Consecutive Chapters to be written by each writer. This will be a reflective work with witty political satire by the amazing Ms.Finch and containing only a smattering of sex, violence and adventure provided by the crude, rude, and most unrefined Mr. Wallace.

It was an abnormally warm evening for October. Chief of Detectives Bill Chaple looked out over the bright lights of L.A. from his tenth floor verandah. The breathtaking, 180-degree view was bordered on the west by the inky black Pacific Ocean and in the distance to his right were the mountains. This view always made the master detective relax and wind down, but it wasn’t working tonight. The political atmosphere at L.A.P.D., where the detective had worked for over thirty years, was currently very stressful. The Police Chief was publicly supporting his own favorite candidate for governor in the recall election. He expected all of his most senior officers to go along with his choice; or at least, those with any aspirations for his job after he retired next year. Bill was the logical next in line for the post. The problem was, he had trouble thinking of an aging action-adventure movie hero as a serious gubernatorial candidate and had, so far, refused to support him. Reagan had started all this movie celebrity, political crap. He had asked the Chief sarcastically this morning, "Who do you think will be running for the U.S. Senate seat next year, Barbara Streisand?" The chief had not appreciated it. He wished he had never taken this promotion. He missed kicking in doors and busting scumbags. He missed the feel of the Mossburg 12 gauge that had been his weapon of choice when he did "street" work. But that was over now. His new post was 95% public relations and just 5% police work. Speeches to the L.A Garden Club, a group of old, civic-minded blue-haired ladies. Damn! He missed the action. He wished he had the freedom of his old friend James Everhard. There was a serial killer on the street now; who had just whacked his fourth victim in the last two months. He was directing the investigation but the chief had ordered him to stay in the office, off the street. He was frustrated that they had no clue as to who was stalking and killing the beautiful women of L.A. No clue that is except, the calling card the creep always left next to the body, a Jack of Hearts. He had ordered that bit of information to be kept "top-secret" so that only the police knew about it. This would hopefully eliminate "Copy cat" murders, and trip up the crazies that confess to high profile cases for the perverted sense of importance that it gave them. They had worked very hard to suppress this information about the murders from the media, and so far it had remained a secret. There was another secret as well. The fact that this sick bastard had surgically removed each victim’s right nipple. Very professionally, and very cleanly, as if it had been accomplished by a surgeon. The LA papers were still having a field day with the murders and had even tagged the killer, "The Night Stalker." Bill hated the melodramatic LA press and media. He wanted this bastard, and he wanted him now! He took the smoldering cigar butt from the corner of his mouth and angrily tossed it over the balcony to the street, far below.Adam Pennington was sitting in his rental Ford intently watching the sleek blue Porsche that was parked at the curb when the smoldering cigar butt hit his windshield and exploded into a hundred glowing embers spilling down the car’s hood. "What the hell?’ Pennington cursed and looked up, trying to see where the discarded butt had come from. At that moment, a well-dressed man and a beautiful woman left the apartment building. The man opened the door for her and she sat down in the fine leather of the passenger seat. The well-dressed man then went around to his side, entered the car and fired up the glass pack equipped sports car. The sports car quickly zipped away into evening traffic. Adam Pennington started the Ford and followed the couple into the night. He watched as the couple laughed and conversed animatedly in the Porsche coupe. Twenty minutes later, the Porsche pulled into an upscale and somewhat secluded restaurant. The lot was crowded, so the couple pulled around the back to a poorly lit and shadowy area and parked the car. "Perfect" muttered Pennington who parked his car twenty feet away and hurried out of his car and up to the driver’s side window of the Porsche. "Excuse me sir, but you cannot park here," Pennington said. When the handsome man turned to protest, Pennington fired the compressed air gun and a tranquilizer dart struck the man in the neck. The man stiffened in shock for just a moment before crumpling into his seat, unconscious. As this was taking place, Pennington hurried to the passenger side, opened the door and pulled the beautiful red head out of the car. Now just stay very quiet and I won’t kill you the man told her as they headed to the rented Ford.

Chaple had fallen asleep in front of the television. When his cell phone vibrated and woke him. "This is Chaple," he grunted into his cell phone. "Chief, this is Murphy. You said you wanted to know about any missing young ladies. Well, we have an apparent abduction, twenty-two year old woman, took place about an hour ago at a place called the Hideaway on Lacienica Blvd. Perp shot a tranquilizer dart into her date and left with the dame." "I know the place and I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Get a crime scene group on the scene!" Chaple barked into the phone. Chief Bill Chaple grabbed his Mossburg 12 gauge and hit the street.

Her thigh gently pressed against his. The redhead’s nipples, restrained only by the raw silk chemise, were still erect from their earlier frolic, and her overly developed breasts yearned for more. Slipping his hand under the crisp white linen table cloth, he gently pushed up her soft skirt. Without hesitation, she separated her legs for his touch. She wore no panties, as usual.

Smiling at each other, the couple kept rhythm to the clinking ice in their glasses. Ever so gently with his free hand, he swirled the swizzle stick between the ice cubes and sucked the tiny droplets of the sweet Vermouth from it. Then running his finger slowly around the rim of the glass, he began to dip it into the tumbler as well. Deeper and deeper until he knew that she was his.

Afterward, he let her suck the Vermouth from his right fingers while he savored the sweet juices from his left. Sniffing them as one tests a fine wine, he knew the fruit from this vine was some of the best he had had in a long time. Damn good, he thought.

Still a fit man who, at 50 years old, could bench press his body weight and play three sets of tennis during the noonday heat of the Golden State, Dr. Horace Clyde’s sexual libido had all but disappeared years ago. Impotence is what most called it, but Dr. Clyde could never utter that word.

So like a good Christian man, he sought his gratification elsewhere – God, family and work. And, all in that order until he met up with Viagra.

Sitting now in the cool, padded leather booth hidden in the darkness of the night, the striking, young redhead and the bald, middle-aged man sipped their Manhattans. He, eagerly anticipating their next rendezvous; she, her next screen test.

Bold he had been in taking this young redhead to the Hideaway while his wife of 30 years lay sleeping at home in their marital bed. Sex had been his wife’s duty, but not her passion early in their marriage. Three children later, all born of miraculous conception he often mused, and their children’s children had clearly become his wife’s passion in life. Not him.

But now he and the missis were in California while the children and grandchildren remained in Oklahoma. Asked to the Golden State by the golden goddesses of show business, he answered the sirens’ call, this to his wife’s chagrin.

And, God, he loved Los Angeles. A place where he could be himself, California was. Unlike Oklahoma, where one misstep and any political or professional ambition was quashed in a nanosecond. Back in his native state the only thing moving faster than gossip and slander was the rustling of the TV evangelists on their congregations’ payday.

Two years ago, Los Angeles had become his Heaven on earth, where invisibility was the cloak of the night and ostentation the garb of the day. Missteps were the norm and if, perchance, you were ordinary and followed the rules, you were unusual.

