Because every trilogy needs a concluding chapter that everyone will say is nowhere as near as good as the first two chapters...behold.
DISCLAIMERS: Since a minute number of critic wannabes had problems last time with several glaringly obvious components in the previous story, we shall now insult everyone's intelligence by decreeing the following. We apologize that that small minority has ruined it for the rest of you.
- This is a fanfic. We own none of the characters. If we owned any of the characters, the word "disclaimer" would be pretty superfluous, now wouldn't it?
- See that word? "Characters"? The stars of this story are not intended as 100% accurate depictions of any real personalities living, dead, zombiefied, or otherwise existing transubstantiationally. They are characters who exist in an alternate universe entirely separate from our own. We are not the first creators in history to attempt something like this. Or do you honestly think that Alec Baldwin and Cuba Gooding, Jr., spent years painstakingly researching their "characters" for Pearl Harbor? Really, now.
- "Homage". H-O-M-A-G-E. "Homage".
THE MAKING OF EPISODE 2, Episode 3: The Silence of the Banthas
("Best Jedi Cool/Randy G. Fanfic Ever!" says Richard Roeper!)
Although Access Hollywood usually served as the perfect epilogue to every working day—with its regularly prescribed dosage of thirty minutes of the same five stories repeated endlessly, each story a maximum of seventy-five seconds in length—today, Rick McCallum found no solace in his nightly infotainment fix. Today, as he slouched as deeply as he could into the shallow end of one of his boss's solid-gold hot tubs, his goal was not to calm his nerves. After the morning's horrible turn of events, he wondered if the soothing dulcet tones of Pat O'Brien could have the same tranquilizing effect ever again.
Endlessly—or as endlessly as a thirty-minute TV show can be, anyway—Access Hollywood replayed their melodramatic reenactments of the mysterious occurrences that had, as on-the-scene reporter after on-the-scene reporter had so breathlessly put it, "ROCKED THE NATION!"
James Cameron stepped out of his stately manor on a beautiful sunny morning, oblivious to the evil lurking in the distance. He bent down, picked up the morning paper, turned up his nose because his name was not in the headlines, and immediately collapsed to the ground as he was struck from behind. With an unceremonious thud, the self-styled King of the World was dragged away. (In an accompanying clip, the soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Cameron shrugged, said, "I knew it wouldn't last", and hugged her lawyer.)
A bicycle lying along a riding path in a local park was not an unusual sight in and of itself. What was unusual was the Oscar mounted on the handlebars. Before the afternoon was over, Hollywood buzzed with the news that Steven Spielberg had vanished without a trace.
On an airplane flying through a frightening thunderstorm, William Shatner suddenly gave a shout of horror. While everyone raced to the window, his travel companion, Richard Donner, calmly walked to the lavatory…and never came back.
One by one, the most prolific and successful directors in the business disappeared: Ridley Scott, Tim Burton, Robert Zemeckis…and only one unusual clue was found at each crime scene—a single baseball.
Rick shifted uncomfortably in the hot tub in such a manner that its no-slip strips dragged like sandpaper across his bottom. Wincing, Rick closed his eyes during the final re-enactment, in which America was privy to see the kidnapping of the latest victim.
George Lucas.
Post-production on Episode II had since ground to a halt. And now, alone with his hot tub, his TV, his tears, and his pet rubber ducky, Quacky McCallum…Rick knew what he had to do.
* * * * *
While the world-weary strains of Liam Gallagher bellowed in the background, Ewan McGregor wiped off the last of the shaving cream, admired the clean-shaven mug that had ensured him Idol of Millions status—at least until, as his nightmares often suggested, that whole Miami Vice five-o'-clock-shadow fad suddenly rose from its sartorial grave--and grabbed his travel bag. Flinging the front door open, he jumped out into the daylight and ran right into Rick McCallum.
"Uh…hey, Rick! What are ye doing here?"
"It's about George."
"Oh…yah. Sorry t' hear about that, mate. But ye know, one day at a time and all that. Well, nice chattin', I've got tae go."
"I need to talk to you."
Ewan was mildly concerned. It wasn't like Rick to get straight to the point. Usually their conversations would dwell upon uninteresting minutiae—such issues as the difference between "affect" and "effect", or what exactly it was that the Tootsie-Roll-Pop owl was trying to hide in that commercial. "Look, Rick. I've got to be in London by tonight. I'm doing a one-man play about Algernon Charles Swinburne. It's th' cleverest thing—it begins with me recitin' Tristram of Lyonesse from beginnin' tae end, an' then there's this dream sequence with this monkey…"
"Swinburne. Swinburne. Wasn't he a vice-president or something?"
Now that was more like Rick. Ewan smiled. "Nae, nae…he was a poet! I've really gotten intae his work lately, so when the part came up, I jumped for it. Gottae thank all that Jedi trainin' for keeping my body lookin' buff, too. Listen, good luck doing….whatever it is you do."
"Ewan, I need your help to rescue George."
Ewan blinked twice. "Ye can't be serious. Do I look like a cop? I can't even play a believable one in films, so I can't possibly do it in real life. Y'ever seen Nightwatch? I made Steve Guttenberg in Police Academy look like Steven Seagal! Y'wanna cop, go call Scotland Yard."
"You have to help me. Every big-name director in show business has disappeared I don't care about any of those…okay, Spielberg made my eyes water just a bit…but we have to get George back!"
"Why me??"
Rick calmly pulled out a copy of Ewan's contract. On the first, last, and only page was written simply, You own me. Signed, Ewan McGregor. It was even notarized.
"But all they found out of order at any of the crime scenes was a baseball! How am I supposed to find George with a baseball??"
"Movie magic!", Rick replied, as if no other answer was necessary.
