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fellowshippers2005-03-20 09:33 pm
pecos.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-03-20 09:33 pm
BDL 3: On the Edge
I hope my rampant productivity isn’t tricking anyone into thinking that I actually have time on my hands! Since I’ve been ‘given’ the entire fiction section of my bookstore and a goodly chunk of the non-fiction boring stuff (like languages- good match, weddings and etiquette – puh-leeeasse!) I’ve not had much time for anything normal, like sleep. The resultant crankiness is doubtless going to be taken out on some poor clone in this story, so brace yourselves for rampant Orli-bear clone abuse (evil laugh!) Anyway, thank you again and again to those kind souls who are commenting and encouraging and asking questions that make me actually THINK about this story! Enough of my yadda-yadda, here’s:
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Three – On the Edge
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is PG13
DISCLAIMER: I don’t make the toys, I’m only
playing with them. No money made, nor
disrespect intended. This is FICTION
WHAT IS IT?: RPS / AU
Sequel to ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
WHO’S IN IT?: Sean Bean, Orlando Bloom,
Johnny Depp, Viggo Mortensen and other
actors from ‘The Lord of the Rings’
FEEDBACK: remember the golden rule, (please!)
ARCHIVE: I’d be honored, just tell me where
PAST CHAPTERS: ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
can be found on my website, Chimerafic.com
and other stories can be found on my LJ at:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/pecos/
NOTE: Please forgive any intentional or
unintentional abuse of facts or history.
NOTE 2: I’m sure Disney follows all ASPCA
guidelines for safety
NOTE 3: Special thanks to French Hobbit for the
French translations!
NOTE 4: Sorry about all the notes!
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Three: On the Edge
Sean
He hung up the phone and picked up his glass, swirling the amber single-malt scotch absently. Sean rubbed stiff fingers across the back of his neck, and finally took a sip of his drink. The liquor burned for a moment, and when he glanced up there were tears in his eyes. Taking a ragged breath, Sean rocked back in his seat and looked around the cluttered walls of his comfortable study. The familiar setting did nothing to sooth the restlessness he felt inside. He’d have to arrange for more money to get Mickey out of Mongolia. A few phone calls should fix that. But he had another task first.
Using a key from the cluster in his pocket, Sean unlocked a small drawer on in his lovely antique desk, sliding it open and rummaging a single sheet of paper out, smoothing it out and frowning as he studied the column of figures. It was the Greek alphabet, each letter written in his own hand, some with notes following. He traced the tip of his finger down to ψ , Psi, and then got a pen and crossed it out. The actor’s handsome face crumpled for a moment, and he had to wipe at his eyes. ‘Mongolia - deceased’ he wrote beside the name. Details would be filled in after he got a full report from the experienced field agent.
Sean rested his finger on another letter which had been crossed out: γ, Gamma. “I miss you so much, colt,” he said softly.
He sat there for many minutes, eyes unfocused, head bowed, lost in memories that still felt as fresh as yesterday. He pulled himself together at last, smiling briefly at the notation for Lambda, reading the number scrawled beside the name. If he took a moment to dial it a phone would ring clear across the Atlantic Ocean, on the shore of an island in the Caribbean Sea.
Holding the list out in front of him, Sean counted the letters that still remained. There were just a few, but they were so important in their potential meaning. “I know you’re there, little one, whoever you are,” Sean said. “I can still hear you whispering sometimes. I know you’re out there, and I’ll find you. I don’t know where, but I’ll find you.”
Orlando
He was awake, but he couldn’t get his body to move. This malaise was not a good sign. It felt like the gravity in his bed had doubled, or even tripled, overnight. “I have to move. I have to get up and go to the set,” Orlando forced himself to say. The words effected no change.
His mind kept wandering off into tangential thoughts about weird, unrelated things. He was remembering when Alpha’s back was broken. He thought about how scared Gamma used to get in New Zealand. He thought about the people who had raised Lambda, who had claimed to care about him, and yet who had turned him over to the uniforms without a single word of protest. He recalled how much Sean had hated him for a while – hated him for not being someone else, even while he actually was. Behind closed lids his eyes could clearly see a splash of dark red blood against cool steel, and he felt the incredible relief of being able to end his own life. Forcing tired eyes open again, afraid to look at the bedside clock, Orlando focused instead on the garish little red teddy bear poking out of an open dresser drawer.
“Orli’s bear,” he mumbled, then he forced himself to concentrate, to ‘reach’, to feel the weight of the bear in a hand that wasn’t real. The bear lifted clear of the drawer and moved purposefully through the air until it met his open palm, mind hand meeting real hand. The familiar soft fur settled into Orlando’s palm, and he drew a deep breath despite the crushing depression holding him down.
Loud blows on the door made him jump, heart stammering. “Bloom! Bloom, you’re late!” yelled Geoffrey Rush cheerfully. “Get that skinny ass out of bed!”