The LA Times had its minions at every street corner, at every bar and, of course, at every hotel lying in waiting for the next misstep of a rising starlet or of the hardened politician, or a famous TV psychologist. Oh course, the tabloid photojournalists were lurking in the shadows as well. But, they could be bought and did not wield the power of the Times. The inner vault of the Times contained numerous tombstones, unused except when necessary.

Unbeknownst to Dr. Clyde and his companion, another man was savoring the juices from the stalk as he poked his swizzle stick in and out of his dry, very dry martini at the far side of the restaurant. With each gulp from the glass and jab with the drink stirrer, his cheeks grew rosier and his determination stronger. He starred down at his drink so other bar patrons would not see the smirk on his face or the dollar signs in his eyes.

The week thus far had been uneventful for this lowly leech on society, sitting alone and at the far end of the dimly lit bar. He was just about to cash out and head to another celebrity watering hole when he had seen them come in. Who could miss that flaming red hair? So taken by her beauty in person, he almost ignored the young, rising star’s escort. A producer no doubt, he initially said to himself until he looked square into the older man’s face. The eyes of Dr. Horace Clyde starred through him like he didn’t exist.

Famed television psychologist and guest news commentator, the freelance photojournalist had seen Dr. Clyde earlier in the day on CNN during a lead-in news segment on the LA Stalker. Dr. Clyde, in all his wisdom, had rendered his professional opinion profiling the serial killer. Working with the L.A.P.D., he had even assured the community that the killer would soon be caught.

Now, some six hours later and at the Hideaway, Dr. Clyde was the first of the two to notice the commotion at the front of the restaurant. As the redhead talked incessantly about her upcoming screen test, his mind had begun to wander. And, his eyes began to see beyond the shadows and candles from their intimate section of the restaurant.

Chief of Detectives Bill Chaple had just entered the dining section, searching for something or someone. The tingle Dr. Clyde had felt earlier in his groin was now replaced by the tingle running down his spine. This one was not good.

Their eyes locked and Chaple signaled for Dr. Clyde to join him. Chaple, only too aware of the psychologist’s philandering ways, had recognized his car parked in the rear of the restaurant. The vanity tag had given him away: "Dr. Clyde," the asshole. Chaple adding the suffix.

Within fifteen seconds Chaple had Dr. Clyde up to speed. Chaple informed him that "The Night Stalker" had struck again and had struck, well, right under your nose, you self-proclaimed expert, Chaple had cursed at him. The stalker had kidnapped a redhead who was not much unlike the one Dr. Clyde had left alone in the booth, or the other young women previously dated by Dr. Clyde and later murdered.

Chaple instructed Dr. Clyde to leave immediately, and to leave alone. The redhead could take a taxi. And, then all would wait. Wait like they had done before, holding the press at bay as long as they could. Chaple purposely did not tell Dr. Clyde about the witness, the male driver. No one was to know about him. Not now anyway.

The redhead looked up as Detective Chaple approached the table. Explaining that Dr. Clyde had been called away on business, Chapel escorted the uneasy starlet through the restaurant. She knew who Detective Chaple was and feared the likes of him, plus anyone else in uniform. Her police record was almost as long as that of her list of celebrity lovers. She wanted no trouble now, not when she had been assured a speaking part in an upcoming "Just Shoot Me" episode. Sure, she would keep this a secret, for awhile.

From the bar, the digital camera clicked away, again and again and again. Detective Chapel and Dr. Clyde, Detective Chapel and the redhead. And the redhead and Dr. Clyde. Downing the final gulp of the very dry martini and flipping open his cell phone, the photojournalist then called his contact at the LA Times.

Chaple followed the black and white that was taking his witness downtown. The witness was very reluctant to talk, seems that the redhead he had brought to the Hideaway tonight was a clerk at his firm and he the C.E.O. The C.E.O.’s wife was at home with his three kids as their "date" was taking place.. Chapel chewed angrily on the ever-present cigar butt. Then he finds that idiot TV Psychologist with a well-known LA hooker in the restaurant. The chief had ordered him to make sure this asshole stayed clean, he was somehow hooked up with the bodybuilder’s gubernatorial campaign and his involvement in the investigation was "good politics." "Shit!," Chaple muttered, "If anyone saw them in that restaurant …..." Chapel stopped in mid-thought, "Serves the stupid S.O.B.s right." He laughed out loud.

At the precinct, a detective began questioning the C.E.O. about everything that had happened that night, from the instant he parked his noisy, blue Porsche on the curb outside his date’s apartment. He refused to say much, "I do not wish to say anything about what happened tonight, except that, I hardly knew the girl and it was a business dinner. That’s all I have to say," the CEO said flatly. Hearing this from behind the one way mirror, an outraged Bill Chaple, threw open the door, grabbed the CEO by the lapels and jerked him out of his chair. "Listen you asshole, we don’t have time to put up with your petty bullshit. There’s a young woman out there that we need to find and every minute counts. If you don’t tell us every fricking detail that took place tonight, right this fricking minute, I’ll book you for withholding evidence and lock you up in a cell with the most violent butt pounding queens in LA. You won’t be able to walk for days!" Chaple, dropped the man back into his chair. The CEO looked at him, frightened, and immediately began to talk rapidly. "Her name is Heather Todd. She works at my firm. I picked her up at her apartment at 8 PM." The detectives listened intently as the tape on the recorder turned, capturing the rapidly narrated story. Chaple left the room.

Mark Connors and his girlfriend Sandy trudged up the mountain in the darkness. At the top, they could see the famous "HOLLYWOOD" letters below them, each 20 feet high. "Come on baby, lets make it in the shadow of the big "H" he told her. Something we can talk about forever!" a somewhat drunk Mark Conners slurred. Sandy, even more drunk that her boyfriend, just giggled and headed over the hill towards the towering "H", pulling off, and leaving a trail of her clothing behind her. Mark ran to catch her but tripped over something solid and fell hard into the dirt and scrub brush. He opened his eyes and stared right into the lifeless eyes of Heather Todd. He looked at the girl, she was covered with blood and in her mouth, clenched between her teeth, was a playing card, a Jack of Hearts. Sandy, now wearing only a pair of bikini panties, wandered over to see what her lover was staring at so intently. Her piercing scream penetrated the California night.

The dimly lit corner cloaked his strong, broad shoulders hunched over the keyboard. His fingers, angrily pounding away at the keys, stopped immediately when I bent down and gently kissed him on the cheek.

"Hi James," I said. He looked up and deep into my soul.

Scrutinizing me suspiciously, he was not sure whether it was the real Kim or her alter ego who had just shown up at the internet café.

Turning back to the computer, he began banging on the keys again and, in between the cuss words, grumbled some sort of greeting to me under his breath, "That mother fuckin’..."

