Chapter Six
Melvah sat at the helm of the starship Endeavor, studying her fellow crew mates while waiting for Captain Pierce to show up on the bridge. Because of the seriousness of the situation, Capt. Pierce had assembled the major forces in fandom.
Bev Huncke rested her considerable astro-girth on a barstool at Ops, balancing uneasily, her butt nearly swallowing her seat. As usual, she was wearing her Snorkie nose and her "I Snork" t-shirt. She once offered to make Melvah a Snorkie-nose vibrator like the one she used each night, but Melvah politely declined. The idea of a vibrating elephant nose in her crotch, even if it was Mr. Snork's, didn't excite her. But Melvah appreciated the gesture.
Artie Saputo was helping himself to some potato chips from the replicator, which appeared to Melvah to be a bread box taped to the wall with masking tape. He studied the box with the keen eye of an engineer -- he blew his other eye out with one of his pipe-bombs. But he didn't miss it much, he just popped a plastic eyeball from the Security Chief Zorgog Halloween mask into the socket, which gave him a really cool look. Every time he turned his head, the yellow pupil would roll around in his plastic eye like a marble, which it was. The trick, though, was doing something about all that goop that oozed out around his home-made prosthetic eyeball.
Thrack sat in a folding chair beside Melvah, fiddling with the useless switches on the dead console in front of him and making interstellar "whoosh" noises.
There was a loud flush from the Captain's quarters and Pierce stepped onto the bridge, hiking up his space zipper and clearing his throat.
"The entire Confederation is in peril," he said, letting his gaze pass over each and every one of them, "and we are the only ones who can save it."
When Melvah looked at him, she didn't see the sagging, droopy-eyed actor in a faded costume. She saw Captain Pierce as he was on the show, the rugged hero who powered her imagination and fired her libido, almost as much as Dr. Kelvin's heaving computers, though that was a little secret she kept to herself.
"An alien force has invaded the highest echelons of Confederation command to carry out an insidious conspiracy." Captain Pierce circled the bridge, his hands balled into fists. "Their poisonous tendrils have even reached Conrad Stipe."
"They have tendrils?" Thrack squeaked. "Cool."
Melvah suddenly saw it all very clearly. Now she understood why fanfic writers weren't hired or even consulted for the new series. Conrad Stipe had sold out. He didn't care about the show. He was willing to let them destroy the Beyond the Beyond universe, as long as he got his precious money. All the hard work she, and every other fanfic author, devoted to keeping the universe alive all these years was going to be trashed by the very man who created it.
Captain Pierce drilled Thrack with a intense glare. "They are plotting to launch the Endeavor with evil doubles pretending to be our crew. Me, Snork, Dr. Kelvin. We've all been replaced with aliens."
Bev Huncke's plump lip quivered like slug glued to her face and desperate to escape. "They can't do that. There's only one Mr. Snork."
Pierce put his hand on Bev 's shoulder. "There's only one of each of us. We are unique. We are... human beings." He stared off into some distant place. "That's why we must fight them. With every fiber of our being."
"They can have all my fiber," Thrack whispered to Melvah. "Makes me shit like a cannon anyway."
But she didn't hear him. She was still reeling from the implications of the Captain's words.
Melvah knew Guy Goddard wasn't really Captain Pierce, but like her, he understood the sanctity of the Beyond universe, of the need to preserve and protect it. He embodied the character of Captain Pierce the same way she embodied the universe. The way Conrad Stipe no longer did. He would have to answer for that.
They had to be stopped.
"Captain, what are your orders," Melvah asked.
"I took a vow when I put on this uniform, to protect the Confederation of Aligned Planets and everything it stands for. I can't let the Endeavor launch with a crew of evil doubles," Captain Pierce settled into his command chair. "Kill them. Kill every one of those miserable fuckers."
* * * * * *
The Queen Kaahumanu highway cut through a desolate plain of pa'hoehoe lava, its smooth, swirly, surface making Charlie feel like he was driving a Mustang convertible across a giant brownie. The bleak, lifeless expanse was a vivid, lasting testament to the violent forces that were still shaping the island paradise.
It was also a massive blackboard for environmentally conscious graffiti artists, who carried piles of white coral from the coastline to fashion messages within view of the road. Someone had written "Hollywood" in coral against the side of a decades-old lava bubble. Soon, every place to be any place would have to have a Hollywood sign. Or, at least a Planet Hollywood within a 20 mile radius.
