by David Beem
From behind his furry costume, Caleb stares at him.
“Don’t worry about him, sweetie,” says the director, swatting Caleb’s butt. “That boy is tough. He can take anything. I should know. You just go ahead and give him a good sack. We’re doing a football gag, right? Can you look like a football player for me? You can do that, right? Football gag. Comedy. Bada-bing, bada-boom.”
Caleb nods. The director smiles and then tosses him the bonto ball.
“This future ball is just a painted football,” he mutters.
“What’s that?” asks the director. “You gotta speak up. I can barely hear you through all that…” He gestures with his hands to the mask. Caleb waves it away and gives a thumbs-up. The director frowns on one side. He stands in silence a moment longer before marching to his director’s chair. “Quiet on set!”
Caleb sweeps his gaze across the set. The alien girls have dispersed to their various marks. Some are acting like factory slaves pulling six-foot levers. Others are lifting large pieces of machinery. Three of them are gyrating their hips for no discernable reason.
“Start the conveyor belt!” yells the director. “And…action! Action! Roar—go!”
Caleb fades, cocks the football, and fires it center mass into the stuntman at the far side of the set with such force, the guy’s mask comes flying off. Then he pivots and charges the second stuntman, whose eyes widen at the sight of a charging space gorilla-unicorn executing a textbook NFL sack straight to the gut. The stuntman expels a loud “woof,” tumbles backward into a piece of set dressing, and they collide with the lighting rig. Caleb straightens and shakes off the tangle of sheets, reflective material, and cords.
“Jesus Christ!” yells Johnny Gemini from his position strapped to the conveyor belt.
“Cut!” yells the director. “Fucking perfect!”
The director’s swearing a blue streak as the Zorgnarian girl Tron-Tron’s been flirting with all afternoon unties Johnny Gemini from the conveyor belt.
“We could tie you up like this in your trailer,” she says, her suggestive smile triggering such a surge of testosterone-fueled arousal in Johnny, Tron-Tron’s advanced titanium quantum processors are for a moment overwhelmed. Johnny glances at the lighting rig Roar demolished. They’ll be fixing that for at least another hour.
“Take ten,” says the director, and the actors begin drifting off set.
“We don’t need more than ten minutes,” says the Zorgnarian girl.
“Darling, what I have planned for you will take at least the entire night.”
She smiles and loops her arm through his. They exit the set together, neither noticing the less than inconspicuous space gorilla-unicorn following them.
CHAPTER FORTY-eight
The swords drag apart and spark. The crowd backs up to give the two sword masters room. Their virtuosic flipping and spinning is giving me a headache. Is this Mary—or is Mary still in New York? How would she even know I’m in South Bend? And if she shot her dad, how did she get here so fast?
“Excuse me.”
The familiar Darth Vader voice is like ice running through my veins—Nostradamus.
S’up, Edge? he says from inside my brain.
I turn around, and he steps out from behind the college girl who’s just given me water. She pulls out her phone and snaps a picture. In his strange and anachronistic medieval future armor, he fits right into the film’s bizarre oeuvre. A chimpanzee trots up and knocks on Nostradamus’s knee. Nostradamus glances down. The chimp holds up a medallion identical to the one Fabio gave me—that’s weird—and the monkey’s gaze swivels to make eye contact, first with Nostradamus, then me. Nostradamus shakes his head. The chimp’s gaze finds mine. He thrusts out the medallion to me this time, and my head ticks back.
“No thank you?” I say. The chimp shrugs, then trots off.
“Aw,” says the girl. “The monkeys are so cute.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” says Nostradamus in his electronic supervillain voice, ignoring her and folding his arms.
“It doesn’t?” I reply. “Aren’t you the one writing the script?”
Nostradamus laughs. “I’m glad you’ve held on to your sense of humor, Edge. We shouldn’t fight. Why don’t you come with me right now, and I’ll call off the Marys.”
“You let me think Mary killed her dad.”
His knightlike helmet ticks to the side. “Eh. Had to try.” His finger makes a looping motion. “Keeps you off balance.” He shrugs. “Negotiating technique.”