"Whoa," I whispered to myself, taking three steps backwards to protect myself from his wrath. This man wasn’t the handsome, debonair James Everhard persona right now we had come to love. Nope, not at all. Today, a scruffy, street-fighter image came more clearly to mind – complete with tattoos and a switchblade.

"What are you doing, James? " I asked, trying to sooth him with my southern drawl. Something held him by the balls right now and it sure wasn’t me.

I’m writing that bastard, Wayne Wallace. That son-a-bitch has Chaple in the lead role, not me," growled my companion in fiction.

Yeah, I noticed. And, instead of body bags, I’ve got nipples and redheads to contend with, plus that limp-dick TV psychologist dreamed up by Kim. Shit, this story line is crazy," I added, now growing angrier as I thought about it as well. "And you know there’ll be another murder just around the corner, with another nipple left a dangling."

Those mother fuckin’ authors ought to let us do what we do best. But what did those assholes do? Stuck us in a drawer with all their other papers and thoughts – just like we didn’t exist," James proclaimed furiously. "Sweetie, you should be in my arms…"

With your hands grasped tightly on my cute, firm butt," I interjected.

Naked this time?" He inquired.

Of course," I purred playfully.

Then I’d smother your mouth with butterfly kisses until your tongue sought mine."

And I would trust my mons veneris to your manhood until..."

Holy shit!" We exclaimed in unison as our attention was drawn suddenly to the computer. We peered at the screen together. "She finally did it. Kim’s posted Chapter 4," I moaned in trepidation. After reading it silently, we each shook our head in disgust.

That bitch," grumbled James. "I can’t believe she’d leave me out of the story."

Oh, my God. She’s got Adam Pennington as an oncologist avenging the suicide of his wife who just happened to be a patient of that TV shrink Clyde fellow at the time of her death," I said, rolling my eyes at Kim’s simplicity.

Well, why the hell didn’t Pennington just take out that skunk in the first place?" Snapped James. "Wallace and his damn nipple fixation."

And, Kim always trying to create complex characters."

James and I laughed together at the authors’ foibles. Then sweeping me into him arms, he kissed me long, strong and hard. It felt good, very very good and I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

His kiss lingered on my lips after our mouths had parted, and I knew I lingered in his thoughts as well. The letter could wait – the bulge in his jeans wouldn’t. James shut down the computer, and we began to make our way across the street to the Hotel California.

Wallace had better write me into Chapter 5, that’s all I can say. There’re too many whores and dead bodies for Chaple to handle this alone."

I know, James darling, trust me I know."

Inside room 125 at the Hotel California, James carried Kim to the king sized bed. He gently lowered her to the bed and began kissing her neck and alternately biting gently, then sucking her ear lobe, uttering things concerning what he was going to do to her into her ear. His fingers worked relentlessly under her skirt as Kim’s breathing became harsh and fast. She struggled with his belt, finally unbuckling it and pulling down his slacks and boxers. With his free hand James expertly unbuttoned her blouse and unclasped her bra. His hungry lips began to consume her nipples. Gently biting, sucking and kissing them alternately. The reaction was immediate. Her blood engorged nipples swelled to a seemingly impossible size. Moaning, Kim grabbed his throbbing manhood and began to move her soft hand slowly up and down its length. Everhard moaned and kissed her, their tongues dancing a staccato ballet. Everhard grabbed Kim’s skirt by the hem and pulled it roughly off of her, throwing it across the room. He slowly and deliberately pulled her thong panties down and worked them over her legs and off her feet. Still panting and breathing hard, Kim spread her legs in anticipation of him. Suddenly, the thick, musky air in the room was disturbed by the shrill ringing of a cell phone. Everhard’s head jerked around toward the sound and he told Kim, "hang on just a minute Sweetie…" He found his pants and rifled through their pockets for his cell phone as the phone rang, again and again. Finally, Everhard retrieved the phone and clicked it on. "Everhard," he said breathlessly into the phone. He listen for a few seconds then said, "Wayne, so glad you returned my call. Listen I just read chapter three of that story you and that foxy blonde are writing.….oh, yeah, yeah, I like it fine…it’s just that I was just sort of wondering when my name was going to come up?" Everhard listened intently for a moment. "Yeah, yeah, I know that you’re trying to develop the Chaple character, but he’s a sidekick, a bit player, not the headliner! I’m your bread and butter, the guy who has made you famous!!! Hey, stop laughing, you’re well known in some circles. While Everhard whined and begged the struggling writer, after 15 minutes had passed,a disgusted Kim quickly gathered her clothes and got dressed. When she rose to leave, Everhard was still pleading his case on the phone, completely unaware of her presence. That’s when Kim took the Gideon Bible from the hotel drawer and swung it with all her might, connecting with the back of Everhard’s thick skull. A championship tennis player, Kim had connected with a furious forehand. Everhard’s eyes rolled upward and he fell face first onto the carpet, unconscious. Kim tossed the bible onto Everhard’s inert and naked body and left the room, slamming the door.

Clip, clop, clip, clop -- staccato. Like Clydesdales galloping at full speed across wooden bridges in Madison County, my spiked high heeled shoes echoed through the long, desolate corridor at the Hotel California. Ever so often a door would open, inquisitive eyes peering out to see what the commotion was as I made my way across the thread-bare carpet.

Clip, clop, clip, clop. Flop.

Room 125 – James Everhard and I had been together – almost.

Now truckin’ it back to the internet café across the street, I couldn’t get there fast enough. I’ll teach those authors a thing or two, I thought to myself.

Walking into the internet café, the night clerk looked up as I entered. He appeared to recognize me. To me, though, he was just another faceless flunky whose only goal in life was to get through his eight-hour shift so he could go home to his dogs and then get stoned. Not unlike the others of his ilk thinking his ship would come in tomorrow, I mused.

Terminal No. 13 he assigned me, having no clue that my travel agent knew not to seat me on row 13 of an airplane because I am superstitious.

I complained to the clerk. Nothing he could do – No. 13 was the only terminal left open at this late hour. Werewolves and nerds were the only ones who roamed the cyberspace thoroughfares at this time of night, the clerk tried to convince me.

And oh by the way, which one was I, he inquired contemptuously with his crooked-teeth smile. The sympathetic me wished his parents could have afforded braces.

Nonetheless, what a jerk he was now standing across the counter, I thought as I grabbed the cheque from the clerk and wound my way through the luminous rows of screens, computer cables and smelly people. Searching for No. 13 at one o’clock Eastern time, I couldn’t believe my fortune.

Should I be so lucky that the author, Kim, is signed on at this time of night? I took a chance and instant messaged her.

James Everhard attempted to …, I complained in the detailed email to her. You set me up for this with your careless writing, I plucked angrily on the keyboard.

The author, surprisingly, was on line, and at this time of night. She responded to me immediately.

Diversion. You and James were a diversion to an otherwise unbelievable plotline.

Huh?

Don’t play blond to me. You know exactly what I did.