Wonderful
, Ewan thought to himself. I've got muhself a chain o' missin' directors…an' a handful o' bloody baseballs. And based on that, and that alone, I'm expected tae pull a rabbit out o' muh hat. Where do I start? Why would someone kidnap nothin' but directors?He didn't know who could answer that, but he knew who might be able to tell him who could answer that. At the very least, they could tell him who to ask about who to ask about answering that.
Ewan slapped himself in the forehead. This sort of thing happened to his thinking processes every time he was exposed to Rick for more than two minutes at a time.
* * * * *
Walking through the brightly lit halls of the Edward D. Wood, Jr. Home for the Directorially Deficient, Ewan wished, not for the first time that day, that he were investigating a string of pub-owner disappearances instead. But no one ever kidnapped pub owners. Pub owners had big shotguns and even bigger customers who took care of their own.
"I still don't understand why you're the head psychiatrist here, " mused Ewan, as he tried to keep up with the measured steps of Dr. Joyce Brothers.
"Professionals such as myself cannot survive on glorified cameos alone, " quipped the irrepressible media personality. "After all, if you don't use it, you lose it."
Still not understanding, but fearful that she might try to explain again why she felt he used alcohol as a crutch to augment some adolescent need for attention, he turned the subject to the matter at hand.
"So…should I wear protective gear or sumthin' while I'm talkin' to the fella.?"
"That will not be necessary since the man you seek will be behind Plexiglas and not bars. However, there are a few rules even you should be able to remember." She stopped and turned to face him directly, her normal, matronly expression becoming stern. "Do not ask for his autograph. Do not show him scripts. If he offers you a script, do not take it—tell him you are booked up through the end of the year. Do not discuss costume design in any way, shape, or form. And finally, do not mention aloud the words 'critics' or 'Academy Awards'. Any questions?"
"Uh…"
"Wonderful! I know you'll do fine!" The good doctor pushed Ewan through a set of reinforced steel doors and, slamming them shut behind him, replied from the other side, "Well, got to go! I'm expected on the set of Scary Movie III in an hour!"
As Ewan walked the gauntlet of cells on either side of him, he found himself shocked and amazed at the various and sundry residents. Michael Bay leaning back on his bunk --soup bowl in one hand, spoon in another-- making loud airplane noises and machine gun sounds with his lips as the spoon dove in for the attack. John Waters cataloguing his kitsch collection. Quentin Tarantino chattering profanely to himself like a Tourette's Syndrome victim after having downed an entire 24-pack of Jolt. David Fincher standing motionlessly in the dark.
At the very end of the corridor, in a Plexiglas-sealed room with one tiny drawer providing the only deviation from the otherwise seamless enclosure, sat the man Ewan was looking for.
Joel Schumacher.
"He sent you, didn't he?" came the words from the celebrated director's mouth before Ewan had even sat down on the metal folding chair in front of the cell.
"I'm sorry?" queried Ewan.
"Him. That toadie McCallum. He sent you to find out what happened to Lucas and all the others, right?"
"Well, actually, he only wants George back, but I suppose the others would be a boon to his reputation. After all, George won't live forever, eh?" he answered, almost forgetting that he was supposed to be asking the questions.
"That could be taken many ways. Remember Orson Welles? Peaked before 30 and never got back his edge. He was reduced to making Muppet movies before he died. I offered to direct a film for him once. He bit off my tie and ate it with some baked beans and a nice Muscatel." Schumacher sniffed a few times. "That was my favorite tie."
Trying to forget that his own most critically-acclaimed film to date had been many years ago, the 30 year-old Ewan took a deep breath and asked, "Do you know who did it?"
"Ohhh, you are not known for your subtlety, on or off-screen, lad. I'm very disappointed. Perhaps I underestimated the role of the screenwriters on your films."
"Oh, yeah, spoken by the bloke who decided that having Batman sport a credit card was a really keen idea!" retorted Ewan, his infamous temper flaring.
The words had apparently had no effect. "So, tell me, did you really sing all of those songs yourself in that dervish Luhrmann's musical feeding frenzy?" bit back smiling Joel.
"That I did, mate….every note! The critics said I sounded like Bono!"
That
appeared to hit a sore spot. "Critics!" raged the director. "What do they know? They know nothing of putting your blood, sweat, and tears into a film only to have it panned because they don't believe two superheroes could air surf! It was a METAPHOR! This interview is over." With that, Schumacher slumped back into his seat, his energy drained.Ewan backed up slowly and, sensing that he would learn no more, began working his way back toward the entrance. A mere twenty feet away from the steel doors, he felt the back of his shirt being tugged as he was grabbed from behind and pulled back against cell bars. "You have to help me, " hissed Gus Van Sant. "They won't let me remake It's a Wonderful Life shot by shot. They've got no sense of aesthetics. Help me, please!"
Ewan pulled himself away, tried to push the image out of his head, and raced for the doors when Schumacher's voice echoed down the corridor.
"Isn't this what it's about, lad? People trying to be what they aren't?"
The complete non sequitur took him aback. "Are ye saying the wanker wants to be something he's not?"
"Look inside YOURSELF!" And with that, Schumacher said no more.
Ewan flung the doors open and ran. As he fled, he wondered if perhaps Schumacher's parting words might hold some deeper meaning, some sort of oblique riddle which might contain the key to the mystery.
He snapped his fingers. Of course!
* * * * *
Later, at the Yourself Tavern on the corner, Ewan finished off a second pint of Guinness, considered, "This isn't helping", and headed back out to continue his mission. He promised himself that, if any clues pointed back this way, then he would do whatever it took to return to this scene and investigate it to the fullest extent.
* * * * *
Blackness rescinded itself into a gray blur. The gray blur gave way to dim light. Dim light turned into a brief impulse of brightness, then dimmed again.
George Lucas had awakened.
