“So this is it,” Joplin shouted into his hand-held microphone. He had to shout to be heard over the deafening wind that blew at his parka. Snowflakes buffeted his cheeks, which were bright red where they were exposed through the hood of his parka and beneath his goggles. “The summit of Everest. Solo, and without supplemental oxygen.” He shielded his eyes with a heavily mittened hand as if he were looking out across the surface of the Earth, rather than the far end of a sound stage.
“I’m not the first to scale the ominous, man-devouring slopes of Chumbawumba…” he said, sonorously.
“I thought they called it Chomolungma,” a young intern with too much education and not enough real-world experience whispered to the man holding the expensive camera. The cameraman waved him off, dismissively.
“Nobody cares,” he hissed. “Shut up.”
“…and undoubtedly, I won’t be the last,” Joplin said, continuing his soliloquy to the camera, which viewers were intended to believe to be a tripod set upon a snow-covered rock. “But if my climb has accomplished anything, it’s to prove that man, with determination, grit, and a certain spree decor…”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” muttered the intern, earning a glare from the cameraman.
“…can dare to challenge the gods.” Joplin’s eyes glistened as he reached the crescendo of his prepared speech. In digital post-production, an inspiring sparkle would be added. “Can aspire to reach to the stars.” He reached out his hand in a dramatic fashion, mitten open and palm up, as though waiting to receive something unseen in the air. “And bring something of Heaven”—he closed his fingers as best he could in the thickly-padded mitten, and drew his arm downward as he took a knee in the ice—“down to Earth.”
The man at the wind machine angled it ever so slightly as to create the temporary snow-devil at Joplin’s feet. They had practiced it several times before they got it right. At just the right moment, Joplin swatted it away with the back of his hand, and the wind machine tilted back to its original position. The optics were clear: Joplin had banished the devil.
“Tomorrow morning, the helicopter will arrive to bring me back home,” Joplin said, beaming. “But for tonight, I’m on top of the world.”
He held the smile for a full five seconds.
“And…cut,” the cameraman said. “Got it, Mr. Joplin! Excellent presentation!”
“Thanks Jamie,” Joplin replied to Joe the cameraman. “Get that prepped for broadcast first thing in the morning, will you?”
“Sure thing boss.”
“And one other thing.”
“Yes sir?”
“Give Mr. College Man his severance check and walking papers,” he said. “We don’t need that kind of negativity at Maidenhead.”
The intern’s jaw went slack. “Mr. Joplin, I thought...”
“And that’s where you went wrong,” Joplin said, dusting the soap flakes from his parka, pulling off his mittens so he could work the buttons and get out of the hot winter wear. “Sigh ya narrow, buddy.”
“Come on, kid,” said Joe. “Argue with him, you’ll never work anywhere on the west coast.” He took the intern by the elbow. “You gonna be okay up there, Mr. Joplin?”
“What, this?” Joplin indicated the set. “I’m what, five feet off the ground? I’ll manage. Go on. You with the fan, go get a box for College Man’s stuff.”
As the intern was sullenly led out and the door closed behind them, Joplin slipped off his heavy parka and his snow goggles. “Mount Everest,” he said to the empty room. “I’m gonna miss this place.” He patted the Styrofoam rocks that made up the false summit and looked around the set at the high rafters, the lights, and the props. “What am I going to conquer next?”
Almost as if in response to the question, Joplin toppled off the low scaffold on which he was perched. He fell because suddenly his body had lost its physical connection with his left leg, the hip having been impacted by something forceful and unseen.
The drop to the floor sent another jolt of pain from his hip throughout his body. The impact momentarily knocked the wind out of him, making it hard to breathe, let alone cry out. When his lungs began to function again, he screamed as he propped himself up on one elbow. “What the hell hit me?” he squealed.
From behind the green screen backdrop of the mountain set, a figure walked out, its face concealed in shadow. The figure was male, slender, with measured movements. He showed no urgency at the sight of the injured man in need of medical assistance.
“Hey!” Dick called out. “Hey, buddy! Can you help me out here? I think I broke something.”
The figure casually paced over to Joplin. He did not stoop down, but stood there, silently, head cocked to one side, appraising Joplin as one might appraise an unexpected fish carcass in the street.
“Buddy?” Joplin asked. “Spraken ze English?”
The figure turned his gaze and locked eyes with Joplin. “I speak English,” he said softly.
Joplin was infuriated enough to ignore his pain for a second. “Well, what the hell, man? Can’t you see I’m injured here? Can you please go get some help?”
The figure circled Joplin. “I cannot get you help, Mr. Joplin,” the figure intoned. “I still need you to help me.”
Dick Joplin had to admire the balls on this one. “Okay,” he gasped. “Help you, you say. I like a guy with klutz paw.” He grunted in more pain. “What do you need from me?”
The figure smiled wanly. “I need you to die.”