“Coming!” he managed to shout, and suddenly the malaise was gone, chased away by adrenaline. Gravity fell away and he was on his feet – dizzy, but standing. “I’m almost ready, Geoff!”
“Prima donna!” Rush teased loudly. “You should try having a part where your teeth are rotting away! I’ll be waiting by the coffee maker in the lobby!”
“Be right there,” Orlando promised, scrambling for clothes and shoes, afraid to even look in the mirror. He dropped the bear back in the drawer and nudged it shut with his hip.
Johnny
The converted barge that served as the Black Pearl set was, without a doubt, the ugliest piece of shit to ever float in the Caribbean. Only bits of it resembled much of anything, with walls and decks cut away to facilitate cameras, and about twice as many people milling around than as should logically ever try to fit onto a floating fire-hazard. Of course the portable toilets, jammed into the stern and used by far too many seasick pirates and queasy film crewies, did a lot to add ‘atmosphere’. If you didn’t feel like puking before you had to use it, you sure would after. Most of the men had resorted to pissing over the side. The women insisted on being taken to shore via jet-ski.
The girls were clearly more intelligent.
“Ah, the glamour and refinement of the pirate life,” Johnny mused aloud, primping grandly as he examined his reflection in the ship’s bell, the only shiny object on the entire set.
“Cruise ship!” someone called gamely from above, and a big laugh went up from many experienced hands. Johnny scrambled up to the foc'sle and used his prop spyglass to scan the waves. Of course it didn’t work – he could hardly make out more than a white blob on top of a blue blob. A cheap knock-off in a kid’s toyshop would have been more functional.
“Princess Line,” the cinematographer announced, using a long distance lens to examine the ship passing sedately on the near horizon. “The decks are packed with roasting meat and drunken tourists, all in the same package. Looks like some of the crew are out on the flying bridge, getting a look at our circus via binoculars.”
“I’m sure they’re admiring the Pearl,” Johnny corrected, slurring his words in full Capt’n Jack form. “She’s the finest craft to ever grace these shark-forsaken waters!”
Gore, their director, had joined them, and he reached for a different lens, adjusting it gently as he stared at the passing ship. “It looks like...yes...yes... they’re laughing their asses off, John, I’m sorry to say.”
“What?” Depp stammered. He puffed up like a Bantam rooster. “Prepare to board!” he shouted. “All hands! Man the cannons! Unfurl the mizzenmast! That fat prize is ours for the taking! Stuff your muskets, men!”
“Stuff my what?” the nearest pirate asked, blinking at him like an owl.
Johnny jumped up on the rail, hanging by the ropes, and hit struck a heroic pose. “They’re running scared now! We’ll have them, if the winds are with us!”
“They’re pissing themselves laughing,” Gore corrected. “I can see what has to be every officer on the ship now. If they weren’t in open water I’d be worried about them running into Guadeloupe. I’m surprised they don’t swing closer just for the hell of it and charge their passengers for the added attraction.”
“Oh, that’s it!” Johnny gasped, acting exasperated. “Make fun of the Black Pearl, will ya?” He fumbled with the extravagancies of his costume, and finally got through all the layers and lace and belts, and then he dropped his breeches and bared his ass, waggling it at the passing ship. “Eat this, you fucking tourists!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Orlando had finally arrived, and was observing the scene with obvious relish.
“Get up here and defend your mates, Turner!” Depp shouted.
Orlando raised his sword, trying to look tough, and then launched into the famous French taunting scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, a movie that he’d watched with the Hobbits more times than he could even remember. “You don't frighten us, English pig-dogs!” he yelled in a ridiculous accent. “Go and boil your bottoms, sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you, so-called Arthur-king, you and all your silly English ka-niggets!”
“King Arthur cruise lines?” Depp mused to the invisible audience, but he knew the part too. “What a strange person! Now look here, my good man....”
Orlando was fully into character now, waving his hands extravagantly and gesturing rudely toward the cruise ship. “I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty-headed animal food trough water! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”
Gore finally jumped in, asking in a timid voice, “is there someone else up there we could talk to?”
“No! Now go away or I shall taunt you a second time-a!”
Laughing so hard that he almost fell overboard, Johnny finally let Orlando pull him down to the deck, tugging his pants back up over his sweaty cock and balls, glad that Keira was off on a potty run just then. Didn’t need the morals police all over him about under-aged co-stars. “Unless I’m wrong, Mister Turner,” he said, returning effortlessly to Jack Sparrow’s loopy manner, “you’re of the English variety yourself.”
“I can be Gallic when I need to be,” Orlando corrected him, then speaking in perfectly serviceable French he added, “il y a bien assez de choses que les français font mieux que les sujets de Sa Majesté."
Johnny grinned suddenly and licked his lips. “Embrasser, par exemple?”
“Je ne saurais pas dire.”
“Je pourrais te montrer,” Johnny offered, laughing.
