergeist’ and ‘e wants a consultation. Y’know, whether you can confirm or deny, that sort of thing.”

Malky’s heart sank. He threw up his hands and whined, “Fer cryin’ out loud! Another crank! A rich crank, but a crank nonetheless!”

[In the aftermath of the Barry McKee case, there had been numerous requests for newspaper interviews, TV documentaries and even a book deal with movie-options that would have set them up for the rest of their lives, but Malky had rejected them all out-of-hand. Zindy was slightly exasperated but mostly impressed by his innate integrity and refusal to exploit his adventures - then sometimes she wished he had his price, just enough to afford a decent refit. But he doggedly kept to his Code and slowly-but-surely, the phone stopped ringing, people stopped arriving at the door and they settled into what was, in Malky’s case, blissful isolation in a place he loved as a child; for Zindy, it represented normality and domesticity, something she needed after years of living in the fast lane.]

She was too taken with their visitor to dismiss the offer out of hand, “Wait til you ‘ear what Herbie ‘as to say before you go on a rant, Mr Sour-Balls!”

Malky leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms, “He can say what he likes but it won’t make a ha’penny’s worth o’ difference. We live by a Code remember?”

“’Code?’” Herbie looked from one to the other.

Zindy harrumphed and rhymed-off Malky’s charter to their bemused visitor, “Malky’s Code: he won’t have anything to do with the supernatural stuff... he won’t have anything to do with the media... he won’t write a book even though he’s been offered a lotta money...”

Malky: “-- and with good reason! Once you make contact -– you let them in! They’ll be writing begging letters, making pilgrimages to our door!”

Herbie, slightly embarrassed that he’d caused trouble in paradise, assured them, “You come very ‘ighly recommended, y’know – by the Gardai commissioner ‘isself, no less...”

Malky’s jaw dropped, “What?!” he gasped.

“Oh gawd, I knew this would be a nightmare...” Herbie muttered under his breath, grimacing like a man tiptoeing through a minefield wearing a blindfold; he elaborated in an apologetic tone, “... a couple o’ weeks ago, the boss was at one of them grand-banquet dos they ‘ave in Dublin City where the top-nobs can ‘obnob -- y’know the sort o’ fing, VIPs, the politicians an’-all-that-lot. Well, the commissioner was seated next to the boss and they got talkin’ about strange cases and your name came up, an’ when ‘e mentioned that Barry McKee business a few years ago, the boss wuz all ears 'n ‘e got the commissioner to get your address...?”

Malky was furious, “The Barry McKee case was as weird as they come, but it wasn't anythin’ to do with the supernatural -- it was to do with the fact that he’s a schizo who liked to kill little girls.”

Herbie raised his eyebrows, “So all that tawk abaht ‘im bein’ possessed is just bollocks?”

“Well, he thought he was possessed, he heard voices...” Zindy was about to elaborate when Malky shot her a what-the-hell-look.  She took umbrage, “So what did happen, Malcolm? Why don’t you explain it?”

“You should know -- you were there -– we nearly died!” Malky snapped back.

“Yeah -- but who ‘elped us?! ‘Ow did the dog find them bodies in the woods? Who told 'im where to go?!”

Sensing trouble in paradise, Herbie reached into his inside-pocket and took out a large brown leather wallet, “Look, I tell you wot, if it makes it any easier,” he pulled out a folded slip of paper and set it on the table so that it stood like a little greetings-card, “the boss gimme this blank cheque ‘n awforised me to offer ya 7 grand to come up to the ‘ahse and ‘ave-a-butcher’s. If you can get rid of the spook, he’ll give you anovver free grand. That’s 10 grand! More, if ‘e’s really pleased! ‘Is pockets are deep, believe me.”

“Something strange in your neighbourhood? Who you gonna call...?” Malky sang.  

“I don’t think even the Ghostbusters would get 10 grand for one night’s work?!” gasped Zindy, £-signs in her eyes.

Heartened that the hostess seemed keen, Herbie went for the hard-sell, “7 grand just to ‘ave a shufti, 10 grand if you get rid of it. What would money like that mean to you two?” he said, looking at Zindy’s bump.

Malky saw his better-half look around the kitchen, read her mind and reminded her with a wagging finger, “Don’t start...!”

Zindy wagged straight back, “The Code of Silence made sense in the beginnin’ when we wuz inundated with whackos, weirdoes ‘n’ wankers of every stripe – before we ‘ad money trouble and baby on t’way!”

Malky pointed and laughed sardonically, “Did you just say that? Who the hell are you?!”

The chauffeur turned to Malky and spoke softly, “Lissen Mr C -- I fink the old man’s barkin’ up the wrong tree too, but ‘e’s at his wit’s end – ‘e finks there’s an ‘evil spirit’ out to get ‘im! Now, I ain't seen anythin’ myself, just the aftermaff - but ‘e says fings fly across the room, y’know, ornaments ‘itting the wall, books falling from shelves, that sort of fing. E’s afraid to go rahnd the ‘ouse on ‘is own. If it goes on for much longer, ‘e’s likely to ‘ave a stroke or ‘eart attack, the poor old git.”

“Who is 'e?” Zindy and Malky asked, in perfect harmony.

Herbie paused for a second then said: “Oliver Laphen.”

“Ollie Laphen?! ‘The Quare Geg’?!” cried Malky; amazed and delighted, he duly eschewed his standoffishness, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“The old movie star? The hellraiser?” asked Zindy, only slightly impressed.

“Yip, that Ollie Laphen,” said Herbie, sheepishly, as if confessing a cardinal sin.

“My God. Ollie Laphen! That takes me back a-ways...” Malky enthused, whimsically, looking up, as if viewing the memory in a thought balloon hovering just above his head, “...in Belfast in the late 50s when me ‘n me younger brother Dessie were kids, we used to see his films at the Roy Rogers’ Movie Club at the Curzon on Saturday mornings and we loved the ‘Laffin Boy’ shorts he made in the early 30s when he was still called ‘Ollie Laffin’. Jeez, we must’ve seen them all at least 10 times each...!”

Zindy left Malky to wander down Memory Lane and got down to business, “And ‘’e’s willing to pay Malky 7 grand just to look round ‘is ‘aunted ‘ouse?!”

Herbie smiled and nodded.

Although mightily tempted, Malky still wasn't moved, “Nah – it smacks of exploitation. I’m not goin’ to take advantage of an old man who’s probably in the primary stages of senility... Oh, sorry, Herbie...”

The chauffeur shrugged and nodded, “You’re singin’ to the choir guv.  That’s what us lot reckoned, too - but in every ovver respect he’s fine. ‘E’s cantankerous and narky like ‘e always is, but ‘is memory’s fine - e’s workin’ on a one-man-show and ‘e don’t even ‘ave to look at the book. ‘E reads all ‘is contracts – even the small print - ‘e writes ‘is memoirs... If it is senility, then this poltergeist fing is the only symptom.” He winked, “Tell-you-wot -- why dontcha meet ‘im ‘n’ see for y’self.”

Malky had to smile. It was like being coerced by an aging Artful Dodger. He now knew how the big chauffeur had kept a job for so many years: Herbert Gorringe has made a career out of getting the boss exactly what he wants, by hook or by crook.

“Lissen, if you fink it’s all a loada ol’ cobblahs, you can tell ‘im so - take the money - and I’ll drive you ‘ome. No ‘assle. No one will ever know. Mr Laphen certainly won’t be tellin’. You know ‘ow much ‘e ‘ates the press.”

Zindy looked at Malky and batted her eyelids, “No one will ever know and you’ll have a great story to tell our kids.”

“Oh – you’re not coming?” said Malky, with a raised eyebrow.

Zindy indicated the engine parts on the table, “No time, lover –- we need the van back on the road by mornin’ cos I ‘ave to go to Arklow and pick-up the grocery order and fetch more paint from the DIY store. Incidentally, I’ll be ‘using’ t’credit card - you know the one I mean -– the one we owe £3,400 on?”

“My God woman, have you no shame?!” said Malky, semi-seriously, shaking his head with exasperation.

Herbie held up the cheque and flicked it with a finger, “A lotta lolly for a few hours’ work, my friends.”

“C’mon, Malk. Like ‘Erbie says, the ol' boy’s loaded and it’s only one night...?”

Malky stared at his paint-spattered hands and had a rethink: you’ll to get away from the smell of varnish and gloss, meet the great Ollie Laphen and have a look round his house...  “Well... I suppose one night wouldn't be so bad... ?”

Deal sealed, Herbie sighed with relief, got to his feet and shook Malky’s hand. Malky looked at Zindy and shook his head, “You know you’ll never hear the end of this, dontcha?”

Zindy grinned, “Careful Ollie Laphen’s poltergeist don’t drop summat ‘eavy on yer ‘ead, chook!”

Malky held his sides and pretended to cry tears of laughter.

“Oh yeah - one other fing,” said Herbie, looking around, “The commissioner-bloke told us that you usually work wiv a free-legged German shepherd...?”

Right on cue, the beast in question nosed the door open and sauntered into the room, someone call?

[Broo and Malky had a semi-telepathic link; they couldn't communicate directly, but over the years following the Barry McKee saga, they’d developed an intuitive sense of what the other was thinking.]

Malky glared, you heard all that didn’t you?

The old dog grunted, I can hear the rats building a nest three-doors-down, you twit - of course I heard. And I must say, it’s about time we had a case...

“It’ll be a bit of a lark, won’t it?” chirped Zindy, putting Malky’s toothbrush and shaving kit into his overnight bag. She gave the once over and shook her head, “you’re a walkin’ disaster. Things wrinkled as soon as you put them on.” She lifted the comb and tried to do something with his hair.

Her other-half still hadn't warmed to the idea, “Lark? It’ll be no laughing matter for me, wandering around some creaky, chilly stately-home all night with that grumpy hound at me heel.”

Broo growled back.

She stooped slightly and pointed the comb at the old dog, “Now listen – Broo – you be patient w’ ‘im and remember that ‘e ‘ates all this kinda spooky stuff,” she turned back to her man, “and Mal, you remember that Broo is old and crotchety and prone to snarkiness.”

How dare you madam! I’ll have you know my intellectual capacity is at its peak! The father of your child is the one with questionable mental faculties, not me!

Standing on tiptoe, Zindy cupped Malky’s cheeks and gave him one of her pep-talks, “Listen, chook... take a look round, if you don’t find anythin’ or it looks like a set up, or it don’t feel right -- whatever -- I’ll understand if you don’t take the money, OK?”

Malky was confused, “Then why....?”

She put a finger on his lips, “I’d appreciate a little time on me own, OK? Nothing sinister, just some time to meself. We've been in each other’s pockets day-and-night for 2 year now, so tonight -- for one night only -- I’m gonna finish workin’ on the soddin’ van, ‘ave a bath, write a coupla letters and get an early night. Meanwhile, you get to spend the night in a luxurious mansion in the company of yer boyhood hero.”

She wants a break from you, and who can blame her.

Malky shot the dog a reproachful glance, then smiled when he turned back to his better-half, “You don’t need to explain, Zin. You've got what’s commonly known as Calvert Fatigue.”

She pushed him out onto the landing, “Now fook off. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Broo surveyed the stray cats lined long the parapet of the old burned-out cinema. They had gathered to watch the Rolls roll by, just like they had at the time of the McKee affair: further confirmation, to him at least, that this journey was significant. He resolved to pay attention to every detail and use all his powers... to get to the bottom... of (yawn)... whatever....zzzzzzz He was asleep within 10 minutes. Malky looked over his shoulder and scowled. Lazy sod.

Herbie took the scenic route and drove slowly. The hedgerows bustled-by lackadaisically, the dry-stone-walls refused to become a grey-white blur as £400,000 worth of Rolls Royce shook ‘n’ shimmied along bumpy country lanes and pot-holey side-roads at a leisurely 32mph. He was enjoying the view of the misty Wicklow mountains, and despite the nip in the breeze and the baleful skies, he wound down his window and leaned out to take the air -- which reeked of compost and slurry, but which was entirely to his taste -- “Aaaaah! Smell that?! Laaave this cahntryside, I do! Y’know, at least once a day, I stop what I’m doin’ ‘n give fanks that we landed back ‘ere and not blahdy Swizzer-land. Swizzer-land,” he sneered. “I ‘ate blahdy Swizzer-land. The boss wuz a tax-exile for a while y’see...” He went on to list the many shortcomings of the Swiss in his bouncy cockney twang. Malky repressed the overwhelming urge to shout for Christ’s sake shut-up and step on it! and tuned him out. There he was, on his way to do something he didn’t want to do for people he didn’t want to know in a place he didn’t want to be, and the longer it took to get there the more the prospect bothered him. Bloody cheek, that Gardai Commissioner handing my name & number out to all-and-sundry – I should sue! ... Bloody hocus-pocus and hoodoo-voodoo... but as usual, money talks and principles go out the window... money, money, money... she’ll be setting up a Supernatural Detective Agency next... She’ll be advertising it in the paper...

Seemingly oblivious to the ennui emanating from the fidgety heap of grumpiness beside him, Herbie continued to natter away about getting acclimatised to the snail’s-pace of pastoral Irish life after so many years spent in the fraught, hustle-&-bustle of Hollywood: “They’re as nice-as-ninepence to ya just so long as yer putting bums on seats and bags of lolly in the bank – if not - they’ll drop ya like ‘ot potatah! Fankfully, the boss is always bankable – you put ‘is name on a marquee and you’s guaranteed a profit! ‘E still ‘as a core fanbase of millions who’ll come to everyfink ‘e’s in!”

Malky grunted a hollow, listless “Oh really?”

Unfazed, Herbie whispered in Malky’s ear: “Lissen, mate, if you wanna take the edge-off - ‘ave a drop of Irish. The boss keeps a flask in the glove-compartment for emergencies.”

Malky was caught off-guard and answered in an embarrassed stutter, “Er, no thanks, I don’t drink...”

“‘Recovering alcoholic’, are ya?” Herbie asked.

Although wholly nonplussed by the man’s audacity, Malky replied without raising his voice, “Let’s just say I had a problem at one time and leave it at that, shall we?”

But Herbie continued to pry, “Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you have the look of a man who’s no stranger to --”

“Oi! Enough!” Malky barked (Brooster woke up with a start), “Keep yer eyes on the road, Jeeves! Just cuz yer boss is willin’ to pay 7 grand for my services doesn’t give ye the right to dig into me personal life!”

Herbie was visibly taken aback by this unexpected tirade; he pulled down the peak of his cap so that it covered his eyes, straightened up in his seat, took the car up to a steady 40, and after a brief pause, spoke in a more professional tone, “I wuz only makin’ conversation, sir. If I’ve offended you in any way, I ‘umbly apologise and beg yer pardon, sir.”

“Forget it.” Malky turned away and looked out of the window.

A minute or two passed, and as the little surge of adrenalin dissipated, so the embarrassment sank in and he decided to restart the conversation, “Did I hear you tell Zindy you were in the army?”

Still somewhat narked, the chauffeur kept his eyes on the road and gave his name rank and number with the clipped diction of a well-drilled soldier, “Queen’s Royal Irish Fusiliers, 17 years: Corporal Herbert Valentino Gorringe 2063 reporting for duty, sah.”

Malky smiled, “Valentino?”

Herbie made a face, “It was that or Rudolph. My ol’ mum was a big fan. She was in-con-sole-able when ‘e died, grieved fer days, apparently.”

Where was another protracted pause, until Malky said, “I used to meet a lot of Tommies in Belfast in the early days of the Troubles. Seen a good few murdered, too. Bad times.”

The chauffeur turned slightly so that he could look Malky in the eye, “You wasn't chucking the ol’ Molotovs, was ya? You ain’t an ex-IRA man or anyfink like that, ‘is ya?!” Au contraire. Malky told him he was an ex-RUC policeman. Herbie was very interested, visibly relieved and wholly amazed, “Really? If you don’t mind me saying so - you don’t strike me as the type...?”

“My ambition was to be a detective, but I never made it out of uniform. I quit after my partner was gunned down right beside me and I went off the rails a bit and... Well, y’know...” Malky’s voice trailed off.

Herbie shook his head, “Gunned down right beside you? That’s rough that is.”

“But surely you’ve had near-death experiences yourself, Herbie, especially after 17 years in the army...?”

“Well, I wuz too young to serve in the war. I turned 17 the day after VE day. I didn’t join-up til the September of 46. And I never did no tour of duty in Norvern Ireland neevah, I was mostly overseas in Cyprus and the Middle East. We was part of a UN peace-keeping force tryin’ to keep the tribes apart: Jews, Muslims, Christians – not to mention the Greeks and the Turks! Bit like Belfast, but wiv loadsa sun, sand and bearded blokes in pyjamas wiv machine guns. Mind you, I saw the aftermaff of a lotta bombs, I saw fousands killed in genocides... terrible, ‘orrible it was... But I never really saw battle, just ‘minor skirmishes’. Luck, I suppose. It was during a tour of Norf Africa in 64 when I first met the boss!”

