Ascension Part V: Secrets

 

Myra studied Wyatt, his face, his eyes. He believed he was telling the truth.

He continued, “I don’t think you or anyone could do what you’re doing if they knew the whole story. Let me keep doing what I’m doing so you can keep doing what you’re doing.” He looked into Myra’s eyes. “You really are helping people.”

“What about the man those soldiers picked up on the beach? He was hurt.” Myra pointed out.

“Now that he’s in military custody he’s getting medical attention. Everyone is safe now Myra. Let’s get back to work.”

Myra watched as Wyatt waited for her to nod quietly, agree, and move on. She looked for something, some hint he might relent, come around. Eventually open up to her. She realized as she looked at him odds were good nothing was going to change. If she wanted the truth she was going to have to extract it from the media room herself. In order to do that she was going to have to make Wyatt believe that she swallowed his story for a little while longer. She gave him a gentle smile, a quick nod of assent, sat down on the couch and looked at the floor like a disappointed child.

Wyatt nodded back. “Let’s forget all of the nasty business we saw earlier and get through the episode meeting,” he said with a quick clap. “Tomorrow we delve into the exciting world of food rationing.”

Myra’s mouth dropped open, “Rationing? Food is being rationed? What’s going on out there Wyatt?”

Myra was yelling. Myra rarely yelled. It was one of the things he loved about her. Wyatt turned away from her and walked into the kitchen. He could feel her as she followed.

He stopped at the stove, picking up the kettle, Wyatt crossed to the sink. He closed his eyes for several seconds and took a deep breath before filling the kettle with water. He placed the kettle on the stove top and turned on the burner before responding.

“As you know two devastating waves of the GRMN2 virus have come through in less than a year. We have lost so many. Workers in every field. Food production is down. Markedly. It’s been difficult to keep people living in heavily populated areas of the world fed. California included.” Wyatt looked at Myra. “People with financial resources are panicking, emptying store shelves, hoarding groceries. More than just the homeless are having a tough time. Some families with little to no income due to closings are living on a good meal every other day. More and more are at risk of starving.”

“Can food be brought in?”

“No. It’s not a lack of resources to get the food here. It’s a lack of food being produced. Supply and demand. The demand outweighs the supply several times over. All grocery stores closed at midnight last night. State wide. Not a single customer walked inside one today. Only emergency deliveries to the elderly, the disabled, and medical facilities were made. Books of coupons allowing the purchase of food in predetermined quantities are being delivered to residents’ homes. Many will receive their ration books by Friday and the rest on Saturday, a few might not see theirs before Monday. Ours will arrive before air time on Friday.”

“Oh.” Myra said. She thought for a bit then began listing possible points of discussion for the episode. “We start with a brief summary of the week’s events, greatly reduced food production, hoarding of food, demand being much higher than available supplies, confirm that food is being rationed until the pandemic is more controlled, more non-contaminated workers hired and food production can be brought up to previous levels. How often will people be issued coupon books?” She asked.

“Monthly.” He answered. The throbbing in Wyatt’s head was becoming stronger. Wyatt looked at the clock. The headaches were always worse at night. He hoped it would stay tolerable a bit longer. Myra was becoming less and less agreeable with the current arrangement. 

He feared leaving her alone before she usually retired for the evening. Left alone in a mood like this she might push a bit harder. He couldn’t take the chance she would find something.

“People will need tips on how to stretch their coupons.” She looked at Wyatt. “Is it a coupon or is it a stamp?”

“I’m not sure. Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. It would be useful to get a list or a copy of the template used for the ration books before Friday. We could find recipes and menu ideas. What happens if a family runs out of coupons before the month is out?”

Wyatt thought, his head pounded as he tried to picture the content in the email he was reading before he saw Myra arguing with the soldier on surveillance feed. “Containers of powdered nutrition mix.” He closed his eyes. “Each family has coupons for up to four cans of a powdered nutritional beverage of their choice. I have a list of the items that are going to be in the coupon book. I’ll go into my office and print it up.” He took two steps and stopped. He felt a burning pain in the center of his forehead. A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach.

“What is it?” Myra said, looking at him.

“Nothing.” He looked at her. “A bit too much excitement today that’s all.” Wyatt continued, looking at the wall behind her. He stepped past her and walked to his office quickly hoping she did not follow. Wyatt let out sigh of relief when he reached the door to his office without her in pursuit. He reached out to enter the password on the security pad, his hand stopped seconds before the tip of his finger met with the keypad. He could not remember the entry code. “This is inconvenient.” His heart began beating faster, there had to be a way to end this meeting and get the hell out of here before his headache got any worse. “You are the one and only assistant to one of the greatest actresses in the world, this is easy, come on Wyatt.” He whispered. “Tomorrow is Thursday. The new episode doesn’t record until Friday and I have sat in on plenty of acting workshops.” Wyatt stood up straight, took a few cleansing breaths, turned, and walked out the direction he came in.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. I completely forgot.” He said walking down the hall and into the living room.

“Forgot what?”

“It’s my grannie’s birthday. I’m supposed to video chat.” He looked at his phone. “In five minutes. Mom’s probably already at the nursing home setting things up.”

“I thought all homes were closed to visitors.” Myra said.

“Her quarters are separate from the main building and she has private staff that does not assist with other patients. Mom doesn’t go out much and when she does she double masks. The non-visitor rule doesn’t apply.”

“The show is Friday.” Myra said. “Do you want to finish this tomorrow?”

“Could we?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t want you to miss your grannie’s birthday.”

Wyatt looked at the door leading to the patio, past the pool house, to his own quarters where he could weather the pain in privacy.

“Can I come?” Myra asked. “I would like to wish your grannie a happy birthday. I haven’t seen your mother in ages.”

He thought quickly. “No unapproved online appearances. It’s in your contract.”

“Surely it can’t mean online visits.”

“You know it does.”

  “I’ll just go up early tonight. Get some extra rest.”

“If you want to watch a video I can probably get back in an hour and make you some dinner.” Wyatt answered. Please say no, please say no.

“No. I’ll just grab one of those smoothies you make.”

“I have a new flavor in there for you to try. Blue label.”

Myra turned off the stove. She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out one of the smoothies with a blue label.

“Blueberry.” She said, reading the label out loud. “You’ve made this flavor before.”

“It’s a new recipe. Greek yogurt and a few other twists. Let me know what you think.”

“Sure.” Myra looked at Wyatt. “I thought you hated those things.” She said as she pointed to her head.

“Kerchiefs?” Wyatt asked touching the one wrapped around the upper portion of his head.

“You always said kerchiefs were for the uncivilized and the chronically late.”

“What can I say? I changed my mind.” Wyatt watched as Myra walked down the hall and upstairs to her bedroom. He turned off the lights in the kitchen and living room locking the door behind him. He stopped on the patio. He watched as the lights came on in Myra’s bedroom and were extinguished several minutes later.

