The Fictional Man

by Al Ewing

  The man from the studio gasped, shocked at the sheer unfettered machismo of the author’s gesture of contempt – and then clutched his hand to his heart and slumped to the floor. The scene had been too much for the frail, black organ.

  He was dead!

  “Justice is done,” the author murmured, in a tone of cold contempt.

  “I suppose I could do that,” Niles said, slowly. “When did you want the pitch, exactly?”

  Dean thought for a moment. “I’ll need something for the day after tomorrow.”

  Niles frowned. It was quicker than he’d like, but he was confident he could throw something together. “Can we, um... talk about pay?”

  Dean waved the question away. “We can ‘talk turkey’ later” – he did finger quotes and winked at Maurice – “on the basic rate for the screenplay, but if we ended up using yours for the translation, you’d get incentives for this film plus any new ones in the franchise, so...”

  Maurice sat up straight and grinned, showing his gold molar again. Niles looked at him, then back at Dean. “I’m sorry, translation?”

  “Talisman Pictures is taking this whole Mr Doll thing very seriously, Miles. We’re creating a brand new Fictional for the franchise.” He chuckled. “I mean, I say we, you know, we’d handle the look of him, but...”

  “But I’d create him.” Niles said, leaning forward. “I’d create Dalton Doll’s personality. Something I wrote would enter the world as a living being. Something I created...”

  “Well, technically something some guy in 1966 –” Maurice started to say, and shut up. Niles was staring into space.

  Dalton Doll reached out a hand. His creator took it in a firm grip and pumped twice. Then Doll turned to the window, looking out at the beauty of the world he had been given. As the studio executives looked on, in awe of the creative talent that had brought this new being into existence, Doll took a deep breath, savouring the sweetness of the air.

  “You’re a good Joe, Niles,” he breathed, in the authentic voice of the working man of the mid-’sixties. “You sure are a gosh-darned good Joe.”

  Niles smiled, reaching out to shake Dean’s grease-coated hand. “Well, then. Let me just say that it’s a pleasure to work with you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE BAR WAS called The Queen Victoria. Occasionally Niles found himself wondering if the owners had been at all inspired by Eastenders.

  It seemed unlikely, somehow – the people who ran it were a friendly gay couple from Oregon, rather than ex-pats wanting to create a taste of home – but at the same time, the dark, wood-panelled walls, the charmingly imperial decor and the faintly musty carpeting might have been pulled in from a fictional reality.

  Which was, he thought, oddly fitting. After all, The Victoria was where Niles went to drink with Bob.

  Aside from Ralph, Bob Benton was the only other Fictional Niles knew. Which made it all the more curious that, over the course of the past ten years, he had assumed the post of Niles’ best and only friend.

  BOB BENTON’S FICTIONAL biography went as follows: he was a ‘bio-chemist’ – an update from the original origin given to him in the early ’forties, when he’d simply been a pharmacist – who’d discovered a concentration of ‘formic ethers’ that had given him fantastic strength. Donning a costume with a skull and crossbones on the chest, a yellow cape, and a domino mask, he set out to protect the citizens of Bowery Bay – a city invented especially for the television series Benton had starred in – as The Black Terror.

  Benton’s real-world origin story was significantly more complex.

  As a character existing in the public domain, The Black Terror could – within reason – be used by anybody, with no fear of legal action. As with Frankenstein or Charlie Chan, anyone could put out a Black Terror comic, or a Black Terror movie. The Black Terror TV show in the ’sixties, starring Lyle Waggoner as Benton and Peter Deyell as his young ward Tim, had been popular enough to create a wave of ‘Terrormania’ across the United States, and while there were plenty of attempts to cash in on the situation, only the official merchandise and tie-ins – starring copyrighted characters and locations created for the show like Commissioner O’Driscoll, Terrorgirl and Swing City – shifted significant units.