“So you admit it wasn’t my Mary.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Edge—I told you this is much more complicated than you can possibly figure out. Save the brain cells. You’re gonna burn out too fast.”
The college girl snaps another picture. Nostradamus turns his gaze on her, and she steps back. “Sorry,” she says, lowering her voice. “Just keep going. Pretend I’m not even here. Am I like, in the shot or something?” She looks around as if trying to find where the movie makers are filming from.
Nostradamus faces me again.
“Look. I know all this must be overwhelming. And I’m sorry. I didn’t want to have to kill your dad and stuff. I don’t want to have to kill Fabio either.” He pauses for a moment to appreciate the artistry of the battling Marys, and the dread already churning in my stomach intensifies to full-on panic. This is spinning out of control. Where did he take Fabio?
“I’m not gonna tell you that,” he says, reaching with both hands overhead and making a slashing gesture. The sky darkens a second time as the Buck Rogers’ Jollies detaches from its scaffolding. Wood shards rain down as the ship swoops into position above us. I stagger backward, awestruck. That thing must weigh three times the weight of any Peterbilt! Nostradamus’s arms jostle from side to side, hands stretched out overhead like he’s stabilizing the massive set in midair. Four people—three guys and a girl—are dangling from a ladder at the rear of the set, where it’s mostly broken scaffolding. The spaceship drifts leftward, so it’s positioned over the greatest concentration of spectators.
“Why don’t you just come with me now?” asks Nostradamus. “Before this gets worse.”
“Wait a sec,” says the college girl behind him. “This is totally awesome and realistic and everything—I mean, I can’t even tell how you guys are doing that—but, not to be rude, or critical…? But are you supposed to be using the Force right now? I mean, the thing you’re doing with your hands, like you’re controlling the spaceship? Because I’ve seen every Space Pirates movie at least ten times each. The first one I’ve seen, oh my God, like, thirty times. I can’t even count—”
“That’s great,” offers Nostradamus in his Darth Vader voice. “But I’m kind of in the middle of—”
“—I’ve been watching Space Pirates since I was twelve. I love Johnny Gemini. He’s so my bae. But that’s why you should take my advice: Space Pirates doesn’t have the Force. The Force is Star Wars.”
“Miss,” says Nostradamus, his hands still overhead controlling the floating movie set, where the people on the ladder are scrambling to reach the top.
“You guys need to cut this scene,” the girl continues. “You’ll totally get sued, for one thing—”
“Miss—” says Nostradamus again.
“—But for another, you’re gonna lose all your fans. I mean, we love Space Pirates because it isn’t Star Wars. And, not to be rude, but that voice? You’re a total Darth Vader rip-off. What I’m saying is, Disney screwed up Star Wars, and now it’s like you guys are trying to screw up Space Pirates. We fans have power, you know. Not to sound like a threat or anything, but I have twelve thousand Instagram followers. I could totally start a petition and—”
“Screw this,” says Nostradamus, sparing his right hand from controlling the spaceship and jabbing a finger at the girl. Her body stiffens. Her head jolts leftward, wrenching her unblinking gaze away from his. Her jaw slackens. Drool moistens the corners of her lips.
“Fans t
hese days,” says Nostradamus. “There’s no pleasing them. I tell you what, that’s one more knock against free will right there.”
Wang, Shmuel, Hasselhoff, and Busey peer over the deck of the Buck Rogers’ Jollies at the crowd below. Ralph, his stomach knotting and sweat rolling off his forehead, films from his handheld camera. He can’t explain what’s going on, but there’s got to be a logical explanation. Busey’s and the Hoff’s antics aside, movie sets don’t fly.
“Are we gonna get alien abducted like Fabio?” asks Shmuel.
“For the hundredth time, Fabio didn’t get alien abducted,” says Ralph, his handheld camera panning over the crowd. “Now will you shut up already? We. Are. Flying!”
“It was Fabio’s beard?” says Shmuel. “I don’t think it could be Fabio’s beard and not be the rest of him?”
Ralph lowers the camera. “Who’s saying it was his beard and not the rest of—dammit.” He shakes his head and raises the camera. “Come on, guys. This shit ain’t normal!”