“Vraiment? Il faut voir.” Orlando retreated into the crowd, his face burning beneath Will Turner’s make-up. Johnny Depp had just offered to kiss him, right there on the deck of Black Pearl. Johnny freakin’ Depp.
God, this was going to be a long shoot.
Viggo
“What the...?” he muttered, making his way through the crowd surrounding the sand pit where they’d been setting the next shot. One of the wranglers turned and pushed past Viggo with a stern expression on his face, which was about as much as you ever got from most of these guys in mixed company (mixed meaning ‘horse people,’ and ‘them other guys’). Ducking around a camera boom Viggo finally saw what they’d all been gawking at – the scene where Hidalgo has fallen through the pitfall trap in the desert and become impaled on a spear, and Frank finds that his horse has been seriously hurt.
Viggo felt his heart clench at the sight of the horse down, almost flat out, the spear impaling his fore-shoulder sickeningly. Even knowing that it was fake, the scene would make anyone shudder – and of course Viggo felt far more of a connection to his equine co-stars than the rest of the cast and crew. “Don’t let him move again!” sputtered a make-up specialist, fussing with the fake spear where it was secured against the horse’s actual hide. This didn’t look very safe to Viggo, with all the spikes pressed in as set decoration, even though they were mostly made of foam and balsa.
Something didn’t seem right about the scene, and Viggo rolled a cigarette absently and studied it while the second unit director, focus puller and head cameraman debated angles. The horse they were using for this scene was Alacarte, an easy-going and friendly gelding who had a lot more patience and got into less trouble than their star, TJ, the Paint stallion who’d won the lead and his rider’s heart. Alacarte was trying to roll onto his side, something that a horse would rarely do with so many people around him. Horses were naturally uneasy about being down on the ground. They were grazing animals with very few defenses other than their amazing speed, and it was a laborious process for horses to get to their feet. This was why they’d developed the ability to sleep standing. You would rarely find a horse lying down unless they felt totally safe or there was something wrong with them.
The wrangler at Alacarte’s head was tugging on his bridle, trying to keep him in the right position, pulling gently on his jaw and ears and shooting looks at the director to hurry up and get the shot.
“Viggo, you ready?” the director asked.
Viggo had his lines down cold, so that was no problem, but as he got into position next to the horse he finally got a look at Alacarte’s eyes, and that’s when he knew what they’d done. “Did someone drug this horse?” Viggo sputtered, indignantly.
“Just a mild sedative,” the wrangler said, defensively. He could see the anger in the actor’s face before anyone else on set got wind of it, and quickly added, “the vet’s been here. She said it’s quite mild.”
“You...you fuckers!” Viggo snapped, dropping to his knees to stroke Alacarte’s brow ridges, looking into the dull gaze in the huge, trusting brown eyes.
“Oh, god...can someone do something about the, uh, boner?” the cameraman complained. Any male horse’s penis distended limply from the sheath when they were sedated.
Someone else laughed, and said, “Hey, it’s a Disney picture! No monster horse dick allowed!”
“Whoa, big boy!” giggled another.
“Hidalgo’s a boy horsie, Virginia.”
“Tuck it out of sight or something!”
“I’m not touching it!”
That was the point where Viggo lost it. “You ASSHOLES!” he growled, one hand on the gelding’s neck, the other making a fist as he turned to the circle of idiotically joking crewmen. “You drugged this animal? Get the fucking vet over here! Where’s the ASPCA monitor?” Those words shut most of the flapping lips immediately, those few who weren’t already silenced by the sight of their normally sweet-tempered star getting red in the face – he was so angry. “Get this shit away from him so he can get to his feet! If this horse was hobbled I’m going to kick someone’s ass!” It wasn’t a hollow threat.
The wrangler wanted to argue about the situation, and promptly found himself on his own backside, shoulder smarting from a blow that might have been meant for his jaw, but Viggo had thought better of that at the last moment, despite his fury. Knocking the fake stakes away, Viggo coaxed the gelding to his feet at last, where the horse tried to stand on the uneven sand, wobbly, head-down. Viggo had tears of anger in his eyes as he led the trusting horse a few feet away before the vet arrived, from the catering tent apparently, and started checking Alacarte’s heart rate. Their star insisted on seeing that Alacarte was in the hands of a different wrangler and being led around in circles to speed his recovery before he would leave the horse.
“Viggo,” the assistant director called in a conciliatory tone, catching up to him, noting that the actor’s makeup was ruined.
“I want that vet fired,” Viggo snapped. “I don’t care if you guys told her it was okay. If she didn’t know better or have the nerve to tell you ‘no!’ then it’s her goddamn fault.”
“Viggo...we have to get that shot at this location! Look, we didn’t use the lead horse...” the AD started.
“If I thought you knew any better I’d pop you one right now!” the furious Dane snapped. “You send the ASPCA girl over here the minute your monkeys find her. I’ll be in there reading my contract!” With that the actor jumped up the steps to his trailer and slammed the door. “Assholes!” he screamed, alone in his ‘star wagon.’
