She rang the doorbell, grinning as always as she recognized the theme from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Vincent opened the door, dressed somberly in black jeans and a black Kissing Cousins T-shirt. Of course he pretty much always wore dark jeans and black T-shirts, so it wasn’t a big inconvenience for him.
Most of the really obsessed fans Tilda had met were either overweight or underweight, but Vincent was unusually average. Average build, average light-brown hair, average-size and average-shape nose, average brown eyes, and average Caucasian complexion. He was a bit paler than some, but that was easily explained, either by his living in Massachusetts or by his job as a computer jockey.
“Tilda,” he said, opening his arms wide. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
Though they’d never been hugging buddies, Tilda was willing to stretch a point under the circumstances. At least it was a real hug, and not an air kiss.
“I hope I’m not early,” she said.
“Not at all. You’re right on time.”
He led the way down a hall to a large living room decorated with TV and movie memorabilia. Vincent had never seen the need to limit himself to one brand of fandom. Not only was Kissing Cousins well represented, but there were posters from Star Trek, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Addams Family, Highlander, and others. One wall was lined with shelves of books, videos, and DVDs, and another had enough home entertainment equipment to fill the AV department of a good-size high school. A third was lined with computers, printers, scanners, modems, and other gadgets Tilda wasn’t sure about. The last was mostly those posters. The windows, including a large bay window, were thoroughly curtained to make sure the real world didn’t intrude upon Vincent’s world.
There were two other people in the room, sitting in the circle of couch and arm chairs surrounding a coffee table in the middle of the room.
“You know Rhonda and Javier,” Vincent said.
Tilda nodded at them, both of whom she’d met through Vincent.
Rhonda fit the stereotype of fan better than Vincent did—she was a prime example of the underfed fan. She was short and tiny in all dimensions except her head, which seemed unnaturally large to be on that thin neck. Her watery blue eyes looked even bigger than they were because of the owl-like glasses she wore. Tilda knew from earlier meetings that Rhonda wasn’t just a fan—she was a collector. Her archive of Kissing Cousins memorabilia was the most complete one Tilda had ever seen, or even heard of.
Javier was also not what Tilda would consider a pure fan. Like Vincent, he dabbled in many brands of fandom, but his real passion was spoilers. It wasn’t enough for him to watch a show to find out what was going to happen—he had to dig around and read bootlegged scripts to find out what was going to happen before the rest of the world knew. He ran a Web site—thespoilerroom.com—to share his ill-gotten knowledge with like-minded fans. He always seemed smarmy to Tilda, though seen objectively, he was quite good-looking, with olive skin, thickly lashed eyes, and full lips.
Tilda glanced around the room again, looking for the other people Vincent had said would be there. “Where is everybody?”
“They’re all here in spirit,” Vincent said happily. “I’ve got the chat room set up, and we can log in as soon as you’re ready.”
“We were just waiting for you,” Rhonda added.
“Vincent, are you telling me that the hundred or more fans you said were coming are only online?” Tilda said, working hard not to sound as irritated as she was starting to feel.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “Did you think I was going to try to get a hundred people in here?”
“You didn’t make that clear when you invited me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Tilda. You are going to stay, aren’t you?”
Though Tilda was tempted to blow him off, Vincent was one of her best entrees into the fan world and pretty good for computer news too. Besides, he was looking so disappointed. “Sure I’ll stay. I just wish I’d realized—I’d have brought a change of clothes.”
“Go ahead and slip out of anything you want,” Javier said with a leer.
Tilda ignored him. “The only thing is, I didn’t bring my laptop.”
“That’s okay,” Vincent assured her. “I’ve got stations set up for all of us. We’ve got just enough time to grab some pizza before the service gets started.”