“THE GREAT EYE SEES ALL,” intones Chicken Hoff into the microphone to the crowd below.
“I wonder if Fabio’s making out with green alien babes?” asks Shmuel.
“Fabio can’t handle the green alien babes,” says Wang. “They should’ve abducted me, if they wanted to sample Earth’s greatest lovers.”
“Guys,” says Ralph. “Do you think the Hoff is acting normal?”
Wang and Shmuel pause to take in David Hasselhoff in his space chicken costume. A beat later: “Totally normal,” they say in unison.
“THE GREAT EYE DEMANDS YOU PUT ON YOUR MEDALLIONS,” says Gary Busey, holding up the medallion he’s wearing around his neck. Four college students also wearing medallions join them from the ladder.
“The Great Eye knows best,” they say in unison.
“Okay, now that’s weird,” mutters Wang.
“Look!” exclaims Shmuel, pointing, then grabbing Ralph’s arm and shaking. “Our lord and savior is down there?”
Ralph pans his camera. Where? College kids. Space monkeys. Sword-fighting sci-fi babes. Some kind of medieval space knight pretending to be controlling their movie set. No lord and savior, though. He wishes there were. Tying this narrative together is going to take ten lords and saviors. The Buck Rogers’ Jollies tips left, tips right. Ralph’s hand slips on the camera. His thumb pokes his eye. He grabs the railing at the helm, steadies himself, and continues filming through a tear-filled viewfinder.
“THE GREAT EYE DEMANDS SELF-SACRIFICE!” the college students say in unison into the microphone, and the pirate plank of the Buck Rogers’ Jollies extends from the starboard deck. One of the students walks out to the end of the plank. The college student’s arms flail out to the sides. “I’m king of the world!”
CHAPTER forty-nine
Voices echo in the hallway outside. The sexy alien’s posture stiffens. She withdraws the sword from Danny’s crotch. He expels a sigh.
“You. Stay here,” she says, pointing the tip of her futuristic-looking sword at his face.
Behind him, the locker room door bangs open. The voices spill into the room.
“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” says a male voice. “You can’t be filming in here. This is our locker room!”
Filming? Danny cranes his neck around. Four sweaty Notre Dame football players are standing in the doorway. Their jaws may as well be on the floor.
“Yes, vell,” says Olga, lowering her sword. “Vee vere just rehearzing.”
“Wow. That’s, uh, quite an outfit.”
“Who’re you supposed to be?” another football player asks, grinning. Several more arrive through the door.
“Hey, guys! Guys!” says Danny. “Maybe you could, uh, you know gives us a hand here? We’re done with the ‘scene.’”
One of the football players looks from the alien woman to them and back. He nods and comes forward from the group and begins untying them. They’re saved!
“Excuze me,” says the commie alien, pushing through them to get to the door.
Dressed in a trench coat with pushed-up sleeves, acid-washed jeans, and high-tops, Putin pops the cassette tape in. Peter Gabriel, 1986. The album: So. The song: In Your Eyes.
Behind him, Boris leans on one elbow atop the hood of the candy apple red Mustang, his left foot dangling off the side as he puffs alight a smoke. Down the street, on the other side of the police tape cordoning off the drive leading to the football stadium parking lot, a group of fifteen monkeys goes running by. A minute later, six police officers follow, huffing and puffing into their walkie-talkies.
Putin cranks the volume to MAX, presses Play, and holds the boom box high overhead. The synthesizer and drums intro blasts through the speakers, and Putin’s insides turn nice and gooey.
His gaze locks onto the door where he’d seen his twinkling little star drag the two unconscious Americans through earlier. She’s been in there long enough. She cannot run forever, and soon he will have to leave for Mother Russia.
Peter Gabriel’s lyrics wash over him. He swallows the lump growing in his throat. It’s the song that’d been playing the first time they’d done it every which way on the back of that horse, so many lifetimes ago, before the mind-control monkeys, Nostradamus, and Make America Great Again Don-Don. Discounting the complexities of sex on horseback, times were simpler then.