The last thing he remembered was taking a walk around Skywalker Ranch to clear his head a bit. He had walked past an equipment van, where some poor handyman had been attempting to drag a pair of life-size Battle Droid models into the back of the van all by himself, but quite unsuccessfully.
George had been in a rare mood. "Need a hand there?"
The man—wearing a big floppy face-obscuring hood—had said in a dull, mumbly tone, "Oh…I dunno, I think I almost got it, Mr. Lucas."
"Nonsense. Here, let me help you."
"Don't mind if you do…thanks." But before George had been able to take another step, the man's arm quickly became a circular blur, and then there had been a sharp pain square in the middle of George's forehead, and then…nothing.
Now fully awake, but with his forehead still sore, George slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, his hands propping him up behind his back. He appeared to be seated at the bottom of a very deep, dimly illuminated concrete pit. Some straw and hay had been strewn lightly along the bottom, but not enough to make sitting there comfortable.
What made him even less comfortable was the sensation of a lightweight metal object hitting him in the head, right in his sore spot. "OWW!" he yelled. He picked up the object and looked at it. It appeared to be a crudely constructed helmet, made largely of wires and circuitry, with a thin metal framework holding all of it together. The helmet was attached to a rather long, thick wire, which rose up and up past the edge of the pit, attached to something out of sight.
The sound of a tenor-pitched male monotone then came from above. "It will put the helmet on its head."
George stared upward, not moving. "Who's there? Who are you?"
"It will put the helmet on its head." Still monotone, the voice had repeated itself, slightly louder.
George considered panicking, but decided not to just yet. Attempting a modicum of defiance, he countered, "Why should I? Maybe I don't want to. Besides, what have you done for me lately?"
A disembodied arm appeared above the pit, protruding from the darkness above. In its grasp was a shirt, long of sleeve and flannel in composition.
The voice raised itself to a yell, but remained flat and without passion. "IT WILL PUT THE HELMET ON ITS HEAD, OR ITS SHIRT WILL BE BURNED."
George gasped. He looked down at himself, finally realizing that he was topless. Whoever was up there must have taken it from him sometime during unconsciousness. George decided that the time had come for blind panic. "NOOO! Look, let's not do anything we'll both regret, alright?" As he spoke, George dutifully placed the crude mechanism atop his head. "See? I'm wearing the helmet, okay? Let's all stay reasonable here."
The arm retreated with the shirt into the darkness. Several seconds passed, tensely but uneventfully. The silence was broken by what sounded to George like the clanking of a large switch being thrown, followed by what felt to George like several thousand volts of electricity coursing through his brain.
His eyes bulged, his facial muscles spasmed uncontrollably, and his neck jerked back and forth. George could detect some sort of unusual discorporate presence, slowly making its way through the deep recesses of his brain. Something within suddenly grasped control of his thought processes, and ideas began to rush through his mind, bouncing madly from neuron to neuron, and exiting through the conduit which the unknown presence had apparently established.
The conduit jolted him. Hey! Suppose I used some of that "bullet-time" technology they used in "The Matrix" in Episode 2?
Another jolt. Hey! Maybe in Episode 2, I could create an entire scene composed of thousands of Obi-Wan clones locked in heated battle with thousands of Sith warriors!
Another jolt. Hey! What if there was a love triangle between Amidala, Anakin, and Obi-Wan? Wouldn't that be a kick?
Another jolt. Hey! What if the Neimoidians sounded less like Fu Manchu and more like Tonto? The more intensely and more frequently the jolts came, the dimmer and dumber the ideas were becoming.
Another jolt. Hey! What about a Jar-Jar animated series? With musical numbers?
Another jolt. Hey! What if I fire Ewan and digitally replace him with myself?
Another jolt. Hey! What if I fire Ewan and digitally replace him with Bea Arthur?
Another jolt. Hey! Howard the Duck, Jedi Master!
The large-switch-clanking sound from above resounded once more, and the jolts ceased. Completely drained, George fell to the floor, unconscious. Tugged from above, the helmet pulled away from George's head and slowly found itself retracted from the pit, back into the hands of its creator.
Those same hands fastened the helmet securely onto its creator's head, pushed a pair of small buttons, and flipped the large switch again.
Every muscle tensed as the conduit opened itself unto the mind of the creator. It was no less agony for him than it had been for the man in the pit. But he neither smiled nor grimaced.
For the creator, emotion was irrelevant. What he needed now—and what the infernal device was bestowing upon him—was talent.
* * * * *
Still later, at the Uhr's Elf Fantasy Gaming Shop, Ewan rolled his eyes and held his head in his hands as the scrawny young man behind the counter ranted on and on about his detailed critical opinions regarding every single movie Ewan had ever done. Not completely convinced that he needed to hear the lad's doctoral dissertation comparing Shallow Grave to Chaucer's "Pardoner's Tale", Ewan walked out the door and continued on his quest.
Ten minutes later, the clerk finally noticed that he was alone, and wept.
* * * * *
"Star Wars: Episode III: by Rick McCallum."
George's lackeys could finish Episode II, but somebody had to continue the franchise. With that idea in mind, Rick sat in front of the computer screen, fiddled with the font selection for awhile, then tried to decide how to begin.
A long time ago…
wait a minute, that was too cliched. In the distant past, someplace that's not here…yeah, that was it.Jedi Master Ick-Ray Allum-McCay, fresh from his stunning victory during the Clone Wars, stood among his peers and spoke, "I would like to thank you all for relinquishing control of the Jedi Council to me. After all, it was the least you could do after I bumped off that annoying Anakin person."
"Mr. McCallum, " announced George's secretary, "I'll be leaving for the night."
"Wait!" Rick bounded to his feet. "Tell me what you think so far."