Yeah, but…

Wayne left a witness at the restaurant. Then there’s the rental car, surveillance via GPS. Twenty years ago, it may have been a good story. But now?

So, you set me up?

Yes, Sweetie, I did. Technology has surpassed Wayne’s imagination.

You’re cruel.

If that’s what truthful means, then I’m guilty.

What do we do now?

We’ll see if this story can be resurrected. The characters are believable; the plotline, not.

So, what do we do? Just take a chainsaw to the manuscript and start over again?

Yep.

Everhard groaned and rubbed the large, goose egg knot on the back of his head. He muttered, "Crazy bitch K.O.ed me with something. Must have been a tire tool or a brick or something." He saw a bible on the floor and gently picked it up and put in away in the drawer. He angrily began pulling on his clothes, muttering as he dressed. "Crazy broad, is pissed off about the plot! Doesn’t she know that story characters, can never, never, criticize their writer’s plots? It’s the fastest way to become an ex-character. Hell, bitch about not getting the lead, or not enough lines, or not getting laid, but never; never bitch about the plot. These stupid writers have egos the size of a Montana sky! She’s gonna screw around and get us both a free ticket to the unemployment line! Damn, rookie broad!" He pulled on his signature silk tee shirt and stormed out of room 125 at the Hotel California. He headed to the Internet Café to try to get in contact with WW and see if he could salvage his reputation with him.

Meanwhile, WW sat uneasily at his keyboard. Kim had told him that she was afraid the plot was weak and unbelievable, he had wanted Chaple’s debut as a lead character to be a strong story, something people would read eagerly. Now he had doubts. "Where does she get off talking about weak plots?", he thought. "She’s the one who introduced the frigging Clinton’s into the last story. God knows how he had to struggle with that, and all that Tulsa Race Riot stuff. Where the Hell was that going?" He pecked the keys and tried to clear his mind of Kim’s complaints.

Chapel had received the call on his cell phone, a body had been found in the Hollywood Hills. He jumped into his Crown Victoria, put the blue flashing light onto his dash and headed north. Twenty minutes later, Chaple pulled up to the sight where the yellow crime scene tape prevented anyone from driving farther. The uniformed cop at the tape recognized Chief Chapel and pointed the way to the body. Over the hill, directly behind the huge "H" in the HOLLWOOD sign, portable lighting had been set up and a crime scene investigation team was working intently. That was when he saw Janice. He was afraid the moment might be awkward. Janice Woolery was a criminologist, probably L.A.’s best. She and Chaple had had a relationship. It had lasted almost two years. Two glorious years, Bill thought. But they had had a terrible fight, over something trivial. He didn’t even remember what, at this juncture, it had been about, but it had been enough to tear what they had apart. He tried to put that situation out of his mind as he approached the team, busy working over the nude body of the "Night Stalker’s" most recent victim. "What do we have Ms. Woolery?" He said, very professionally. Janice looked up at him, paused just for a moment as their eyes met and replied, just as professionally, "looks like she was strangled with a rope or cable. There are no other visible signs of trauma." Was this the murder sight or a dump site Janice?" the chief asked. "Dump sight, I’d guess, no signs of a struggle in the high grass," she answered. "Same M.O.?" Chapel queeried? "Yeah," his former lover answered, Jack of Hearts in her teeth and right nipple excised". Chapel looked at the corpse. He focused on her right breast and the neatly cut out, bloody crater where her nipple had once been. "Keep me informed," Chaple grunted around the cigar butt. "Right chief," Janice replied, again making eye contact and lingering with it for just an instant before she went back to her work.

"You’ve got mail," the voice on WW’s computer toned, breaking his concentration. WW clicked into his mailbox to investigate. WW sighed, "It’s from Everhard." WW read it: "Wayne, old buddy, don’t worry, the plot is great! We’ve weathered through dozens like this. Kim’s just being impatient, waiting for she and I to come onto the scene. Don’t change a thing, except, get me into the action! Write a hot sex scene for Kim and I!

JE

WW replied:

James, I’m setting up a hot sex scene for Chaple in this chapter. Why don’t you take a little vacation and I’ll write you a story later this winter. Now, let me finish!

WW

"Shit!" Everhard cursed. "If he starts letting Chaple score in these stories, he’ll soon be as big as me! We can’t let this happen!" he swore to himself. "Hiya, hot stuff!" Kim said from behind him, simultaneously thumping him on the large knot on his head with her forefinger. "Ouch, Dammit! Hey Sweetie, why did you whack me and leave the scene of the crime? Things were just getting interesting." He waited patiently for her reply.

Silence illuminated from Terminal No. 13. My last set of ellipsis had gone unanswered by the rich and famous author. Again.

I envisioned Kim sitting smugly in her office overlooking Tampa Bay. A room with a view she had often described it.

Bitch, I thought of Kim as she ignored my last plea for a believable story line. Bastard, I thought of Wallace.

Characters indeed can criticize the plot line, especially among themselves. Remember what Gene Hackman told Candice Bergen? "We get paid to turn bad words into good. A boring story into a good one." Where did Wallace get off with all his self-righteousness, I wondered.

I looked around the Internet Café. The assortment of characters hunched over their respective computers made George Lucas’ appear like nursery rhyme caricatures. The dregs of a casting call had congregated here and it wasn’t for a prayer service.

I needed a tall, cool one. And not just as in drink, if you get the gist.

Knowing I wouldn’t find it from a faceless computer screen, I walked down the studio back lot to the Café Americain. One could still find action there, at any time.

I’d hoped to come across Humphrey Bogart lingering in the shadows, but instead discovered James Everhard. Perched on a barstool, as usual. I walked up behind him and thumped the large goose egg on the back of his neck. He’d deserved it.

No, he said and his barbs were quick in coming in classic Everhard fashion. That is, until the odd couple walked in. Then Everhard was silent.

At first I thought Geena Davis had walked through the door, towering over her escort. Everhard nudged me.

"What’s Detective Chaple doing here with the redhead?" He asked me.

Huh? I looked closer. Not Geena, but the hooker from Chapter 2 at the restaurant with Dr. Clyde. No wonder the statuesque woman looked familiar.

They walked up to Everhard and me at the bar. Chaple’s face was almost as red as his date’s hair. He ordered himself a double. The redhead told the bartender she’d take the same.

"What do you think of Wallace’s last chapter?" Chaple fumed, "Janice Woolery, of all the broads Wallace could have paired me with, I get the preacher’s daughter for my hot sex scene."

Chaple grasped the redhead’s waste and pulled her next to him. Hoping no one would notice, he quickly patted her tush where a panty-line should have been. She responded to his touch by drawing closer to him.

"Chaple, you’re not getting any sex scenes," Everhard corrected him. "No preacher’s daughter, no hookers, no dames – no nothing, whatsoever. Period. De nada, mi amigo."