"I noticed you used my bathroom this morning," Nick picked his nose in the passenger seat. "Did you take a dump?"
Charlie gave him a look.
Nick said, "That's the problem with the world today."
"I don't follow." Charlie sped up to pass a slow-moving white van, a satellite dish on its roof. Against the craggy terrain, it looked like a moon buggy.
"I bet you didn't think twice about it. You ate a meal in North America and shit in the South Pacific," Nick twisted in his seat to face Charlie. "Go one step further. With modern air travel, it's possible for someone in Africa to eat a yak and, the same day, take a dump in Paris."
"They don't have yaks in Africa."
"My point is, you then have digested yak flesh, which is not, in any way, indigenous to France, entering the ecosystem," Nick said, looking grim. "You always hear people complain about nuclear waste, global warming, carbon monoxide, but no one ever talks about travel shit. Why? Because they can't face the enormity of the problem. It's bigger than all of us."
"Shit, you mean."
"Exactly," Nick turned his gaze back to the road. "I think there's a movie in it."
As far as Charlie was concerned, Nick had already written shit movies.
Suddenly, Charlie regretted not buying Advil while they were at the market in Waikoloa village. Then again, with Hawaii's inflated prices for everything, the Advil would probably have blown his entire expense account. He was still stinging from the 43 cent-per-gallon gasoline tax.
He turned off the highway onto the road leading to Grand Royal Kona resort. The lush green grass and vibrant pink bougainvillea that line both sides of the road blazed like neon against the black lava on which they inexplicably survived.
"You didn't have to come with me," Nick said. "I could've bought my own condoms."
"I'm not about to let you go out alone," Charlie replied, "Or leave you by yourself while I run your errands."
"Are you planning on being in the bedroom while we fuck?"
"No," Charlie said. "But I'll be right outside the door."
As Charlie pulled up under the grand portico of the Grand Royal Kona Resort, Nick had the grand realization that the Variety ad was a mistake.
* * * * * *
The message light was blinking on the telephone when Nick and Charlie came into the suite. Nick called the operator, listened to his messages, then called Susie Glot's room and invited her up to "go over the script."
Nick hung up and dug the condoms out of his pocket. He examined the packets. "Which do you think she'll like, Charlie, macadamian nut or pineapple?"
"Since you aren't doing the production polish," Charlie said. "Shouldn't she be giving her notes to Javier Grillo?"
"Forget it, I'm gonna need them both." Nick shoved the condoms back in his pocket and marched out of the living room.
Charlie shrugged and went out on the lanai to look at the view. The sun was setting on the water. Lovers strolled on the beach and cuddled in hammocks, watching the embers of the day burn out. And out on the road, Charlie could see the white van with its satellite dish raised into the air on a telescoping base. It was probably a TV station catching a live beauty shot for the weather report.
Nick stomped out onto the lanai, wearing a silk bathrobe and nothing else. There was so much chest hair fluffing out, it looked like an enormous squirrel dove into Nick's robe and got stuck. Something was on Nick's mind.
"Grillo isn't a writer, he's a thief. He comes in, adds a stupid joke or idiotic car chase, then tries to fuck you out of your screen credit. Everyone knows that," Nick said. "The reason actresses come to me is because I'm the star-maker. I'm the guy with the vision."
"I didn't mean to offend you," Charlie said. "I'm sorry."
"Hey, Nick Alamogordo isn't offended," Nick said. "I'm just telling you this to educate you about how movies are made so you won't offend somebody else."
Someone knocked at the door. Charlie went to the door and peered through the peephole. Susie Glot stood outside in a short, red sun dress, cut low to reveal her standard-issue synthetic bust. A script was tucked under one arm, and she held a tiny evening bag.
So far, she'd made a career out of doing slasher movies, typecast as the first girl to take off her shirt and the first one to die. She still was, only this time, it was for top-billing as the stripper who befriends sex-addict undercover cop David Caruso, right before she takes off her shirt and dies.
Charlie opened the door. "Good-evening, ma'am."
Susie sashayed into the room past Charlie, fanning herself with the script. "This script is so hot, I get blisters on my fingers every time I pick it up."
Nick smiled. "That's a good note."
Charlie sat on the arm of a chair and watched the show.
"All it needs is a stronger, final moment for Electra," she said.
Nick folded his arms under his chest. Charlie expected to see the fur start to squirm. "What kind of moment?"