The secretary read what was written, looked at Rick, looked back at the screen again, looked at Rick again, and said, "You think they have any openings at Dreamworks?"
Oblivious, Rick replied, "Wait till you see what I have in store for Episodes Seven through Nine!"
* * * * *
Later than later still, at the Yore Shelf Antique Flea Market, Ewan encountered an altogether new experience, something which he had never imagined existed in his wildest dreams: a screaming throng of seventy-year-old female Pillow Book fans. As he ran for his life out the dirty glass doors, his admirers chased after him, hoping to snatch a piece of his clothing—or any other piece of anything from him—as a souvenir.
He wondered if this sort of thing had ever happened to Bruce Willis.
* * * * *
Seated once again on a stool at the Yourself Tavern, Ewan stared intently into the bottom of his Jagermeister, thoroughly convinced that if anything could help him now, it would be there. Then the sound of the bar's projection-screen TV caught his attention. Onscreen, a young female news anchor attempted to convince the viewers at home that she, too, could be Maria Shriver with just the right husky tone of voice and with just the right combination of dozens of makeup products.
"…authorities have revealed at a press conference today that director Oliver Stone, who was thought to have been in Europe preparing to shoot his next historical blockbuster docudrama extravaganza, Prince Hans-Adam II of Liechtenstein, starring Gary Sinise, has in fact been kidnapped. Sources indicate that Stone is another in the long line of victims thought to have been absconded with by the ruthless madman whom authorities have nicknamed, 'Home-Run Hank', after the way in which he leaves a baseball at the scene of every crime.
"Authorities are completely baffled, and have implied that it sure would be rather convenient if someone could help them out, preferably someone smarter than they are, someone who is already working on the case, and someone who looks better on TV than said authorities do, since said authorities never have time or opportunity to tan adequately.
"For 'Protagonist-Stuck-in-a-Corner Daily News Update', I'm Layme Plotdevice. Good night, and may your deity, or nebulous harmonic concept of your choice, bless." And with that, the TV turned off, as if its role in the grand scheme of things had been fulfilled.
Ewan continued to stare at his drink. He was sure that he saw shapes forming at the bottom of it. If he squinted just right, he could just barely make out the outline of a cute little puppy.
Suddenly his eyes bulged wide and he sat bolt upright.
"She was talkin' ta me!" he yelled. He leapt off his seat, tossed a handful of money at the bartender, and ran out the door to the next scene.
The bartender—who had been struck squarely in the eye with a quarter—eventually forgave Ewan two weeks later, once the bandages came off.
* * * * *
Approximately two minutes into his conversation with the desk sergeant at the local Police Headquarters franchise, Ewan's temper was already beginning to flare.
"What do ye mean, 'No civilians allowed'? I'm nae a civilian—I'm a celebrity! An' I've been asked tae look intae this case by authorities far greater than you!"
The cardboard stereotype behind the desk looked unimpressed. "Your connections won't get you anywhere, mister! The police are doing everything we can to look into this case."
"Oh, really? Like what?"
"Standard procedures. We collect all the evidence that's easy to find, and leave behind the detailed stuff for private detectives to find. We seal off the crime scene with some yellow tape—it's actually just a really long pest-control strip, but you wouldn't believe how many flies swarm around these scenes. Then we come back to our local Police Headquarters and type up some reports. Lots of 'em. In triplicate. Then we file the forms…"
Ewan sat down in front of the desk. If he had to spend more time rolling his eyes in disgust and seething with impatience, he figured he might as well be comfortable while doing so.
"…which wouldn't take so long, but the captain got the bright idea several years ago of filing our reports using the same system that the Library of Congress uses. I mean, you'd think alphabetically would do just fine, but no! And have you ever taken a look at their system? I mean, really looked? And people complain about the Dewey Decimal System! But anyway, once we finish filing our reports, then we sit patiently and wait for some more evidence to fall into our laps. Usually either our perpetrator commits another crime, in which case the whole process starts all over again…or some sort of hero-type person drags the scumbag in for us, so we can close the case. Unfortunately, what they don't tell you on TV is that closing the case requires even more paperwork, so we run through that end of the process once more…"
Before the sergeant could finish drawing in another breath, Ewan asked pointedly, "Is the end of this story near? Is there a Waffle House somewhere between me and the end of this story?"
"…so what I'm saying is, everything is under control, citizen. Just let us do our jobs, and you go back to doing whatever your job is."
Ewan stood up in anger. "Maybe ye don't understand. Right now, muh job is tae solve this case!"
The sergeant also stood up so neither of them would feel awkward. "Don't let your mouth write checks your body can't cash, buddy!"
"I need tae look at yer evidence!"
"Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong!"
"There are lives at stake here—at least one o' whom is dependin' on muh!"
"Check your ego at the door, pal!"
"I may be yer only hope!"
"You're a lone wolf and a rebel, son! That don't sit well with folks 'round these parts!"
"But—" Ewan stopped in mid-boast, realizing that their stale, hackneyed dialogue was getting them nowhere. He decided to try a new tactic. He got down on his knees, clasped his hands together, batted his eyelashes, and wheedled, "Pretty please let me look at what ye found at th' scene."
The sergeant thought for a second. "Okay," he said simply, as he pulled a plastic Ziploc bag out of a desk drawer. Inside the bag was a baseball. "Turns out after searching Stone's hotel room for almost fifteen minutes, this was the only thing we could find that was out of place. Odd thing about it, though…the thing was fairly damp. We figured that meant something, but we dunno what. Maybe sometime we could put some thought into it, if ya like."
Ewan stared at the ball which dangled in front of him. It was a typical baseball—white, stitched, and leathery. Traces of condensation dotted the sides of the bag, caused no doubt from the ball attempting to dry. Realizing that the sergeant was waiting for an answer, Ewan remarked, "No, don't put yourself to any trouble."