"What are you talking about?" Chaple questioned, thinking Everhard wanted all the women for himself. "The hero always gets pussy and I’m the hero this time, not you, you selfish prig." The redhead’s erect nipples brushed slightly against Chaple’s arm as she kissed his rosy red cheeks with an understanding peck.

Everhard unfolded the October 23 note from the Oklahoma City architect, handing it to Chaple. "Read it," he commanded.

Chaple did and was livid. "What the hell does he mean – I might not survive a ‘hot sex scene’ – and this written by the tit master himself, no less."

I covered my mouth, trying to stifle a laugh.

The redhead stepped back. No pay, no play. Not with the detective, she deduced quickly. She next looked at Everhard. Just as their eyes met, his cell phone rang.

"Everhard, here." He listened to the caller, talked some and finally nodded his head in agreement before flipping shut the phone. "That was Wallace," he informed us.

"Well, do I get my sex scene?" Chaple demanded to know.

Everhard paused just long enough to take a sip before answering. "Yes."

Beads of sweat began to trickle across the detective’s brow in eager anticipation. "So, who’s the lucky broad?"

James just looked at me and laughed. I thought he was going to fall off his barstool.

"NO," I screamed. Chaple was not the tall, cool one I had in mind when I came into the Café Americain. If Chaple didn’t kill Wallace, I would.

Kim was howling and ranting and raving, people at nearby tables ran for their lives. "Do something Everhard, she’s scaring people," Chaple demanded. "You do something, you’re the hero." Everhard said. "Besides she’s very dangerous when she gets like this." "What brought this on?" Chapel asked. "WW thought it would be great irony if Chaple got into Ms. Finche’s panties instead of the bed hopping Everhard," James explained. ":So have at her old friend, before she gets out of the mood." Everhard and the redhead left the bar arm in arm. Chaple lightly put his hand on Kim’s shoulder. Her reaction was lightning quick and deadly accurate. Three, deep and bloody nail scratches appeared on Chaple’s hand. He drew it back instantly. "If you think for one minute that you're getting some of this….." Kim screamed at the top of her lungs. Patrons were now streaming out of the bar. "You’ve got another damn think coming!" she bellowed, hurling a double old fashioned glass at him. Chaple ducked as the crystal missile hummed by his head. "And, I’m on my way right now to kick the crap out of one worthless mystery writer." Kim shoved two burly truck drivers out of her way and stormed out the door. She hailed a cab and cab the cabby WW’s home address…..

Working very late into the night again in this office that seems more like home, I heard a knock at my door. Well, not exactly a knock, more like someone trying to tear the door off the hinges accompanied by frantic screaming to be let in. Composing myself from the fright that had just significantly reduced my life expectancy, I went to investigate what idiot would be out this late frightening the crap out of everyone in five miles. Pressed tightly against the door’s viewlite was a barely recognizable face. Damn, it was the silly writer again. He had been here a year before, and only invaded my space when times were disparate. Why am I so lucky?

When I opened the door, the unwanted visitor rushed in sweeping me out of the way. I thought that it was highly unusual that such a big man would try to compress himself and slide under my couch. Tough fit, but he almost made it. Finally settling in a corner where he couldn’t be seen from the windows, he was shaking so hard that recognizable speech was nearly impossible.

In whispers, the story was slowly unveiled, Story characters were demanding rewrites, and a mad woman was coming for him. He had received a call telling him that she wanted either his life or manhood. But not necessarily in the order. Had to be some thing that could only happen to a writer.

HIDE ME!

You know that this place isn’t big enough to hide a squirrel.

HIDE ME!

All right! I’ll give the keys to the south office. No one in this group knows where it is, or has ever been there. But if I were you, I’d hit the computer down there and start knocking out rewrites.

BUT THEY KNOW MY CAR!

Okay, use mine. It’s elderly, but it has an engine that can pull a house off its foundations.

Trying to claim him, I handed over my 9mm PPK with two clips, and a box of devastator shells. Little did he know that the ammo was so old that it would be a miracle if it fired. Taking a deep breath, the writer gathered his remaining strength, pushed me aside, and ran out of the office to the waiting car. I thought all was well, until the car started, and he left two black streaks in the parking lot, and up the street. Usually took me 25 minutes to get there; should take him half that.

Returning to work, I hoped that the rest of the night would be peaceful. But I had one thing to do. Dialing a cell phone number, it was immediately answered.

Kim. I need to tell you something ………….

Kim was howling and ranting and raving, people at nearby tables ran for their lives. "Do something Everhard, she’s scaring people," Chaple demanded. "You do something, you’re the hero." Everhard said. "Besides she’s very dangerous when she gets like this." "What brought this on?" Chapel asked. "WW thought it would be great irony if Chaple got into Ms. Finche’s panties instead of the bed hopping Everhard," James explained. ":So have at her old friend, before she gets out of the mood." Everhard and the redhead left the bar arm in arm. Chaple lightly put his hand on Kim’s shoulder. Her reaction was lightning quick and deadly accurate. Three, deep and bloody nail scratches appeared on Chaple’s hand. He drew it back instantly. "If you think for one minute that you're getting some of this….." Kim screamed at the top of her lungs. Patrons were now streaming out of the bar. "You’ve got another damn think coming!" she bellowed, hurling a double old fashioned glass at him. Chaple ducked as the crystal missile hummed by his head. "And, I’m on my way right now to kick the crap out of one worthless mystery writer." Kim shoved two burly truck drivers out of her way and stormed out the door. She hailed a cab and cab the cabby WW’s home address…..

A week from hell, or rather a week in hell, Chief of Detective Chaple thought as he looked out from his tenth floor verandah at the smoldering ash heaps surrounding greater Los Angeles. God’s punishment for electing a body builder to the highest state office, Chaple rationalized to himself looking across to the mountains ablaze in the evening horizon.

The stench from the fires permeated every nook and cranny of his life, and he was miserable. Plus, another Saturday night home alone and he was bored. And also now pissed. James Everhard had called him earlier to gloat. As if Chaple needed to be reminded of the score.

Why did that damn game make or break his year as he thought of the Bedlam Series’ impact throughout his life. Shit. His first wife had actually used it as one of the grounds for divorce. What the fuck did she know about OSU football?

Shit, Chaple mumbled again out loud.

"You’re drunk," a raspy female voice declared from behind him.

Chaple instinctively reached for his hostler, but it wasn’t there. He’d left it on the night stand after he had poured his first drink. He turned slowly around and relaxed only after seeing a familiar silhouette against the drapes. His former lover closed the door behind her, joining him on the verandah.

"Ah, Miss Woolery, jumping to conclusions again, I see," he tried not to slur his words. God she looked beautiful framed by the unnatural glow of the evening. He was thankful now that she had never returned his keys.

Janice Woolery only shook her head at him.

Was it in pity, agreement or anger, he didn’t know. He didn’t dare ask. "So, what’s with the Lauren Bacall impression?" He instead inquired.