A few minutes later, munching on a piece of pepperoni pizza with a full glass of Dr Pepper beside her, Tilda decided it wouldn’t be too bad. Sure, she’d have to jettison the idea of a tear-jerking photo of mourning fans, but she could still use the memorial service for human interest, and the fact that some of the fans were logging in from the UK and Australia would add international flavor. Plus Vincent could e-mail her a transcript of the whole “service” so she wouldn’t even have to take notes. How bad could it be?
An hour in, Tilda was dying to open up a game of solitaire or Minesweeper—anything to stay awake. The chat had started out promisingly enough. Vincent, as the moderator, introduced those of them there in person, and even more than the expected one hundred fans logged in with user names like “Cousin_ Kisser,” “Damon_4_Ever,” and “Sitcom_Fan.” Then Tilda typed in a brief report of the funeral: who’d been there, what was said and sung, and so on. Some of the questions posted in response reminded her strongly of her Aunt Tess, who liked nothing better than to critique funerals. All of that killed about half an hour.
Then Vincent opened the chat to people to tell their memories of Sherri/Holly, or of either of the other two deceased Cousins: Brad/Jim and Damon/Alex. That’s when Tilda’s eyes began to glaze over.
It wasn’t that the fans didn’t have legitimate sorrows and memories that were clearly important to them. It was more the fact that very few of them could write or spell decently—Tilda had a decided aversion to chatspeak, that bastardized form of code words some people insisted on using online. Worst of all, while the first tale of how much the show had meant to one of the fans was touching, the second through umpteenth were pretty much the same, meaning that they were just tedious. Admittedly, the guy who swore that the show’s scripts were written in code that revealed that all of the actors were actually aliens and that the dead ones had actually faked their own demises so they could return to the home world was somewhat entertaining, but Vincent cut him off quickly.
It didn’t help that Tilda knew that if she’d posted her feelings, they’d have been pretty much the same as everybody else’s, albeit better written and properly spelled. Part of her wanted to type in ALL CAPS that the show was HERS! Another part wanted to type in all caps that these people really needed to GET A LIFE. And a third part just wanted to go home and go to bed. She drank more soda, hoping the caffeine would keep her going.
Finally even Vincent had had enough, and after promising the people still waiting in the queue that they’d be able to post their stories on the Listserv, he said it was time to introduce a new topic.
Tilda sat up from where she’d been slumped over in her chair. He hadn’t warned her about this, but whatever it was, it had to be more interesting than all the essays on “What Kissing Cousins Meant to Me.”
Vincent typed:
Tilda winced. Though she liked the sound of “professional investigative reporter,” it was hardly accurate, and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted a bunch of fans throwing their most outlandish ideas her way. The fans seemed taken aback to
o. It was a full two minutes before the first reply came.
The suggestions kept going from there. Some of them were obvious, some were clever, but all were ideas Tilda had tried before. Then came a post that took Tilda by surprise.
In all of Tilda’s research about the actress, she’d never heard anything of the kind about Mercy. In fact, none of her sources had even mentioned the woman having a serious boyfriend.
Vincent snapped, “Bullshit! I’m cutting this bastard off.”
“No, wait,” Tilda said. “I want to see what he’s got to say.”
There was a longish pause, and Vincent muttered, “He’s lying. He made it all up and doesn’t want to admit it.”
“Give him another minute,” Tilda said. It wasn’t that she believed him, necessarily, but it was the first new idea that had popped up all night.
Finally he responded.
Vincent could restrain himself no longer.
Tilda said, “Cut him off. He’s just a troll.” She’d never understood trolls herself, weirdos who posted the most inflammatory messages they could think of just to stir people up. It was the Internet equivalent of a child poking at an anthill with a stick.
Unfortunately, even though Vincent wouldn’t let any more messages from Have_Mercy go through, the guy had infuriated the fans so much that the rest of the chat was nothing but people flaming him. If anybody had any decent suggestions for Tilda, they forgot them in their outrage.
After half an hour of indignation, Tilda said, “Vincent, I think this has run its course, don’t you?”