The throbbing in his head grew stronger. If only the headaches would stop. If only he could get some relief. Wyatt turned in the direction of the pool house and began walking home to the guest cottage on the other side. The aching in his head grew stronger. Another bout of nausea rolled through forcing him to stop and rest his hand on a nearby patio table. Wyatt managed to stay upright when the feeling traveled through the rest of his body causing his forehead to break out in a sweat. Cursing to himself he removed the kerchief.

A breeze came in from the sea, cooling him before his knees gave way. Wyatt stood still and enjoyed the respite. The sweat dried and his forehead cooled. His breathing slowed. The throbbing slowly began again. When he dropped his hand against the outside pocket of his shorts, he felt something solid. Something was inside it. Wyatt pulled the object out and looked at it. It was a knife. A sharp one.

The throbbing began growing stronger. Wyatt’s hand began to move. In coming years he was never able to tell anyone, even Myra, what compelled him to the raise the knife to his forehead. It was like his hand was moving of its own volition.

It only hurt for a moment, much like that bit of pain one feels as the body adjusts to the pressure of liquid slowly being forced inside as is done with an injection. A groan escaped Wyatt’s lips.

Once the cut had been made to the correct depth his hand found a spot, a strange groove. He slowly followed it. The more he cut, the better he felt. The throbbing became less intense. For the first time in weeks, Wyatt was feeling better. He released a relieved sigh as he finished cutting and whispered, “Finally.”

Wyatt palmed the removed skin in his outstretched palm, it was dangerous and would have to be burned. He wiped the bloodied blade on his shorts, leaving the knife on the table before he continued across the patio to the guest cottage and bed, grateful the broadcast was scheduled for Thursday. Tomorrow morning he would be sleeping in.

Ascension Part IV: The Face Off

 

Myra turned back and faced the soldier. 

 The soldier did not move either.

“Sweetie, this is really scaring me. Would you come back inside?” Wyatt continued.

Myra recognized Wyatt’s act and refused to acknowledge it. The soldier to the left of her opponent spoke, “Sir. Sir? We’ve been called back to base.”

Her opponent turned away from her, “The area hasn’t been swept completely.” He countered.

“We are to load up what we have and return to base. There’s been a change in plans.”

Myra watched as the soldier’s jaw tensed. He turned to face her as he lowered his weapon. “It looks like we’re done here. For now.” The soldier turned to Wyatt. “We’ll be doing regular sweeps of beaches and outlying areas. It would be best if anyone on premises stayed within its gates.

Wyatt nodded. “We’ll be sure to do that. Thank you.”

The soldier looked at Myra, “Ma’am.”

“Good-bye.” Myra stood watching as they boarded the helicopter and disappeared from sight.

Wyatt’s phone began vibrating with a string of messages. “They called the studios. Meeting in two.”

Two faces were on screen waiting when Wyatt flipped on the living room display. No one said hello or asked if they were alright before the questions started. “Not following rules. Arguing with military personnel, refusing to comply with orders? What the hell is going on there?”

Myra looked at Wyatt. “Did I break my contract?”

“Technically, no.”

“The bitch argued with a commanding officer of the United States military! Damn addle brained bimbo!”

“One that happened to be standing on my beach.” Myra countered. She found herself in her second confrontation of the day. Or was it the third?

“While he was protecting you!”

“That’s funny because what I saw was at least a dozen soldiers surrounding a wounded man while holding semi-automatic weapons!”

“A half dozen.” Wyatt said.

Myra looked at Wyatt.

“It was only a half dozen.” He repeated.

“That is still six to one. He was unarmed, wounded, and there were no bulges under his clothes indicating he had anything hidden on his person.”

“They were doing their jobs!” The hothead continued.

“It was overkill.” She countered.

“Bill.” Another one of the suits said, “Let me try.”

Bill, the hothead nodded.

“You are safely quarantined at home with every comfort imaginable, one of the only actors still working during this mess and making millions of dollars for every broadcast. What else can you possibly want?”

“I’m not sure we’ve met sir. What is your name?” Myra asked.

“Mike. I’m Mike Bradley.”

“Nice to meet you Mike. She said looking at him. “The first thing you need to know about me is I didn’t do this for the money. I was told there was a public health crisis, one that spanned the globe, the studios and the U.S. government decided the world would need something to focus on during this whole mess. Something that might give everyone a sense of normalcy. A bit of hope. I didn’t like all these restrictions and rules but I trust Wyatt. I decided to trust him a little bit more. I signed on because I believed I was helping people.

“Of course Myra.” Mike agreed. “That’s always been the goal. Helping others.”

All three, even the hothead, nodded solemnly.

“We can’t have you obstructing military personnel.” Bill shouted.

“They were trespassing.” Myra pointed out.

“The military personnel you encountered...” Mike said.

Wyatt’s phone, sitting on the coffee table in front of her began beeping, all of Mike’s comments faded into the background as she spied the news headlines popping up.

“We all want to help citizens around the globe Myra.”

She scooped up the phone and read the hottest one before Wyatt could stop her. “That’s good to hear because your biggest box office draw has just been picked up at a sex house in Amsterdam. It seems participating in orgies during a global health crisis is not only illegal but also creates a major health risk to the public. He’s been arrested.” Myra holds up Wyatt’s phone. “I know I’m just an addle brained bimbo but I’m thinking this might be a golden opportunity for you to help your fellow man.”

Bill turned red from the neck up but said nothing.

“Looking at Wyatt’s phone is breaking the rules Myra. Two million will be deducted from Thursday’s wages.” Mike said calmly. He turned to Wyatt. “Wyatt, keep your phone put away.”

The screen went blank.

Wyatt raised the remote, turning off the monitor. “What is going on with you?” He asked.

Myra looked at Wyatt. She did not utter a single word.

“No response? You have been following the terms of your contract to the letter for months and now all of the sudden you go Dirty Harry on me?”

She sighed. "Yes, I have been following the terms of my contract all of these months, I haven’t been happy with this for quite some time. I thought a caring, sensitive person like you would have noticed by now. Also, what happened today could hardly be construed as going Dirty Harry. Dirty Harry had guns. I have not fired a single shot.”

He sat down. “It may not have been a Dirty Harry moment for the rest of the word but for you that was some major ass kicking.”

“It was unusual for me.” Myra agreed. “Wyatt, this isn’t working for me, being in the dark when so much is happening out there. It’s not working for me, at all.”

Wyatt looked into Myra’s eyes. “How long have I been your assistant?”

“Seven years.”

“How long have we been besties?”

“Six years, eight months and thirty days.”

“I know everything. I know everything that’s been going on this entire time, trust me when I tell you this. You don’t want to know what’s happening.”

Ascension Part III: Unexpected Visitors

 

It looked like today was not going to be that day. By the time the alarm on Myra’s phone went off an hour later she had seen nothing of interest. Nothing of disinterest either. No delivery trucks, no mailman. She looked at her phone to check the date. It was not a Sunday. It was Tuesday but there was no mail. That had to be an important detail but until Myra had more information she was not sure what it meant. She left the balcony and her beloved telescope resting against the outside wall of the house. She returned inside undetected.

As she stood in the hallway outside her office she listened for signs of activity from the living room. All was quiet. It appeared Wyatt was going to be occupied a bit longer.