"The fires – I’m losing my voice. That’s why I’m here."

That made no sense. Maybe he was drunker than he thought. "Well, I’m damn sure not a doctor."

"Can’t we talk without sarcasm, just for once?" she reprimanded him.

Chaple wished he had kept his mouth shut. He looked at her apologetically, after noticing that her eyes were tearing up. As she started coughing he realized the fires had also taken their toll on her, physically as well as mentally no doubt. Without saying a word, he gently guided her back inside his apartment.

"Do you need something to drink?" Chaple asked her after she took her usual place on the sofa. He didn’t know whether to sit next to her or in the armchair across. He stood in front of her awaiting an answer.

"Water and wine, and not in that order."

She’d been drinking too, Chaple realized and immediately stood up straighter. The preacher’s daughter who’d been taught liquor was the root of all evil was on the loose again, and curled up on his oversized sofa, once again. Life was not so bad after all, he suspected.

And he knew where he was going to sit. So he did, and they talked, and they talked and talked.

After well into their third round of drinks together, the criminologist finished reiterating her theory on the Night Stalker. "So?" She asked.

Chaple was speechless. Amazed that he had overlooked the obvious: The Jack of Hearts was a one-eyed jack. And, in search of only certain nipple types. Unbelievable.

He raised his glass in admiration to this magnificent creature sitting next to him. She accepted his compliment and raised hers to his. Their glasses clinked in accord and then they finished the drinks in silence, each one now keenly aware of the other’s presence, and sexuality, in the stillness of the night.

Chaple knew the answer before he asked his former lover the rhetorical question, "Shall I call a taxi for you?"

She answered by handing him her empty wine glass to be refilled. He in turn removed his tattered OSU tee-shirt and slid off his jeans. The night was still young in terms of Pacific Standard Time.

"Just look at this drivel!" Everhard exclaimed, "Now the female half of this writing duo is going to get Chaple laid! I’m telling you it’s the beginning of the end. You take a minor character and give him the lead, THEN, you get him laid, I’m telling you Kim sweetie, next that two bit flatfoot will be starring in all their stories!’ We’re toast Kim! Unemployed, has beens!" Everhard buried his head in his hands and sobbed. "You egotistical Jerk!" Kim said disgustedly, "And I thought you were this macho, sexy hunk of humanity. You’re a snivelling puss! Pull yourself together! Can’t you see where this plot is going? Are you that new to this business? Chaple will fall back in love with Janice Woolery, they will be the picture of bliss, maybe even thinking marriage," Kim said, Everhard perked up and began to see the picture Kim was painting. "Makes sense that the serial killer will nab the lovely Miss Woolery and hold her for an agonizing number of days, sending notes and hints, taunting him, driving the detective crazy, making him irrational and desperate, the passion taking away his keen detective‘s edge" Kim paused for dramatic effect. "And then, who will have to come in and save the day, become the strong lead, the intelligent, rational one?" "Me?" Everhard asked grinning. Kim rolled her eyes, "yes, you! Who will rush in the nick of time and rescue the conveniently naked heroine." Kim patted him on the shoulder and told him, "Now buck up! Quit snivelling and be a man!" Everhard felt much better now.

Chaple was scrambling eggs in a small skillet on the range. He still remembered how she liked them, slightly runny, bacon crisp. She came up behind him, wearing only his tattered old OSU tee shirt. She wrapped her arms around him and put her head on his shoulder. "You still make me forget about the world. One evening with you and all my cares go away. You’re like a drug!" she told him, "my personal escape from reality." "We all need those," he said, "otherwise everybody in our business would be whacko." "I think everybody in our business IS whacko," she replied, laughing. He poured the eggs onto two plates and retrieved the crisp bacon from another pan. "Pour us some coffee woman!" he playfully commanded.

After wolfing down the eggs and bacon, Janice looked at Chaple and out of the blue said, "So are we on again? I’m willing to take the "no fault" approach and just pick up where we left off. Or are you still angry?" Bill looked up at her and smiled saying. "You never were one to beat around the bush, were you?" "Listen you big oaf!" Janice said, "I never stopped loving you, not for one second, but then we had that fight, a silly fight over Boonie. I was being silly and got jealous. I was wrong Bill." Suddenly it all came back to Bill, what, or rather whom, they had fought about. " It was all that fricking Everhard’s fault!" Chaple said out loud. Hearing this, Janice nearly fainted. She didn’t think Bill had ever known about the hot, but brief affair she had had with James Everhard. Cautiously she probed. "Uh, what do you mean honey? What was Everhard’s fault?" Chapel reflected for a moment then said, "Oh baby, it’s just that he’s never been a one-woman man, he’s always got a dozen or so on a string. I envied that I suppose. That’s why I hit on Boonie that night and then, of course,  it made you so angry." Janice sighed a huge sigh of relief in realizing that Bill had not learned of her fling with Everhard.. "It’s okay baby," she cooed, "I forgave you long ago." Bill kissed her warmly and hungrily. Janice pulled the Pistol Pete tee shirt up over her head and walked, stark naked, toward the bedroom. She stopped at the door and turned towards Chaple. "Come on cowboy," she purred, "times a wastin’."

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The Chief of Detectives clinched his chest and fell to the floor.

He will be "laid to rest" on Saturday.

Laid, Laid, Laid!  He's gettin' laid while I'm outa' work.......

JE

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Chief of Detectives Chaple arrived just about midnight at Rick’s Café American, with the long-legged, buxom redhead on one arm and a Texas-size chip on his shoulder. The couple took a secluded booth toward the rear of the smoke-filled room. Chaple hadn’t wanted to be seen. Not because of the hooker, but ashamed at how he’d been written out of the story.

"Like hell I got laid. That bitch was nothing but a prick tease – nothin’ happened. Really! It was only in the reader’s imagination," Chaple grumbled underneath his breath before gulping down another double scotch. He was ready to get very drunk tonight and ready to get laid, not particularly in that order either.

Good Lord, he continued babbling as he downed his drinks. Here he was a detective – the Chief of Detectives no less. A character like his deserved to die a glorious death, a real shootout. Not from a frickin’ heart attack. Shit, Chaple had moaned, wanting nothing short of the final scenes from LA Confidential for his demise extraordinaire.

You don’t have a serial killer, who’s mutilating women’s bodies go unanswered in a decent plotline, Chaple told his date. To kill the hero before solving the crime is, well, just plain amateurish. No wonder those stinkin’ authors aren’t getting paid anything for their drivel.

The redhead patted his hand in agreement.

Chaple angrily glanced over at Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid’s table, both characters still commanding adulations from all who walked into the cafe. It’s deaths like theirs that make audiences cry, Chaple thought, believing his should have commanded similar dramatics.

Then, in disbelief, the detective shuddered, "They’re laughing at me!"