"Suit yourself. It's free of charge, if ya decide to take us up on it."
As the sergeant sat back down, Ewan stuffed the evidence into his pocket (after showing the sergeant his Celebrity Detective License, which permitted such an outrageously illegal action) and exited Police Headquarters. Now he was beginning to catch on to how things worked. Now he understood what was going on. He still had no clue who was responsible for the kidnappings, but at least he knew what to do next.
* * * * *
"I wish you had made an appointment first", groused Dr. Brothers as she led Ewan through the corridor. "I have to get up early for my Today Show appearance."
"This is a matter o' international importance. Do ye imagine that folks would actually read books if there were no films tae be seen? I think not, Dr. Brothers. It would be anarchy! There must be movies made t' tell people what to think, who tae vote for, an', most importantly, what tae wear!"
Thinking to answer, but reminding herself of the strong smell of liquor on his breath, she decided otherwise, and retorted, "You remember the rules," and slammed the metal door shut as before.
Keeping far away from the cell doors, Ewan moved down the long walkway until he stood in front of Schumacher's prison.
"Back, eh?", whispered the director, before Ewan had a chance to greet him.
"There are some questions I need tae ask ye."
"Then you'll answer some for me. Quid pro quo, Ewan"
"This is not a wee child's game, yuh crazy coot. What do you know about Home-Run Hank?"
"He's not a transsexual."
Ewan's nostril flared. "I dinnae ask ye about his sense o' fashion. Tell me somethin' important."
Schumacher gave him a bland look and queried, "When you smoke, do you inhale deeply or do you barely allow the taste of nicotine into your lungs?"
"What does that have tae do with anything?"
"Answer the question."
Ewan sighed with frustration, "I put the cigarette in my mouth, light it, and take slow, deep breaths."
"Do you blow little rings out?"
That caught him by surprise. "N-n-nae, "stammered Ewan. "Hearts."
"Idol of Millions, indeed, " came the quiet reply. "Very well. Your kidnapper desperately wants something. More specifically, he wants to be something that he cannot be, either because of nature or opportunity. I would say, nature is the problem. He hasn't the talent."
"So, you're saying that he wants to be a director, but he doesn't have the talent. So he's kidnapping famous directors? Why?"
"Why do you drop your pants in so many films, Ewan? Is it that you want to prove something to the world or are you hoping to get a spread in Playboy?"
"Don't ye mean Playgirl?"
"You don't read much fan fiction, do you?"
"I guess, it's just that…well, they ask the ladies to do it. It doesn't seem quite fair if I don't."
"Honesty. Admirable. Who was the latest victim?"
"Oliver Stone, the bloke that does all those epic controversial political films tha' bore th' crap out o' me," responded Ewan uncertainly.
"The baseball was there, too?"
"Yes."
"What was different about it?"
"You know about that?" Ewan's eyes widened. "How?"
"You have about you the faint scent of musky water absorbed by cowhide. The ball was wet, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, it was. I stopped by Chemical Analysis 'R' Us on the way over here. My receipt says, an' I quote, "Judging by the unique particles and residues of corn. potatoes, mountain rocks, pharmaceutical waste, and German beer, along with just the faintest aroma of Swiss francs, not to mention DNA samples of certain unique species of plankton and barnacles, the water in this ball undoubtedly could only have originated from…the Vorschbach River."
"Ah, yes, the Vorschbach. Only a few miles long, but it passes by rather fabulous scenery."
"Um…I never heard of it. Where is it?"
"Quid pro quo. How well did you get to know Nicole Kidman?"
"Oh, fer cryin' out—we were just friends!"
Schumacher said nothing, only staring back at him.
"Well, we were! Very, very, very, very good friends! Did ye nae see any o' th' interviews I did? Everyone asked muh tha' bloody question!"
Schumacher remained silent.
"So what do you want to hear? That we 'did it'? Fine. I shagged her. I shagged her ROTTEN! It's still not th' least bit true, though."
Schumacher grinned gleefully. "The Vorschbach is in Liechtenstein, where Oliver Stone was staying. Not terribly helpful information, that. But you didn't finish reading the receipt."
"What're ye talkin'…" Ewan's voice trailed off as he realized that there was indeed some fine print at the bottom that he had overlooked. He squinted hard to read it. "'Tests indicate water samples to have come in contact with the ball approximately five months, two days, fifteen hours, forty-two minutes ago. Give or take.' Okay, so anal-retentiveness is their business. I figured tha' out muhself already."
"You now have everything you need to know. One question you must answer, though. What do people do? What do we do?"
Ewan stared at him. "Huh?"
Schumacher sighed heavily. "What. Do. WE. Do?"
"Y'know, speakin' more slowly does nae suddenly clear it up fer muh."
"Work with me here. What do people do?"
Ewan furrowed his brow. "Hm. Well. We, uh…we live. We eat. Breath. Walk. Run. Sleep, awaken, exercise, drink, smoke, screw, work, wink, blink, nod, yawn, talk, sing, curse, yodel, AM AH GETTING' CLOSE?" Sweat beads flew off his forehead as he shouted exasperatedly through the Plexiglas.
Schumacher sighed heavily again. "You just don't get it. Fine. The answer is 'covet'. We covet."
Ewan laughed mockingly. "COVET? How th' bloody 'ell was I supposed to guess THAT? Nobody ever says 'covet'! I don't think I've ever used tha' word in a sentence in muh life!"
"That's how this sort of thing works."
"Would it really have been so bloody hard to just say, 'Hey! Y'know what people do? They covet!' None of this nancy-prancy Riddle-Dee-Diddle-Dee-I-Double-Dee crap! Really now, does being straightforward aggravate your ulcer or somethin'?"
"I suppose you won't be terribly keen on the next part, either. What do we, as people, covet the most?"