“Really,” asked Malky, suddenly interested, “you met oul’ Ollie while you were still in the army? You've been with him that long?”

Herbie was back on his favourite subject and relishing the opportunity to impart his favourite anecdote to a captive audience: “Oh yeah, it was me firtiefth birthday and I was on a day’s leave, so me and a couple of the lads went to Casablanca to paint the tahn several shades of crimson... and after a bit of a pub crawl rahnd the Kasbahs, I got separated from me mates, and while I was lookin’ fer ‘em, I strolls into this dark little tavern and sittin’ there in a corner was Oliver Laphen! Would you Adam ‘n’ Eve it?! ‘E was supposed to shootin’ an adventure movie wiv David Niven about archaeologists in World War Two called Diamonds in the Dust –- but he was skivin’-off cuz he’d ‘ad a row with the director and ‘e was layin’-low -- he didn’t wanna ‘ang round the ‘otel, so ‘e’s ‘iding-out in this dark little Kasbah, trying to be inconspicuous – wearin’ a black wig, big black shades, a kaftan and a fez - but I knew ‘im the minute I set eyes on ‘im! See, our CO was a big fan. He ‘ad all the reels of the comic shawts from the late 30s and some of the feature films the boss made for Paramahnt in the 40s – he used to get ‘em sent ovah and screen ‘em for the lads on a Satur’ay night! Anyway - there ‘e is, in the flesh, so-to-speak! Oliver Laphen! Jolly Ollie! So I go over an’ I say, ‘Can I ‘ave your autograwph Mr Laphen, sah?’ and at first ‘e‘s fumin’ – ‘e goes-off-on-one! Then ‘e calms dahn and says to me – ‘’ow the eff did you know it was me?!’ and I say ‘It’s the way you’re ‘olding your drink!’ Cuz ‘e’s always had this way of curling back ‘is little finger as if ‘e’s drinkin’ from the finest choy-nah. E ‘as these delicate li’l ‘ands, see...”

As he watched the chauffeur get more-and-more animated, Malky came to understand how a sensible, seemingly-well-balanced ex-squaddie like Herbert Valentino Gorringe could forsake marriage, family and blissful conformity just to spend his life at the beck-and-call of -- if popular opinion had it right -- a detestable, despotic, volatile, cranky little egomaniac like Oliver Laphen. Well, now he knew. Herbie wasn't just a fan – he was in love with the man. The pair’s long-term relationship had outlasted all of ‘The Quare Geg’s’ marriages put together. No wonder the story was related with such gusto and attention to detail, it was, after all, an epic romance.

“.... any’ow, at 400 hours, I ‘ad to get back to base, but before I go ‘e takes me to one side an’ ‘e says – ‘’Erbie, if you quit the army ‘n become my chauffeur and personal bodyguard, I’ll guarantee you a 50 knicker a week for starters, bed-‘n’-board - all the skirt you can ‘andle – plus -- you’ll get to see the world without ‘avin’ to worry abaht gettin’ yer ‘ead blown orf!’ So I laugh ‘n’ say I’ll fink about it. I fanked him for the best night of my life and we say ta-ra. I go back to camp finking it wuz all the blustah and idle boasts of a booze-‘ahnd and forgot abaht it.  But it didn’t stop ‘im. When ‘e asked for the fird and final time, I quit and I’ve been at ‘is beck-‘n’-call ever since.”

“Was it worth it, Herbie?” Malky asked.

The chauffeur thought long and hard about the question before answering. When he did, his voice was more mature and thoughtful, “E can be an ‘andful sometimes, but artistic people is prone to temperament, it’s ‘ow they’s able to do the fings they do. But I’ve learned ‘ow to balance it aht. I’ve been all over the world, visited all the major cities ‘n’ ‘istorical places... I’ve met a lotta Very Important People – besides movie stars an’ showbiz folk, there’s been world leaders, presidents, kings and queens, writers, top sportsmen – so whenever people awsk ‘’ow do you put up wiv ‘im?’ I say ‘take a look at me passport, me photos and me bank accahnt, moosh - there’s ‘ow!’” He turned to Malky and told him earnestly, “See, I’ve gotta lotta great memories. I’ve seen ‘istory bein’ made. I’ve supped Earl Grey wiv Picasso and knocked back bourbon wiv Dean ‘n’ Frank. I’ve made an omelette fer Einstein an’ cocktails for Noel Coward. I’ve played cards wiv Kate Hepburn for two straight days - and lost. No matter what the ol’ boy gets up to, I wouldn't trade those memories for the world.... Umm...” Something crossed his mind. When he spoke again, it was in a more tentative tone, “Look, before we get to the ‘ahse, I’d better mention the incident on Friday night wot started ‘im off.”

“Why? What happened on Friday night?” asked Malky, a little disconcerted.

“I was away visitin’ a lady-friend in Dublin, an’ apparently all the lights went aht and the ‘uge grandfavver clock in the lobby fell over and smashed on the floor -– the boss was frightened outta his wits -- fought it was burglars – so ‘e pressed one of the panic buttons and Charlie, our ‘ead of security, drove up to the ’ahse right away. But the power-cut musta shorted-aht the alarm system cuz ‘is swipe-card wouldn't work and the master key wouldn't turn in the lock! So, finkin’ ‘e’s under siege, the ol’ man pressed the button that calls the Old Bill, but by the time they got there, Charlie ‘ad managed to get in ‘n’ calm the old man down. Then the lights come on again – not just the lights that wuz on when the power went aht – but every single light in the ‘ole ahse including the bedrooms, bathrooms, the ballroom -- everywhere. By this stage, the boss is goin’ mental. Really, really scared.

“When I got back I got a right bollockin’ as if it was all my fault – like I ‘ad the temerity to ‘ave a night off! Any'ow, me ‘n’ Charlie searched that ahse from top to bottom; the cops  ‘n’ the security lads looked round the grounds, but we come up empty... there wuz nothin’ up iv the fuse-box, no sign of tamperin’ or anyfink dodgy.”

“Would the grandfather clock be easy to topple?” said Malky.

“Well, it’s set into the wall ‘n’ it’s solid, antique Bavarian pine, 9 foot tall wiv a ruddy great bell in it; it’s got a solid gold pendulum and it weighs around a two-and-an-‘alf ton, I couldn’t pull it dahn on me own.” Gorringe coughed then said, “And that’s the ovver fing... the boss’ been back on the bottle ever since, and if you know anyfink about the boss, you’ll know that ‘e’s a bit... volatile when ‘e’s on the sawse. So, ignore any strange behaviour, if y’know what I mean.”

Malky was a trifle miffed at being apprised of these tidings so late in the day; he was about to ask if there was anything else he should know when Herbie suddenly brightened and declared, “And ‘ere we are, my beauties! My little ‘ome-from-‘ome!”

Herbie slowed the limo to a funereal crawl as they entered a particularly picturesque little village, “Ahhh, ‘ave you ever been a little place like this before?” he asked, with a little smirk that hinted at a rhetorical question.

Malky honestly confessed, “No. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

“You wouldn’t ‘ave. This ‘ere is a protected community, see. Only a few people know about it.”

It was beautiful, rows of whitewashed thatched cottages with black gloss doors, all flowers beds and hanging baskets with a little square with a little roundabout in the centre, bedecked with a floral clock depicting the flag of St George (?); aside from the copious vegetation, there was very little sign of life and almost no sign of the 20th century. “What’s it called?”

“Bogmire. Pretty lousy name for such a laavly little ‘amlet, innit?”

If it wasn't for the faded & peeling Coca Cola sign stuck to the inside of the window of the post office-cum-newsagent and an old bicycle leaning against the bench outside a ramshackle little country pub (the Black Water Rat), they could be back in Tudor England. Malky made appreciative noises.

“It’s like a little oasis from bygone days, innit? You feel as if you’ve slipped frew a time-warp – eh?! But the funny thing is – it ain't Irish! See, most of the people ‘oo live ‘ere are descended from English peasant stock! Most of ‘em is originally from the wilds o’ Cornwall! The Duke of Roxborough brought ‘em ovah to build Pagham ‘Ahse ‘n ‘e built these ‘ere cottages for ‘em – and believe it or not, they lasted through the rebellion cos of a pact between the Irish rebels and the Roxborough family ‘n they’ve been ‘ere ever since. When ‘e bought the ahse the only proviso wuz that we keep the staff and let the Supplicants – that’s their religion, that is – live ‘n’ work on the estate.” Herbie went on to tell of the locals’ strange customs and bizarre lifestyle in a disbelieving tone, “... and they've been doin’ it fer 200 years straight!”

Malky looked around, “And this is all part of the estate?”

“Yep, it came with the ahse!”

This didn’t surprise Malky one bit. For an Irish ex-pat, the old man wasn't renowned for his patriotism; in fact, he was a close friend of Princess Margaret and during the height of the Troubles in the 70s he was renowned for making disparaging noises about the Republican movement in Ireland from the safety of his Bel Air mansion (when Lord Mountbatten was murdered by the IRA he told a NBC TV news reporter that the terrorists in question were ‘like a bunch of weasels attacking a lion’ and that Britain should ‘string ‘em up’), he was frequent visitor to the Whitehouse when the Republicans were in office, and was often mooted to be an anonymous sponsor of various right-of-centre US politicos -- he backed Nixon over Kennedy, was close to Ronnie Reagan since his  days as chairman of Screen Actors Guild, and was a frequent house guest of George Bush senior -- all of which made him a potential target for disgruntled boyos on both sides of the pond. It made sense that he’d want to live out his twilight years in a little slice of England transplanted into the heart of the Irish countryside, it suited his style: contrary to the end.

Herbie pulled-up outside a dainty little general store called The Peppermint Poke. The window was full of candy jars and pastries neatly arranged on little lacy paper doilies, “Dora oo runs the Poke is an Outsider, meanin’ she’s married to one of the Supplicants so she’s allowed to run a shop. None of ‘em is allowed to ‘ave a shop or make profit from their work, so the outsiders tend to do them fings, like business transactions and that. The local garda sergeant is an outsider, too -- he lives in that li’l cottage ovah there.” he pointed to one of the gleaming residences across the square...” Herbie opened the door, “I’m just gonna go in and get the Sunday papers ‘n’ a tube of Polos... I’ll only be a sec.”

Malky wound down his window to inhale the compliment of delicious odours to accompany the view: flowers, mown lawns and more flowers, “very restful. Then he heard a rumble outside the car -- a motorcycle had pulled up alongside and its rider, wearing a helmet with a dark visor, was looking through the driver’s-side-window. What’s this? Malky shrank back in his seat....The rider casually unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside – for a second Malky flinched -- but instead of a weapon, he produced a video camera. Malky knew a maverick paparazzo when he saw one and immediately flew into a rage – he lunged out of the open widow, shook his fist and yelled, “Piss-off ya bastard! Get that f**kin’ thing outta my face or I’ll put my foot in yer arse!”

The shouting roused Broo from his slumbers. He saw the motorcyclist, heard Malky screaming and instinctively barked loudly and forcefully -- until he sensed that the stranger posed no threat and Malky appeared to be overreacting. He stopped barking, gave himself a shake and tried to get his bearings. The cameraman was quite small, dressed in biker’s leathers like Zindy’s biker chums, but these were more expensive and unsullied by general wear-&-tear. Then, as the bleariness subsided and his eyes refocused, Broo saw something that both startled and alarmed him. At first he thought it was the motorcycle’s exhaust fumes, then he realised the figure was shrouded in what he could only describe as a purplish-halo -- whatever it was, it was unlike any aura he’d ever seen before.

Malky was fit to be tied, “I’m not gonna tell you again, friend! If you don’t fuck aff immediately I’m gonna come out there and stick that camera where the sun don’t shine!!”

“That’s a take!” The biker cried, packing away his camera, “Thank you sir! Have a nice day!” he said and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke in his wake. “Bloody paps – see – this is what happens when you do somebody a favour,” grumbled Malky.

Broo was still drinking in the atmosphere and looking for anomalies. Having been in places like this all over Ireland, the old dog had noted that each dainty village and township they visited had its own peculiar little ripples of the past shining through the present. On his travels he’d heard the echoes of ancient battles in the silence of the first light of dawn; he’d seen the children of ancient tribes playing on a busy motorway at noon; he’d seen 16th century Spanish galleons off the coast at Cork -– but Bogmire was a spiritual desert: there was absolutely nothing to sense or feel beyond the here and now. It was clearly old, spotless and brightly painted, but utterly devoid of soul. And that smell... beneath the floral scents and peat smoke, lay an ever-present stench that marred the otherwise wholesomeness of the place. Even for a dog that usually salivated at the stink of putrid flesh, it was hard to stomach. Most unusual...

Just then they heard the little tinkle of a bell and Herbie emerged from the shop with a bundle of newspapers under his arm and a Polo mint in his cheek; he got back in and offered one to Malky, “Did I ‘ear a mo’orbike?” he asked, “I was chattin' to Dora and I could've swawn I ‘eard a rumblin’ sahnd...?”

“Just a guy askin’ for directions,” said Malky, “so I told him where to go...”  

At that very moment, 3000 miles away, in the kitchen of a townhouse in North York, Toronto, Canada, the man of the house appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot in his pyjama bottoms, unshaven, hands deep in the pockets of his bedraggled dressing gown. 

“Emil! What the f**k?! Go get dressed – we’re late as it is!” shouted Fran, ever the fiery redhead, dressed to the nines in her Sunday-best, rifling through her purse in search of her car keys, “I told you to get ready an hour ago!” They were supposed to be going to her niece’s christening and they were running 10 minutes late. She looked under the cushions in the lounge; she looked in and under the couch; she checked every pocket in the coat rack. “Where the f**k are they?!!”

Emil watched her, his arms hanging by his sides, and said, “I’m not going. I have the shits.” 

Did I just say that? What the f**k?!

Fran, currently poking through the trash in the pedal-bin with the salad-tongs, threw her head back and mocked him in an ironic voice, “Hah! I knew it! Mom warned me – ‘he won’t go – he doesn’t even own a suit’! Well, it suits me – I don’t have to watch you get drunk and throw up in the swimming pool or make a pass at a waitress... Owww-ouch!” she’d cut her knuckle on the edge of a jagged tuna can, “F**k this!” she kicked the bin and ran to the sink to rinse it, screaming, “F**K! F**K! WHERE THE F**K ARE MY F**KING KEYS!!”

He knew exactly where they were. They were in his pocket. He was holding them in the palm of his hand; but for some strange reason he didn’t hand them over. It wasn't that he didn’t want to, it was because he couldn't. And no matter how hard he tried to communicate, his body wouldn't respond; he let her go on searching and said nothing.

She went to the knick-knack drawer in the welsh-dresser, rummaged around in the back and eventually emerged triumphant, “Ah - hah! The spare! I knew I’d put it somewhere!!” She had one last look in the mirror to check her mascara and top-up her lip gloss, “... If you go out make sure you turn on the alarm.... and if you go back to bed - don’t f**king smoke! That’s a new quilt and I don’t want it looking like somebody’s used it for target practice!” She strode down the hall to the front door; a few seconds later she came stomping back, madder than ever “You f**king asshole! You've done it again!! You've boxed me in! I can’t get my car out!” 

Emil remained silent. 

“Emil!” She approached him and looked up into his dull, blue eyes, “EMIL! You have to move your car! Are you listening to me?!

He stood and stared.

“Emil!”

“See you later, legislator,” he said, without smiling. It was a catchphrase he used when they said goodbye on the doorstep in those early days when they first moved in together; but here & now it just sounded weird. She gave him a sideways look, “Are you stoned?”

“Take my car.” He dangled his keys on his pinkie.

She grimaced at the smell of his breath, glowered and said, “Listen... I don’t know what the hell you’re on or what you are trying to pull, but my mother will be frothing at the mouth -– I was supposed to pick her 15 minutes ago -– this is a crisis!”

He dangled his keys.

She drew herself up and bawled in his face, “GET OUT THERE AND MOVE YOUR F**KING CAR!”

He jangled his keys.

She slammed her key down on the table and snatched his in one frighteningly limber move, “RIGHT! – I’m calling your bluff, asshole – I’m taking your beloved Porsche! You can take my Volvo -- I wonder what all those cutesy little students of yours will think when they see the delectable Dr Labatt driving through campus in a busted-up soccer-mom-mobile?!”

Emil stared back, unblinking and blank, and said, “I’ll miss you, Fran. You’re alright.”  