Dominic
Sprinting from the balcony, where he’d been watching the KTLA News Helicopter hovering over something a few blocks away, Dom grabbed his phone and fumbled, praying that whoever was calling wouldn’t give up. “Monaghan here!” he bubbled, trying to see the display and talk at the same time. He caught sight of a familiar number just as the distinctive voice erupted in giggles.
“No you’re not! You’re nowhere near here, or I wouldn’t be calling you, wanker!”
“Hi baby,” Dom crooned, trying to sound like Barry White. “How’s your shoot going?”
“I’ll live,” Elijah told him. “Jim Carey is completely insane – and this is coming from someone who spent two years being three foot six and screaming about a giant flaming eyeball.”
“Good insane, or hitting on the potted plants insane?” Dom wanted to know.
“Plants, definitely...yet he’s certainly able to co-sign the checks and bitch about what brand bottled water is on hand at his makeup station, not to mention the exact temperature of said water.”
“Temperature is key, you know.”
“I’ve been flirting with one of the grips. A girl,” he added theatrically.
“Oh, you cheeky monkey! Should I be jealous?”
“I dunno. Can you get a tattoo above your thong line that says ‘Celluloid’s Bitch’?”
“Who says I don’t already? When’s the last time you hooked your thumbs in my thong?”
“Too long ago.” Elijah was quiet for a few beats. “I miss you, Manky bastard.”
“Spoiled Brat.”
“Pervy Hobbit.”
“Foot Fetishist...what’s that sound?”
“What sound? Smegma Breath.”
“I never! You’re circumcised! THAT sound. Are you...are you in the fucking loo?”
“Maybe....”
“Maybe? Oh God, Lijah...that’s disgusting! Is this all I mean to you? Toilet talk?”
“Hey, I have to get my privacy where I can find it! You want me to call you from makeup, with all those bored people listening in on every word? Were you not JUST whining that you never hear from me?”
“Well, if you called me from somewhere appropriate maybe I wouldn’t have to hear nasty words like smegma! You’re getting a filthy mouth on you, Wood! And you used to be such a NICE boy....”
“You missed me!” Elijah purred. “You only sound like my mom when you’ve been thinking about how much you miss me.”
“I do not! Are you getting enough to eat, baby?”
Elijah laughed. “I’ve got Sunday off. Don’t suppose you could fly up here for the weekend?”
“’Fraid not,” Dom sighed. “I have a meeting with my agent on Saturday.” He was lying. He actually just didn’t have the money for a quickie flight to New York. His self-imposed monthly allotment was nearly gone already.
“I gotta get going pretty soon. Just wanted to know how you’re doing.”
“Great,” Dom lied.
“I see,” Elijah said, understanding. “Did you know that Craig’s going to be out there this week?”
“Pansy Parker? When did you hear from him?”
“Thing called e-mail, Dom. You should try it sometime. Of course, you have to be able to type in English, legibly, and use the little mouse thingie.”
“Bite me.”
“I plan on it. I gave Craig your number. Don’t blow him off the way you did Sala last week. You know they all get back to me about you...like I’m your keeper or something.”
“Somebody has to be responsible for the resident aliens.”
“Alien. That’s about right. I miss you.”
“I...me too. Don’t forget to flush.”
“Do I ever?”
“Frequently.”
This was, of course, followed by the sound of a cell phone being held inside the bowl of a flushing toilet. Dom was laughing as the call was abruptly cut off.
Mickey
Checking the e-mail one last time, Mickey wrote a quick ‘thank-you’ to the sender and then popped open a link to a specialized map service. The lights in the Mongolian hotel room flickered, but his computer was running on battery. The local current and voltage were far too wild a ride for delicate equipment. He was currently stealing space on a satellite somewhere over Korea, just so he could surf the internet and make reservations on a flight going south. He pulled up maps of Thailand and zoomed in on Hua Hin, observing the topography with the eye of someone who’d spent some time in Asian jungles.
He threw back another shot of Slovakian vodka and winced, feeling the burn like an old friend. Hua Hin looked like another dump, but it seemed like he’d be able to get there in a couple of hours from Bangkok, which would be good. And hey, they had a nice beach, from the look of things. Why the hell hadn’t any of these damn clones ended up in Manhattan lofts or nice little flats in Amsterdam? Oh well...he supposed they were all meant to be hidden away. Mickey knew all about hiding away things that you cared about.
Thailand should be nice this time of year. He could leave his coat behind to keep some Mongolian warm in the bitter dregs of morning. He checked the weather in the Seychelles, wondering how Stephanie was doing running the Dive Shop. Better call her before he packed. Damn woman was probably cleaning up again. He still hadn’t gotten over the trauma of coming home from New Zealand to find the shack painted pink and blue. Looked like a fucking nursery. It didn’t help his mood any that the business was on a steady increase since she’d joined him, and it had proven handy more than once to have a nurse around.