Ewan walked right up to the Plexiglas and began banging his head on it as he spoke. "I" bang "bloody" bang "HATE bang "RIDDLES!" bang bang bang With one last bang, Ewan stepped back once more, glared at Schumacher squarely in the eye, and threatened unflinchingly, "You either tell me what I need to know, or I'll see to it that Dr. Joyce releases Gus Van Sant down there an' allows him tae remake The Lost Boys shot-fer-shot."
Schumacher's eyes widened. "You wouldn't."
Ewan didn't blink, didn't look away. "Ye're talkin' to a man who once sang Whitney Houston's 'I Will Always Love You' in a movie. And—"
"Actually, that was first sung by Dolly Pa—"
"SHUT IT! We're also talkin' about a director who not only convinced Sean bleedin' Connery t' speak hip-hop dialect with a straight face, but once directed a Hansen video! Nothin's sacred in our eyes, boyo. Just imagine if we hired, say, th' Backstreet Boys t' play th' vampires this time. Even the one who drinks more than I do. He can take the role o' th' head vampire."
Schumacher pleaded, "No! Please! You can't!"
"Y'know who would take th' Coreys' original roles? I'm thinkin' th' Olsen twins. I imagine it as a sort o' anti-feminist pre-teen comedy. But still shot-fer-shot. Nice, eh?"
Schumacher took one deep breath, then blurted out, "The date on the baseball water sample indicates that Stone was kidnapped over five months ago, thus predating all other known abductees to date. Therefore, Stone was kidnapped first. And odds are, in most sprees like these, the person responsible often knows the first victim personally. So it's probably someone Oliver Stone knows!"
"Really? Who?"
It was Schumacher's turn to overreact. "HOW SHOULD I KNOW? In case you didn't notice, I've been stuck in this Godforsaken CELL for several YEARS! It's not like I hang out every night with killers and stool pigeons, just collecting information on every crime committed in the Western hemisphere! I don't know EVERYTHING. Who am I, Buddha? GEEEEEZ!"
Before Ewan could decide how to react properly, the large steel doors at the opposite end of the hallway burst open, and in walked Dr. Joyce Brothers, along with a dozen or so heavily armed policemen. Dr. Joyce was dressed as they were, in full-bodied Teflon-coated riot gear.
"Thank you, Mr. McGregor, for that wonderful interrogation. We could never have gotten that information from dearest Joel in a million years. Well, not until ESP research makes more significant advances, at least."
Ewan could not believe his eyes. "Ye…ye've been listening in? T' everythin' we've said?"
Dr. Brothers giggled. "Well, DUH. At any rate…we're off to the rescue, then. We believe we have a fairly good idea which of Mr. Stone's former associates would be up to something this heinous, this immoral, this…perverted! Ta-ta!" And with that, the not-so-good doctor and her arsenal-packing cohorts began to file back out of the hallway.
Before she walked out herself, Dr. Joyce looked back at Ewan one last time and said, "By the way…I'm telling Tom Cruise what you said about his wife. I think that such honesty can only help strengthen their own relationship. Toodle-oo!" And then she was gone.
Ewan could scarcely take in everything that had just happen. Regardless, he tried to concentrate. So. Someone Oliver Stone knows. And the lady believes she's got a line on who it is. If only I could beat her to the punch.
Maybe it's time I got to know who Oliver Stone knows.
"Hey! What about me? Weren't we talking here?" said Schumacher from behind him, interrupting his internal monologue.
"Sod off," said Ewan, as he walked away, at long last confident in what he was doing.
* * * * *
In his economy-sized yet elegant apartment, Charlie Sheen lay on a soft rubber mat on the living room floor, completely relaxed, arms by his sides, palms face-up. Having just spent several minutes in that position, he proceeded to sit up straight, then crossed his legs, positioning each foot above the opposite thigh. He lay his hands on his knees, still palm-up, and remained in that position for a few more minutes.
His mind remained clear of all extraneous thoughts, focusing instead on the subtle sensations he detected throughout his body. The gentle coolness of the air conditioner, drifting gently across his cheeks. The light from the only window in the apartment, noticeable only as a blurred, pinkish glow through his closed eyelids. The plushness of the rubber mat beneath him, its vinyl exterior sticking somewhat annoyingly to his bare legs. The soothing hum of the condenser motor on his mini-refrigerator. The wafting dusty powder of excess carpet deodorizer tickling at his nostrils.
After some time, he murmured slowly to himself, "Om Sri Rama Jaya Rama…Jaya Jaya Rama." He did so twice more. He inhaled deeply, held that breath for a moment, then exhaled. He did this twice more. He raised his arms above his head, stretching his back to its limit, then shook his hands loosely and imagined himself sending a blessing to a world.
He opened his eyes. He was at peace. He began to lie back down to begin the concluding exercises.
Someone knocked at the door. He ignored it, for it was of no immediate concern. His ritual would be complete within minutes, at which point the world outside would be permitted in his presence once again. The world would learn patience, as he had.
With one thud, then another, then a final thunderous blow splitting through the serenity, the apartment door burst free from its metal hinges and soared through the air, landing unceremoniously yet loudly within mere inches of Sheen's position. A pair of strange men, dressed in fatigues and armed to the hilt, dove through the doorway and tackled Sheen where he sat, one pinning his arms underneath him while the other grabbed his legs. More men flooded through the doorway and positioned themselves in a circle around the three men on the floor, pointing rather large guns in their direction.