“F**k you, asshole!” She thrust the finger in his face and stormed out.

The slamming door was the last thing Emil heard before the darkness descended...

A few miles from Bogmire, along a road that was little more than a narrow lane, they arrived at a long, narrow lane lined on one side by yew trees concealing a tall, ivy-covered, red-brick wall that contained the entrance to Pagham House (or Paggum Ahse, as Herbie called it, making it sound like a particularly nasty proctological affliction), the stately-home of Oliver Laphen. Herbie reached into the inside pocket of his tunic and produced a small remote-control which he used to open a pair of inconspicuous but heavily fortified, solid iron gates, “As you can imagine, the boss is fanatical about security,” he pointed to the CCTV cameras perched atop the pillars either side of the gate, “this place ‘as got more cameras than Fort Knox.”

Inside of course, it was different story entirely: acres of well-tended lawns as smooth as billiard-table-baizes; vast flower beds moistened by a huge sprinkler system; topiary styled to resemble the figures in the Ascent of Man leading to the entrance of an extensive privet-maze; an enormous, ornate white-marble fountain with alabaster cherubs pissing into the air. It was all very tastefully ostentatious.

Like most of the world, his knowledge of Oliver Laphen was based on sensational gossip-columns he’d read in tatty magazines in various waiting-rooms over the years and the odd interview on Parkinson. Because Laphen was such an intensely private man, there were no official biographies and he used the services of an extremely litigious LA law firm to stymie any scandalous tomes that might shed light on the mystery he’d carefully nurtured over the years – a tantalising question: where did this fiery, working class, comic genius come from? The more reclusive he became, the more public interest increased, the more speculative the press became about his private life, the more outrageous the rumours -– the more tickets he sold. His career was indestructible. Not that everything was rosy on the home front. Enigmas, especially rich, volatile enigmas, are pap magnets; a good picture will fetch upwards of $10,000 so he was tabloid fodder from the day he stepped into the limelight. Editors from LA to Tokyo dispatched an army of dedicated investigative journalists to Dublin where they pored over thousands of files in public records offices in an attempt to trace the Laphen family line, but they always drew a blank: Jolly Ollie’s pedigree remained a tantalising mystery. He was certainly an Irishman by birth but refused to say anything about his childhood other than he was ‘educated by sadistic nuns’; he never talked about any parents or siblings and nobody knew where in Ireland he was from -- his accent was hard to pinpoint and changed as often as his anecdotes, the most famous of which was the story of his emigration to America when he allegedly stowed-away on a liner bound for New York at the age of 13 in 1929. After evading processing at Ellis Island he hitched his way across the States east to west and landed in Hollywood, where, according to (his) legend, he slept on the beach and did whatever work he could find during the day. At night he’d ‘hone his art’ performing slapstick in vaudeville, readying himself for stardom; two years later, at the age of 16, he was discovered by the celebrated ‘King Of Comedy’ Max Sennett. The talkies were the new big thing, and at a time when most silent stars were finding it impossible to ‘sound funny’, Ollie’s cartoonish Irish accent was a godsend and Sennett gave him his own series of 15 minute shorts. As Laphen retold this story over the subsequent decades, the narrative was wont to evolve until the embellishments rendered it wholly unreliable.

In the mid-30s when he traded under the moniker Ollie Laffin, he was happy to mug and gurn for the downmarket rags and Pathé News presentations; then, when he got ‘serious’ in the late-40s/early-50s, he stopped playing the fool and became a semi-reclusive thesp. The post-war world was a different place: screwball comedy and slapstick was old hat and Ollie was too canny to go down with the ship. When he returned to movies in ‘46 he went under the name of Oliver Laphen, stopped doing interviews and avoided all ‘that red carpet bollox’, preferring to leave the PR to his co-stars and directors who’d either guardedly sing his praises or proffer equivocal comments that were actually thinly-veiled digs, such as: ‘[working with] Mr Laphen was an experience I’ll never forget... but I’m trying.’ (Lauren Bacall) ‘He brings a piece of himself to every role and playing the villain comes so naturally [to him]...’ (David Niven), but one vox-pop in particular had stuck in in Malky’s mind: "He kept us mere mortals waiting for 4 hours before gracing us with His Presence, we went $4 million over-budget, 4 producers suffered a collective nervous breakdown and 2 of the crew died from heatstroke, but when you hire [Oliver Laphen], you get the best and some studios are prepared to set aside a few million to ‘feed the beast’.” Regardless of what his fellow-travellers thought of him, and how big a pain in the arse he was, Ollie Laphen = Box Office Gold.

“There she is!” cried Herbie, like an enthusiastic tour guide. The Rolls had rounded a bend in the driveway and Malky got his first glimpse of Pagham House.

“Jeez –- house is too small a word, Herbie! This makes Windsor Castle look like a B&B!” said Malky, when confronted by the huge, sandstone edifice of palatial proportions, with rows of latticed gothic windows, draped with thick beards of ivy.

The chauffeur chuckled, “Impressive, eh? It used to belong to the 10th Duke of Roxborough til ‘e fell on ‘ard-times ‘n the boss made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. We rent it aht when we’re ahtta town. It’s very popular wiv the Arabs ‘n the Chinese. It’s got 30 rooms, swimming pool, gym, ballroom, sauna -- it even has its own church -- the works!” They pulled into a gravel forecourt and parked at the foot of a huge white marble staircase leading up to a tastefully-weathered, balustrade-lined terrace. But Malky’s attention was drawn to another vehicle parked to the right of the steps: namely, the same Harley-Davison touring bike he’d seen in the village, and sitting on the steps was the mysterious rider/cameraman filming them as they drew up!

Malky was furious all over again, “What’s he doing here?”

“More to the point, ‘ow the ‘ell did ‘e get in?!” said Herbie, slowly unclipping his seat belt and opening his door, “I’ll ‘andle this...” Herbie got out, straightened his cap and walked toward the diminutive figure, “Can I ‘elp you, mate...?” Malky heard him ask, and then he and Broo watched as the biker promptly stopped filming, jumped down and met the burly chauffeur head-on -- he took off his helmet, grinned, opened his arms and the two embraced like they were very pleased to see each other.

“Uncle Herb – you look great!” trilled a cherub-cheeked, heavily-freckled, copper-headed American kid in his mid-20s, brimming with childlike-enthusiasm, speaking quickly and excitedly, “Listen - we’re gonna be shooting in July! I’m here to scout for locations and do the final negotiations...!” The lad stopped short when he noticed Malky trudging across the gravel.

“Sorry, Mr Calvert sir, I got a bit distracted then,” said Herbie, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “This ‘ere’s Kristof Katz, Mr Laphen’s grandson. Kris – this-‘ere is Mr Malcolm Calvert ‘oo’s come to... erm... sort out a little... plumbing problem...”

The young Master Katz took off a leather gauntlet, shook Malky’s hand, chattering incessantly, “Very pleased to meet you sir, I’m very sorry for the candid camera incident, but when I saw the car I thought my grandfather was inside and I wanted to catch him unawares but I caught you unawares and once you started to rant I couldn’t resist capturing that intense anger! I guess it’s the habit of lifetime -- Herb here will tell ya -- I’ve hadda movie-camera in my mitt since I was old enough to lift one – isn’t that right Uncle Herb? I’m a total geek!”

Malky gaped at him as if he’d arrived from another planet.

“Yer caffeinated up-to the-eyeballs again!” said Herbie, playfully clipping him round the ear and scolding him like a naughty schoolboy, “jet-lagged, ridin’ rahnd windin’ cahntry roads on a bleedin’ two-wheeled deff-trap?! Are y’ off your trolley, boy?! You coulda been killed -- there’s farm vehicles on these-‘ere roads, you coulda turned an ‘airpin bend an’ wahnd-up in the blades of a combine ‘arvester or summink!!”

Kris apologised for his over-enthusiasm and slowed down, “... anyhow, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Calvert,” he turned and pointed behind him, “welcome to Ollie Towers, The Laphen House -- Xanadu -- whatever you wanna call it.”

Now that he was up close, Malky saw the family resemblance; the lad was short, around 5’ 5”, the same steely-blue peepers and winsome dimples that had graced millions-upon-millions of magazine covers since 1930. Malky felt compelled to comment, “I must say, you are the spitting image of your granddad.”

Herbie was gushing again, “Not only that -- but he’s in’erited his talent too! Kris is a movie director!” he tweaked the lad’s cheek and pretended to punch his jaw.

Kris went all aw-shucks and kicked at the gravel with the toe of a leather boot, “Well, I’m about to direct my first full-length feature. I’m very excited. It’s been in development hell for 3 or 4 years and now it’s finally in pre-production.”  

“’E’s like a son to me!” Herbie put an arm around Kris’ shoulders, tweaked his cheek again and beamed, “when he was a nipper ‘is mum used to leave ‘im wif me on those days when she was... erm... uvverwise occupied...”

Kris, utterly unfazed, merrily took up the slack and filled in the blanks, “What Herb won’t tell you is my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen - had a lotta ‘substance abuse issues’ at the time, Mr Calvert. She used to unload me onto Herbie for weeks on end when she went on a jag [Now that the lad had mentioned it, Malky recalled reading something about one of Laphen’s daughters getting arrested for possession in the late 60s. In fact, from what he could remember, all 8 of the Quare Geg’s children had ‘issues’ of one kind or another]. Thankfully she’s been clean and sober for the past 6 years and now she’s counselling other women with similar issues...” he squeezed the hand dangling on his shoulder, “So I have this man to thank for givin’ me a relatively normal childhood! We used to play on the film sets in the studios when gramps was making a movie - that’s where I got my training!”

Herbie blushed, “Ach, it wasn't ideal, but where else was I gonna take ya? You know your granddad always ‘as to ‘ave me arahnd to fetch and carry for ‘im. And watchin’ a film get made is like watchin’ paint dry, if you awsk me - it’s a wonder it didn’t put you off movies for life!”

They were distracted by the sound of paws hitting gravel. The old dog had finally exited the Rolls but didn’t join them; he kept close to the car and watched from a distance. “Whassup wiv the pooch, ‘e’s gawn a bit shy, ‘in ‘e?” asked Herbie.

Malky called out to him: “What’s the matter with you, Hopalong? What has you all cagey, huh? Come over here and say hello!”

“Aww, look, he’s only got three legs,” crooned Kris, in a childishly sympathetic voice. Broo whimpered as he watched the glowing boy walk toward him, stooped and spoke softly as if addressing a bashful toddler, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, boy, I wouldn't hurt a fly! No I wouldn't...” he reached out

Broo recoiled and whimpered: Get off me, you idiot... you’re killing me!

But Kris carried on, unaware of the old dog’s distress, “Easy, boy, I won’t hurt you...”

AARGH!!

Kris cuddled him, stroked his back and made silly noises, “Eh? Who’s a handsome fella, then? You must quite the VIP, huh? A German Shepherd who’s so important he gets to ride around in the back of a limousine...?”

Mercifully, he was rudely interrupted by a loud voice from above, “Where the f**k have you been, Gorringe?!”

The boy stopped petting and turned away – Broo (unseen) wobbled for a second then keeled over.

There was an elderly man in a gaping, black silk kimono, electric-blue satin boxer-shorts, and bright green unlaced baseball boots standing at the top of steps; he pointed at Kris with an accusing finger, “and what-the-f**k’s that wee ginger gobshite doing on my property?!”

Malky looked up and regarded their prospective client. His collar length grey hair was thinning and unruly as if he’d just got out of bed, his heavily lined face clenched in distaste; but underneath the grizzled exterior and the bizarre attire, was none other the Quare Geg Himself: the fun-loving Ollie Laphen, former Crown Prince of Comedy! Looking at him now, though, it seemed there was little to laugh about, but you wouldn't know it to hear his grandson.

“Gramps! How-the-hell are you?! It’s me, Kris!” The boy put the helmet on the seat of the Harley and joyfully bounded-up the steps two-at-a-time, “so goo-ood to see you, dude...” he embraced the frail, bristly figure - who immediately pushed him away. “Gitcher filthy hands affa me, ye wee shite!! I’m not senile yet -- I know damn-well who you are!” Laphen put his fists on his hips and sneered in a high-pitched whine, “Whaddya want from me this time? Money, is it? Well, you can feck-off back to La-La Land - this bank is closed! Go and ask that crooked auld kike of a father o’ yours – oh yeah, I forgot – he’s back in the bankruptcy courts -- yet-again -- after yet-another one of his half-assed business-deals went tits-up in the water – still - why break the habit of a lifetime, huh? Once a loser, always a loser!” he stuck his little pug nose in the air, stuck out his chin and tied the belt of his silk kimono, like a superannuated prize-fighter squaring-up at a weigh-in. 

Doing his best to suppress a fit of giggles, Kris reassured him in a sober tone, “S’OK gramps, don’t have a cow, man. I don’t need any of your filthy lucre, after all -- we've got a backer! And for the record –- I’ve never asked you for anything in my life, you old goat -- and you know it!”

Laphen stepped closer, “Why are you here then?”

“To see you you...” said Kris, smirking.

Laphen went nose-to-nose with his grandson and growled, “So, you don’t need me?! Well! You've seen me! Now piss off!”

Kris put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and smiled, warmly, “C'mon, we’d better get you inside, it’s quite chilly out here and we wouldn't want you catching cold, now, would we?”

The old man swatted the hand away like a particularly stubborn piece of lint, “Stop treatin’ me like a feckin’ invalid! I’m perfectly capable of walkin’ unaided – I’m not in a feckin’ wheelchair yet!” in the same breath, he broke away, looked down at Herbie, pointed at Malky and barked, “Is this the guy?”

“Yessah!” Herbie replied, standing to attention, as if addressed by a superior officer, “this is Mr Malcolm Calvert, the, erm... consultant from Brodir.”

“Well – don’t just stand there like a spare cock at a hen-night! Bring him in!”

With that, Laphen stomped back to the house with Kris walking alongside him, chatting incessantly despite the cold shoulder.

As Herbie fetched his overnight bag from the trunk of the Rolls, Malky watched them walk off and commented, “Chirpy little git, isn't he?”  

Herbie slammed the lid shut and explained in a low voice, “Don’t let the ol’ Scrooge act give ya the wrong impression, Mr C. Kris is the apple of the old man’s eye - ‘e dotes on that boy. This is the way they speak to each uvvah. There’s no real malice intended so it’s best if you just let ‘em get on wiv it. Neevah wants to admit that it’s all a big contest to see who’ll crack first –- it usually ends in ‘uge laughs all-round. Only fing is the old man’s been ‘ittin’ the bottle again. I’m afraid ‘e’ll end-up sayin’ somefink really ‘urtful to the boy and ‘e might never come back. Kris is the only grandchild ‘oo ever comes to visit, see -- so for all of our sakes -- I ‘ope they chill-aht 'n have a civilised conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Malky grunted, distractedly. The more he heard, the stronger the temptation to hand back the cheque and book a taxi back to Brodir, but he was so hungry now he had no choice but to reserve judgement until after dinner.

As they climbed the steps he suddenly realised they’d forgotten someone; he looked back and saw that his trusty companion was finding it hard to drag himself up, “Och, c’mon Broo, they’re not as steep as the stairs at the inn -- and you manage to climb those when you fancy a drink from the bog!” said Malky, turning away.

Broo could barely stand, let alone climb a flight of steps. When the young leatherman approached to indulge in a spot of light-petting and the strange, purplish halo enveloped him, Broo was instantly numbed -- he felt a sensation akin to sinking into a vat of virulent, viscous quicksand; a toxic vapour overwhelmed his senses -– and when the boy eventually let go, the dread feeling went with him. Alas, the men were too busy to notice him collapse in a heap, having been distracted by the sudden appearance of an angry old man who smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and bathsalts. Then something strange happened: when the younger man climbed the steps -- the aura around him grew more transparent –- by the time he embraced the old man - it had evaporated completely! One second it was there, the next – nothing. This was most perplexing. And if his senses were to be believed, aside from a few passing crows, there were none of the usual creatures one would find on an estate as big as this. Just like the village, there was no livestock or wildlife in the vicinity at all. Not only that, but as his head cleared, he realised that something else was missing: there’s no sign of anything Other in the ether either, and that bothered him most of all. The sky was darkening for dusk, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low, so why are there no apparitions in the Golden Hour? Where was the shimmering residual energy of past events that can only be glimpsed through the rays of twilight? In a land such as this, historically ravaged by epidemics, tribal violence, famine and murderous invaders, there should be at least a few ghostly children playing in the fields... And yet, there’s nothing. If the Barry McKee case had taught him anything at all, it was to Beware Spiritual Vacuums. Bad things happen in Spiritual Vacuums.