The door bangs open. Olga’s gun is drawn as her gaze snaps left then right, then spots him. He clenches his teeth. His heart swells inside his chest. Her shoulders slump. She stuffs her firearm into its holster behind her back and runway-model marches straight for him.
This is it. Be strong, Vlad. Be strong.
She stands before him, her green alien beauty radiating like Chernobyl, 1986. He breathes in her scent. Pungent body paint, rocket fuel, and gun powder. Before this moment, he’s never known it was possible to have a boner of the heart, an affection erection, a pocket rocket on his heart’s docket.
Olga strokes the inside of his arm, and he allows her to lower the radio. She grabs the handle. He lets her take it from him. She holds it out for Boris, who slides off the top of the Mustang and rushes forward to accept it. Then, her gaze lowering then rising, Olga peers into his eyes. Her lips look so lonely… Perhaps they would like to meet his.
He bends his neck, and she accepts his passion.
CHAPTER Fifty
Gleaming razor-sharp blades slash and parry. Tan legs made improbably long by those high-cut space corsets kick, leap, and lunge. Behind them, the band of chimpanzees have gathered some twenty yards off. Their metal caps are blinking like crazy as they peer intently into the crowd of people who had only moments earlier been normal, but are now marching like soldiers to the bottom of the ladder. There, one by one, they begin the long climb to the deck of the Buck Rogers’ Jollies.
My brain is short-circuiting. It’s all so strange and surreal. The battling Marys, flying spaceships, Gary Busey and Space Chicken David Hasselhoff. Swag monkeys… Wait—is Nostradamus using the swag monkeys to mind-control these people?
“Yes, duh-uh,” replies Nostradamus, jutting his chin out at the person standing on the plank high above, ready to jump.
My hands ball into fists. This isn’t spiraling out of control. This is spiraling out of orbit. And now that person’s about to jump—so whatever it is Dad’s wanting me to figure out, this has got to be the end of the line. This has got to be it. The Moment. Come on brain—figure it out!
“You’ve lost, Edge,” says Nostradamus. “Don’t make them walk the plank.”
I shake my head. “It isn’t about me making them walk the plank. It’s about you making you make them make me make you… make… Wait. What’re we talking about again?”
“But that’s it exactly,” he says. “Don’t you see? It’s free will. Right here, right now. Look at them.” He gestures to the battling blondes now five yards apart, hunched over, hands on their knees and gasping for air. “There’s your human race in a nutshell, exhausted, one big battle to the death.”
>
The Mary on the left cries out and raises her sword. She charges the other, who parries, and they’re at it again.
“Free will, Edge. All that potential, skill, intelligence, beauty—wasted. Whereas this?” He gestures with his hand to the line of people waiting to climb the ladder. “This is order.”
“You’re gonna kill them too. How’s that different?”
“These deaths will serve a meaningful purpose.”
“Which is?”
“Forcing you to surrender. Come on. Let me just try to make a little world peace. You know what? Don’t even decide right now. Live with it awhile. See what you think. Maybe we’ll get you an island. We could populate it with Marys. I don’t know. Would that be so bad?”
My gaze turns with a will of its own to take in the dueling clones. One swipes her blade, misses, and the momentum carries her sideward. She stumbles and lands on one knee. The other pulls away to dodge the attack but falls on her butt; she crabs backward a yard or two, and then collapses on one elbow. Her chest heaves as she struggles for breath. Two of those swag monkeys trot up, one for each Mary. Both roll their eyes, take the proffered medallions, and then shoo the monkeys off.
“Or maybe a good religion metaphor will sway you.” Nostradamus touches his hand to the side of his helmet, where his temple would be. The crowd queued in line for the ladder fall to their knees beneath the Buck Rogers’ Jollies and start waving their arms up and down as they bow at their waists, straighten, and then bow again.
“WE ARE THE CHURCH OF THE LADDER DAY DUDES,” they intone in rhythmic unison. “WE ARE THE CHURCH OF THE LADDER DAY DUDES…”
“Okay that’s already annoying,” I say.
“Wait till they start killing people in the name of Wang. Or sacrificing their children to the god Shmuel.”