  More than twenty years later, ParaVideo Entertainment examined the phenomenon and decided that it might be worth making a Black Terror movie, complete with the kind of big budget and big stars that would, hopefully, re-ignite the ‘Terrormania’ phenomenon. After all, while they couldn’t hold the copyright on The Black Terror, they could certainly hold the copyright on a Fictional for at least as long as his contract lasted, if not longer – and it would be that Fictional on whom the action figures, T-shirts and other merchandise would be based. Legally, it was foolproof.

  So the first Robert Benton – chemist for a pharmaceutical firm, general polymath and citizen of a dark, neon-lit and grimly camp metropolis named Cryme City – was born, in early 1988. The next year, The Black Terror earned almost $500 million at the box office, and nearly twice that in merchandise, making a continuing franchise inevitable. Over the next nine years, Robert Benton made three more films, although as time went on the direction became increasingly shoddy. The later episodes pushed the formula so far towards camp comedy – of a particularly ill-conceived sort – that the fourth film, The Black Terror And Tim, barely made a profit on the domestic front. It was decided that Robert Benton would be released from his contract, but given first refusal on any new sequels, should the studio ever feel the need to make them.

  One year later, the first Robert Benton committed suicide. He left no note.

  When the second Robert Benton – Bob – heard the news, he felt as if he himself had died.

  “SEE, I ALWAYS knew.” Bob said quietly, taking a long sip of his beer – he preferred the real thing, rather than ginger ale or apple juice.

  He’d picked up the taste after The New Adventures Of The Black Terror was cancelled – since then, he’d grown a thick beard and let his black hair grow rougher and shaggier than it had been, but he was still unmistakably TV’s Terror, beloved by a generation who’d been glued to his exploits even as the first Benton’s star had faded. He’d made a career for himself as a relatively well-known voice actor, and had even managed to get small roles in independent films and – his proudest moment – as a mass murderer in an episode of CSI: Miami. But for the most part he was still thoroughly typecast from the role that had created him. Even the voice work had started to run dry.

  He put the half-empty bottle down with a grimace. “I always knew the studio – Nestor – created me because of him. Because of Robert. Because he was so successful, he made them so much money. I was just the... the cheap knock-off. There were times when I hated him for that – which is crazy, because he was me.” He scowled, and took another swig. “But for a few minor details – city names, supporting cast – we were the same person. At the very least, we were close enough to be brothers. Born from the same father – that platonic ideal Benton, the one who only exists on paper.” He chuckled to himself. “Or Richard E. Hughes. I had to look him up. Died in 1974, or I might have found him and given him a piece of my mind. I don’t know why more of us don’t do that – confront our gods.”

  Niles coughed nervously, wondering when the right moment would be exactly to tell Bob his news. He didn’t like interrupting Bob while he was having one of his existential crises, but at the same time this was hardly a new topic of conversation.

  “So,” Bob said, “when I heard Robert was dead – killed himself, for fuck’s sake, totally out of character – I felt like... like the reason for my existence was gone. Like another side of myself was gone. I started wondering if he’d done it because of me, because when I was translated he lost any kind of uniqueness, any individual status he had. Never mind what the judge said.” He looked into the distance for a moment. “I mean – look, my show was cancelled before his last film, sure. But that was an artistic choice. We wan
ted to quit while we were ahead, I thought I could have a career, the writers thought they could have another big hit with their show about the guy who can turn invisible in water...” He sighed heavily, shook his head again, and drained his bottle in a few gulps.

  Niles shrugged. “Sea-Thru did all right. It got a full season.”

  Bob snorted. “On DVD, sure. Well, anyway... we ended on a high note, at least. A lot better than what happened to Robert. I mean,” he said, warming to his theme, “can you even imagine what it’s like to be rejected like that? By the public, by the people you were created for, to be told you don’t matter, while all the time there’s another version of you... basking...” He spat the final word like a curse.

  Niles looked over at his friend, hesitated a moment, and then ventured a question. “This wouldn’t be about Rob, would it? Benton number three?”

  Bob snorted. “For fuck’s sake, Niles. What do you think?”