The living room window imploded in a hail of shattered glass and tangled framework as still another trooper plunged through it, swinging on a thick length of rope which had been tethered somewhere outside and above the window. At the apex of his swing, he released his grip on the rope and arced through the air, landing feet-first through the glass door of a China cabinet. Fragments of dishes and cups zinged through the air and bounced harmlessly off of the thick uniforms of the other men. The once-airborne man fell flat on his back, his feet having penetrated the back wall of the cabinet and remaining firmly wedged there. His legs too heavy to support, the cabinet's back wall collapsed into pieces, as the rest of the cabinet pitched forward violently and landed squarely on its assailant, perfectly entombing him.
Once the cacophony of splintered wood and fractured dishware had ceased, a meek voice uttered from beneath the cabinet, "Little help?"
"WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?" Charlie Sheen yelled from his prone position, neither of his captors allowing him to move a single limb.
In response to his question, in walked Dr. Joyce Brothers, riot gear and all, who replied, "Why, dear, we're the good guys. And we've come to do good. And if you tell us what you've done with all those poor men, we won't have to do bad. Simple, really. So. Care to confess? Really, you'll feel much better about yourself if you do."
"Look, whoever you are! You've got the wrong house. Robert Downey, Jr.'s house is two streets over!" Charlie felt his patience wane, and his wrists chafe. He had to find his center again.
Dr. Joyce serenely replied, "I don't think so. We know that Oliver Stone was kidnapped first and that kidnappers often begin with someone they know. Consequently, you must be behind the kidnappings."
Charlie raged, "I am ONE of a MILLION people who know Oliver Stone! Why are you so sure it's me?"
"Because it HAS to be you. You worked with Stone, you want to be a director like Stone, you kidnapped Stone first and then the others…"
"Wait a minute! What do you mean I want to be a director? I've never directed anything in my life!" yelled Charlie.
"Precisely"
"I have NO desire to be a director. I have a great gig going on Spin City and, if things get rotten, I can just do some glorified cameos on Dad's show."
Dr. Joyce looked confused. "So…remind me, why did I think you wanted to be a director?"
"Beats me. My brother Emilio directed a couple of things…"
"AHA!" she yelled, "Sergeant, prepare your men! We're off to Emilio Estevez's hideout!"
The four men who had pinned Charlie down rose to their feet and joined the rest of the SWAT team in following Dr. Joyce out of Charlie's once-serene apartment, save the one member still crushed underneath the cabinet who protested weakly, "But….Emilio never worked with Oliver Stone."
Charlie didn't answer him. He stomped into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and took out a tall bottle of vodka that he'd hidden there many, many years ago.
It only took him three minutes to chug.
* * * * *
Ewan stood outside the home of Oliver Stone. Looking sadly at the almost empty bottle in his hand, he knocked on the front door, hoping that the hired help—a maid, a butler, a chauffeur, a personal masseuse, a hunchbacked brain-stealing toady, whoever--would let him in and answer some very simple questions. If I don't solve this case soon, I'm gonna miss opening night of my play!
Amusing himself by practicing his solo for the play ( "See my chest, see my chest, in ten minutes you'll see the rest…"), he was slightly surprised when who should answer the door but a very familiar face.
Kevin Costner.
"Uh…hello, " said Ewan. "This IS Oliver Stone's place, isn't it?"
"Oh…yes, " answered Costner, sounding dull and lifeless. "I'm…housesitting for him. Terrible business…isn't it? I…hope they find the kidnapper soon. Now run along…I'm not interested in any aluminum siding today."
"I'm not sellin' anythin'! Muh name's Ewan McGregor. I'm an actor! Don't ye recognize muh?" flared Ewan.
"Oh…wait," started Costner. "I remember now. Didn't Matt Damon kill you in that movie with…Gwyneth Paltrow?"
"Nae, nae, nae, that was Jude Law. I was in Trainspotting."
Silence, and a blank look.
"Anyway," continued Ewan, "d'ya mind if I come in fer a bit and have a look around?"
"No…no, not at all, " said Costner, continuing not to emote.
"Great. Hey, ye don't, by any chance, have anythin' tae drink, do ye?"
"I'm sure there's something around here…somewhere."
Kevin Costner walked around to the kitchen, opened up the refrigerator door, looked quickly inside and shut the door. "Nope, not a thing. Sorry. Well…look at the time…"
"Hold on!" said Ewan, "There's a bar right over here." Walking over to a most luxurious six-foot-tall liquor cabinet, Ewan stared suspiciously at its curiously bulging door--which looked as though it might buckle and burst forth at any moment--and flung it open.
Not since Captain Kirk's famous Tribble-pelting had any one person ever been buried by so many small spherical objects so quickly. Ewan poked his head out amidst the enormous pile which had spewed forth from the cabinet. Looking down, he realized that he had just been deluged by a rather large pile of baseballs.
He looked at Kevin.
Kevin looked at him.
"So," said Costner, still sounding nonplussed, "about that drink…"
Ewan tried to push himself out of the pile of baseballs but--his balance being what should be expected from someone who'd drunk a pint of Guinness at every pub between here and Marin County--immediately stepped on a fallen ball, slipped, and went down on the floor face-first. Costner, who still didn't seem to display any sort of concern, alarm, or even mild annoyance, ran for it, deeper into the house.
Leaping up, barely avoiding another undignified drop down, Ewan raced after Costner. Spying the basement door flung ajar, he plunged into the darkness beyond, hands in front of his face, and stumbled around in the dank, impenetrable blackness.
thunk! Ewan ran right into a stationary object, something sticky.
ktang! He stubbed his toe on what felt like a washing machine.
klonk! He banged his forehead into a low-hanging drain bucket.
raaaooowwr! A stray cat apparently jumped out of nowhere and scratched at Ewan's chest a few times. Ewan grabbed it by its neck and flung it away from himself.
raaaooowwr! owowowowowow wham! poing! kerplunk! CRASH! tinkle!
Ewan realized that none of those sound effects could be attributed to him, since he was standing perfectly still. Apparently he wasn't the only one having problems.