Yeah, he’d better give her a call, check up on the crazy broad. And then, it was back to hunting clones.
TITLE: Beyond Design Limitations
CHAPTER: Three – On the Edge
AUTHOR: Pecos – PecosPhil@sprintmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.chimerafic.com
BETA: Gloria Mundi - viva_gloria@livejournal.com
RATING: Varies by chapter. This one is PG13
DISCLAIMER: I don’t make the toys, I’m only
playing with them. No money made, nor
disrespect intended. This is FICTION
WHAT IS IT?: RPS / AU
Sequel to ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
WHO’S IN IT?: Sean Bean, Orlando Bloom,
Johnny Depp, Viggo Mortensen and other
actors from ‘The Lord of the Rings’
FEEDBACK: remember the golden rule, (please!)
ARCHIVE: I’d be honored, just tell me where
PAST CHAPTERS: ‘Prophecy: Destiny & Design’
can be found on my website, Chimerafic.com
and other stories can be found on my LJ at:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/pecos/
NOTE: Please forgive any intentional or
unintentional abuse of facts or history.
NOTE 2: I’m sure Disney follows all ASPCA
guidelines for safety
NOTE 3: Special thanks to French Hobbit for the
French translations!
NOTE 4: Sorry about all the notes!
Beyond Design Limitations
Chapter Three: On the Edge
Sean
He hung up the phone and picked up his glass, swirling the amber single-malt scotch absently. Sean rubbed stiff fingers across the back of his neck, and finally took a sip of his drink. The liquor burned for a moment, and when he glanced up there were tears in his eyes. Taking a ragged breath, Sean rocked back in his seat and looked around the cluttered walls of his comfortable study. The familiar setting did nothing to sooth the restlessness he felt inside. He’d have to arrange for more money to get Mickey out of Mongolia. A few phone calls should fix that. But he had another task first.
Using a key from the cluster in his pocket, Sean unlocked a small drawer on in his lovely antique desk, sliding it open and rummaging a single sheet of paper out, smoothing it out and frowning as he studied the column of figures. It was the Greek alphabet, each letter written in his own hand, some with notes following. He traced the tip of his finger down to ψ , Psi, and then got a pen and crossed it out. The actor’s handsome face crumpled for a moment, and he had to wipe at his eyes. ‘Mongolia - deceased’ he wrote beside the name. Details would be filled in after he got a full report from the experienced field agent.
Sean rested his finger on another letter which had been crossed out: γ, Gamma. “I miss you so much, colt,” he said softly.
He sat there for many minutes, eyes unfocused, head bowed, lost in memories that still felt as fresh as yesterday. He pulled himself together at last, smiling briefly at the notation for Lambda, reading the number scrawled beside the name. If he took a moment to dial it a phone would ring clear across the Atlantic Ocean, on the shore of an island in the Caribbean Sea.
Holding the list out in front of him, Sean counted the letters that still remained. There were just a few, but they were so important in their potential meaning. “I know you’re there, little one, whoever you are,” Sean said. “I can still hear you whispering sometimes. I know you’re out there, and I’ll find you. I don’t know where, but I’ll find you.”
Orlando
He was awake, but he couldn’t get his body to move. This malaise was not a good sign. It felt like the gravity in his bed had doubled, or even tripled, overnight. “I have to move. I have to get up and go to the set,” Orlando forced himself to say. The words effected no change.
His mind kept wandering off into tangential thoughts about weird, unrelated things. He was remembering when Alpha’s back was broken. He thought about how scared Gamma used to get in New Zealand. He thought about the people who had raised Lambda, who had claimed to care about him, and yet who had turned him over to the uniforms without a single word of protest. He recalled how much Sean had hated him for a while – hated him for not being someone else, even while he actually was. Behind closed lids his eyes could clearly see a splash of dark red blood against cool steel, and he felt the incredible relief of being able to end his own life. Forcing tired eyes open again, afraid to look at the bedside clock, Orlando focused instead on the garish little red teddy bear poking out of an open dresser drawer.
“Orli’s bear,” he mumbled, then he forced himself to concentrate, to ‘reach’, to feel the weight of the bear in a hand that wasn’t real. The bear lifted clear of the drawer and moved purposefully through the air until it met his open palm, mind hand meeting real hand. The familiar soft fur settled into Orlando’s palm, and he drew a deep breath despite the crushing depression holding him down.
Loud blows on the door made him jump, heart stammering. “Bloom! Bloom, you’re late!” yelled Geoffrey Rush cheerfully. “Get that skinny ass out of bed!”
“Coming!” he managed to shout, and suddenly the malaise was gone, chased away by adrenaline. Gravity fell away and he was on his feet – dizzy, but standing. “I’m almost ready, Geoff!”
“Prima donna!” Rush teased loudly. “You should try having a part where your teeth are rotting away! I’ll be waiting by the coffee maker in the lobby!”