... at that very moment (12:56 US Eastern Time), approximately 3600 miles away, at a checkpoint at the Canadian/United States’ border, on the Peace Bridge at Fort Erie, between Ontario and Buffalo, New York State...

“Sir? Sir... hello...

“Sir?!

“Wind down the window, sir!”

Somewhere... off in the distance Emil heard a man’s voice and a clicking sound. Metal on glass...

It wasn't like waking up, more like someone switching on a light. He was sitting in Fran’s Volvo, at what appeared to be the US/Canadian border!

“Sir, would you please wind down your window?” the muffled voice barked “SIR?!”

In his peripheral vision, Emil discerned a uniformed figure peering through the window. A US border patrol guard?! Holy shit?! What the f**k is going on?! 

But the inner-turmoil, dislocation and downright terror didn’t register on his face: on the outside, he was deadpan, ice-cool and composed. The inner-Emil watched his own hand reach out and push the button that wound down the window; he felt the crisp breeze buffet his face and arms as the glass descended.  If this is a dream, it’s very vivid. The guard stooped, leaned-in and sniffed the inside of the car. The outer-Emil remained unfazed, but when he caught a glimpse of himself in the wing-mirror, he soon realised why the guard was so suspicious.

He appeared to be wearing an unbelted towelling bathrobe, pyjama pants and his XXL Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt -- the ensemble he wore when he was slouching around the apartment... Shit -- you gotta be kidding me -- no briefs?! He desperately wanted to grab the hem of the gown and tuck the tails between his legs, but his arms refused to budge!

The certainties: it was daylight; he was at the border. I’m driving my wife’s 1979 Volvo estate dressed like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest! This has to be a dream! I’m gonna wake up at any minute...

Meanwhile, somewhat surprised that he couldn't smell any liquor, the guard returned to the business in hand, “May I see your passport, sir?!” he asked, acidly, in a thick New England accent. He was leaning on the roof now, the midday-sun gleaming off the chrome-plated badge on his cap; despite the dazzling flashes, Emil’s eyes refused to blink. The Inner-Emil wanted to grab his tie and shout: Stop me! I’m out of my mind! but his lips remained firmly zipped; his body remained still. For all-intents-and-purposes, he was a puppet with no mind of his own.

So who’s pulling the strings?

The guard was getting impatient; he pointed at the passenger seat, and snapped, “Your passport, sir!!

Emil’s outer voice said “Passport?”

The guard pointed, “It’s there. Right beside you, sir.”

His head turned to the right and he found himself looking down at the passenger seat; sure-enough, sitting atop an array of various official papers, was his passport. He saw his hand reach out, pick it up and hand it over. Maintaining eye-contact, the guard took the little booklet, ceremoniously shook it open and read it with a disdainful look. Emil had taken many acid trips and tried every psychedelic he could get his mitts on, but this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his voyages through the Doors of Perception. So what does that leave? Sleepwalking? He tried to make the fingers of his left hand pinch his thigh... but nothing.

“What brings you to the US, Mr Labatt?”

Emil heard himself say, “Doctor Labatt. I’m on my way to visit an elderly relative, if you must know. She’s very ill. Dying. It’s an emergency.”

What?!

“... Are you planning to drive all the way, Dr Labatt?” the guard asked, doubtfully.

The inner-Emil wanted to cry out: I don’t wanna drive anywhere! I don’t know why I’m here or what I’m doing! Please call my wife, Frances – she’ll come and get me!! In fact – arrest me! Take me into custody right now!!

Instead he heard his outer voice reply, dryly, “Yes, officer. Driving all the way.”

The guard handed back the passport, sighed heavily and asked pointedly, “Dr Labatt, have you been imbibing today? Narcotics, alcohol, have you taken any prescription drugs that might affect your ability to drive?”

This could work to his advantage: if I’m cheeky enough they might arrest me on suspicion of DUI! Alas, the invisible ventriloquist kept the voice calm and answered succinctly, “I most certainly have not been imbibing, officer. I’m a well-respected forensic scientist and a senior lecturer at the University of Toronto. I’m on my way to Baltimore to see an elderly relative with a terminal illness. It’s matter of some urgency. I need to get on.”

Baltimore?!

The guard handed back the passport and enquired, brusquely, “Carrying any foodstuffs, livestock including pets, liquor or sundries that may be considered contraband by the United States of America?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, would you mind popping the trunk, sir?”

Emil didn’t stir.

“Sir... pop the trunk?”

“This is my wife’s car and I don’t know where the trunk popper is.”

‘Trunk popper’?! Listen to me! Arrest me, you fool! I’m frickin’ nuts!!

Shaking his head, the guard reached in and groped under the wheel; “There she is,” and tugged the lever.

While the guard searched the trunk, the Inner-Emil tried to think logically: Could I have been inadvertently poisoned at the lab? Unlikely, he was very careful about sterilisation and wore a mask at all times... Have I ingested something in the course of my work... a fungus...? A spoor that causes one to act out in some way...? But he was ignoring the obvious: there was a taste in his mouth -- a taste that was as familiar as it was bitter and earthy that usually preceded the bouts of sickness. In fact, it had been happening ever since he’d got back from the dig in Kildare 2 years ago when they discovered the bog mummies (he’d abandoned the annual expeditions after his little fling with Niamh). Lately, he’d been prone to intermittent lapses in consciousness and bouts of short-term memory-loss. He’d find himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for hours on end. Fran thought he was smoking too much weed, but not even strongest strain of mary jane could induce blackouts like this, and nothing would leave a taste in his mouth this bad.

The trunk slammed shut. The guard returned, “Everything seems to be in order, Dr Labatt...” he leaned on the roof and spoke close, “Listen doc, if I was you I’d stop at the first motel I came to and I’d get myself a couple of hours sleep. Then I’d have a shower and a change of clothes and I’d drive the rest of the way feeling wide awake ‘n refreshed. I wouldn't want to fall asleep at the wheel and maybe kill myself or some innocent folk who were unlucky enough to be travellin’ the same road. Whaddya say to that, doc?”

An uneasy silence followed. The inner-Emil waited for his body to respond but nothing came: his eyes remained unblinking, his mouth stayed shut. He prayed that this was a turning point -- that he’d do something so outrageous they’d have to take him in -- but it never came. Finally, the guard sighed and patted the roof with the flat of his hand, “Welcome to the United States, doctor.”

Before the lights went out, Emil heard his voice reply with a curt, “Thank you. Have a nice day.” He felt his right hand release the handbrake; he felt his foot gently depress the accelerator. He watched as the Volvo taxied through the checkpoint; he paid the toll and ventured onto the open road... that was the last thing he remembered before the darkness descended again...

Malahide, Dublin: The Somerville family were going to Mass.

“Put on yer seat-belt, Cate, luv. You don’t have to sit in the baby-seat but you still have to strap yerself in,” said Somerville, getting into the driver’s seat.

In the back, Cate turned to her younger sister, “See, Cathy – he called it a ‘baby’ seat!’”

“Mommeeeeeeee!” Cathy wailed.

Pat got into the passenger seat and took control: “Ssshhhh, Cathy.... Cate don’t tease Cathy! You’ll start her off -- then baby Clare will start!” She playfully slapped her husband’s shoulder, “That’s your fault, daddy! It’s a CAR seat not a BABY seat, silly -– it even says so on the little label ‘Car Seat’ –- so-there, Miss smarty-pants-Caitlin -- you were wrong!”

“Daddy said it not me.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Pat.”

“He didn’t mean to say it, Cathy. I’ll never hear the feckin end of this... will you be more careful what you say!”

“I’m not a baby I’m 4 and 4 months! I have to sit in it cuz I’m too wee for the seat belt!”

“That’s right! You tell ‘em Cathy! It’s a seat for small people, not babies! Cathy’s very sensitive and unassertive and I’m trying to build her confidence!”

“Daddy, what’s ‘police brutality’?” asked Cate, apropos of nothing.

“Where did you hear about ‘police brutality’?” said Somerville, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

“One of the older girls shouted it when Sister Marie dragged her into the bogs to wash her face.”

“Toilets, Ladies, loo or lavatory, please, Cate, dear. What are bogs?” said Pat, sternly.

“Sorry mommy: ‘Bogs are Irish swamps...’” Cate sang, rolling her eyes.

Herbie led the way through the huge front door into a huge, cavernous sandstone vestibule lit by a quartet of gothic, arched windows, not unlike the narthex of a Christian church, but cluttered with precisely the sort of tone-lowering kitschy bric-a-brac that one would expect a working-class-boy-made-good to put on display -- as much a screw you to visiting nobs & snobs as it was a totem to his wealth and wilful nature, to wit: a suit of armour wearing an American Indian headdress, a deep-sea diving-suit with a stuffed monkey’s head in the helmet; a pair of large Persian vases filled with strange umbrellas. One item in particular gave Malky cause for pause: standing to the left of the adjoining Gothic archway, stood a life-sized waxwork of the Master of Mirth himself, fashioned and dressed to represent his ‘hey-day’ in the 30s; this waxen Laphen was the youthful, joyful Jolly Ollie Laffin, grinning that trademark  squidgy-grin, complete with pinchable dimples, the rash of freckles across the bridge of his little pug-nose, the glassy sky-blue eyes gleaming like sapphires – you couldn't help but smile. Malky couldn't help but remark, “Whatever happened to that sweet li’l guy, eh?”

The burly chauffeur didn’t take the bait and doggedly maintained his chummy, sunny disposition, providing information with the patter of a well-informed tour-guide, “That used to reside in the foy-yer at Madame Toussauds in Lahndahn! They replaced it wiv a more recent model in the 70s an’ the boss brought the originals back ‘ere when he bought the ahse. This one was done in ’38, just after his first full-length feature: Ollie and Molly Strike Oil!” Herbie moved to the right of the connecting archway and unconsciously adopted an almost identical pose to the grinning effigy on the left, “This way, Mr Calvert. I’ll take you to yer room and you can freshen up ‘n that ‘n we can tawk about the ‘situation’ over dinnah.”

As they walked through a slate-floored lobby lit by muted spotlights, it was more of the same: a veritable Ollie Laphen museum exhibit; an autobiography laid out chronologically -- from glass-cases containing newspaper columns, magazine covers and PR stills from the slapstick days of the 1930s -- to the chin-stroking thesp (a framed headline in The Irish News: ‘Laphen’s Lear is a masterclass!’). The dark, wood-panelled walls were lined with framed photographs of Ollie pressing flesh and embracing some of the greatest movie-makers, movers-and-shakers of the past 60 years: FDR, Bogart, Monroe, Gable, Jackie O, Bing, Hope, Groucho, Einstein, Fidel, Vidal, Hitchcock, Wayne, JFK, Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger, Elvis, the Dalai Lama, the Beatles, the Queen of England and various royals – as far as the 20th century is concerned, Ollie is the OED definition of ubiquitous. As they passed through the connecting archway, Malky got quite a jolt - enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Dead being the appropriate word, for in the shadows of the dimly lit reception hall stood a menagerie of dead things ready to attack -- lions, bears, tigers, panthers -- feral, snarling, glassy-eyed, posed in a stance of attack; ugly birds-of-prey hung on wires from the rafters, talons bared, poised to swoop; and to be certain that arachnophobes didn’t feel excluded, there were a few tarantulas strategically attached to various pillars and posts.

Malky gaped and gasped, “Wow! Did Ollie kill all these himself?!”

This time Herbie did seem a wee bit uncomfortable, “Nah, ‘e commissioned ‘em from a taxi-dermist’s in Sarf Africa where they can get you anything...” He sniffed and shook his head, “I ‘ate it too, to tell the troof – I never come frew ‘ere if I can avoid it. It’s the old man’s sense off ooma, see – he likes to lull visi’ors into a false sense of security then - aargh! They get the shock of their lives,” he reached behind a curtain and threw a switch -- the animals’ eyes shone bright red and and roared in their respective voices. “The boss ‘ates animals, see –- he got rid of all the livestock ‘cept for stables when ‘e bought the ahse. ‘E ‘ates ‘orses most of all. ‘E got thrown by a donkey when ‘e was doin’ a cameo in Around the World in Eighty Days in ’55 or ’56 –- ‘e walked orf the set and refused to ‘ave anyfink to do with animals evah again! Animals and kids. If he could get ridda the crows he’d be ‘appy.”

Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.

Their attention was briefly diverted by shouting in a room somewhere further in: “... Will you quit naggin’ me – ye’re worse than a feckin wife!”

“NO! I won’t stop til you see sense! If I don’t say it – who will!?! You’re cracking up!! You’re a delusional... egomaniacal narcissist! You’re like Stalin without the people-skills...!”

Herbie quickly ushered his guests into the lobby and closed a connecting door turning the voices into incoherent murmurs, but Malky had heard enough. Herbie’s stoic exterior slipped, he got jittery and muttered something about an ‘Inquisition’ under his breath. Malky was about to ask what he meant when he quickened his step and led the way through another archway that led to a lobby at the foot of a huge white marble staircase cleft with a dark scarlet runner. On the bottom step stood the other waxwork of Ollie dressed as a tramp holding the Oscar statuette for his role as a shady boxing promoter in the movie Knuckledusters. In an alcove in the rear wall to the left of the staircase stood an imposing, but badly-damaged grandfather clock; the glass insets covering the face and pendulum case were smashed, the hour-hand hung limp on the wheel and part of the ornate, intricately hand-carved casing was cracked down one side.

Herbie stood next to his guest, looked up at it and said, “Big f**ker, innit?”

Malky was inclined to agree that it was highly unlikely that such a huge piece of solid timber could be toppled so easily by a man as old and small as Ollie.

The bickering voices were making Herbie very uncomfortable, there was a pained expression on his big, weather-beaten face. As they climbed the staircase, he said, “Look, Mr Calvert... I don’t know ’ow to say this... what I mean to say is.... you might ‘ear certain fings whilst you is ‘ere... and I don’t like ‘avin’ to ask... but we’d be grateful if you would sign, for the want of a better phrase, a gag order.”

Malky shook his head, “Like I said, Herbie, I hate the press as much as ‘oul Ollie, but I don’t feel comfortable signing that sort of thing. Cuz if there is anythin’ iffy goin’ on – I’m not sayin’ there is – but should we detect signs of chicanery or skulduggery in the course of our ‘investigation’ -- like, say, we uncover a plot to get the ol’ bugger certified and bleed him dry or rewrite his will -- a gagging order could severely hinder an official investigation, and, when all’s said and done, I’m on the side of law and order.” He held up his right hand, “But if it makes you feel any better – as far as petty gossip and scandal-mongering is concerned -- my lips are sealed,” he turned, looked down at Broo and added, glumly, “... can’t speak for the dog, though...”

Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in.  

In light of such an earnest assurance, Herbie relaxed a little and explained, “Um well, the ‘Inquisition’ I mentioned refers to some recent sackin’s in the last week or two. ‘E’s fired a coupla security guards, the assistant gardener and the young gal who ‘elps out wiv the ‘ahsework on Tuesdays ‘n Fursdays!”

“Why did he sack them?”

“Cos somebody leaked some gossip to an American tabloid ‘n it could only ‘ave come from the staff, so ‘e hadda clear-aht.” Herbie took a deep breath and spoke in a half-whisper, “So you can see how bad it is ‘ere. It’s got to the point where the only people ‘e trusts is me and the ‘ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes - and ‘e only trusts ‘er cuz she’s from the village and they believes all this ’aunted ‘ouse bollox.”

Again they were distracted; this time it was the jingle of unbuckled buckles and the stomp of motorcycle-boot-heels on the chequered tiles below, “Uncle Herb! Is it true? He’s sacked Scanlon?!” Kris shouted from the hall, clearly incensed. The three turned and looked down; Herbie maintained eye contact but didn’t answer; his uneasy silence said it all. “He has?! Shit! Where did he go?”

Herbie lowered his head, looked at his shoes and said, “Nobody knows. He packed up ‘n walked aht wivvaht a word ‘n we’ve ‘eard nuffink since.”

The lad stamped his foot and punched his thighs with his fists in a sudden fit of anger and disbelief, pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, as the implications hit him one by one, “This is such bullshit, Uncle Herb -- I was working with Scanlon -- he was helping me with the movie -- what did he do?!”

Herbie’s head dropped, “Look Kris, yer grandpaw’s been ‘avin’ a bit of bovver lately and...”

“And where’s the cat? Don’t tell me he’s fired him too?!”

“He ran away.”

“Huh?! Fey Ray ran away? I not friggin’ surprised! The entire estate is a no go area for anything with more than two legs!” yelled Kris, without realising how odd it sounded, and stomped off in a huff; a few seconds later they heard him shouting at the old man in another room.