Susie opened the script and leaned in close to Nick, so her breast brushed his arm. "In her final scene, Electra's doing the strip tease at the club and accidentally steps into the assassin's line of fire, taking a bullet meant for Trent Zane."
"She falls off the stage into the cop's arms," Nick said. "Naked, dead, bloodsoaked, a powerful metaphor for his addiction and his guilt."
"I think before she dies," Susie said, "she should say something."
"Ouch?" Charlie suggested.
Susie turned, noticing Charlie for the first time. "Who's he?"
"The butler," Nick took the script and, pretending to study it, walked away from Charlie towards the bedroom. "You might be on to something, Susie. What sort of beat did you have in mind?"
Susie rushed up behind him, pressing herself against his back on the pretense of peering at the script in his hands. "Before I die, I tell him that I'm carrying his baby."
Nick shook his head. "Too melodramatic. But I know what you're going for."
A close-up and one last chance to steal a scene, Charlie thought.
"You want an emotional moment that resonates," Nick paced. "What if..." He tossed the script on the floor and whirled around to face Susie, as if spun by the sheer force of his mighty inspiration.
"I got it. She takes the bullet while doing a lap dance for him. Intimate. Close. Grinding. They're both writhing in ecstasy, the tempo of the music going faster and faster. Jungle drums. Electric guitars. They're both about to climax and blammo. She's shot.
"Yes," she panted.
"Then, in a tight close up, with her dying breath she says: 'I came.' And she dies." Nick said. "We intertwine the intimacy of life and death in one remarkable, cinematic moment."
"Wow," she said. "That resonates."
Nick's face suddenly soured. "I just don't see it yet. I think we need to work on the scene, act it out a few times, see if it really plays."
She smiled coyly and glanced in Charlie's direction. "Here?"
Nick motioned towards the bedroom. "Make yourself comfortable, find the soul of the scene, I'll be right with you."
She went into the bedroom. Something occurred to Nick.
"You like pineapples, don't you?" Nick called after her.
"Sure," she replied.
Nick turned to Charlie.
"You better turn up the TV, it's going to be noisy," Nick winked and disappeared into the bedroom.
The conversation Charlie just overheard was already too much to bear. He reached for the remote, turned on the television, and searched the airwaves for a good Adam-12 or Police Story rerun, but settled on the only show that wasn't an infomercial, something cheesy from the 1960s.
The starship Endeavor left the orbit of the big, green planet and headed for deepest, darkest space.
On the bridge, Mr. Snork and Dr. Kelvin stood on either side of Captain Pierce's command chair.
"I'd like to come back here in a few light years and see how everything turned out," Captain Pierce said.
Dr. Kelvin stared at the main view screen as the planet receded from view. "Imagine, an entire planet modeling its society on an ancient Playboy magazine."
"Fascinating, indeed," Mr. Snork agreed, scratching his elephant nose. "The females even evolved with staples across their waists. Think what might have happened if the merchant ship had crash-landed with a cargo of those ancient Three Stooges movies instead."
"One discarded cultural artifact can reshape a species, a planet, an entire galaxy," Dr. Kelvin's breasts heaved, computing the possibilities.
"Oh no," Captain Pierce slowly rose from his seat.
"What is it, sir?" Mr. Snork snortled.
"I left a pair of bikini briefs in the Queen's boudoir.."
"Your herculite briefs?" Dr. Kelvin asked, suddenly very concerned. The Captain nodded gravely. "Herculite is the basic material from which Argulon is formulated..."
"And Argulon is the basic component of our Totonian warp drive," Captain Pierce said.
Dr. Snork stared at his Captain. "Are you saying because you left your underwear on the planet, the aliens could develop warp drive and colonize the cosmos?"
Captain Pierce looked grim. "I'm saying in a hundred light years, they may be wearing the pants in this universe."
And on Captain Pierce's laughter, Mr. Snork's consternation, and Dr. Kelvin's puzzlement...
The scene abruptly freeze-framed. The music swelled and the words "Executive Producer Conrad Stipe" flashed across the screen.
Charlie groaned and switched to an infomercial. Tom Bosley sat on a couch, listening intently to three men extolling the virtues of R-788, a creme that cured impotence.
"Now I have the zest and vigor of a 16-year-old," one man proclaimed.
Tom turned to the camera. "And that's not all — it's a great for dandruff and those pesky insect bites, too!"