“Be right there,” Orlando promised, scrambling for clothes and shoes, afraid to even look in the mirror. He dropped the bear back in the drawer and nudged it shut with his hip.
Johnny
The converted barge that served as the Black Pearl set was, without a doubt, the ugliest piece of shit to ever float in the Caribbean. Only bits of it resembled much of anything, with walls and decks cut away to facilitate cameras, and about twice as many people milling around than as should logically ever try to fit onto a floating fire-hazard. Of course the portable toilets, jammed into the stern and used by far too many seasick pirates and queasy film crewies, did a lot to add ‘atmosphere’. If you didn’t feel like puking before you had to use it, you sure would after. Most of the men had resorted to pissing over the side. The women insisted on being taken to shore via jet-ski.
The girls were clearly more intelligent.
“Ah, the glamour and refinement of the pirate life,” Johnny mused aloud, primping grandly as he examined his reflection in the ship’s bell, the only shiny object on the entire set.
“Cruise ship!” someone called gamely from above, and a big laugh went up from many experienced hands. Johnny scrambled up to the foc'sle and used his prop spyglass to scan the waves. Of course it didn’t work – he could hardly make out more than a white blob on top of a blue blob. A cheap knock-off in a kid’s toyshop would have been more functional.
“Princess Line,” the cinematographer announced, using a long distance lens to examine the ship passing sedately on the near horizon. “The decks are packed with roasting meat and drunken tourists, all in the same package. Looks like some of the crew are out on the flying bridge, getting a look at our circus via binoculars.”
“I’m sure they’re admiring the Pearl,” Johnny corrected, slurring his words in full Capt’n Jack form. “She’s the finest craft to ever grace these shark-forsaken waters!”
Gore, their director, had joined them, and he reached for a different lens, adjusting it gently as he stared at the passing ship. “It looks like...yes...yes... they’re laughing their asses off, John, I’m sorry to say.”
“What?” Depp stammered. He puffed up like a Bantam rooster. “Prepare to board!” he shouted. “All hands! Man the cannons! Unfurl the mizzenmast! That fat prize is ours for the taking! Stuff your muskets, men!”
“Stuff my what?” the nearest pirate asked, blinking at him like an owl.
Johnny jumped up on the rail, hanging by the ropes, and hit struck a heroic pose. “They’re running scared now! We’ll have them, if the winds are with us!”
“They’re pissing themselves laughing,” Gore corrected. “I can see what has to be every officer on the ship now. If they weren’t in open water I’d be worried about them running into Guadeloupe. I’m surprised they don’t swing closer just for the hell of it and charge their passengers for the added attraction.”
“Oh, that’s it!” Johnny gasped, acting exasperated. “Make fun of the Black Pearl, will ya?” He fumbled with the extravagancies of his costume, and finally got through all the layers and lace and belts, and then he dropped his breeches and bared his ass, waggling it at the passing ship. “Eat this, you fucking tourists!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Orlando had finally arrived, and was observing the scene with obvious relish.
“Get up here and defend your mates, Turner!” Depp shouted.
Orlando raised his sword, trying to look tough, and then launched into the famous French taunting scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, a movie that he’d watched with the Hobbits more times than he could even remember. “You don't frighten us, English pig-dogs!” he yelled in a ridiculous accent. “Go and boil your bottoms, sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you, so-called Arthur-king, you and all your silly English ka-niggets!”
“King Arthur cruise lines?” Depp mused to the invisible audience, but he knew the part too. “What a strange person! Now look here, my good man....”
Orlando was fully into character now, waving his hands extravagantly and gesturing rudely toward the cruise ship. “I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty-headed animal food trough water! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”
Gore finally jumped in, asking in a timid voice, “is there someone else up there we could talk to?”
“No! Now go away or I shall taunt you a second time-a!”
Laughing so hard that he almost fell overboard, Johnny finally let Orlando pull him down to the deck, tugging his pants back up over his sweaty cock and balls, glad that Keira was off on a potty run just then. Didn’t need the morals police all over him about under-aged co-stars. “Unless I’m wrong, Mister Turner,” he said, returning effortlessly to Jack Sparrow’s loopy manner, “you’re of the English variety yourself.”
“I can be Gallic when I need to be,” Orlando corrected him, then speaking in perfectly serviceable French he added, “il y a bien assez de choses que les français font mieux que les sujets de Sa Majesté."
Johnny grinned suddenly and licked his lips. “Embrasser, par exemple?”
“Je ne saurais pas dire.”
“Je pourrais te montrer,” Johnny offered, laughing.
“Vraiment? Il faut voir.” Orlando retreated into the crowd, his face burning beneath Will Turner’s make-up. Johnny Depp had just offered to kiss him, right there on the deck of Black Pearl. Johnny freakin’ Depp.
God, this was going to be a long shoot.