“Do ever stop and think: ‘hey, maybe I’m the problem?’ – cuz unless you straighten-out you’re gonna die a very lonely old man...” “Ach, blow it out yer arse, ye ginger shite-hawk...!”

A door slammed and the squabbling voices became muffled and unintelligible again. Herbie put a hand to his brow and groaned to himself, “Kris, son, you couldn't-a picked a worse time to pay us a surprise visit...”

“Who was Scanlon? The butler?” asked Malky.

“No, groundskeeper, but he might as well’ve been,” Herbie replied, unhappily, “’E did all the odd-jobs arahnd the ahse. Lifetime’s service – gone - jus-like-that - phfft! Kris an’ ‘im wuz thick as thieves too. ‘E knew all the stories about this place. Kris used to sit up for hours on end listenin’ to ‘im but Scanlon and the boss never really got along – Scanlon came wiv the ahse, see, just like all the servants – but ‘e wuz a bit of a law onto ‘isself. When we checked, we found ‘irregularities’ in our finances. The boss confronted him, he couldn’t answer, ‘n that was that.”

They reached the second landing and the old retainer ushered them along a long corridor with row-upon-row of sky-blue doors with ornate brass name plates, the panelling in-between bedecked with gold and silver discs, “Were all these recorded by Ollie?” asked Malky, genuinely impressed.

Herbie, pleased to have a diversion, nodded and cheerfully slipped back into tour-guide mode, “Oh, people forget ‘e was a great crooner. In the 50s he recorded loadsa LPs and they wuz big ‘its all ovah the world - not-so-much in the US or Britain - but ‘ere in Ireland ‘n France ‘n’ Germany.  Can’t walk dahn the street in Japan. We go over to Tokyo every now-‘n’-then and ‘e records all these TV commercials for ‘em. Liquor, potato chips, candy bars, mostly. ‘Big bucks for a load of ol’ bollox!’ ‘e says.”

“I know how that feels,” muttered Malky, thumbing the cheque in his pocket.

Herbie opened a door with an engraved plate bearing the legend The Wonderland Suite and put the case on an ottoman by the door. The room was weirdly magnificent, in an oversized, child’s playbox type-way. The floor was a chessboard, there were huge cushions in the shape of chess pieces scattered around the floor; the walls were decorated with blow ups of Tenniel’s drawings of Alice in Wonderland characters; an emperor-sized four-poster swathed in white satin sheets patterned with black diamonds; and a large, white tallboy with outsized, bright red knobs and drawers that were shaped to look warped and uneven, like a prop from a kids’ cartoon. “’Ere’s the TV,” he said, opening the doors of a huge white sideboard to reveal a 38” screen, “If you wanna take a walk round before dinnah -– go ‘ead, nowhere’s off limits -– oh, part of the east-wing’s locked-up, but I can get the keys from the safe and take you down later. There’s some PJs ‘n wot-not in the dresser drawer and fresh towels in the en suite. There’s the phone,” he pointed at an ornate, art deco phone, “just dial 9 for an outside line.”

Astonished by his surroundings, Malky could only gaze and nod his head.

Herbie clicked his heels and stood to attention, “There’s plenty of ‘ot-wa’ah if you wanna ‘ave a showah and a shave or wot-evah. Dinnah will be served at 8pm sharp (it was presently 5:50pm), I’ll bang the gong. In the meantime, make yerself at ‘ome 'n I’ll see you at 8,” said Herbie, brightly, closing the door behind him.

Malky sat down on the edge of the bed and examined a brass plated console next to the headboard; he pressed the first button: the curtains closed; he pressed the second: the curtains opened; he pressed a third and the lights either side of the bed came on; he pressed the fourth and the drape across the canopy over the bed rolled back to reveal a full-size, horizontal mirror. “Bit sordid for a room that looks like a nursery,” Malky opined, flopping down and looking up at his reflection, “God, I’m getting old. Remind me to close that curtain before I go to bed – if I wake up and see meself in the morning I’m likely to scare meself to death.” He kicked off his shoes and writhed in the welcoming sea of satiny-softness, like a Labrador pup in an unfurled toilet roll, “Oh, I just wanna sleeeeep... wake me up in September when the baby’s born...”

Broo growled quietly, that’s right, you have a nice relaxing catnap while your tiny, put-upon wife labours over a hot engine just so that she can get that wretched old banger of a van back on the road in order to buy provisions and decorating materials to build a nest for you and your unborn progeny.

Malky sat up, “Hmm. maybe I should ring her. This is our first night apart since we moved in together. I’d better give her a progress report.” He rolled over, picked up the art-deco phone and called the inn.

“Well, what’s Ollie’s house like?! Is it dead grand or what? I wanna know everything!”

He gave her a detailed description of the house so far, right up to and including the mirror in the canopy over the bed, “... the stories are true, though -- Jolly Ollie is one grouchy oul’ shite. I don’t think I’ve ever met such an obnoxious old git in all me life.” he said, shaking his head. “Zindy, what the hell am I doing here? This isn't me.”

Zindy had obviously been thinking about it too, “Listen luvver, this ain’t a justification or an excuse, but both of us know that there’s certain things we can’t explain away with logic. I mean, look what ‘appened with Barry McKee? Just put yer Sherlock hat on and look at it from a detective’s perspective; treat it as a sorta murder-mystery weekend. What about Broo? He should be able to let you know if there’s anything spooky about the place?”

“I dunno, he seems a bit drowsy, like he’s half-asleep,” said Malky, giving the old dog a cursory glance.

Of course I’m sluggish, you oaf -- this place is sucking the life out of me! Can’t you tell?!

But the semi-telepathic link remained infuriatingly out of order, “It was a long drive. He’s probably knackered.” Then, much to Broo’s chagrin, they forgot about him and exchanged love yous, miss yous and take cares before hanging up.

“Have you noticed somethin’?” said Malky, rhetorically, going to the en-suite and turning on the light; he looked around, “Hmmm,” he opened the bathroom cabinet: the mirror was on the inside of the door. “Whilst me ‘n Zindy were talking, it suddenly occurred to me -– there isn't a mirror to be seen around the house -- even the one above this bed is covered by a curtain.” Malky nodded, “It’s ironic, isn't it: the big Alice in Wonderland freak who doesn’t have Looking Glass –- an egotist who treats you to a personalised autobiographical stroll through his glory days but doesn’t like to look at his own reflection? I find that somewhat strange...”

5 minutes ago: Zindy put the receiver back in its cradle, sat back and winced, “Settle down, kiddo,” she said, patting the elongated face of Jimi Hendrix stretched across her bump, “I still have a gearbox to sort out before we ‘ave a nice bath ‘n go to bed.” She sat at the kitchen table, radio tuned to a classic rock station (Malky listened to nothing but BBC Radio 4) and sang along to Deep Purple’s Child in Time, wailing like a banshee as she screwed and unscrewed oily nuts and rusty bolts: très cathartic. She felt a little guilty, but surely she was entitled to a night on her own. She looked down at the bump: I mean the two of us. I’ll never be alone again

Zara ‘Zindy’ Lindsay, you see, was an accident; everybody told her so.

Ever since she could understand rudimentary English, her aunts and her mother would mention it regularly - usually after something burned down or yet another little boy’s mother had arrived at the door complaining that she was demanding dinner-money with menaces. When she was old enough to understand the mechanics of human reproduction (hard not to when you live on a farm), they’d tell her she was the result of a drunken one-night-stand with a Spanish scout master (visiting Burnley on an exchange-visit) that no one had seen or heard from since. Fortunately for Dory, the Lindsays were/are a well-to-do family with links to the cotton trade that go as far back as the 17th century, so they had the wealth and power to cover it up. After a secret birth, mother Dory and baby Zara were spirited away to a remote farmhouse in the heart of the Lancashire countryside under the care of a pair of huge, lumbering maiden-aunts. Unlike the petite and genteel Dory, Maggie and Lottie were tall, mannish land-girls with no time for molly-coddles and sentimentality -- what’s more they didn’t care what their niece got up to so long as she didn’t burn the place down or leave a gate open (she could drive a tractor by the age of 6). When she was 7, Dory married and moved out, but Zindy didn’t like her new stepdad and he didn’t like her (a snooty, middle-aged bank manager who read the FT and went to Mass twice a week). She preferred Dory’s long-term boyfriend Tam Horsham who drove the Mother’s Pride bread van; but he was too common, apparently, “He eats his dinner off a tray and smokes in the bath!” said Dory, tartly, when asked if Zindy should start calling him dad. So, after numerous tantrums, she was allowed to stay at the farm and enjoy the relative freedom of life with the ‘Looney Lindsay Sisters’ (as the locals called them). Then puberty hit, so did a lifelong passion: motorbikes. She found a broken down old ‘39 Triumph Tiger in the barn and with some help from Lottie (“It belonged to an old boyfriend who left it here in ’42 when he went to war... but he never came back for it so I assumed the worst.”) she cleaned it up and replaced the missing parts. It took 8 months of scouring scrapyards and hard labour, but she managed to restore it to its former glory. She was in the Gazette! ‘Tearaway Tomboy Triumphs!!’ Consequently, she met dozens of motorcycle enthusiasts and a lot of them just happened to be Hell’s Angels. That’s when she first got that weakness in her knees. Big, fat, hairy men. Her pals were aghast. It could've been a father-daddy complex or just a weird perversion, but she could get enough of grizzled, over-weight geezers most girls would cross the road to avoid.

In spite of her aggressive side, she was quite the artist and spent hours quietly painting and sketching the scenery behind her great-aunts’ farm. According to her second year teacher in her annual report (Zindy refused to go to boarding school and went to the local comprehensive): ‘She has shown a flair for art and is very intelligent – when she wants to work, which isn't often ... for the most part she is headstrong, opinionated, brusque and quick to temper; a girl who sees life as a big adventure ... it may be a symptom of her diminutive stature that she feels she has to be brash and contrary, but if she continues in this fashion she may face expulsion....’

Zindy just couldn't be tamed. She was up before the magistrate on a regular basis, mostly for driving without a licence or brawling with boys twice her size. On her 18th she stood on a table in the Flat Iron pub in front of her closest friends and allies and vowed never to settle down to a life of domesticity, to forsake motherhood and be a free spirit for the rest of her life. Three weeks later, she moved in with a recently divorced woodwork teacher 17 years her senior. He proposed (‘wanna shack-up?’) and she couldn't say no. So began her lifelong ‘thing’ for older men – the daddy syndrome, probably.

The cohabitation with the woodwork teacher was as passionate as it was incendiary – he turned out to be a secret drinker – there were vodka bottles hidden all over the flat; she tried to keep up for a while, but all they did was fight. Things came to a head with the couple spending a night in the cells of Bottle Street nick. The desk sergeant told her he was a lost cause – “He’s dried-out 3 times -– and he’s still the same mess he was when I first started in here 15 years ago! My advice lady – run as fast as them wee legs can take ya – find a fit young man with a good job!” She took this advice to heart, and a in a few months she met a recently widowed sculptor at a Henry Moore exhibition –- this time 40 years her senior; tall, with long grey hair who dressed like Tom Wolfe -– and got swept up in a whirlwind romance. ‘Whirlwind’ in the sense that the trail of destruction they left behind: various foodstuffs were hurled, crockery was smashed, household utensils took flight and embedded themselves in walls. Zindy loved it. She loved him. Alas, his kids, two of which were older than her, did not approve and weren’t shy about letting her know. It was grist for Zindy’s mill; it only strengthened her resolve. She thrived in adversity; she lived to Fight the Good Fight and persevered with the relationship without a thought for the toll it was taking on the poor man’s heart. Of course, like most Spring/Winter love affairs it ended with a lonely vigil in a draughty hospital corridor listening to the impassive beep of medical machinery whilst his own flesh & blood hold his hand as he drifts over. Previously estranged siblings now united in their grief against a common enemy: “The stupid bitch is still sitting out in t’corridor.” “She’s only after ‘is money.” “She looks about 9, makes you wonder...?” She heard every word, approached and told them in no uncertain terms she didn’t want or need his money – all she wanted was to organise the funeral in accordance with his last wishes. They told her his last wishes were enshrined in his last will & testament, not word of mouth, and while they were on the subject, he hadn't left her anything. They told her he was never done talking trash about her behind her back, telling them how he didn’t trust her; that she was a little gold-digger. Meanwhile he was telling Zindy how ungrateful and spiteful his children were and how they’d never done a day’s work in their lives! She had to stand there and listen as they sneered and talked about the stranger with whom she’d spent the last 2 years. It turned out he was a compulsive liar. His wives were all basket-cases by the time he’d finished messing with their minds. All told, the heart condition came as a result of the stress of numerous love affairs and having to remember what lie he told to whom.

Zindy swore to herself that she’d never have anything to do with men ever again! She cut her hair short, dyed it blue and foreswore make-up, skirts and blouses, bought a motorbike and toured Europe with a chapter of Hell’s Angels who treated her like one of the boys. The vow was broken 5 years later when she accompanied her new pals to the Isle of Man for the TT and met a biker from Wicklow. Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning was a built like a brick-shithouse with a long plaited (usually purple, sometimes blue) beard and intense stare (hence the moniker; Raspo: short for Rasputin). He was a nightmare in a studded leather jacket but Zindy was besotted with him. Despite his hulking size, expanding waistline and intimidating manner, he was smarter than the average bear. He read science fiction and knew a lot about astronomy. They used to ride up to Donegal, sit on the cliffs and he would teach her the consolations. She was hooked.

While she was there, one of her great-aunts died and Raspo took her back to Salford for the funeral. She inherited £30,000. Then Barry McKee, one of the gang of bikers from Brodir, happened to mention that his father was selling a seaside pub and she was very interested. She could run a business - she used to do the sculptor’s book-keeping and worked behind a bar in Germany for a few weeks; plus, Brodir might’ve been a rundown town, but it was a Mecca for bikers from all over Europe -- trade would be brisk –- she couldn't see what could possibly go wrong!

But you don’t know anybody until you live with them for a while.

At first, Raspo enjoyed playing host and worked behind the bar, but he had other business interests and that was OK – she preferred running things on her own – it was her name on the licence, her responsibility. She never asked about his business, she didn’t want to know, but she assumed he was a small time dealer: grass and tabs. Then one day he said, “Oh Zin, I’m off to Dublin to do bouncer for a boxin’ match at the National Stadium!” he kissed her goodbye, got on his trusty Triumph and off he went to bounce in Dublin. She found out later that he was off to collect a sizeable debt owed to him for a delivery of coke. When the debtor wasn't forthcoming, Raspo lost his temper and took it out of his hide with a crowbar. This information came courtesy of DS Phil Somerville, who also informed her that her beloved Raspo wasn't just peddling grass, he was dealing in all the a-listed narcotics, not to mention a little sideline in video piracy. She had to sit and listen while Somerville listed her lover’s shady dealings with various Dublin-based organised crime syndicates and proscribed terrorist militias when he tried to coerce her into turning tout and aid in the apprehension Raspo’s subordinates/associates/friends etc. She flatly refused. Raspo was sent down for 7 years, but 8 months later, to shave a few years off his sentence, he did what she refused to do: he shopped most of his former associates including some regulars, and - boom – the bulk of her clientele has declared her persona non grata and boycotted the inn. Somerville told her it was her own fault; she knew what Raspo was and chose to ignore it. He was right. A psychologist would say that it was indicative of a subconscious desire not to commit to a long-term relationship... Whatever, she was alone again, naturally.

Then along came Malky and his spooky three-legged German shepherd and their notorious pursuit of the evil Barry McKee. It was a thrill-a-minute-life-or-death roller coaster ride but it nearly killed them. She took a bullet to the shoulder; Malky had a heart attack and almost bled to death (the irony: Somerville saved Malky’s life after destroying hers). And here she was, back in another hospital corridor listening to bleeping machines. Just when she thought history was repeating itself, his old broken heart kept beating, “and it’s been beating for you ever since,” he said, in an uncharacteristic show of mawkish affection. 

Good ol’ Malky. He made her laugh. He was a good man and he made her feel good. They had conversations that lasted all night. OK, so he has a psychic three-legged dog who complains about the noise when I play me records, but that only makes it more fun. To put it simply, life was good. She was painting again; he’d made her a studio in the attic. (He never told what he was doing up there and she didn’t ask; he just hammered and sawed and cursed whilst she went about her business. In the end he’d put a ribbon across the door for the grand unveiling. He’d widened the skylight to let in more light and built a little podium for her still-life subjects. She accepted the keys like a gushing thesp before bursting into real tears. And although , he was hard work at times - he was sometimes taciturn and prone to moodiness – he was a good, kind man.

Then, wonder-of-wonders, she gets pregnant and her instinct, much to her surprise, is to keep it. Malky acted as if he wasn't overly keen, but she knew that deep-down he was delighted; he just felt unworthy and old.