Still feeling around blindly, Ewan tripped on something not unlike a rake. Steadying himself, he proceeded to run right into Costner. "Excuse me, " he said.
"Hey, no problem," said Costner, who then tripped over the same rakelike object and sprawled several feet away from Ewan. That would have been the perfect opportunity to subdue the sinister stone-faced madman, if only Ewan had any idea where either of them were.
Ye know what would really be useful down here?
Ewan thought. Some night vision goggles!THWACK!
Silence reigned for a brief moment. Suddenly, the lights came on and Ewan—blinking madly to adjust--found himself looking at Costner's unconscious body, face-down on the floor. Once his pupils finished dilating, he looked up to see his old pal Liam Neeson, sitting on a clothes dryer, wearing night vision goggles, and holding a crowbar.
"Liam!" Ewan bellowed. "What are ye doin' here?"
"Lame plot device, " came Liam's sanguine voice.
"Seriously, now."
"No. Really. I was watching the news with my wife earlier, and I had this feeling that Layme Plotdevice was speaking directly to me. I just…had to investigate."
Ewan blinked twice more, then shook his head. "Right, then. George! GEORGE! Where are ye, man?"
"I'm right here!" yelled George from a deep pit on the other side of the basement.
"Don't move a muscle! We're gonna get ye out o' there!"
From another pit, in what appeared to be a basement far larger than it should have been, came a familiar voice.
"Hey!" cried Steven Spielberg. "You know, there ARE other people down here, too!"
* * * * *
Rick McCallum had been typing furiously all night. His muse had stayed with him throughout, delivering unto him inspiration upon inspiration upon inspiration. And now, after four hundred script pages, the story's conclusion was nigh.
[Ick-Ray Allum-McCay steps boldly over the corpses of the last remaining Neimoidians. Ick-Ray beams proudly, knowing that slaughtering an entire race of billions was a challenge, but was well worth it.]
ICK-RAY: LONG LIVE THE JEDIIIII!
OOLA: Ooh! I love it when you get all macho!
[Ick-Ray grabs Oola around the waist]
ICK-RAY: Gimme some Force, baby.
[Ick-Ray gives her a really long, really really deep kiss. Amidala looks forlornly at them and weeps, regretting that she had her chance and blew it. Yoda hobbles up to Ick-Ray and places a sash around his neck which reads "Emperor of the Universe". The Ewoks run out and begin dancing while Fatboy Slim's "The Rockefeller Skank" plays in the background. Lots of confetti gets tossed all over the place.]
KITSTER: God bless us, everyone!
THE E
Rick halted in mid-keystroke as the office doors burst open, and Ewan and George strode in.
Rick could not decide quickly enough whether to jump for joy panic blindly. He settled for something in-between. "AAAH! You're ALIVE! AAAH! Um, I mean, uh, great. That's…that's great! Really!"
George smiled. "Indeed I am, thanks to this man here. I told you that contract was a good idea. But I'm ready to get back to work now. How are things going?" He leaned over to see what Rick was writing…then furrowed his brow. "Ick-Ray?"
"You put your kids in the last movie!"
"Ick-Ray??"
"It's just a cameo!" protested Rick.
"Ick-Ray???!!!"
"Alright, alright….I'll change it." Using an eraser, he tried to snuff out several important plot points in his script, muttering the whole time.
"Um, Rick," George helpfully pointed out, "that's a monitor. Your eraser is useless against it."
"AHEM." Ewan exaggeratedly cleared his throat. "If ye two don't mind, I believe muh job here is done, what with th' day bein' saved an' all once again—"
"Thanks to Liam," George pointed out.
"Ye still cannae argue wi' results. Now, if yeh've no more need o' me, I'll just be goin'..."
Rick put up a hand to stop Ewan. "Wait! Before you ride off into the sunset or whatever, you got some mail today." Rick handed him an envelope addressed to him, postmarked from Buenos Aires. Ewan opened it and unfolded the letter inside.
Dearest Ewan,
As you've no doubt heard, I effected my own escape from that wretched hive of scum and villainy by using some film somebody thoughtlessly left behind and some string from a broken yo-yo. I'm relaxing on the shore of a fantastic beach (although I refuse to tell you where or what color the water is).
It's too bad about Costner, really…monotone or no. He had such potential. There really isn't anything wrong with wanting to make a baseball movie about JFK, Jr., finding himself in a dark, gothic world of bizarre creatures, only to be whisked home at the end by a cute little alien on a bicycle. Then again, I really thought
Flatliners would win Best Picture…I hear your play is going well. I never thought a man would need a bodyguard on stage to protect him, but then again, you wouldn't need him if you would only refund the money of that one moviegoer who saw
Eye of the Beholder.Here's hoping that Hayden fellow won't steal too much of your fan base. You'll be pleased to know, however, that I have major plans for a movie starring young Mr. DiCaprio. I wonder if he would object to wearing a codpiece.
Yours,
Joel Schumacher
THE END
No celebrity endorsements or condemnations are intended, implied, or anticipated. No celebrity marriages were intentionally harmed as a direct result of the making of this fanfic. Any celebrities whose marriages were inadvertantly, irrevocably altered for the worse as a result of this fanfic may contact the authors for their free conciliatory dinners on us. Any homages to books or movies existent or imaginary are purely intentional. (This goes double to the bottom-feeder who asked in all seriousness, "Ever read
Misery?") Learn more about Algernon Charles Swinburne, The Canterbury Tales, and the country of Liechtenstein at your local library! Free David Fincher! Free David Fincher!Special thanks to Jean Jackson for inspiration, and to the folks at Nightly.net for their incessant nagging. Extra-special thanks to the thousands who all rushed to do Blair Witch fanfic parodies before we could even get our foot in the door. We didn't want this episode to be about that ANYway.