Viggo
“What the...?” he muttered, making his way through the crowd surrounding the sand pit where they’d been setting the next shot. One of the wranglers turned and pushed past Viggo with a stern expression on his face, which was about as much as you ever got from most of these guys in mixed company (mixed meaning ‘horse people,’ and ‘them other guys’). Ducking around a camera boom Viggo finally saw what they’d all been gawking at – the scene where Hidalgo has fallen through the pitfall trap in the desert and become impaled on a spear, and Frank finds that his horse has been seriously hurt.
Viggo felt his heart clench at the sight of the horse down, almost flat out, the spear impaling his fore-shoulder sickeningly. Even knowing that it was fake, the scene would make anyone shudder – and of course Viggo felt far more of a connection to his equine co-stars than the rest of the cast and crew. “Don’t let him move again!” sputtered a make-up specialist, fussing with the fake spear where it was secured against the horse’s actual hide. This didn’t look very safe to Viggo, with all the spikes pressed in as set decoration, even though they were mostly made of foam and balsa.
Something didn’t seem right about the scene, and Viggo rolled a cigarette absently and studied it while the second unit director, focus puller and head cameraman debated angles. The horse they were using for this scene was Alacarte, an easy-going and friendly gelding who had a lot more patience and got into less trouble than their star, TJ, the Paint stallion who’d won the lead and his rider’s heart. Alacarte was trying to roll onto his side, something that a horse would rarely do with so many people around him. Horses were naturally uneasy about being down on the ground. They were grazing animals with very few defenses other than their amazing speed, and it was a laborious process for horses to get to their feet. This was why they’d developed the ability to sleep standing. You would rarely find a horse lying down unless they felt totally safe or there was something wrong with them.
The wrangler at Alacarte’s head was tugging on his bridle, trying to keep him in the right position, pulling gently on his jaw and ears and shooting looks at the director to hurry up and get the shot.
“Viggo, you ready?” the director asked.
Viggo had his lines down cold, so that was no problem, but as he got into position next to the horse he finally got a look at Alacarte’s eyes, and that’s when he knew what they’d done. “Did someone drug this horse?” Viggo sputtered, indignantly.
“Just a mild sedative,” the wrangler said, defensively. He could see the anger in the actor’s face before anyone else on set got wind of it, and quickly added, “the vet’s been here. She said it’s quite mild.”
“You...you fuckers!” Viggo snapped, dropping to his knees to stroke Alacarte’s brow ridges, looking into the dull gaze in the huge, trusting brown eyes.
“Oh, god...can someone do something about the, uh, boner?” the cameraman complained. Any male horse’s penis distended limply from the sheath when they were sedated.
Someone else laughed, and said, “Hey, it’s a Disney picture! No monster horse dick allowed!”
“Whoa, big boy!” giggled another.
“Hidalgo’s a boy horsie, Virginia.”
“Tuck it out of sight or something!”
“I’m not touching it!”
That was the point where Viggo lost it. “You ASSHOLES!” he growled, one hand on the gelding’s neck, the other making a fist as he turned to the circle of idiotically joking crewmen. “You drugged this animal? Get the fucking vet over here! Where’s the ASPCA monitor?” Those words shut most of the flapping lips immediately, those few who weren’t already silenced by the sight of their normally sweet-tempered star getting red in the face – he was so angry. “Get this shit away from him so he can get to his feet! If this horse was hobbled I’m going to kick someone’s ass!” It wasn’t a hollow threat.
The wrangler wanted to argue about the situation, and promptly found himself on his own backside, shoulder smarting from a blow that might have been meant for his jaw, but Viggo had thought better of that at the last moment, despite his fury. Knocking the fake stakes away, Viggo coaxed the gelding to his feet at last, where the horse tried to stand on the uneven sand, wobbly, head-down. Viggo had tears of anger in his eyes as he led the trusting horse a few feet away before the vet arrived, from the catering tent apparently, and started checking Alacarte’s heart rate. Their star insisted on seeing that Alacarte was in the hands of a different wrangler and being led around in circles to speed his recovery before he would leave the horse.
“Viggo,” the assistant director called in a conciliatory tone, catching up to him, noting that the actor’s makeup was ruined.
“I want that vet fired,” Viggo snapped. “I don’t care if you guys told her it was okay. If she didn’t know better or have the nerve to tell you ‘no!’ then it’s her goddamn fault.”
“Viggo...we have to get that shot at this location! Look, we didn’t use the lead horse...” the AD started.
“If I thought you knew any better I’d pop you one right now!” the furious Dane snapped. “You send the ASPCA girl over here the minute your monkeys find her. I’ll be in there reading my contract!” With that the actor jumped up the steps to his trailer and slammed the door. “Assholes!” he screamed, alone in his ‘star wagon.’