And here we are. 2 years later and things couldn't be better. We’re broke but we ain't bust. We’re just about keepin’ our heads above water...

She went to the bar and looked out of the big window at the dirty, litter laden, windswept promenade. The council were meeting on Thursday; word on the wind had it that property developers were looking at the town with a view to redevelopment, so things were looking up. That’s good, ain't it? Lots of meetings with property developers and councilmen: all very ‘establishment’.

So 22 years later, what would she say to the silly girl standing on the table telling the world she’ll be a wild-child forever? Is she where she wants to be, where she has to be, or where she needs to be...?

Sammy couldn't read her mind but felt her doubts as if they were his own. It must be something to do with Malky. He hoped that it wasn't anything serious. Malky had grown on him. The old dog was a godsend, somebody to talk to who can see you, hear you... not that he ever feckin’ listens! But what if the auld dog died? Sammy shuddered at the thought: There would be no watching TV until 4 in the morning for a start. It was tough being a ghost. And although he knew Zindy couldn't see him, he still felt a little self-conscious about his appearance; as the old dog says: “the bloody-bullet-hole-ridden-apron makes you look like a psychopath (ghosts are stuck with what they wore when they died -- the last image The Light captures before their Soul passes), so he was discreet. He sat on the bin in the dark corner by the stove and watched from what he considered to be a reasonable distance. He’d been a bachelor all his life, he’d never met a woman he could live with, but Zindy was closest thing he’d ever had to a daughter – this, despite the fact that she was a headstrong, blue-haired English girl who dressed like a boy and swore like a docker. When she bought the inn, he thought she’d only last a few weeks, and yet, thank God, here we are. 

There were very few advantages in existing between Worlds, besides the walking through walls and not having to eat or sleep or all that malarkey, his senses were heightened and attuned to the Oneness of All Living Things (well, that’s how the dog put it) –- which meant he was able to see the little glow in Zindy’s belly. It was nothing more than an amber glimmer throbbing with the minute pulsebeat of a budding Soul, but it radiated an energy that brought a ripple of warmth to his Essence. Sometimes, when she was sleeping he’d stand close – not too close – and look into her womb. Oh, but it was a joyous sight to behold, “Look at the miracle begin again,” he whispered, to no one in particular.

Zindy climbed up onto the draining board to close the window above the sink -– Sammy was jumping up and down, pulling at his silver beard, “Are ye mad woman?! Get down o’ that w’ ye!” Thankfully she performed the exercise without incident, but he still hadn't settled; as she went about preparing her evening meal, he paced the floor behind her, fussing, wagging his finger, “Look at that floor! There’s engine oil down there! Ye’ll slip ‘n’ go on yer hoop! You’d better buck-up yer ideas, lady – that’s a chile in there – not a bag o’ chips!”

“Oh, I’d love a bag o’ chips,” she said, apropos of nothing.

Sammy stood by the cooker as she toiled over the sizzling pan and talked to her unborn baby, “Your silly daddy doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hates all this spooky stuff... He hates anything that brings the world to his door -- God knows what he’ll be like when the inn’s open for business...” Whether she was consoling a restless foetus or trying to convince herself, she didn’t know. She stopped stirring and stared as she contemplated her certain future.

The old ghost saw the doubt in her eyes and fought Malky’s case from his corner, “He’s a decent sort who won’t let you down –- you have to grow up sometime, missy! Stop moonin’ about and think like a mammy!”

No, let’s make no bones about, she was getting bored. It isn't good when life gets too predictable, when routine becomes rut. She needn't worry; things were about to get very strange indeed...

St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI): Rossington watched the sundown from his office window, a very large brandy in one hand, a cigarette in the other. It had been a bad day. The news from the board had been direct with no room for interpretation. His time had run out. The victims’ families’ petitions and writing campaigns had fulfilled their purpose, the pressure to do something had forced their hand. He had to give up Barry McKee to the authorities so an independent assessment of his condition could be made. He’d explored every legal avenue to keep him at SCICI, but there was nothing more he could do. The mob has spoken.

He was angry and frustrated, but mostly angry. He finished his brandy, carelessly stubbed out the cigarette, left his office and made for the sick bay in the high security wing. He walked quickly and purposely, collected the swipe cards from the nurses’ station and marched on, swiping through the sophisticated system of doors, along the corridors and across the walkway that led to the security ward and the room of SCICI’s most infamous inmate. Then, just as he swiped the lock, he had a moment of inspiration. He turned and walked to the staff toilet at the end of the corridor, to the mirror above the wash-hand basin; using his penknife to unscrew the frame, he carefully prised the hexagonal glass from the wall, put it under his arm and took it to McKee’s room.

“Hello, Barry,” he said, quietly closing the door behind him and turning on the lights. The sudden blaze of brightness didn’t faze McKee. Hooked up to the machines that kept him alive, long haired and bearded, he continued to stare unblinkingly at the ceiling, like a stricken biblical prophet transfixed by a vision of hell.

“I must apologise, it’s been quite a while since I visited. I’ve been busy with other patients and projects, not to mention running this establishment, you know how it is. I’ve kept abreast of your progress, though... what there is of it.” Rossington slowly crossed the floor, talking in a casual manner as he approached the bed, “Anyway, I’ll get straight to the point: I’ve received some bad news regarding your case and I thought you should to be the first to hear it.” He sat in the chair by the bed and put the mirror on his lap, “They've decided to take you off my hands, Barry. They say I’ve had enough time to prove you’re worth keeping alive. They say it would be mercy: ‘it’s cruelty not to let nature take its course’. No doubt they’re under pressure from the families of the victims, not to mention that bastard Somerville. Whatever, you’re doomed, and there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.

“You've shown no significant progress since that business with Niamh and Oona 2 years ago.” He tore off the latest print-out from the EEG and indicated the flat lines across the graph, “See, nothing like the flurry of activity we recorded during those instances in 1989. Why’s that, eh?” He scrunched the page into a ball and threw it into the corner. “It all stopped when I took away the mirrors and had you moved you to this room, didn’t it? Niamh and Oona lost their connection and have exhibited no psychic abilities since. It’s no coincidence, is it, Barry?”

He stood up and held the mirror over McKee’s face, “I know you use mirrors to reach out other telepaths and psychics,” he said, looking deep into McKee’s unseeing eyes, “so I’m having them re-installed, and you can do whatever is you do. Good or evil, I don’t care anymore. I just need results, Barry. I need something to show for my work. If not, I’ll hand you over to the authorities and they’ll perform what will be, for all intents and purposes, a public execution...”

To Be Continued Next Month...

[citizenscreen]

When the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Neil Simon died on August 27 he left behind a rich legacy of laughter. Arguably the most successful playwright in American history, Simon was nominated for 17 Tony Awards, he won three: for author of “The Odd Couple,” and twice for best play, for “Biloxi Blues” and “Lost in Yonkers.” More impressively, Simon ruled comedy on the Broadway stage for decades.

Simon’s move to the movies proved his work transcended mediums as well with 3 Best Screenplay Academy Award nominations to his credit for Material from (his own) Previous Source, and 1 Best Writing Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen for The Goodbye Girl (1977). He won the Pulitzer for “Lost in Yonkers” in 1991 and was bestowed many more honors throughout his storied career. Oddly, none of that came to mind when I heard the news of Simon’s death. Not the recognition, not the over 9,000 Broadway performances of his work, and not the many movies he’s penned that I am fond of. What came to mind first was how my beloved New York City died a little with him.

Neil Simon

Yes, the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Neil Simon is New York. The city has been a major player in numerous movies I never tire of. Just think of The Odd Couple, Barefoot in the Park, Brighton Beach Memoirs, The Goodbye Girl, The Out of Towners, or The Prisoner of Second Avenue. Without the flavors, the sounds, and the smells of New York they wouldn’t be as good. New York is in every line of dialogue, in every accent, and in every move of the characters. Simon, a Bronx native, wrote about what he knew and what he knew was urban family drama. He had a heightened awareness of what is funny in people even at their worst. Perhaps the best example of that is “The Prisoner of Second Avenue,” Simon’s eighth long-running play, which ran for 798 performances from 1971 to 1973.

Peter Falk and Lee Grant in the original Broadway production of Neil Simon’s The Prisoner of Second Avenue

The Prisoner of Second Avenue Playbill, 1971

The Broadway production of “The Prisoner of Second Avenue” was directed by Mike Nichols, who was a frequent Neil Simon collaborator. Nichols won four Tonys for directing Simon material – “Barefoot in the Park” in 1964, “The Odd Couple” in 1965, “Plaza Suite” in 1968, and “Prisoner” in 1972. Although most of Simon’s work is autobiographical, “The Prisoner of Second Avenue” is an exception as it is based on his first wife’s uncle who went bankrupt and had a nervous breakdown in his forties.

Mike Nichols and Neil Simon after a show rehearsal in March 1968, in New York City.

I didn’t get to see “The Prisoner of Second Avenue” on Broadway, but would have loved to. The play starred Peter Falk as Mel Edison, Lee Grant as Edna Edison, and Vincent Gardenia, who won the play’s second Tony Award, as Mel’s brother Harry. The production was also nominated for Best Play, but lost to “Sticks and Bones.”

Neil Simon wrote the screenplay to the movie version of The Prisoner of Second Avenue, directed by Mel Frank and released in 1975. Now this I’m familiar with, which is why I chose it as my back-up for The Neil Simon Blogathon. I couldn’t get my hands on my first choice, Robert Moore’s Chapter Two (1979), which is overlooked and one of his favorites. Nonetheless, I’m happy to offer my thoughts on The Prisoner of Second Avenue, perhaps Simon’s darkest comedy.

Prisoner carries a punch thanks to Mel Frank’s terrific direction, memorable performances by the film’s two leads, and Simon’s sharp dialogue. Neil Simon commented on the story’s theme saying, “I don’t think audiences expect or want me to write serious plays. Maybe I was a little more successful with ‘Prisoner’. It’s a serious play that’s very funny.” Yeah, it is. And it translates wonderfully to the screen showing a brutal New York both by happenstance and in actuality. There’s a reason why the films of the 1970s took an upswing on violence. The City was a violent place in the 1970s and although Neil Simon got a lot of slack for portraying it in such a manner – even being accused of hating New York due to Prisoner – he depicted what he saw. Simon said of this to the New York Daily News: “Who hates it? I love it. I’m writing about big city life. The problems in ‘Prisoner’ are not exclusive to New York. People are robbed everywhere. There are major strikes in London, Paris, every major city. I only single out New York because I happen to live there.”

In another interview Simon speaks of remembering a time when he got in taxi cabs and had long discussions with the drivers about baseball. Suddenly as of the early 1970s a wall was put up to protect the drivers from being robbed and the passenger couldn’t get out of the car until the driver opened the door remotely. He depicts this in a scene at the beginning of Prisoner of Second Avenue after the protagonist, Mel Edison, chases a bus in sweltering heat. This is not a pretty picture, but we’re in for an affecting, uproariously funny adventure.

Anyone who has lived in a city like New York has to know all about what happens to Mel and Edna Edison. Their story is quite simple, but fraught with problems. The married couple lives in one of them tenement buildings, as Marjorie Main’s character in Meet Me in St. Louis would say, and encounter any number of tribulations one after another until poor Mel suffers a nervous breakdown. As the movie opens the City is in its eighth consecutive day of a heat wave as its inhabitants scurry through the bustling streets. Mel Edison steps out of his building and misses his bus. It’s the first sign that this is not going to be a good day for Mel. What we don’t know is that missing his bus is the least of his problems because in the coming days he will be nagged by the noisy airline stewardesses that live next door, by barking dogs, a continuously flushing toilet, rude neighbors, and a smell of garbage so potent it reaches the Edison’s 14th floor apartment. In addition, Mel is fired from his job of 22 years and is robbed of all his belongings including his liquor! I mean, the poor guy can’t catch a break. Mel’s saving grace is his wife, Edna, who gives as good as she can take. They are perfectly suited in character as are the two actors are playing against each other. They are the ultra-talented Jack Lemmon and Anne Bancroft.

Anne Bancroft and Jack Lemmon as Edna and Mel Edison

The Prisoner of Second Avenue is the third of four appearances by Jack Lemmon in a film written by Neil Simon. The others are The Odd Couple (1968), The Out of Towners (1970) and The Odd Couple II (1998). You probably know I can go on and on about Jack Lemmon’s talent and his performance in The Prisoner of Second Avenue because I already have in previous posts so I’ll try to keep this short.

In Prisoner Jack plays one of his “everyman” characters, the kind of man he is most associated with. His performance in this is astounding. One of his best, in my opinion, and that’s something considering he could do no wrong in my eyes. As is often the case, I am blown away when Jack says absolutely nothing, when he adds his signature poignancy to the broad comedy that makes him one of the all-time best. Despite quip after quip, the funny repartee, and the incredible circumstances presented this character, the truth is that Mel is deeply disillusioned, he is at the end of his rope and there’s nothing funny about that. No one could have given such a role in such a film the depth given it by Jack Lemmon. He breaks my heart – in another comedy. That’s Jack’s gift. Neil Simon described Jack’s talent saying, “there are terrific actors today that are good at what they do, but no one could open up like Jack Lemmon, no one could surprise you like Jack Lemmon.” He does so in Prisoner time and time again.

Anne Bancroft matches Lemmon word for word and feeling for feeling in this terrific movie. Her delivery is essential Simon epitomizing exactly what draws me to his material. She is funny, she is truthful, she is broad, and she too gives you the feels when the time calls for it. Prisoner is the first of two Neil Simon written films starring Bancroft. The second is Paul Bogart’s Broadway Bound (1992).

Gene Saks, who directed the Simon-penned The Odd Couple (1968), Brighton Beach Memoirs (1986), Barefoot in the Park (1967), and Last of the Red Hot Lovers (1972) plays Mel’s brother Harry in The Prisoner of Second Avenue and does a fine job of it. Elizabeth Wilson plays Mel’s sister Pauline and Florence Stanley reprises her role as Pearl from the play. You can also see Oscar-winner F. Murray Abraham as the taxi driver in the beginning of the movie and Sylvester Stallone appears as a guy who Mel thinks pickpockets him.

As much as I admire The Prisoner of Second Avenue it’s story is not unique Simon fare. Not only does Jack Lemmon also star in The Out of Towners, but that 1970 movie has many thematic similarities with Prisoner such as the exasperation of having every conceivable thing that can go wrong go wrong to a couple. Neil Simon also wrote a play that’s a very funny take on the biblical story of Job, titled “God’s Favorite” that was produced for the stage in 1974. This one wasn’t made into a film, but I’m familiar with it because it’s included in one of his anthologies. “God’s Favorite” also centers on a family except this time they live in a Long Island mansion. The patriarch of the family is a pious man named Joe Benjamin who is pushed to the limit by one of God’s messengers when he does not succumb to temptation. Everything imaginable is thrown Joe’s way as he is tested over and over again. It’s an enjoyable piece and worth a read.

As I was watching The Prisoner of Second Avenue today I reminisced about how long I’ve been a Neil Simon fan. No doubt I didn’t get the nuances in this work when I was a much younger person, when I first became aware of his talent through movies, but the laughter was just as heartfelt. This many years later, this many more laughs enjoyed, I can say with certainty that Neil Simon is the person I would most have liked to write like. I feel deeply connected to his words despite the fact that none of the families he wrote about are like mine. In fact, had I not been exposed to Neil Simon plays for the entirety of my life I would not be the person that I am nor would New York City be the same in my mind. Both are better because of him.

Thanks, Doc.

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Be sure to visit Caftan Woman and Wide Screen World to read much more on the work of this memorable talent in The Neil Simon Blogathon.

Neil Simon (July 4, 1927 – August 26, 2018)

Neil Simon’s THE PRISONER OF SECOND AVENUE When the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Neil Simon died on August 27 he left behind a rich legacy of laughter.