She went to her room and tidied herself up. Returning to her office, she sat down to begin writing the letter she had mentioned to Wyatt earlier.

Myra had managed the words:

Dear Sara,

Hello. How have you been doing? It’s been ages since your last letter

when her phone beeped with a text notification.

Memo: Changes to program schedule.

Changes to the program schedule are pending. A meeting is requested today at 4 pm with Wyatt regarding this matter. Click here to accept.

Myra clicked on “Accept” and returned to her letter without giving any of it much thought until her phone beeped a second time.

Congratulations My Sweet Toilet Repair 101 has been replaced. We’re going back into the kitchen for Thursday’s broadcast. Tell you more at 4. Smooches. Wy.

Myra continued to struggle through her letter, not sharing much about her own life, as stipulated in her contract, she focused on inquiring about how Sara was faring and how Sara’s children were. Myra’s questions focusing on the specifics of their lives at home. She asked nothing pertaining to their lives in the outside world. It was becoming difficult to find new ways to recycle the same tired questions. Eventually she gave up and contemplated a nap. She opted to do some cleaning instead, starting with the abandoned mess from breakfast. After the kitchen was in order Myra cleaned the floors and tackled the bathrooms.

Her options might be limited but they had not disappeared entirely. If things did not pick up in Hollywood after the pandemic perhaps she’d simplify things. She’d spent a lot of time during the last few months dreaming about selling her properties. All of them. She’d find a modest home in Europe or New Zealand? No. Not New Zealand it was too far removed from the rest of the world. Wyatt would never go with her. Canada? Canada might be an option.

A modest home, a dependable car, work that she loved, and a tidy savings to keep everything going looked very appealing at the moment. She might even have time for a pet. She’s always enjoyed spending time with her Aunt Mimi’s cat, Boudreaux, a gray and brown striped Tom that was not allowed inside. He hated everyone. Everyone except Myra, Aunt Mimi, eventually he even warmed up to Sara. He had become a dear companion after they lost Aunt Mimi. She didn’t know what she would have done without him when Mom and Dad began fighting all the time. Then they divorced. The divorce was the worst. She was fairly sure there were law schools that referred to the Collins divorce in their curriculum. It was one for the record books. Boudreaux had always been there for her and Sara on the worst days.

By three pm things had grown quiet. There was a pandemic and most of her neighbors had opted to wait it out in their European or tropical vacation hideaways making things quiet to begin with.

This was a different kind of quiet. It reminded Myra of the change in atmosphere before a big thunderstorm or the tension she sensed when coming home from school after Mom and Dad had one of their fights. She remembered the sick feeling she would get while walking through the house slowly, not knowing if she would find busted windows, broken knick knacks and someone no longer living in the house or just a disheveled living room, both parents in their separate corners doing their own thing and working very hard to pretend that nothing was wrong.

Myra stopped dusting. Turning, she walked across the living room and through the open glass doors to her patio not stopping until she reached the gate to her estate’s grounds. She looked at the sky, the beach, and studied the ocean. She saw something moving. A figure was stumbling across the beach. It appeared from just beyond the pool house and across the sand heading south. He or she was having trouble moving quickly.

That was when she heard the helicopter. Myra watched as it stopped further up the beach. It hovered low, allowing time for several soldiers to drop easily from its cabin to the sand below. They drew their weapons and moved quickly towards the struggling figure.

Was it a he or a she? Myra looked more closely. He. The figure was a man. When he spotted the soldiers he turned back in the other direction only to find his way blocked by a second group of soldiers. They walked forward slowly, weapons drawn.

Myra watched as the soldiers closed in on the wounded man until a face appeared in front of her.

“Ma’am. Ma’am. You need to go inside.”

Myra looked at the rest of the man blocking her vision. His helmet, the camo fatigues, the gun he was holding. Two identical soldiers stood with him, one on each side. “What?” she asked.

“Ma’am this is government business. You need to go inside.”

At that moment Myra felt tired. Tired of her contract, of being monitored, tired of being made to feel like an incapable child in her own home; mostly she was tired of being told what to do. She managed to say, “Government business that is taking place on my private property,” before Wyatt was standing at her side.

“These men are here to protect us.” Wyatt said cheerfully. “Let’s go in the house.”

“If he’s here to protect us then why is he pointing a semi-automatic weapon at me?” she asked without pulling her eyes away from the soldier’s.

“I’m sure he’ll lower it when we go into the house.”

“I’ll go into the house after he lowers it.”

Myra heard a strange sound in her ear and looked at Wyatt, his face was pale, his green eyes wide.

“Please Myra.” Wyatt whispered. “Just, come inside the house.”

Ascension: Part II Searching The Skies

 

Myra was grateful to find breakfast waiting when she stepped out on to the patio in her favorite denim shorts and t-shirt. She lifted her face to the sun. Closing her eyes she took in the ocean breeze. She opened them and admired a bright blue sky. Wyatt had been right, it was entirely too beautiful to stay in bed. She sat down at the table and sipped at her coffee while reaching for toast.

“Nah...ah...ah.” Wyatt corrected as he sat an egg white omelet down in front of her. “Low carbs Missy...low carbs.”

“It’s toast.”

“You can have one piece. One half teaspoon of low sugar jam or less. No butter.”

“I can’t eat all of these eggs with only one piece of bread.”

“Of course not. I’m sorry. Let me get you some pasta to go with those eggs.”

Myra sighed surrendering the second piece of toast.

“Good girl.”

Myra held her hands up in front of her like a pair of doggy paws and pretended to pant.

“There’s my favorite golden retriever. Would the good girl like an ear scratch?” Wyatt asked not missing a beat as he reached for her head.

She dodged Wyatt’s hand seconds before he made contact and slapped it away.

“So it’s toilet repair today.” Myra said as he took the seat next to her. “What do you have planned for tomorrow?”

A grin appeared from behind the rim of his mug. “You’ve been asking to do something fun lately so...tomorrow we are starting a week long tribute to landscaping.”

Myra’s fork stopped millimeters from her mouth. “We can’t do that Jacques would kill us for touching his grounds.”

Wyatt’s grin disappeared, his brow furrowed. “Jacques can’t hurt us because,”

“Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.” Myra looked at Wyatt.

Her PA’s silence confirmed what she had forbidden him to share.

“When?”

“Last week.”

“He died last week? We’ve known Jacques for years. I met his wife, played with his children! I should have been told. I would have gone to the funeral.”

“Con-tract.” Wyatt sang.

“Fine. I could have sent flowers.” She said hanging her head.

“Jacques lost his family during the first wave. Who would you have sent them to?”

Myra put down her fork and tossed her toast onto the grass for the birds. “It looks like you’ve won the carb war, I’ve lost my appetite.”

“I’m sorry sweetie but the ‘no news’ clause in your contract…”

Myra shook her head.

“It’s up to me to monitor what’s going on out there to keep you from being exposed to too much negativity. If I do my job and keep you from feeling down, it makes it easier for you to do your job and keep the rest of the world sane.”

“Have you ever wondered if keeping me so removed from things might be doing more harm than good?”