  THE SECOND BOB Benton – the man who would, in the fullness of time, become Niles’ best friend – was created to cash in on the second wave of ‘Terrormania’ by filling a void the first one, somewhat foolishly, had not. There were three things that hadn’t occurred to ParaVideo: firstly that the general public might want more Black Terror after they left the movie theatre, secondly that they could provide a supply for this demand by producing a regular Black Terror TV show, and thirdly that someone else might have the idea first.

  In 1991, the Nestor Communications Company became that someone. Their television arm had been debating the best way to spend their translation budget, and – with a second Black Terror movie on the way and the character still very much in the public domain – another Bob Benton, just different enough to avoid copyright claims, seemed like an ideal use of the money. What had to be changed would be changed for the better – they’d re-introduce Tim as the Terror’s sidekick, but change him to a her, a vivacious brunette who’d remind the Dads in the audience of the long-missed, never-forgotten Terrorgirl. In place of Furst’s chilly, art-deco Cryme City, with its endless darkness and neon, they’d set the action in Bowery Bay, an ersatz San Francisco with as many sunny days as gloomy nights. Most importantly, instead of the cold, calculating Robert Benton – whose humour seemed limited to the occasional barbed quip and who seemed quite willing to kill criminals as long as their bodies could be immediately hidden off-screen and forgotten – they would create a warmer Benton, more melancholy, carrying an inner sadness in place of the frozen heart of the movie version.

  Not so much a ‘Robert,’ the memo said. More of a ‘Bob.’

  Bob Benton was the first ‘duplicate’ Fictional, and his appearance on the Hollywood scene caused a stir in the gossip magazines and – once ParaVideo were informed – in the courts. The landmark ruling – that duplication of public domain characters contravened neither ParaVideo’s established copyright nor the right of all Americans, Fictional or otherwise, to their own unique identity, just as long as there were definite physical and psychological differences between the different versions – opened the door to a fascinating world where Zorro could fence against Zorro outside Mann’s Chinese Theatre, or two entirely different Draculas could sit under parasols on the beach, discussing the relative merits of a third and fourth in their thick Transylvanian accents.

  It also opened the door to Rob Benton, the third Black Terror, whose newest film – a nastily half-baked examination of modern politics wrapped up in a superhero cape, of the kind that Dean had clearly been attempting to get Niles to rip off – had just shattered all known box office records. Rob was angry, conservative, over-muscled, given to putting on a ridiculous voice when in the mask, and apparently almost impossible to have a real conversation with. Audiences couldn’t get enough of him.

  BOB STARED AT his empty bottle with an air of loathing. “Did you see the clip online of that little bastard screaming at the sound man? And that’s The Black Terror now. Christ. I had a voice gig for a Terror videogame last year – they wanted me to do it in that stupid voice of his, that dumb croak. They kept saying, no, make it deeper, make it growlier – eventually nobody could understand what the hell I was saying. They said it wasn’t working, paid me for the morning and threw me out. Not even the full day. Assholes.”

  “Well, did I tell you my news?” Niles smiled, telling himself it’d be a good idea to get Bob’s mind off his problems. Bob had been created to be somewhat morose – morbid, even – and Niles felt a distraction from his ever-present black cloud would be welcome. Besides, it was big news, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t heard this particular song and dance from Bob before.

  Bob sighed, rolling his eyes. “Is it happening at last? Am I finally going to get to meet Kurt Power – is there going to be a team-up? I mean, I’ve heard so much about the guy.”

  Niles was vaguely hurt by the tone. Bob was obviously jealous, the writer reflected, smiling inwardly at the depth of his insight into the human condition. But even in a world where Kurt Power existed, Bob would still be a valued friend. Less valued than Kurt Power, admittedly, but still valued for all that.

  “Not quite,” Niles said, getting the barmaid’s attention. “Two more over here.” He turned back to Bob, smiling genially. “You’re in the ballpark, though.”

  Bob looked up as the beer arrived, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Seriously?”