[jakekosty]

Audience Studies Week #2

This week’s blog is about audiences throughout history, which goes back all the way to 3000 B.C. A very talked about audience in this chapter was Greek audiences. Greek audiences were extremely talkative and unruly, and a lot of the time they would disrupt performances by shouting, jeering, throwing fruit, and things that are a little bit to inappropriate to mention. They also ate, smoked, drank, and engaged in repartee with the actors. Back in ancient Greek times, it was normalized to behave this way, it would have violated social order for aristocratic audiences to defer to performers by keeping silent and paying attention. This brings me back to the time where I attended the Medieval Times performance with my family. Although it was not exactly the same as ancient Greek audiences, there were a lot of similarities that were portrayed. As I sat in the stands with the rest of the audience, I noticed that there were payed actors that were actually part of the play placed in the audience to give it more of a real effect. These audience members were acting the exact same as the audiences in ancient Greece were acting. They were yelling, screaming, acting drunk, and more. This was extremely cool for the directors of the show to add in because it made audience members like my family and I who payed to be there feel more engaged in the show. It essentially added another element of how realistic the show felt to us. It also made certain people in the audience, who may have actually had too much to drink, start engaging more as well. The whole experience put a thought in my head about how different audiences were back in time. The audience at a hockey game now a days would be different then the audience at an ancient Greek play, asides from some yelling and screaming. As time went on and the 17th and 18th centuries came around there was some shifting towards quieting audiences. Although it was not a huge shift, there was a slight change. When talking about the 19th century, the term “rowdyism” came up. This term explains itself pretty well, but in simple terms, it was a term for how rowdy the crowd got. In the 20th century, we begin to see even more of a shift. “Audience rights” became “poor manners”, which means that there was now a control of how the audiences acted and there wasn’t as much rowdyism. If there was rowdy behaviour in the audience, it came mostly from the lower class. The upper class is where all the money was, and they were more well behaved as an audience. Talking about the lower class and upper class, it reminds of sporting events or performances at the Scotiabank Centre in Toronto. I have been to many different events over the year at this venue and there are to different sections to sit depending on what kind of experience you want. Keep in mind this does not exactly mean that based on where people sit for the games is how wealthy they are or not, but seats closer to the floor are much more expensive then seats in the nose bleeders. I have sat in both sections in the past several years while at the Scotiabank Centre, and this is where the connection to lower class behaviour and upper class behaviour in the 20th century comes in. When sitting in the nose bleeders, you often are surrounded by a crowd that gets rowdier. I often notice people are drinking a lot more in the nose bleeders and are often screaming and yelling a whole lot more. It is an incredibly fun environment if you are interested in buying cheap tickets and still having a fun time. The seating in the lower rows often consist of businessmen and wealthier people with season tickets. It is much easier to pay attention to the game the lower you are sitting and definitely a lot calmer. In this chapter, there is a question that gets brought up asking, “what do powerful audience members look like”? Livingstone referred to powerful audience members as people who are asked about their experiences. Sullivan refers to powerful audience members as people who are interviewed. Based off both of Livingstone and Sullivan’s ideas of powerful audience, I have my own idea of what a powerful audience member could look like. To me a powerful audience member is someone that attends many games and as seen a lot of historic/bigtime moments. For example, the Toronto Raptors super fan Nav Bhatia would be considered a powerful audience member. He is dedicated to his team and goes to every home game. He has also been interviewed many times by the press, and by the team. He has been part of the audience and for historic moments in Toronto Raptors history and is praised as a fan more then any other fan that has attended a Toronto Raptors game. Based off that point, an argument could be brought up that famous people attending the games are more powerful fans then Nav Bhatia, but I disagree. Famous people attending the games may have more power based off their individual selves, but as an actual fan of the Toronto Raptors the only person that you can argue that is even close to Nav Bhatia is Drake. Something that I also found extremely interesting about this chapter is the definition of mass by Sullivan. Mass sees audiences as “a large collection of people scattered across time and space who act autonomously and have little or no knowledge of one another”. When I read this definition, I think about all the audiences I have been apart of. It is crazy to think about how in a crowd of 50,000 people, a person may only know a few people in that audience. The rest of the people in the audience are complete strangers that have their own lives and interests. If you are sitting next to a person in an audience, it is very likely that you will never see that person again, the only memory you will have of that person is in that one moment during an event. This also interests me in the agent aspect of things. This is when the audience is all conceived of free agents choosing what they want to experience, using their own interpretive skills to interpret the texts they encounter, making their own meanings, and generally using media to suit themselves. What this means to me is people in an audience all have a different meaning of why they choose to be a part of that particular audience, and they choose to believe in what they want to believe in while attending. They may see different things than other audience members and interpret what happens differently.

[brokehorrorfan]

Interview: Larry Cohen (King Cohen)

Larry Cohen is known for writing and directing cult titles like The Stuff, It’s Alive, and Q, in addition to penning the screenplays for such films as Phone Booth, Captivity, and Cellular. Now he’s the subject of a documentary titled King Cohen. The prolific filmmaker discusses the honor with me, in addition to dropping exclusive details about the upcoming anthology series he’s developing with J.J. Abrams.

What was your reaction when you found out that Steven Mitchell wanted to make a documentary about you?

I was delighted that somebody would be interested in my career. I didn't know these people. I didn't participate really in the making of it. I didn't supervise the production or have input into the production; I just did the interviews and allowed them to follow me in certain places and film. I gave them addresses and names of people, contacts that they might use, but I didn't try to take over the picture. You know, I'm a control freak on my movies. I write, produce, and direct everything. So if I started getting involved I would have ended up taking over the whole production, which I didn't want to do. I left it up to them.

And how did you react after seeing the final product, King Cohen?

I just saw it up in Canada [at Fantasia]. It was almost two hours long, so I'm still trying to react to it now. It's odd seeing a movie about yourself.

Speaking of Fantasia, I understand you were given a Lifetime Achievement Award. What was that experience like?

They gave me a Lifetime Achievement Award and ran four or five of my movies. That was a nice event up there. Who am I to turn down a Lifetime Achievement Award?

Michael Moriarty was there to honor you. Can you tell us a little bit about your relationship with him after casting him in so many movies?

It was wonderful seeing him again. He was just fabulous. We had so much fun up on stage, our repartee, kidding each other. It was nice. His mind is so sharp; it was all there. He's had some physical problems over the years, but his mind is sharp as ever. I think he was as delighted to see me as I was to see him.

What do you think makes you a good subject for a documentary?

Oh, I don't know. I have a unique career as an independent filmmaker. I made 20 movies and had control of every aspect, from the casting to the script to the editing. There's a lot of other filmmakers around, but very few who write and direct and do everything on their movies. Woody Allen is one of them.

Looking back at your body of work, what stands out as your favorite project or the one you're most proud of?

Well, I like a lot of them. It's like asking, "What's your favorite child?" I like a lot of them. I particularly like The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover. It was so atypical of my work and such an interesting picture in terms of the research I did and the newsworthy aspect of it. Although people did not pay attention to the newsworthy part of it back in those days, in 1974, because nobody would give any accreditation to a movie maker as far as breaking any news. It was a very newsworthy picture, and they paid no attention to it, but if you look at it now in retrospect you realize how far ahead of its time it was and how much information there was there that hadn't been revealed before. That was an exorcise in dealing with a real subject, a real figure, the real FBI. And today, with all this fuss about meetings between FBI directors and presidents, it's interesting to see that period in American history when Mr. Hoover and the presidents met all the time privately and had a lot of secrets between them.

I think being ahead of its time is something that can be said of many of your films, in addition to containing social commentary. Do your scripts usually begin with the social statement that a plot is then built around, or vice versa?

I don't really know the answer to that. The ideas come to me all at once, then I sit down and start to write them, and usually I have no idea where it's going when I start. I don't have an outline or a fixed focus on how it's going to end or where it's going to take me. I just write it, and it comes to life. A lot of it comes from the subconscious, I'm sure. I think most great writing comes from the subconscious, and you're just like a stenographer putting it down on paper. There was social comment on everything I did, even on television when I was writing episodic television and creating series. There was an underlying social message to each thing, but it was always cloaked in entertainment values rather than it being a right-on-the-nose political statement.

As someone with longevity, how were you able to overcome all the challenges you faced as a low budget filmmaker?

I always felt that I wasn't going to continue in the industry every time I made a movie. I thought, "Oh, well. Is this going to be the last one, or am I going to get to do another one?" You're always afraid that your luck will run out. I did 20 pictures, and that was quite a good number, and I sold at least 20 to 25 other scripts to other producers and companies that got made. That doesn't count the ones that I sold that didn't get made, that I got paid for but they didn't produce the pictures. There's many Larry Cohen scripts in the archive at Paramount and 20th Century Fox and MGM. They're all there, but nobody's going to go down in the basement and go through those filing cabinets. Nobody's interested in what was done by a previous administration, so those are kind of lost projects. But there must another 10 or 15 of those around. My gosh, I've written a lot of screenplays.

Do you have any advice for aspiring filmmakers who want to do things independently the way you did?

Well, people are doing it today. It's somewhat easier in terms of shooting things because of the change to digital filming. You don't need big cameras, and you don't need a lot of lights, and you don't have to edit on film. You still have to have the good script and you have to have good performances, but the actual overhead is less. However, there's very few places to get your picture played anymore. Very few low budget pictures get any kind of distribution at all, and usually that's just a horror movie. Some of my movies would qualify as horror movies, but I never thought of them that way. I thought of them as Larry Cohen movies. That's what they were!

It's been several years since your last produced screenplay and even longer since your last directing credit. With the documentary reintroducing your career to a lot of people, do you think we'll see another Larry Cohen movie?

We're working on a series now for cable with J.J. Abrams, who is a big fan of mine, and his company, Bad Robot. Each season would be 10 original one-hour Larry Cohen thrillers. We've got about two seasons already written, ready to be shot. If that happens, it'll be a whole new renaissance, and there will be a lot of my material out in the world, and I'll direct some of them.

That's excellent news! So it would be anthology style?

That's what it's going to be, a thriller anthology. I'm hoping to get somebody like Christopher Walken to be the host and introduce them in a comedic way.

A lot of your material seems ripe for a remake. It's Alive has already been remade, and Maniac Cop is in the works. Have you been approached about remakes of any of your other films?

Every once in a while somebody calls up and asks me about the rights to something. I always tell them what it would cost, and then usually I don't hear from them again. But it's okay. I don't care if they remake any of my pictures. I like them how they were. Most of the remakes that have been done of classic thrillers or classic horror films or classic science fiction, the original is better. The new version has better special effects and great CGI and a bigger budget, but in general the original pictures were better.

I know you're not involved on the production side of it, but do you have any insight about when everyone can see King Cohen?

We'll, we're going to show it in Austin, Texas at a big jamboree down there, and it's scheduled to show in London and in Sitges, Spain. After that, there will be a premiere [in Los Angeles] at the Egyptian Theater, and then screening perhaps in New York. After that, it'll get distribution, whether it's on cable or we get some theatrical run. But I'm not out there trying to sell my own life story.

This might be a poor question on that note, but for someone who may not be familiar with your work, why should they check out King Cohen?

If you want to see my movies, you can go on the internet! There's like 14 movies of mine that are available for rental. They're about $1.99 each, and they're well worth it. If you want to see a good Larry Cohen movie, you can see any one of them or all of them. The internet provides some longevity for these pictures. You don't have to wait for them to play in a revival theater anymore. You don't have to wait for them to come to the video store. They're all there, and you can just push a button and they're in your home instantly. And you don't have to return to them!

And no more late fees!

No more late fees. Well, it is an entertaining picture. It's longer than thought - it's almost 2 hours long - but you never get bored. There's all kind of surprises. Even I was surprised!

[junker-town]

How Hannah Gordon is leading the 49ers’ diversity efforts

Hannah Gordon, the 49ers’ Chief Administrative Officer & General Counsel, has been with the team since 2011.

SB Nation’s Q&A series that highlights some of the NFL’s most powerful women continues with Gordon, who’s been working with the 49ers since 2011.

Over the summer of 2019, SB Nation interviewed several women who currently hold or have previously held leadership positions within the NFL to find out more about them and the work they do. This Q&A series highlights the powerful women who have dared to shake up one of sport’s biggest boys clubs. First up in the series was ex-Raiders CEO Amy Trask, followed by the Dallas Cowboys’ executive VP and chief brand officer Charlotte Jones Anderson.

Hannah Gordon is currently the Chief Administrative Officer for the San Francisco 49ers. She began her work with the 49ers back in 2011, when she was hired as the team’s director of legal affairs. She then became the vice president of legal and government affairs in 2015, then general counsel from 2016-17 before getting moved to her current role. Some of her responsibilities include overseeing community and fan engagement projects — like Women of the Niners and 49ers PRIDE for LGBTQ+ fans — as well as legal and strategic communications.

Author’s note: This interview has been lightly edited for clarity and length.

SB Nation: Your career path is pretty unique, in that you actually started your career in journalism and PR before attending Stanford Law School. Tell me a bit more about that.

Hannah Gordon: For me, [my career] really started in college at UCLA. I was really homesick and trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and watching Hannah Storm host the halftime show during the Lakers’ run for the championship that year — I love smart, funny people and conversations, and I enjoyed the repartee that she was facilitating and I thought, “That seems like such a cool job, how do you do something like that someday?” And I started looking into journalism.

While I was in college I interned for the Raiders, NPR, and as a production intern at Fox Sports West. After college, I went to the NFL Players Association for the 2003 season, and then from there went into the PR world and did media relations at Cal for football, track and swimming from 2004-05.

At that point, I had gotten accepted to law school at Stanford and I wanted to get experience at an agency as well, so I did a six-month stint at Octagon, doing the PR for their football class of clients. In law school, I went back to the Raiders as a law clerk, then went back to a firm after school.

SB: You also worked as an attorney for the NFL during the 2011 lockout, which sounds super interesting!

HG: I was with the management council working on player contracts, salary caps, and CBA. It was the best possible time to be there as a young lawyer because it was the last uncapped year. And then trying to get a new agreement, the CBA expiring, getting to learn from really amazing senior attorneys in terms of outside council, and getting to track the bid ask of every CBA negotiation.

In the midst of the lockout I was called by [president of 49ers Enterprises and executive vice president of football operations] Paraag Marathe to come [to San Francisco].

SB: In your current role with the 49ers, you oversee quite a bit, including legal, public affairs and strategic communications, and community relations. Describe what all your job entails.

HG: It’s pushing forward every business initiative that we have through the function of legal. Because anything you’re doing as a business, whether it’s season ticket agreements or suite agreements or sponsorships, all of that is a relationship between two parties and in business it always involves an agreement.

The second part would be serving every 49ers fan in our larger community, whether or not they are customers. And for me that’s sort of what connects all of our other functions. So whether its our public affairs department, our foundation that educates and empowers Bay Area youth, our community relations department which hosts the themes that you probably see in games in terms of bringing out cancer survivors in October.

That part of my job is about how do we serve everybody who is a constituent of ours. They may or may not be a business partner of ours, but we still want to have a connection to them.

SB: You also oversee fan groups, like Women of the Niners (WON) and 49ers PRIDE for LGBTQ+ fans. How did inclusiveness become such an important part of your job?

HG: I was fortunate enough that fan engagement was one of the departments that I was tasked with about two and a half years ago. And as we looked at “how are we serving underserved demographics of fans?” whether that’s kids — we have a strong kids club — or women fans or LGTBQ+ fans. I wanted to make sure that we created unique experiences for all those different people and that they felt like they were a part of the 49ers family and that they know that they’re valued by us.

For one, we really just looked at it in terms of what we were doing now, how could we continue to scale that, and upgrade that, and make it something that they feel a sense of ownership in. And it really is respectful of the fact that these are some of our most avid fans.

In terms of PRIDE, that just for us felt really natural. We’re the San Francisco 49ers, we should be leaders in terms of progress within the NFL and making sure that everybody does feel included. That’s just part of our brand and our culture.

SB: What’s a typical day of work like for you?

HG: It usually starts at 6 a.m. I try to hop out bed, come into the facility, get a workout in because we actually have a gym and classes that we do for employees. So I do that at 6:30, go home, shower, come back. Then it’s meetings most of the day. I think probably all of us that’s how our lives work, and then at 5 you realize you have like 200 unread emails, so you spend two hours getting through those. And then you actually need to start getting real work done and knocking out agreements and stuff like that.

SB: What are some of the more challenging parts about your job?

HG: Anytime you have a tough season, it really does wear on everybody in different ways. Obviously, it doesn’t wear on folks on the business side the same that it does a player or coach. But you’re deeply invested, and I think that that can be challenging.

SB: As an NFL front office employee, you’re asked a lot about how it feels to be a woman in a male-dominated industry. Is that question something you’re tired of being asked or do you embrace it?

HG: I think that that’s always been a hard question for me because I always worry about being put in a box of “Oh you’re the female,” and I think there’s always a risk that once you are pigeon-holed that way you are not able to continue to grow into future, larger leadership roles. So it’s always a question that, to be honest, makes me a little uncomfortable.

But at the same time, like most experiences in life, it can be both really great and at times, fine. Oftentimes I forget in part because I’ve spent my whole career pretty much in this business, so I don’t really have any reference points for what it would be like not to be in a male-dominated industry. For me, this is just life, right?

And I think for a lot of people that’s actually the case because when you think about other industries — whether it’s finance, law, construction, or politics — once you get to that upper echelon, it’s probably male-dominated. That’s the world that we continue to live in, so I don’t know that my experience would necessarily be tremendously different from other people.