Before Wyatt could answer Myra’s phone beeped with a text message. The studio was canceling their broadcast due to a major news event. Wyatt’s phone beeped seconds later.

“I have to go check the news. Are you going to be okay here?”

Myra nodded.

“I’ll clean up the kitchen when I get back and then we’ll talk.”

She nodded and quietly watched her suddenly less beautiful ocean view. Myra finished her coffee and looked at the time. Wyatt had retired to his media room ten minutes earlier. She rose from her seat, heading back into the house. Myra stopped at the media room door.

The media room was the only room in the house that still had internet access. Wyatt could watch anything and everything that was going on in the outside world. Myra could not.

She could not turn on a television and get local news, could not stream a movie unless Wyatt downloaded it first for her to play back later. Wyatt accessed any digital books or music she wanted, although anything produced after the pandemic started had to be approved by Wyatt first. Myra couldn’t even do her own cyber shopping. Everything was pre-screened or pre-approved. Any correspondence with family or friends had to be written out long hand and mailed. Wyatt read everything before she sent it out and any responses before she saw them. All paperwork had to be placed in plastic sleeves so Myra was not exposed to the virus in any way. It was a long and drawn out process. She was finding it tiresome.

Myra knocked on the door.

“Yes?” Wyatt responded.

“I’m going to my office to write a letter to my sister.”

“Okay. Tell her I said, ‘Hi.’’

“Okay.” Myra continued walking down the hall. She stopped at her office door and took off her shoes. Picking them up she continued to the end of the hall. She opened a door and began climbing stairs. The door at the top led to a service balcony near the roof of the building and a telescope no one knew Myra had. She smiled to herself, it was nice to have one secret. Whenever it looked like a big news day Myra would sneak up the stairs and look out at the world around her in her own way. She did not know what she was looking for. A bit of information, anything that would show her what was really happening, what everyone was being so careful to keep hidden from her. She adjusted the stand and looked out across the sky. It was empty. No fires in the distance. Nothing to indicate large crowds out in the streets. Myra didn’t know what the big news events were she suspected some sort of rioting had been going on. Rioting was the one thing that would explain the number of broadcasts that had been canceled in recent weeks. That or a war and if there was a war going on surely it would have touched her and Wyatt more directly by now. As long as she kept her eyes and ears open. As long as Myra kept looking she was sure one day she was going to discover the truth.

Ascension

 

The pandemic had changed them all. The population, the population as she saw it at least, was split into three groups.

One was doing all that they could to avoid the illness. A second smaller percentage, every 10 -20^th person, believed that there was no illness at all. Their numbers were rapidly dwindling. The remaining forty-five percent, they were truly dangerous. They were the Knoblickers.

The Knoblickers believed that the governments of every country in the world was involved in a massive cover-up. This pandemic was not a disease. It was a mutation. A bonding of the human race and that of an alien one. Space aliens of a far greater intelligence than our own.

It is why no one had ever actually seen a single body. The ill were not really dying. People were ascending to a level of mental and biological superiority no one had the intelligence to understand. Governments were keeping members of the new race separate from the general population until more could be learned about them. To say the Knoblickers were excited about this biological development coming along is a bit of an understatement.

In recent months, Knoblickers had been sneaking into public venues, hospitals and places closed due to virus contamination. They would lick things in their race to become evolved. Door knobs, faucet handles, toilet levers, anything touched by many, anything that had a strong chance of being contaminated. These believers were sick of the world they were living in, they were ready to move on, hence the name Knoblickers.

In the midst of all this, Myra Collins found herself quarantined on her estate with no one except her PA Wyatt for company. She was being very well paid by the studios to produce a vlog designed to boost morale. The pair would spend thirty-two minutes a day filming, unless the Knoblickers were rioting some place, taking calls, cooking up two and three ingredient meals, talking books and streaming options, and sharing easy tips for weathering this pandemic of epic proportions. Myra portrayed an upbeat and optimistic woman. A completely well-adjusted person. It was then, after working in Hollywood for over a decade, that she had truly learned how to be an actress. On the outside she was a perky, beautiful shoulder for the world to cry on and on the inside a fucking mess. Every morning she woke feeling like a fake and a phony and praying someone would save her from her life.

It was becoming damn hard not to drink. All the time.

Myra opened her eyes and looked at the cell phone on her nightstand quietly willing it to malfunction. She wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t do another broadcast. Not today. Myra closed her eyes and went back to sleep only to be caught in a horrible dream. The same dream she seemed to be having all the time. She was out, hiking in the wilderness, alone. Birds sang and squirrels ran along tree branches. She watched as a doe and her fawn drank from a creek. Myra stopped at an open area, looking around and wondering where she parked her Jeep. It was getting late, time to head home. Instead of a parking lot she found herself standing on the edge of a cliff. The view before her quite beautiful. Breathtaking. Above, below, everything in front of her. Until the ground underneath gave way. Myra’s body moved rapidly as she fell only to be saved by her unconscious reaction to grab for something, anything that would stop her from meeting the ground below. She prayed gravity would not get the upper hand. Myra called out in her sleep for help. There was no one around. She called out until her voice began to fail her. Nothing happened, no one came. She watched as the rock she was holding on to slowly gave way. Myra was falling, falling, falling…

“Are you getting up?” A male voice asked.

Myra opened her eyes and found Wyatt standing at the edge of her bed. “No.” She responded. “I’m staying here until cannibals storm the grounds and eat what’s left of my deteriorating body.”

Wyatt shook his head. “There are no cannibals. Staying in bed would be a complete waste of a beautiful day.”

Myra doesn’t move.

“Come on. Get up lazy butt. We have a show to do.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“You are all that is sunny and good in this apocalyptic world. They need you.”

A tug of war for Myra’s duvet ensued leaving Wyatt in custody of the blankets.

“Time to get up. We were going to work on the pool house toilets after breakfast.”

“They haven’t magically fixed themselves?” Myra asked.

“No Sweetie, they didn’t magically fix themselves.”

Myra got out of bed, wrapping her robe around her. “I’ll have you know that as an overindulged Hollywood personality I’m not supposed to have to do these things.”

“There’s a pandemic, everyone has to do these things. And you’re not overindulged. You have butt loads of money there’s a difference. Money means nothing when most of the plumbers are dead.”

“But not all of the plumbers.”

“The ones that are left are really expensive. Only people much richer than you are can afford them. Ones with penises.”

Myra raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right Sweetie you have to be a rich white man to get anything fixed during this mess and I don’t know if you looked in the mirror lately but you aren’t one of them.”

The Re-Write

 

“O...kay.”

Tinkletoes stirs at the sound of Carp’s voice. “Done?” He asks.

“Yes. This is terrible by the way.” Carp says as he reaches out and grabs a stack of pages from the printer. He hands them to Tinkletoes/John who begins reading.

“An explosion right away. Nice work.”

“Keep going.”

Tinkletoes/John keeps reading. “Good. Good. Have you thought about using a flamethrower on page six? It would be more visually interesting than your everyday tank fire.”

“This isn’t a movie.” Carp counters.