  Niles smiled, paying for the drinks and adding a hefty tip. “Have one yourself while you’re at it.” The previous beer had put him in a magnanimous mood, and there was a small part of him that was considering buying a round for the house to celebrate recent events. But aside from himself and Bob, the only other customer was a very striking woman with red hair and a glass of white wine watching the TV, and Niles felt that the gesture might be misinterpreted. And if a gesture like that was going to be misinterpreted, he thought to himself, he’d rather Bob wasn’t around to get in the way. He smiled, admiring her dress – ’sixties retro, a multi-coloured op-art pattern. A good omen.

  He turned back to Bob. “Seriously what?”

  Bob frowned, picking up the new bottle and taking a brief swig. “You get to create a human being?”

  “A Fictional, yes.”

  Bob shot him a look. “You don’t need to say it like there’s a difference.”

  Niles frowned, puzzled. It was the second time today he’d been accused of realism, and he was starting to resent the implication. If there was any realism going on, it was reverse realism – these Fictionals assuming every womb-born human automatically thought less of them.

  “You’re the real realist here,” the author murmured, drawing himself up to his full height. The Fictional, caught by his logic, could only stare at the bar top and reassess his entire life. He immediately apologised and left, allowing the author to get to know the fascinating red-haired woman unimpeded.

  “You’re the...” Niles swallowed. “I mean, you’re not being fair. There is a difference – quite a few differences, actually. You’ve not aged a day in all the time I’ve known you, for a start.” Niles lifted a finger to his receding hairline, pointing to the grey hairs that were starting to come in. “Not a problem for you. One shave and a haircut and you’d be in your mid-twenties again.”

  Bob shook his head, looking pained. “God, don’t talk about that.” He spoke through gritted teeth, clutching his bottle of beer so hard that Niles feared it might break. “If I got a grey hair tomorrow, it’d be the happiest day of my damned life.”

  Niles’ brow furrowed. “I don’t see how that’s possible...”

  “You don’t! Why am I not surprised?” Bob took a swig, looking bitter, and then stared at his drink for a moment. “Sorry. It’s been a rough couple of days. I should thank you for the beer.”

  “Yes, you should,” Niles muttered reproachfully.

  Bob gave him a wan smile. “Come on, then, Niles. Let’s hear it. Who is it you’re translating? One of your own? You’ve got that other detective character –”

  “Madeleine Sorr
ow.” Niles winced as he said it. Madeleine Sorrow had been a forensic pathologist and ex-porn star with an estranged daughter who solved violent crimes in Edinburgh. Niles had never been to Edinburgh for longer than a day visit, but he felt he knew it intimately after watching Trainspotting, and Irvine Welsh’s trick of writing phonetically had appealed to him.

  He’d written two books with her, the second of which, The Cursed Moon – about a serial rapist who targeted menstruating women – was filled with the kind of searing social commentary and powerfully erotic sexual content that Niles had created Madeleine Sorrow to better express. It was still held up occasionally in places like The Guardian and The London Review of Books as being one of the worst books ever written by a human being. Private Eye had devoted three pages and a particularly well-realised cartoon to ripping it apart. It had only been published in England, and was the main reason he’d left.

  Niles had never written a single word featuring Madeleine since, although part of him still considered that decision to be the literary world’s loss. “They made their choice,” the author sneered as he set the match to the unfinished manuscript – a manuscript that could have ended sexism forever. “Let them live with it as best they can.”

  “No,” Niles mumbled, “not Madeleine Sorrow.” He cast a quick glance over at the red-haired woman, as if the mere mention of Madeleine Sorrow would send her running from the bar in disgust – then hurriedly cast his eyes down to the wood of the bar top when he saw she was looking back at him curiously. “Not one of mine at all.”

  Bob nodded. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “It’s, ah... have you ever heard of The Delicious Mr Doll? It’s a kind of secret agent film...”

  “Sure. I think you told me about it once – kind of swinging ’sixties stuff. Austin Powers, right?”