He nodded, and posted a closing message.
He actually bowed his head over his keyboard before going on. Rhonda, Javier, and Tilda just took the opportunity to drink more of their soda.
After posting a few of the good-bye messages that came and responding privately to several requests for Have_Mercy’s head on a platter, Vincent closed down the chat room and leaned back from the screen to stretch. The others followed suit.
Tilda said, “Funny, I don’t remember asking you to solicit suggestions from the list.”
“I thought somebody might have a decent idea.”
“They might, but I don’t have time to weed through all the spam in hopes of finding something worthwhile.”
“I’ll screen it for you,” he promised, “and just send you the stuff that might help.”
“All right,” she said ungraciously. She didn’t like the implication that she needed help from random fans, especially when she probably did.
“Let me know if Have_Mercy comes through with anything else,” Javier said with an unpleasant gleam in his eye. “I wonder if there’s any photographic evidence of Mercy doing the dirty with Brad and Damon.”
Rhonda tossed an empty Coke can at him. “You don’t believe that guy, do you? He’s probably the one who keeps trying to post slash fiction to the list. Mercy screws Brad, Sherri screws Damon, both girls screw Damon, Sherri screws Mercy—how many possibilities are there, anyway?”
“It would depend on how many characters are involved in a scenario, and who you included in your pool of candidates,” Javier said thoughtfully. “The six Cousins, their grandfather—those are a given. Then there are the twins.”
“And the shark they jumped to get onto the show,” Tilda couldn’t resist adding.
Javier actually seemed to be considering the possibility, which was sort of freaky. “If we assume no more than three characters at a time, the possible combinations would be—”
“A math geek and a pervert,” Rhonda said, going to check for leftover pizza. “What a man!”
Javier shrugged. “You asked.”
“It was rhetorical!” Rhonda yelled from the kitchen.
Tilda followed Rhonda for a fresh infusion of caffeine.
“How’s the writing business?” Rhonda asked.
“Not bad,” Tilda said, wracking her brain to remember what Rhonda did. “You?”
“Still looking for a job. Jeez, the market is tight! I’ve even gone to interviews out of state—all over New England, the Research Triangle in North Carolina, Silicon Valley—but nothing.”
Okay, that probably meant computers. “That’s rough. Sorry I don’t know anybody I can call on your behalf.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” The woman sighed. “I’m going to have to find something soon, or move back in with my folks.”
She and Tilda both shuddered at the possibility, and went back to the living room, where Javier was working a calculator.
“Should I include the Cousins’ parents in the equation?” he asked.
For a moment, Tilda actually wondered if there was a place in her article for a discussion of Kissing Cousins slash fiction, which made her realize just how tired she was. “Vincent,” she said, “it’s been real, but I’m going to head out.”
“Thanks so much for coming,” Vincent said. “It means a lot to have friends around at a time like this.”
Again he spread his arms for a hug, and again she went with it. He was just so damned sincere. But when Javier opened his arms too, she deliberately turned away to put her shoes back on. She didn’t give a shit if he was sincere or not, he was still Javier, and he’d tried to cop a feel every time she’d ever seen him.
When he said he was leaving too and would walk her to her car, Tilda’s first thought was that he was going to have another try at her, but he had a different passion on his mind.
“So there’s really talk about a Kissing Cousins reunion?” he said as they walked toward their cars.
“There’s been talk about that for years, you know that.”
“Yeah, but it sounds as if it might have gone beyond talk this time. Was there any mention of a script or a treatment? It would be a real kick to get something like that up on my site.”
“Nobody mentioned there being anything in writing.”
“Do you think you could check into it? Maybe get me a copy? Even a preliminary draft would be a hell of a spoiler.”
“Javier, what is the
point of spoilers anyway? Why not just wait for the finished product?”
“Any loser can see it when it’s released—I want to know sooner.”
Curse of the Kissing Cousins Page 7