“But John Wick is. This might be in a movie some day. Burning fires all over the landscape makes it more interesting. Besides don’t the people who read this shit picture it in their heads, you know, when they’re reading?”

Carp nods grudgingly.

“Then let’s use flamethrowers.”

Carp waits for Tinkletoes/John to get to page seven. “How will the building Francesca has taken shelter in collapse then genius?”

“It catches fire.”

“It the building collapses while on fire your precious girlfriend is dead. You’ll never get any.”

“Oh.”

“She also gets grazed by a bullet. Nothing dangerous, just bloody enough that she has to remove her blouse. How is she going to get shot if none of the bad guys have a gun? If she doesn’t get shot how are you going to get a peek at the girls?”

Tinkletoes/John shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t know.” He thinks for a bit. “We’ll have both. Let’s write in flamethrowers. Three or four guys can keep their guns.” He continues reading. “This is good.” He moves on to the next page and frowns, “You shot me. Things were just starting to get good and you shot me. She’s gone.”

“Francesca thinks you’re dead. You handed her the missile codes before you entered the abandoned military base, it’s the only way to finish things. She’s taking out The Big Guy In Charge in your memory.”

Tinkletoes/John does not look happy.

Carp rolls his eyes. “Keep reading.”

“I get up.” He smiles. “And kick butt.”

“You are alive and kicking the bad guy’s butts when any other man would be dead.”

“I am a bad ass.”

“A total bad ass.” Carp agrees.

Tinkletoes/John continues to read when he reaches the top of the final page his face falls. “Francesca’s dead.” He looks at Carp. “You killed her?”

“Yes. Sadly John Wick is alone again.”

Tinkletoes/John shakes his head in disbelief.

“You played a little tonsil tag and saw boobies there really wasn’t time for anything else.”

“I can’t believe you killed her. She was so smart and beautiful. What a waste.”

“Look at it this way The Big Guy In Charge is dead and the Bowery King just got one helluva promotion. There’s a good chance y’all are going to Applebees.® Eventually. As soon as you get back to the U.S. If they let you back in.”

“The restaurants are also in other countries.” Tinkletoes/John points out. He looks at his re-write mournfully.

Carp turns everything off and crosses the room. The assassin-in-training looks at Tinkletoes/John places a hand on his shoulder and says, “It’s an action movie franchise. You’re the hero. The hero never gets to keep the girl. He may get some…”

Four year old Dylan stops in front of the room’s open door to listen.

“get some special attention from his lady friend.”

The child continues walking.

“He never gets to keep the girl. It’s the law of the west.”

Tinkletoes/John makes a face.

“Okay...the rule of action movies. Face it action movies are just westerns with more elaborate settings and better toys.”

Tinkletoes/John begins to argue.

Carp puts a finger to his own lips in a ‘Shh…’ gesture. “No John. It’s better this way.”

Tinkletoes/John looks at the pages in his hands. “For who?”

Carp quietly coaxes Tinkletoes/John up and out of the room. When the door closes behind them Carp calls out, “Thank you House.”

“Any time Carp. Any time.” House responds cheerfully.

The door disappears and is replaced with a wall. A framed painting of a bluebird is the only indication anything but a wall had been there before.

Tinkletoes/John stops walking and looks at Carp. “I don’t have to tell her, do I? You know, what happens?”

“No Sweetie you don’t.”

Storm clouds cross the self-proclaimed mercenary’s face.

“I broke the ‘No Terms of Endearment Rule’ didn’t I?” Carp continues. “Terms of endearment are for girls.” He quoted. “It won’t happen again.”

Tinkletoes/John nods. The pair return to High Command. Carp is relieved to find that Francesca is not in the room when they arrive.

Writer Lady turns to face them. “Done?” She asks.

A shell shocked self-proclaimed mercenary surrenders the pages, both men stand and wait while she reads.

“Hmm.” Writer Lady says. “I never would have thought of taking that route through the Middle East or using flamethrowers.” She looks at them. “They're dramatic but I don’t like the idea of unnecessary damage to property.” She looks at Carp. “Why break something just because you can? It doesn’t make any sense.”

He nods.

“It’s actually not too bad. But Francesca dies. I was planning on using her in more than one story. This is set somewhere along the John Wick 4 timeline. Since I have decided to use her for more than one story and four will probably be the end of John Wick’s story, if we did use it where would Francesca be?”

“Dead.” Tinkletoes/John mutters.”She’d be dead.” The self-proclaimed mercenary clenches his jaw, his head hanging a little further.

“So where is Cruella De Kill?” Carp asks.

“Shopping. She was in the market for some new blades and I was sure that you two would be a while.”

“So um...what are we going to do your story or mine?” Tinkletoes/John asks.

“Neither.” Writer Lady says turning back to her monitor.

“What?” Tinkletoes/John asks.

“Neither. Francesca asked me what my plans were for her character. I told her. She nodded a lot…”

“And?”

“She didn’t like some of it. She said that she would be happy to return when I got my story together. Then she left.”

“Your first runner.” Carp gushes hugging Writer Lady from behind. “And to think I can say that I knew you when. So what are you working on now?”

“Mini Micro Fiction for toddlers. There are pixies.”

“Pixies. Pixies are fun.” Carp responds.

Tinkletoes thinks about what has happened. The self-proclaimed mercenary grins as he exits High Command.

“Where are you going?” Writer Lady calls.

“Shopping.” Tinkletoes answers. He turns to face Writer Lady from the other side of the entry, removing his “girl” wig. “This was a delay tactic. She wants me.” He responds continuing his new mission.

“Seriously?” Writer Lady asks looking at Carp.

“Oh my goodness.” Carp mutters. “Someone is in for a surprise.”

When A Self-Proclaimed Mercenary Gets A Re-Write

 

“A re-write.” Writer Lady skirts her head around Tinkletoes/John’s body. She looks at Carp. “My character is requesting a re-write.”

“Not requesting.” Tinkletoes/John corrects. “Demands a re-write.”

Francesca rolls her eyes.

“Sorry.” Writer Lady says. “My character demands a re-write. What does a writer typically do when their characters get pushy?”

Carp rubs his fingertips against his shirt and shines his nails. “I always took great pleasure in killing them.”

“Weren’t there repercussions?”

“No.” Carp looks thoughtful. “There was this one time when I killed off a virgin bride on her wedding night in a freak accident minutes before her,” Carp coughs, “defloration. It was a long courtship as well as one of my more descriptive bedroom scenes. Readers never saw it coming. Once my hardcore fans got over it, The Deflowering of Penelope was one of my greatest successes.”

“Hmm, a successful book would be nice after writing all this time.”

“Boom. Boom. You’re dead!” Dylan calls out.

Tinkletoes/John turns around to find the four year old boy standing behind him, he is pointing a toy gun. “It’s Bang Bang.” The self-proclaimed mercenary says. He turns back to Writer Lady. “It’s supposed to be bang bang.”

“This has fifty calibers. You said those go boom.”

“Okay. Boom.” Tinkletoes/John turns to face the boy. “I’m still alive. You can’t kill me because I’m the hero. The hero lives no matter what.”