Who’s laughing at you?" James Everhard asked as he slid into their booth next to the redhead, gently brushing his lips against her cheek. Her frigid response told him that she was Chaple’s tonight, not his.

The redhead and Chaple pointed to Cassidy and the Kid’s table. Tipping their hats to Chaple in respect, tears of laughter nonetheless filled the outlaws’ eyes in their futile attempt to keep straight faces as they acknowledged Chaple’s dismay over his ill-timed and ignoble death.

You want me, uh, to talk to them or something, Big Guy?" Everhard inquired, hoping Chaple’s response would be negative since he could see they still kept their guns with them and in plain sight at the café.

"No, just kill them." Chaple ordered him as he would have ordered his former subordinates in the L.A. Police Department.

Everhard gulped.

"Kill who?" I inquired, joining our cast of characters as I sat next to Chaple.

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," Everhard confided to me in amazement.

"Characters can’t kill characters who are already dead and, in particular, not in the same story," I reminded them. "That’s the rule."

"Ah, the rules," Chaple quipped.

"Shit, this BBs & Nips story just gets more muddled by each succeeding chapter – I’m going to talk to Wallace. He’ll fix it." Everhard announced. "He’ll have to write me into the story now that you, Big Guy, are dead. We’ve got to have a hero."

"And, you?" Chaple looked squarely at me. "You’ll talk to Ms. Finch – buy me more time, a little more action?"

"Only if you talk to the architect – and let him know it’s all in good fun," I countered.

Chaple nodded in agreement.

"Well, I know what I’m going to do," the redhead blurted out. Everhard, Chaple and I exchanged shocked glances at this non-speaking character who dared to be so bold. She ignored our stares and continued, "I’m giving Chaple a blow job, here and now, just like Julie Christie gave Warren Beatty in Shampoo."

And with that said, she slid underneath the booth, hidden from our sight by the white linen table cloth. Then, we heard the belt buckle being unhooked and a zipper, bit by bit, being pulled down.

"You can’t do that to Chaple – especially here!" Everhard and I exclaimed together. After all, this wasn’t the White House.

"Yes she can – and yes she is," Chaple beamed. In defiance, he raised his drink to us and then slowly brought it to his lips, taking in a long, deliberate swallow. After setting down the empty glass, a peaceful smile erupted across his once somber face.

Chapter 14 --- Rick’s Café American (A gathering spot for fictional characters, both famous and infamous).

Kim and Everhard exchanged astonished looks as the cigar-chomping detective continued to enjoy the fallatial assault the redhead was directing from under the table. "See what happens when you give an extra a speaking part!" Kim said angrily. "I dunno," Everhard shrugged, "I think she’s going to be a star!" Kim elbowed Everhard hard and uttered something about men thinking with the wrong heads. Everhard was scanning the room. "Hey sweetie, there’s some famous characters here tonight. There’s Dr. Kay Scarpetta over there, Patricia Cornwell’s beautiful and sexy coroner. And over there is Jack Ryan, he got to be the President of the U.S. at the peak of his career." Everhard continued to scan the room, "Hey, there’s Dirk Pitt! Now, there’s an action hero. W.W. could learn a thing or two from his creator, Clive Cussler. You know, I should be more like Pitt!" Everhard exclaimed. Dirk Pitt was having a drink at the bar with Stephen King’s, Roland the gunfighter. "Hey Sweetie, we’re running with some pretty fast company tonight!" Everhard remarked with more than a little awe. But Kim’s eyes were stuck on one Dr. Jack Ryan, the famous creation of Tom Clancy. He was gorgeous! A bit of a cross between Harrison Ford and Alex Baldwin, the character made eye contact with Kim and smiled seductively at her. "Excuse me James," Kim said without taking her eyes off of the literary hero, and walked straight to his table.

Everhard returned to Chaple’s table, where he found the detective semi-conscious with a silly grin on his face and his eyes rolled back in his head. The redhead had retreated to the dance floor with Butch Casady where the couple was dancing to a hot salsa number. Everhard was feeling very much alone when a feminine voice said, "Hey sailor, how about a dance?" Everhard looked up into the green eyes of a beautiful blonde with one of the best bodies he had ever seen, tightly wrapped in a gold lame’ evening gown. "Aren’t you James Everhard?" she asked. "Why yes, I am," he told the vision of loveliness. "I’m unpublished, but we feel that my writer is getting very close," he told her, "You look so very familiar, you are….?" He asked. "Pussy," she told him, "Pussy Galore, an Ian Fleming creation." Everhard’s knees felt weak, "THE Pussy Galore, from Goldfinger?" he asked breathlessly. "None other," she replied with a chuckle. "Bond dumped me a few minutes ago for that new chick that was played by Hallie Berry in the latest movie," she said angrily, "I hope she gives him a STD," she said. "Shall we?" James asked the woman, offering his hand and nodding toward the dance floor. "I’d love to," she told him. James looked towards Jack Ryan’s table just in time to see the suave Dr. Ryan leaving with Kim, his hand squarely on her very cute ass…."Well," he thought, "looks like we both may have gotten lucky."

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Mr. Wallace, I just received notice from the redhead’s agent. She’s demanding contract renegotiations for her role in this story. My thinking is she may be way too "hot" for the 64Knights’ venue and we may need to write her out of the upcoming chapters. What are your thoughts? -- Ms. Finch

Too bad, I thought she had real "star" potential.......Okay, let's can her.  She left poor Bill in terrible shape.

WW

"Objection," cried Marshall.

My unilateral decision did not set well with my fiancé! Marshall has decided maybe he should be the redhead’s agent. He’s not ready to see her canned yet and is prepared to renegotiate her contract with us. If we lose her, he asked, does that mean instead we’ll read about more body bags?

Because of basically unjust and cruelly harsh criticism, the term "body bags" will no longer appear in a James Everhard story.  "Nipples", however, will continue to be a staple.

WW

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Everhard and Ms. Galore were executing a difficult meringue move and captivating the room with their dancing expertise. The music stopped as Everhard dipped Ms. Galore perfectly on cue. Hoots of appreciation and applause rang across the dance floor. The buxom redhead and Butch Casady whose thunder had been stolen by the showy couple, stared angrily at them as they left the floor. "Who do they think they awh anyway?" the redhead said in thick Brooklynease. "You want I should plug them?" Casady asked her drunkenly, his hand on the grip of his Colt Peacemaker. "Not yet sweetie, latah," she said, "this place is too crowded. Find a quiet place, and then get them."

At Chaple’s table, the couple slid into the booth. Chaple had regained consciousness, but his hair was still mussed and he looked as though he had been through a very rough time. "What happened to that guy?" Ms. Galore asked Everhard. "Double scotches and a very aggressive redhead," Everhard quipped. "Bill, I’d like you to meet Pussy, Pussy Galore. Pussy, this is Chief of Detectives Bill Chaple," Everhard said. Chaple straightened his hair and kissed Ms. Galore’s hand. "So glad to meet you Ms. Galore. I’m a huge fan of yours." "Please call me Pussy," Everhard’s date purred. "Pussy it is," Chaple said, staring into her green eyes, mesmerized. Everhard ordered a round of drinks and then excused himself to the Men’s Room.