SB: There are a lot more women in the league than there was back in the day. How inspiring is it to see that?

HG: I do think one of the things that’s exciting to see over the last 20 years is I see so many other young women supporting other young women. It’s not that it didn’t exist before, but I love seeing our scout Salli Clavelle, and our coach Katie Sowers, and our trainer Laura McCabe all getting together and supporting each other.

A couple weeks ago, we took all the training interns out, and I’m seeing so many more young women in the field and they’re there to support each other. Not to be exclusionary of their male colleagues, but I think that there’s a real power in that because none of us want to be that only woman who’s in a certain room. That’s not the goal — the goal isn’t “Oh, look I made it and you didn’t.” The goal is everybody who has a voice who has something intelligent to contribute to the conversation, we want everybody at the table.

[mtwy]

Vanity Fair

USA August 1985

The media have really got ants in their pants over Madonna. Holy cow, you’d think she was the Linda Lovelace of the microphone. Doubting Thomas JAMES WOLCOTT went to check it out

Let the Mascara Run

Madonna Louise Ciccone (hallowed be her name) always seems to have her finger in the cake icing. Pleasure for her packs calories. She makes a slow raid on the street, a guiltless show of self indulgence. Like Mae West, Madonna knows how to loll, how to primp; in Desperately Seeking Susan she looked as if she could be happy lazing away the afternoon sampling chocolates and reading trashy magazines, turning a suburban sofa into a royal barge (with an investment banker as her Mark Antony).

Unfortunately, Madonna doesn’t have Mae West’s husky, musky aplomb as a boudoir hostess. In interviews, she comes across as a me-first snot. Yet vertical, Madonna moves generously, even wittily; repartee rides on her hips. In her Virgin Tour performances she slapped a tambourine off her bottom like Ann-Margaret in Viva Las Vegas and, flanked by a pair of sequined go-go boys, gyrated into a land of a thousand dances. She did the Pony, she did the Swim, she did the Hitchhike, she did the Cool Jerk, she did the Shake ‘n Bake, she did the Mashed Potato. It was like seeing reruns of Shindig and Hullabaloo transmitted through one electric-boogaloo outlet. Even more amazing is her white-mink work in the “Material Girl�� video, a spoof of Gentleman Prefer Blondes in which she plays a diamonds-are-a-girl’s-best-friend gold digger, but sane and funny. A Marilyn Monroe without cracks in the porcelain.

More vamp than vampire, Madonna has been vilified in the rock press as if she were an invitation to a gang bang and a threat to the nation’s morals. The anti-Madonna diatribes have gone beyond professional criticism of her music, act, persona; they’ve become stabbingly personal. Madonna bashers seem to be trying to carve “Die, Bitch” in her high-school yearbook. Why are they all in such a righteous huff? No one considered Tina Turner a threat to the Republic when she made moaning throaty love to the microphone in Gimme Shelter. Prince didn’t even catch as much grief for flouncing about like a Regency-dandy pimp in Purple Rain. Could it be the white critics expect black performers to be loose? Or that they can accept sexual forthrightness only when accompanied by bluesy suffering?

The latter, perhaps. 

Unlike Prince, to whom every orgasm is a knock on God’s door, Madonna doesn’t sacramentalize sex and self-arousal. In her songs, the bed is not a satin altar. And this seems to bug Madonna’s buggier critics. According to the Los Angeles Reader, “her brand of uncomplicated eroticism and autoeroticism is the very antithesis of Prince’s, in which the world of sex has a flip side of guilt, self-denial, and divine love.” I don’t know about divine love, but as for guilt and self-denial - thanks, but I already went through adolesence.

Madonna, with her crass on stage allusions to her “box” (”Every lady has a box, but.....mine makes music”), belongs to the frank she-cat tradition of coquetry that stretches back to Zola’s Nana and culminates in that audacious moment in Last Tango in Paris when Maria Schneider lifts her wedding dress in the elevator and, smiling, presents her pubic hair. Madonna, descending a staircase with a wedding bouquet in her “Like a Virgin” number, is also proclaiming her sex from beneath a curtain of white lace. So no wonder she’s considered a bad role model for her legion of girl fans. Certainly the audience for the show I caught in Chicago was teenage-tease heaven, all bared navels and white mesh gloves and thick applications of mousse. Yet there was also something harmlessly overdone about this dress up, and it was the best-behaved rock audience I’ve ever seen (no booze, no wafts of marijuana, no firecrackers); I didn’t have the impression that they were on an express train to Gomorrah. For all its camp, even Madonna’s mod bridal outfit seemed finally an emblem of pop liberation. Virginity is mine to claim, is Madonna’s message. I’m pure as long as I belong to myself. This seems to me healthier than Brooke Shields campaign to make a national shrine out of her hyman.

Detractors are eager to dismiss Madonna as this year’s model, a disposable craze, a pet rock. She will end up, they suggest, in the remainder bin with Deborah Harry and all the other bottle blondes who came to the sad end of their peroxide. This seems to be fantastically mistaken. If she doesn’t turn coy, Madonna could be the American star who fulfills the erotic promise teased to a fire in Last Tango. Like Scheider’s Jeanne, Madonna clearly has the nerve to confront a sexual equal on his own turf, redefine the boundaries of desire, then walk away from the bed unscathed. Body confidence like hers is rare - even in an R movie her strut and pout would say X. So perhaps those Nervous Nellies who worry about Madonna’s wayward influence are right after all. But it’s too late for her to tuck in her skirts and aerosol the room with good intentions. Madonna’s walk has to be on the wild side. Let the mascara run.

Photo Credit: Bert Stern

[worryinglyinnocent]

Either verse - Rum and Belle have to deal with a tabloid saying mean things about Belle and their relationship. Rum gets asked about it in an interview on live TV and ends up giving a speech about how great Belle is, with no idea that Belle is at home watching.

This takes place in the Alternate Future

Warning: Pregnancy complications

=====

Gold scrunched up the paper and took a few deep breaths before going to the door of the green room and waving for one of the production runners. It wouldn’t do to get angry with the runners; it wasn’t their fault and he liked to think he wasn’t a diva, but at the same time, he was sick of seeing the headline that he had been unable to escape from throughout his week here in the States promoting his new film. The appearance of the offending tabloid in the green room of Entertainment Tonight with Merlin Emrys was the last straw. The day before he’d left for New York, he and Belle had been snapped leaving the maternity unit looking a little bit stressed and less than happy, and this particular rag had run with the story that their marriage was on the rocks, being particularly scathing towards Belle and accusing her of deliberately getting pregnant to trap Gold in the relationship. 

“Could you get rid of this please?” He handed the paper to the runner, who looked at the front page splash, paled, and scurried away with a squeak of apology. A few minutes later, the young lady returned, telling him that it was time for his entrance.

Merlin Emrys was a very charismatic young man who had a reputation for being able to strike up an easy repartee with any guest, no matter how difficult. His chat show had the highest ratings in its category, and millions of viewers tuned in every Friday night to see it go out live. Gold liked Merlin, they’d got on well on the other occasions that he’d been on the show, and tonight was no different. 

“So, fatherhood beckons,” Merlin said, towards the end of their time. “I imagine it’s been hard for you, going through this for the first time in the public eye. Our press has been less than complimentary about it, I know. Is everything ok with your wife and the baby?”

This was it, the weighted question that everyone who had read the tabloids would be waiting for an answer to. There was a smile in Merlin’s eyes, and Gold knew that he had not set out to entrap him. Very well, Gold thought. He’d give the public what they wanted.

He shook his head. “No, everything’s a bit shit at the moment,” he said frankly. “I don’t want to go into too many private medical details because my wife’s body is her own, but we’ve received news that there are complications in the pregnancy and the baby may have to be delivered prematurely.”

Belle had been told that her blood pressure was ‘worrying’ and that she was at high risk of pre-eclampsia.

Gold could almost hear the murmur of ‘oh… fuck’ rumble around the entire country. Merlin took the gasps of shock from the studio audience in his stride. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Rum,” he said. “You and Belle must be so worried.”

“We are. Belle is the most wonderful person I know; she’s the light of my life, and this has been devastating for her. Naturally, all the press attention has not helped her already fragile state of health. She’s a beautiful human being, body and soul, and she does not deserve the vitriol that has been sent her way.”

Powerful words, he knew. Perhaps he’d overstepped the mark? Gold shook his head. No, he stood by what he had said, and the world would have to deal with it. 

X

Almost as soon as he stepped off the set and got back into the green room, Gold’s phone rang, showing Belle as the caller. 

“Belle, love, is everything all right?” 

“You, sir, are the most wonderful husband anyone could ask for and I need you to come home right now so I can hug you.”

Gold blinked, and then came to a startling realisation. Belle must have been watching the show, despite it being four in the morning in Scotland.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” She was sniffling down the phone and Gold wanted nothing more than to reach through across the Atlantic and dry her tears.

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” he promised. 

Sure enough, when he arrived in Edinburgh airport arrivals hall, Belle was right there at the front, beaming from ear to ear and glowing with happiness.  

[how2to18]

I WAS IN the airport bookstore in Tallinn, Estonia, when I noticed a translation of Elmore Leonard’s Get Shorty. This was 2015. It had taken a while for him to reach the Baltics — 24 years, to be exact. That’s a long time compared to other American writers like Paul Auster and Charles Bukowski. Is there something about Elmore Leonard’s work that resists translation?

After reading Charles Rzepka’s Being Cool in paperback reissue (hardback 2013), I venture that there is. In this detailed and deep investigation of Leonard’s sangfroid, Rzepka lays out a number of factors that contribute to a more hermetic American-ness, one that just doesn’t offer foreign translators, publishers, or readers an easy grip on the author’s native charms. And it might matter that most of my translator friends in Estonia are women: I’ll get to that later.

Among the selling points of this study are useful snippets of Leonard’s biography, which Rzepka slips into his readings very dexterously. We learn that Leonard was the good Catholic schoolboy, the son of a General Motors executive, a skilled sand-lot baseball player, and a Seabee during World War II. He trained up as a writer at the Ewald-Campbell Advertising Agency in Detroit and after publishing a number of Western stories (relying on Arizona Highways magazine as his landscape guide), used its severance package to launch his full-time writing career. Although other writers have come up similarly (think of Kurt Vonnegut at GE, or Allen Ginsberg’s gig as a market researcher), Leonard was always very serious about his corporate work. In his fiction, Rzepka notes, “scenes of apprenticeship, mentoring, and testing” are “early versions of ‘being cool’ as a way of defending against self-dispossession by anger or panic.”

Rzepka dovetails this background of the “organization man” with Leonard’s self-schooling in the mechanics of the Western, showing the disciplined bones beneath early classics such as “Three-Ten to Yuma” (1953). There is great finesse here, not just the tricky plot reversals that strike us on first reading or viewing. By the time we reach an account of Leonard’s The Big Bounce (1969), his first crime novel, Rzepka has imparted a very modern sense of what the genre writer is. Like Cormac McCarthy, Leonard is above all a writer who does research, who knows that art is work and who works at it every day, who polishes his dialogue until not a word “sounds like writing” and strives to eliminate the “sharp elbows” in his plotting that might cause a reader to pause.

I myself came to Leonard with City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit (1980). I had just signed to write a book on Dashiell Hammett, so I was reading the two authors in tandem, and I found that Leonard had none of Hammett’s pop and repartee. But I could see that these were well-managed narratives, so I continued with Glitz (1985) and Freaky Deaky (1988). Then Carl Hiassen came into view and usurped this particular channel in my interests. And that’s another clue, I think, in explaining why Elmore Leonard has not traveled as well as Bukowski or Auster or Hiassen. His cool is hermetic.

Leonard doesn’t offer foreign readers what my academic colleagues would call affordances, a feature of visual design that tells you a doorknob is for turning or a ball is for throwing. If you are the translator of Raymond Chandler, you wait for his elaborate metaphors with relish; they are a challenge and a chance to have fun. Hemingway, meanwhile, is a par course and García Márquez a master class in syntax, while Bukowski sends you deep into the resources of your native slang. Leonard, by contrast, worked to make his presence invisible, to eliminate all the literary speech, to remove all the plot elbows. Translating him might be like recreating Amish chairs.

How Leonard achieved such seeming simplicity is what Rzepka calls his techne, Aristotle’s (and Thomas Aquinas’s) term for “skill.” The skills here are all in the service of “flow,” a being-in-the-moment sense that athletes know well: it is not timelessness, but such a high degree of practice that what comes next has been anticipated, has been set up so that there is no visible transition. According to Rzepka, this is what all of Leonard’s protagonists strive for too, but it took about a decade for the author and his heroes to meld style with character. The obstacle was that the style needed a certain amount of “flow” in order to avoid appearing wooden. The flow seems to readers to be improvisation, but actually it consists of subtle parallels, repetitions, and omissions: think of Joe Morello’s drum solo in “Take Five” by the Dave Brubeck Quartet. In this scene from Mr. Majestyk (1974), for instance, the protagonist almost sets his nephew straight about a certain woman:

“Listen,” Mr. Majestyk said then. “That broad on the phone —” “Yeah?” Mr. Majestyk smiled, self-conscious, showing his white perfect teeth. He shrugged then. “Why should I say anything — right? You’re old enough.” “I was about to mention it,” Ryan said.

Then there is Nancy, in the same novel, characterized — via free indirect discourse, says Rzepka — by her internal repetitions:

She sat quietly while Ray and his group whipped off to Chicago to attend the dumb meeting or look at the dumb plant and make big important decisions about their dumb business. Wow. And she sat here waiting for him.

Considering “cool,” of course, always leads back to Hemingway, for whom courage was “grace under pressure.” In his short story “Soldiers’ Home,” the character Krebs thinks about the lies he has been telling since returning from World War I. He has lost

all of the times that had been able to make him feel cool and clear inside himself when he thought of them; the times so long back when he had done the one thing, the only thing for a man to do, easily and naturally, when he might have done something else, now lost their cool, valuable quality and then were lost themselves.

That clearly includes killing people.

This is very close to what “cool” means to Leonard too, but Rzepka insists that his characters always feel at home in their skins, that these are not the intermittent “times” of Hemingway but a continuous flow, “never forgetting who you really were.” No Krebs’s moments of lying. This inspires the cool ones to “always dress well,” to “always be polite on the job,” and to “never say more than is necessary.” That some of these internal character rules are among Leonard’s rules for writing, leading to a synthesis of style and character, may be among the problems confronting translation.

While the reader of this book may flash back to Hemingway, it is impossible to read about Leonard’s dialogue without flashing forward to Richard Price. This is not a topic that Rzepka takes up, but the relation became explicit in a 2015 Washington Post interview with Price: “He admire[s] the great Elmore Leonard, perhaps the only writer in America that one could say surpassed him in street dialogue.” But Price does precious little research and admits to “making it up.” “I’m a good mimic,” he says.

Once you get the patter of how someone talks, you can replicate it. It’s not verbatim … It’s like after George Bush was president for eight years, if you told everybody in America to do Bush reading Shakespeare, everybody could do it. Maybe you’d [screw] up the Shakespeare, but you’d get the idea of how it would sound.

So perhaps it all does come down to craft: as the author of Clockers says elsewhere, “Realistic dialogue is interminable and goes nowhere. Good dialogue is about heightened reality, nudging it into a form that doesn’t really exist in the way people talk.” And the way people talk is gendered. If you are a translator, that’s another of your affordances, so that if you are a woman translating Hammett or Paul Auster, you can invoke and understand the gender gradations or oppositions that inform their worlds. Christine Le Bœuf once translated “The coot was stuck on her” in Auster’s The Book of Illusions as “Le vieux avait le béguin pour elle.” That’s gender genius because, while the contemporary meaning of “béguin” is “crush,” it was originally a hood worn in convents. The coot doesn’t get the girl in this novel, but the historic resonance of the word choice makes the French reader brake and shift gears. Le Bœuf told me that she worked on and worried about that word for several days.

But if “cool” has now become friction-free, then it’s more difficult to suggest the frisson behind the speech of Mr. Majestyk. Perhaps the foreign reader needs to know the films made from Leonard’s novels? But that’s not necessary with Richard Price, whose French translations read like sips of Grand Marnier. In Leonard’s A Coyote’s in the House (2004), the titular quadruped looks down on Hollywood and thinks, “It was their turf.” We understand the “cool” of that in American English, but there’s not much for a translator to work with. It becomes “C’était leur territoire” in French. And that’s not cool at all.

¤

William Marling, Professor of English at Case Western Reserve University, is the author of several books on the detective novel and, most recently, of Gatekeepers: The Emergence of World Literature (Oxford University Press, 2016).

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