Carp counters, “Actually the hero of the story has been known to die, quite often. Usually it is at the end of the story.” The assassin-in-training looks at Writer Lady, “This could be the move that launches your career.”

“She won’t kill me off.” Tinkletoes/John counters. “Who would she bake for?”

Writer Lady’s closely knit brows disagree. Her eyes darken. She sighs in a way that reminds Tinkletoes/John of a bull, snorting.

“I am a writer and I like to see things from all possible angles, so I have decided to give you a late Christmas present. Have a go. Re-write the story. Show me another possible direction to take things.”

In an unusual burst of emotion Tinkletoes/John stands up straight and salutes Writer Lady. “Thank you sir.”

Carp coughs.

“Thank you ma’am.”

Writer Lady looks at Carp with the shock of a woman that’s just been kissed thoroughly by a space alien. She turns back to her computer and continues taking her version of the story where she wants it to go.

Tinkletoes/John puts an arm around Carp guiding the assassin-in-training out of the room. “I need a favor. This writing thing, how does it work?”

“You don’t know how to write?”

“If it isn’t a report or a schematic...I’ve written down light saber details of my designs so Anlace can write-up descriptions for his website.”

“That would be a ‘No.’” Carp points out.

“I know how to write but only real stuff. Man stuff.”

“You don’t know how to write fiction.”

“I don’t have a clue.” Tinkletoes/John admits.

Carp pulls out his cell phone and cues up a recording app. “Could you say that again please?”

“I don’t know how to write that fru fru girlie crap they call fiction. I need…”

“Training? Instructions? The guiding hand of an expert?” Carp asks.

“I need you to write what I tell you to.” Tinkletoes/John says.

Carp turns off the recorder in disgust. “I thought you were asking to learn a new skill, showing growth as an individual.”

“Me? Not when I have you to do it for me. It’s too girlie.”

“Follow me.” Carp says. He walks into the hallway and knocks on a wall. “I need a place to write.”

“What’s the secret phrase?” House asks.

“Decorate it however you’d like.”

“I always do.” She responds.

The outline of a door appears, a thin glow of light moves along the outline and the door opens.

“As requested.” House says. “Welcome to your writing room Carp.”

The men enter a sunny room decorated in a warm color palette. A chair hangs from the ceiling affording an expansive view of an elaborately detailed flower garden. There is a table sitting along the back wall with a comfortable chair. A laptop sits on the table. A cabinet with a portable vintage typewriter and a collection of antique ink holders sits close by. Carp opens the door to the lower portion of the cabinet. A modem, printer, paper, notebooks, pens and ink are hidden inside. The laptop is on. The display reads, “Hello Carp.”

“Very nice. Thank you House.”

“Yeah thanks.” Tinkletoes/John says.

“Is that?” House asks. “The boob brain?”

“Yes.” Carp says. “He and I are working on a special project.”

“If I had known he was involved I wouldn’t have let you in.”

A low growl can be heard coming from Tinkletoes/John’s throat.

House sighs, “He’s already contaminated the place with his presence. It’s too late now.”

“I’m afraid it is.” Carp agrees. “Would you please do me another favor and change the display? Run some John Wick footage. I think it will help inspire Tinkletoes’ contribution to our little project.”

“Of course.” House responds and makes the necessary changes.

“Can I get you anything else?” House asks. “A mint chocolate brownie latte might be inspiring.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“House.” Tinkletoes/John calls out. “I’d like a black coffee and a plate of cupcakes.”

“Nobody asked you.”

The sound of a slamming door echoes throughout the room as the self-proclaimed mercenary is ignored and left. Cupcakeless.

“Why is she nice to everyone except me?” Tinkletoes/John asks.

Words appear at the top of the wall behind Carp.

Because your rude, self-centered, neanderthalific behavior pisses me off.

Tinkletoes/John looks perplexed. “Me rude? When was I rude?”

Carp rubs his forehead for a moment then picks up the latte taking a sip. “What is it that you had in mind?”

“Continue Writer Lady’s story but make it more actiony. Write it so Francesca throws herself at me. All The Time.”

“You do understand that Francesca is also a world-renowned assassin in this story. World-renowned assassins generally have stuff to do. Lots of it.”

“Yes and she will, until she is alone with me and animal magnetism draws her in. She can’t resist me.”

“So your character is so irresistibly attractive that all Francesca wants is for you to introduce her to all of the feminine pleasures that await her. She never was a complete woman until she met you and all of that crap?”

“Yeah that.”

Carp sighs, “O-kay.” Carp turns to the laptop and begins typing. “That story line is always weak at best and completely lame at its worst. It won’t fit in with the John Wick franchise...at all.”

“If you don’t like how it’s going throw in some more actiony stuff.” Tinkletoes/John says. He turns to face the screen, watching the action and counting the bodies of the bad guys as the number builds. Tinkletoes/John finds it comforting.

Several minutes later Carp hears snoring. He turns around. “Are you sleeping while I’m writing this for you?”

“I might have nodded off. This movie is so relaxing.”

“That sounds a little creepy. You might want to tuck that back in.”

What Bubba Yaya Wants

*This post includes an excerpt from the short story "The Librarian" by HR Apostos.

 

Tinkletoes/John looks at Carp and grins. “Maybe the stuff in those girlie books you used to write isn’t such a bad thing.” The self-proclaimed mercenary puckers his lips.

Francesca takes a step back. “No,” she says.

“No?”

“I will not kiss you. There is an active contract out on you.”

“Don’t start anything that’s doomed to fail?” Writer Lady asks.

Francesca nods.

“Hmm.” Writer Lady nods her assent. She can respect that philosophy. Most of Francesca’s acquaintances will probably go under contract eventually, not making them good candidates for a long term relationship.

Tinkletoes/John studies Francesca for a moment. He shakes his head. “I don’t believe you. You’re attracted to me.”

“I will not kiss you.”

Tinkletoes/John looks at Francesca. “Do you mind?”

She backs away further.

Tinkletoes/John steps towards Writer Lady and the computer monitor. He begins reading. He raises his arm and points with his good hand. “See that? Francesca went home and I was in the car.”

Writer Lady looks at Tinkletoes, “The assassin was in the car.”

“Yeah. It’s who I’m dressed up as. She takes me home.”

Francesca’s gray eyes look at Tinkletoes/John. They are an unusually cold color and remind the self-proclaimed mercenary of his favorite gun. “Just because you were in my house does not mean anything happened.”

Determined to prove that he is right and Francesca is wrong because damn-it he’s irresistible. Grandma said it all the time. The dead one, not the one from the blog. She’s the angry one. He begins reading the story to Francesca. Pointing dramatically to himself whenever his/John’s/youknowwhoImean’s name comes up.

Francesca entered the housing complex through a rarely used side gate. The front gate was for any and all residents and visitors. The back gate was for employees and residents who were currently keeping a low profile. Few knew about the side gate near her unit. It was automated and only a handful of residents had access. She had top tier security clearance which meant the details she shared with security regarding visitors to her home was at her discretion. She paid extra for that. Expensive but worth it.