In the white tiled Men’s Room, Everhard finished his business at the urinal and was washing his hands at the sink when a very drunk and stumbling Butch Casady entered the room. "Hey, you frickin; showoff." Casady slurred. "I’m gonna teach you a lesson." The legendary outlaw pulled one of the pistols out of his holster with blazing speed and pressed its barrel against the tip of Everhard’s nose. The outlaw cocked the hammer of the single action pistol and grinned wickedly. Suddenly, the door flew open and the deafening roar of a Mossburg 12 gauge shotgun shook the small tiled room. Everhard watched as the headless outlaw’s body stood its ground for just a second or two and then crumpled at his feet. Everhard then looked at Chaple, chomping on a cigar butt and holding the smoking shotgun. Stunned, Everhard then looked at the grisly, gorey body at his feet, and gasped in amazement as it miraculously disappeared without a trace.

Moments later, Chaple led a still in shock Everhard back to their table. Pussy was waiting there, nonchalantly sipping her drink. "How the hell did he just disappear?" Everhard asked the Chief. "Because my boy," Chaple told him, "he never really existed anyway. None of us are flesh and blood. We’re just smoke and dust, a figment of people’s imaginations. So, when we die, we just disappear." Everhard picked up his scotch and Drambuie and his hand shook as he downed half of it. "Oh yeah, there’s another piece of business I need to conclude. I don’t want no pretty boy, blonde haired outlaw shooting me in the back outa’ revenge." The detective said around the smoldering cigar butt. Everhard watched as the Chief calmly walked to the table where the Sundance Kid and the redhead sat drinking and laughing. Chaple pulled a silenced pistol out of his shoulder holster. Everhard heard two muffled pops and watched small, round holes appear in the center of the foreheads of the famous outlaw and the redhead, before the two bodies were completely slumped into the booth, the bodies simply disappeared. No one but Everhard had apparently even witnessed the shooting. Everhard watched as the busboy calmly cleaned the table and cleared the glasses. Moments later, another couple slid into the booth. "Smoke and dust," Everhard mumbled to himself…."Just smoke and dust."

Back at the table, Detective Chaple began to really work hard on Pussy Galore. They danced all the slow songs and when they did come back to the table, they were all wrapped up in each other. Everhard was still in shock and was not thinking about taking Ms. Galore home. Detective Chaple pulled him aside and said, "Hey old pal, I know that she’s your date, but we are really hitting it off and she’s hinting at going to my place. You don’t mind do you?" Everhard could not believe how carefree this man, who had just killed three people, was acting. "No, you two go ahead. I’m not thinking much about her right now, anyway." Everhard managed to say. "Thanks old friend," Chaple slurred a little drunkenly. Then he laughed loudly and said, "You know, it’s the first time I’ve ever known you to NOT be thinking about Pussy." Amused by the name’s double entendre, the detective laughed loud and hard as he grabbed Ms. Galore’s arm and the twosome headed for the door.

Throwing back his forth or fifth Rusty Nail, Everhard was trying very hard to blur the visions from earlier in the evening. Then another in the evening’s series of totally unbelievable sights took place. Up the aisle walked none other than the Sundance Kid and the chesty redhead. They walked right past Everhard’s table and took a table across the room. Everhard stared down at the brown mixture of scotch and Drambuie he was holding and seriously considered becoming a non-drinker. He got up and walked to the couple’s table. The redhead looked up and said, "Hiya handsome, your girlfriend cut out on ya’?" Everhard answered, "Yes, she and Detective Chaple just left." You need ta’ do something about ya’ friend’s temper. This the third time he’s shot me this month." The redhead stated matter of factly. "He’s popped me twice this week!" the blonde outlaw who looked a little like Robert Redford added. "Where’s Butch Casady?" Everhard asked. "He’s asleep out in the parking lot," Sundance answered, "a little too much red eye." "But, I saw all three of you die tonight. Chaple killed all three of you. And then you disappeared!" A very confused Everhard said. Sundance could see his confusion. "James, how long have you been around here in "Characterland?" He asked. "About two or three years I guess. Ever since W.W. dreamed me up." Everhard answered. "You see, all of us are governed by the thoughts of our writers. Other characters can interfere in our lives, and do things that may temporally change us and our directions, but we continue to live and act and "be" as long as we are in the thoughts of our writer". Sundance patiently explained. "The only way we can die, is to be forgotten by our writer. When that happens, we fade to black." Everhard was beginning to understand, "You mean that you didn’t die tonight?" "Only temporarily", the Redhead said, "as soon as Kim, my writer, thought of me again, I was back in business, so to speak," she giggled at the play on words.

Kim (the character) walked up to the table and kissed Everhard hard on the lips. "Where’s the sexy Jack Ryan?" Everhard asked after the kiss. "That wimp? He took me to his place got me in the mood and when the big moment came, he pulls out this little, two inch, limp noodle which would not rise to the occasion! I left laughing. It seems that his writer has never written him a love scene, in all those novels! So he was, shall we say, Ill equipped?" Kim lauginly told the group. "So come on big boy," Kim said, "I know you’re equipped, and I need some good loving." Kim said as she pulled him towards the door.

Everhard snoozed on the beach, letting the warm and relaxing sun penetrate every pore in his body, baking the hard muscles in his abdomen and chest. Sweat gleamed on his large biceps, triceps and delts. He was in the beach chair totally nude, his rich tan from the summer, though faded, was beginning to regain its golden hue. The hard muscles in his thighs and calves soaked up the sun’s soothing warmth.  He was so glad that Chaple had recommended this place, it was so relaxing and peaceful. He had needed very badly to get away from the ice and snow, and the depression of a gray winter. This place was just the ticket. It was somewhere Chaple had ONLY visited on the internet, the thought of a naked and cigar chomping, Chaple walking this beach gave him a fearful visual and he shuddered involuntarily. 200 yards away, he saw a striking blonde (a natural blonde, I must add) and a well-conditioned man were walking his way. Everhard sat up in his chair, turned down the CD player that was blaring "Cat Scratch Fever," and squinted in the bright sunlight to see who was approaching. As they walked closer, he realized suddenly who the lovely blonde was, but he had never seen the man before. It was Kim. Her perky and tanned breasts were unmistakable. Her trim body and perfect hips were testament to her hours of strenuous tennis playing. And that derriere! Jess, Joe & Mary she had a great ass! She had turned around to look back up the beach, giving Everhard a nice long look at her inimitable butt. Everhard’s thoughts began to manifest themselves in other areas of his anatomy and he had to put the Golf Digest he was reading on his lap. This was not helping much as a large tent was forming.