Dominic
Sprinting from the balcony, where he’d been watching the KTLA News Helicopter hovering over something a few blocks away, Dom grabbed his phone and fumbled, praying that whoever was calling wouldn’t give up. “Monaghan here!” he bubbled, trying to see the display and talk at the same time. He caught sight of a familiar number just as the distinctive voice erupted in giggles.
“No you’re not! You’re nowhere near here, or I wouldn’t be calling you, wanker!”
“Hi baby,” Dom crooned, trying to sound like Barry White. “How’s your shoot going?”
“I’ll live,” Elijah told him. “Jim Carey is completely insane – and this is coming from someone who spent two years being three foot six and screaming about a giant flaming eyeball.”
“Good insane, or hitting on the potted plants insane?” Dom wanted to know.
“Plants, definitely...yet he’s certainly able to co-sign the checks and bitch about what brand bottled water is on hand at his makeup station, not to mention the exact temperature of said water.”
“Temperature is key, you know.”
“I’ve been flirting with one of the grips. A girl,” he added theatrically.
“Oh, you cheeky monkey! Should I be jealous?”
“I dunno. Can you get a tattoo above your thong line that says ‘Celluloid’s Bitch’?”
“Who says I don’t already? When’s the last time you hooked your thumbs in my thong?”
“Too long ago.” Elijah was quiet for a few beats. “I miss you, Manky bastard.”
“Spoiled Brat.”
“Pervy Hobbit.”
“Foot Fetishist...what’s that sound?”
“What sound? Smegma Breath.”
“I never! You’re circumcised! THAT sound. Are you...are you in the fucking loo?”
“Maybe....”
“Maybe? Oh God, Lijah...that’s disgusting! Is this all I mean to you? Toilet talk?”
“Hey, I have to get my privacy where I can find it! You want me to call you from makeup, with all those bored people listening in on every word? Were you not JUST whining that you never hear from me?”
“Well, if you called me from somewhere appropriate maybe I wouldn’t have to hear nasty words like smegma! You’re getting a filthy mouth on you, Wood! And you used to be such a NICE boy....”
“You missed me!” Elijah purred. “You only sound like my mom when you’ve been thinking about how much you miss me.”
“I do not! Are you getting enough to eat, baby?”
Elijah laughed. “I’ve got Sunday off. Don’t suppose you could fly up here for the weekend?”
“’Fraid not,” Dom sighed. “I have a meeting with my agent on Saturday.” He was lying. He actually just didn’t have the money for a quickie flight to New York. His self-imposed monthly allotment was nearly gone already.
“I gotta get going pretty soon. Just wanted to know how you’re doing.”
“Great,” Dom lied.
“I see,” Elijah said, understanding. “Did you know that Craig’s going to be out there this week?”
“Pansy Parker? When did you hear from him?”
“Thing called e-mail, Dom. You should try it sometime. Of course, you have to be able to type in English, legibly, and use the little mouse thingie.”
“Bite me.”
“I plan on it. I gave Craig your number. Don’t blow him off the way you did Sala last week. You know they all get back to me about you...like I’m your keeper or something.”
“Somebody has to be responsible for the resident aliens.”
“Alien. That’s about right. I miss you.”
“I...me too. Don’t forget to flush.”
“Do I ever?”
“Frequently.”
This was, of course, followed by the sound of a cell phone being held inside the bowl of a flushing toilet. Dom was laughing as the call was abruptly cut off.
Mickey
Checking the e-mail one last time, Mickey wrote a quick ‘thank-you’ to the sender and then popped open a link to a specialized map service. The lights in the Mongolian hotel room flickered, but his computer was running on battery. The local current and voltage were far too wild a ride for delicate equipment. He was currently stealing space on a satellite somewhere over Korea, just so he could surf the internet and make reservations on a flight going south. He pulled up maps of Thailand and zoomed in on Hua Hin, observing the topography with the eye of someone who’d spent some time in Asian jungles.
He threw back another shot of Slovakian vodka and winced, feeling the burn like an old friend. Hua Hin looked like another dump, but it seemed like he’d be able to get there in a couple of hours from Bangkok, which would be good. And hey, they had a nice beach, from the look of things. Why the hell hadn’t any of these damn clones ended up in Manhattan lofts or nice little flats in Amsterdam? Oh well...he supposed they were all meant to be hidden away. Mickey knew all about hiding away things that you cared about.
Thailand should be nice this time of year. He could leave his coat behind to keep some Mongolian warm in the bitter dregs of morning. He checked the weather in the Seychelles, wondering how Stephanie was doing running the Dive Shop. Better call her before he packed. Damn woman was probably cleaning up again. He still hadn’t gotten over the trauma of coming home from New Zealand to find the shack painted pink and blue. Looked like a fucking nursery. It didn’t help his mood any that the business was on a steady increase since she’d joined him, and it had proven handy more than once to have a nurse around.
Yeah, he’d better give her a call, check up on the crazy broad. And then, it was back to hunting clones.
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will keep them as 'reward' things for when i've done some work. *g*
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