“Sit up in the back so the camera can verify a person is in the back seat.” She said. She felt his glare and looked at him in the rear view mirror. “It’s infrared. Low resolution. It will confirm another person is in the car. Nothing more.”

“That doesn’t sound very secure.”

“I am only one who is currently enjoying this service.” She countered.

An indicator light turned green, the gate lifted, and Francesca eased her car on to her street. No words were exchanged until they entered the house and she had reset the alarm for Resident At Home/Evening.

“I don’t know why you want…” He began.

“Shh…” Francesca called Security.

“Yes?” The guard answered.

“This is Unit 5-1-5. I would like to announce a guest.”

“Go ahead.”

“Male. Six-one. One hundred eighty five pounds. Dark hair and eyes. His name is...Jovan.”

“Jo-van?” He whispered.

“Category?” Security asked.

“E-6.”

“Duration of stay?”

Francesca looked at him, studying his torn and dirtied suit. “He’s a bit rough around the edges, I haven’t decided how long I'll retain him.”

“Notify us as soon as you have a departure date. Let your guest know he is welcome to enjoy all E approved services and amenities. May he enjoy his visit. Thank you for calling.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a nice evening.”

“You too.” Francesca responded as she ended the call.

“E-6?”

“I had to give them a reason a strange man would be in my home for several days that would not raise suspicion.”

He raised his brow.

“While you are staying here you are my escort.”

He walked to the door.

“Am I that unattractive?” Francesca asked.

“No, it’s just...I’m not that kind of man.”

“I’m not that kind of man?” Tinkletoes/John repeats. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Writer Lady looks at Carp.

Carp looks at Writer Lady. “I’ve had this talk plenty of times, allow me.” He looks at Tinkletoes/John and crooks his finger. “Come here.” The assassin-in-training begins. “I have five words for you that are absolutely going to change the course of your life.” He looks Tinkletoes/John in the eyes and says. “It’s not about you.”

Tinkletoes/John makes a face. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What’s the fifth word? It’s not about you is four words.”

“The number of words is not important what’s important is the message. This is not about you.”

“Of course it’s about me. I’m that assassin guy. It’s all about me. Him. Me.” Tinkletoes looks confused for a moment. “It’s about me.” He emphasizes.

Tinkletoes/John turns to look at Francesca and smiles.

Carp gently turns his head back the other way.

“I know. There’s a pretty lady in the room. I know. This really is not about you. It’s about acting out Writer Lady’s story to see if it really does belong in John Wick’s world or if she should toss the setting out like a bad burrito and start fresh. What’s most important is figuring out where Francesca belongs.”

“That’s easy. She belongs here.” Tinkletoes/John turns to look at Francesca. “With me.” He smiles at her.

She looks at Tinkletoes/John and shakes her head. She points to her temple indicating Tinkletoes/John has a thick skull. She looks at Writer Lady. “He does not understand the story.”

Tinkletoes/John returns to Writer Lady. Turning the chair around he looks her in the eyes and says, “Don’t listen to her. I do understand the story. I just think it’s time for a re-write.” The self-proclaimed mercenary/assassin looks at Carp. “That’s the word isn’t it? Re-write?”

A Self-Proclaimed Mercenary's Overabundance Of Digits

Tinkletoes holds up a hand and snaps his fingers, TP appears. The faerie calls forth a Bowie knife that floats into Tinkletoes’ waiting hand.

“Permanent changes aren’t really necessary.” Carp says as he pushes Tinkletoes' knife wielding hand down. “Not for an informal dress rehearsal.”

Francesca looks at Carp. She raises an eyebrow as she takes his statement into consideration. “I suppose not." She continues, "Having all of one’s fingers can be useful in combat.”

Tinkletoes raises his knife, “The really good stories feel authentic.”

“Tinkleboob is getting ready to do something stupid.” House calls out. “I don’t care what anyone says, I am not cleaning the mess up. I demand professionals.”

Writer Lady turns away from the monitor and sees the tip of the knife pressed against the base of his right index finger.

“Is it this one?” He asks, looking at Francesca.

“No.”

“What about this one?” He asks placing it against the middle finger.

“It is an action series, what do you think?” Francesca responds.

“Wrong finger.” Tinkletoes says. He puts the tip of the knife against his ring finger. “It must be this one.”

“Right finger, wrong hand.” Francesca points out.

“That narrows things down.”

“We really don’t need to do that.” Carp sings.

The assassin-in-training manages to wrestle the knife away from Tinkletoes/Bubba/Baba/J...that bad ass that loves muscle cars and puppies.

“What about tape?” Writer Lady asks.

Tinkletoes thinks for a minute. “I don’t know much about doctor stuff but I’m thinking you can’t really tape a finger back on.”

Writer Lady closes her eyes, opens them and tries again. “We can tape two fingers together and create the illusion that you're missing a finger.”

“Great idea.” Carp agrees.

“So.” Tinkletoes says looking at Francesca.

“It will do.”

“All done.” Carp announces.

Tinkletoes/John returns to High Command. He opens and closes his hand. The self-proclaimed mercenary/assassin practices using his trigger finger. “Okay. What happens now?”

Carp looks at Writer Lady. “May I continue?”

“Catch him up.”

“John Wick has tried saving himself from his current circumstances, traveling to the far reaches of the world in order to call a truce with the big guy in charge. John cuts off his finger giving it and his wedding ring to his leader to prove his loyalty and acceptance of the big guy’s terms for reconciliation. A challenge is bestowed upon him. One that John does not like.

When he gets back home he decides to betray the big guy and not fulfill his request to support a trusted friend/colleague. He is betrayed by that friend in return. John survives and comes to create a new allegiance with the leader of the underground in New York City.

Writer Lady picks the story up from there. “He is currently dodging attacks from most of the assassins he used to consider colleagues, trying to find a way to end the onslaught and stay alive.

“He has made a very big mess.” Francesca says. “Which is why he needs me.”

“I come and find you?” Tinkletoes/John asks. “I ask for help? From a girl?”

“He’s actually done that before.” Writer Lady points out.

“It’s part of the story.” Carp adds. “No biggie.”

Tinkletoes does not look happy.

Francesca looks at Writer Lady. “This will never work.” She nods in Tinkletoes’ direction. “He cannot do this. His skull is too thick.”

Writer Lady looks at Francesca. “It’s not as bad as you think. He just has trouble accepting ideas that are contrary to his previously established principles. Let me try.” She looks at Tinkletoes. “John does not go to Francesca for help. Not directly. He makes the mistake of trusting another man to get the information he is seeking.”

Francesca shakes her head. “He is not much of a man. I cut up his tongue much too easily.”

Writer Lady ignores the comment. “John runs into Francesca when he tracks down that man. He enters Francesca’s territory looking for Vincent Donati.”

“I take pity on John and help him.” Francesca says.

“Pity? You don’t like Joh...me?”

Francesca looks Tinkletoes/John in the eye. “John Wick acts impulsively. He is careless, barreling in and shooting everything. He is like a bull in a china shop...too messy.”

“You kill people with knives.” He counters.

“Yes.”

Tinkletoes/John takes a step closer. “Bullets fly to their target, boldly penetrating and doing the job quickly. Efficiently. A cut throat is way messier.”

Francesca steps forward. “Guns are for cowards. Blades are personal. The target sees you coming and knows you are coming...for them.”

Tinkletoes/John leans in, “A well placed bullet leaves little blood. It’s a skill.”

Francesca leans in and counters, “Bullets leave gun residue.”

“Only on honest people.”

Tinkletoes/John is standing close to Francesca. Very close.

“This is wor-king.” Carp sings. “Is it getting warm in here?” The assassin-in-training starts fanning himself.

Writer Lady frowns. “No.”

Carp gives her a side-long glance. “I hate to tell you girlfriend but these two are turning up the temperature.”

Writer Lady shakes her head. “They’re not supposed to. They can’t. It’s not that kind of story.”

Carp raises an eyebrow.

“It’s not! They aren’t doing it right. They need to look at the pages. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

Carp gestures to the scene that is playing out in front of them. “Are you going to ditch this? Because if you want to ditch this I would love to have a go. Jenny Love can come out of retirement for a story like this.”

Writer Lady stands up. “He is a new widower who hasn’t done more than eat a bowl of cereal and drink bourbon for three movies. He is grieving dammit!”

“Would that be a ‘no’?”

“He’s been fighting. Dodging knives and bullets. He’s not eating, where would he get the energy?”

“Trust me girl he can find the energy some place.”

Writer Lady drops into her chair, puts a hand to her forehead and sighs.

Enter Bubba Yaya

“Yeah.” Tinkletoes responds. He looks at Carp. “So...what do I do?” He asks.

“You’re looking to me for direction?” Carp asks feigning surprise.

Tinkletoes looks at Carp and waits.

“I’ve always wanted to have my own production.” He gushes. Carp turns to Writer Lady. “May I set the stage?”

“You know that world as well as I do.” She smiles. “Go for it.”

“In this story you are John Wick. A notorious and deeply feared assassin. A legend. You are known as The Bogey Man or Baba Yaga. John Wick is the baddest of the bad. He is the man that you send when you want to kill The Bogey Man.”

Tinkletoes repeats, “Bogey Man. Bogey Men are bad news. How many guns do I get?”

Carp looks at Writer Lady.

“Based on my story line, as many as you can commandeer.” She responds.

“Are there, grenades?” Tinkletoes asks.

She raises a brow, “There might be.”

“But not yet.” Carp says. He looks the self-proclaimed mercenary over in his close fitting mixed cammos and regulation haircut. “We are going to have to make some changes.”

Carp calls out. “Wardrobe.”

TP appears in a well-cut suit. A length of measuring tape is draped around the faerie’s neck. “Oh my.” He says. “The Bogey Man needs new clothes.” TP giggles.

“A new suit please. Black.” Carp instructs.

“Cut?”

“Italian.” Carp responds.

“Buttons.”

“One.”

TP looks at Carp. “One button is not Italian.”

“One button allows for a better range of motion.”

TP shakes his head and moves on. “Trousers.”

“Pleated.”

“Tapered.” TP corrects.

“Pleated.” Carp puts a hand to his mouth and whispers. “He’ll need the extra room.” The assassin-in-training continues, “It’s easier to move around in the pleated trousers especially when suit wearing is new to a man.”

“Very good.” TP says.

Carp coughs. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

TP shakes his head. “No.”

“There’s one more question you have got to ask me.”

TP waves his hand and a wide closet door appears. The faerie opens it and begins searching through a row of black suits.

“It’s one of my favorite parts. Please?” Carp asks.

TP sighs and turns to the assassin-in-training. “And the lining?”

Carp’s eyes brighten. “Tactical.”

“Cool.” Tinkletoes comments.

Carp looks at Tinkletoes. “Do me a favor while we’re doing this,” Carp gestures to the rest of the group. “Don’t use that word.”

“Why?”

“It’s quite simple, John Wick is a man of few words. ‘Cool’ is not one of them.

Tinkletoes clenches his jaw. He looks at Francesca for a moment, loosens the jaw and says, “Okay.”

TP retrieves a suit and hands it to Carp.

“Yes.” Carp hands it to Tinkletoes without looking in his direction. “Go into the bathroom and put these on.

Tinkletoes turns to leave as TP hands Carp a hanger with a shirt on it.

Carp turns and thrusts it in the direction Tinkletoes went calling out, “Shirt. Shirt. Shirt!” until Tinkletoes takes the hanger from him. Carp turns back to TP. “Let me see the oxfords. The solid black not the two tone.”

There is a knock on the bathroom door just as Tinkletoes is tucking in his shirt. “Yeah?”

“I have socks for you and shoes.”

“Won’t my boots work?”

“John Wick does not wear combat boots with Italian wool.” The bathroom door opens and Carp’s arm enters a pair of shoes with socks tucked inside are held from the outstretched hand.

“Is this it?” The self-proclaimed mercenary asks accepting them.

“I’ll help you with your tie and one other thing.”

“What’s that?” He asks as he accepts the shoes.

“Your hair. To look like John Wick you’re going to need more of it.”

“No way.”

“It looks wonderful.” Carp gushes.

Tinkletoes stares at his reflection in the mirror. His face is pale. “I have never had this much hair in my entire life. This isn’t natural.”

“You look just like him. It’s perfect.”

“I look like a chick.”

“You are wearing one of the finest men’s suits in the world.”

“I’m a chick.”

“You are wearing a man’s suit and you have a beard.”

Tinkletoes studies his reflection then looks at Carp in the mirror. “There are bearded ladies. They live in circuses.”

“What do you think happened, TP turned you into a bearded lady, we kidnapped you, put you in a man’s suit and we’re going to leave you at the circus?”

“Weirder things have happened in this house.”

“Let me ask you this, if you are not dressed up as John Wick and in fact have been turned into a bearded lady then where are your boobies?”

Tinkletoes reaches down and touches his chest. “Pecs. Solid as ever.”

“You are still a man. A bad ass one. You look fantastic. If you want to impress Francesca, come with me.

“Do we still get to play with guns?”

Carp looks at TP who giggles. “Of course. Relax. Enjoy playing the part. She’s going to find you irresistible.”

Carp opens the door and Tinkletoes/John/Tinkletoes...follows.

“I was already irresistible.”

“Of course.” Carp agrees. “Just get in here.”

Carp enters first. “Attention ladies. I would like you to meet our man of the hour, John Wick.”

“It is I, Bubba Yaya.” Tinkletoes announces, his arms outstretched.

“Don’t you mean Baba Yaga?” Writer Lady asks.

“That’s what I said Bubba Yaya.”

Carp shakes his head. “It’s Ba-ba Ya-ga.”

Tinkletoes begins, “Bub…”

“No.” Writer Lady and Carp both counter.

“ba?”

“Let’s go with John.” Writer Lady suggests.

“John is nice.” Carp agrees.

Tinkletoes looks at Francesca his eyes are bright. His smile wide.

“So...Francesca what do you think?” Carp asks.

The female assassin looks Tinkletoes over closely and says, “He still has all of his fingers.”