Excerpt: Aliens and Old Lace - revisited

Chapter Two

…his detractors were small-minded little hacks who were jealous of his greatness.

Maxwell Browning, former Star of the Enlightenment Channel’s Number One Hit Show, Creature Hunter, poked at his plate of fish and chips. They tasted lousy – everything tasted lousy, the chips, the fish, the beer… hell, even the air had a foul taste. Failure. That’s what it was. He’d failed yet again in his efforts to reclaim the Spotlight.

He heard a squeal and looked up, sullen and glowering, to stare at his latest girlfriend. Twenty-three year old Tiffani Myers, starlet, model, and aspiring clothing designer, stood laughing beside the hotel pool. A couple of kids were fooling around in the water; they’d splashed her as she walked by. She waved a fist at them in mock anger and they splashed her again. Her response was typical: She laughed and jumped straight into the pool, half-drowning the pair. They all started romping around like puppies in a puddle while their parents seized the opportunity to take photos of their brats “playing with a star.”

Tiffani had that effect on people; they liked her instantly. It was one of the reasons Maxwell had taken the trouble to enter into a relationship with her. There were other reasons, of course – one couldn’t allow oneself to be monopolized without expectations of a proper return. She was pretty and currently very popular, the more so since she’d been the one wronged by her last boyfriend, who’d been a racecar driver named Larry or Todd or something. Maxwell couldn’t be bothered to remember it; so long as she didn’t call him another man’s name in bed he really didn’t care. That was another place she excelled – the bitch was always eager for it, and was horny enough that he didn’t even have to make much effort to keep her satisfied.

Her popularity was probably her best asset – aided by that big smile and those two improbably perky (and perfectly natural) hellos! that preceded her entrance into every room. In the two months he’d been with her he’d had his picture in more papers and magazines than in the previous three years. That, Maxwell considered, was a good return for his patience in putting up with her and her enthusiastic, giggly ways.

Terrance O’Malley, his cameramen, came slouching up, beer in hand, wearing a hang-dog – or, more likely, hung over – expression. He slouched down in the chair beside Maxwell and looked down at the plate of food through a forest of purple dreadlocks. Maxwell regarded him with minor contempt. Terrance tried to be with it, but he was no brutha of his and never would be. The dreadlocks looked like shit against his sunburnt, freckled skin. His brown roots were showing, too. He didn’t know why the man put up with that itchy shit; he should shave his head, like Maxwell himself did. It was much cooler, in every way.

“You eating that?”

Maxwell shoved his plate away. “Hell, no. I’m fucking sick of fish.” Two and a half weeks had been spent in this little island hell-hole, and just today they’d gotten the confirmation that they’d been chasing their tails the whole time. His agent was gonna have a fucking cow when he heard about this latest failure.

“Thanks, boss,” Terrance said, brightening somewhat. He covered everything with a liberal coating of ketchup and dove happily into the plate.

Brooding, Maxwell watched Tifani climb out of the pool and wander over to one of the lounges. Not even the sight of her smearing sun-tan lotion all over her dark, honey-tinted skin could brighten his mood. Terrance, on the other hand, stopped eating and sat staring, a ketchuppy French fry dangling like a limp dick from his greasy fingers, his eyes glittering with lust.

Maxwell’s lips curled in a sneer. Terrance had the hots for Fani. Actually, it was more than that, in that the man genuinely liked the silly cow. He was constantly doing little things for her, opening doors and fetching her coffee, shit like that. He’d even bought her a card and a little bouquet of flowers for her birthday last week. She had responded with her usual enthusiasm, while casting hesitant glances Maxwell’s way. Luckily, he’d been able to get a table at one of the local hot-shot eateries, and was able to pass a fancy dinner, along with a necklace that the concierge from the hotel had picked up for him, as her “I was waiting for the perfect moment to give you this” present.” She’d been suitably grateful that night, and he shifted a bit, getting a little warm as he remembered the things she’d done to show her appreciation. It had been one of his favorite nights with her – her primary fault being a tendency to talk, unendingly, about God only knew what. That night however, her mouth had generally been… otherwise occupied.

The next day Terrance had brooded about quite a bit, casting envious eyes at Maxwell. Well, let him sulk. He wasn’t the Star, he was just the fucking fool who followed the Star around with the camera. Terrance annoyed him on almost a daily basis, but he was good (and cheap) which was why Maxwell permitted him to work for him. He refused to acknowledge the fact that Terrance was one of the few guys in the business who could stand to hang around with a man as bad-tempered as himself. As far as Maxwell Browning was concerned, his detractors were small-minded little hacks who were jealous of his greatness.

“Yoo, hoo, Maxie,” Fani called.

Maxwell winced. God he hated that nickname, as he’d told her about five thousand times. He glared at her and shook his head when she waved the phone at him. Christ, no way did he want to talk to anybody. Especially since it was bound to be his agent, wanting an update on the current project.

He hung low over his beer, his mind replaying the humiliating day. After spinning a wild yarn of mutilated animals and terrified islanders, he’d finally gotten his agent, Dick Snellingburg, to cough up the ready cash for an investigation—Maxwell maintaining that he himself was broke, which on paper he was, although not in fact. Nobody knew about his little Cayman Island bank account. Anyway, he’d finally gotten the man to spring for the expenses—although he’d only paid enough for Maxwell and Terrance, like one man and a cameraman presented a proper research group! Tifani had paid her own way, claiming that an island vacation was just what she wanted, and, anyway, she was just dying to see Maxwell in his own element, interviewing witnesses and discovering terrible creatures!

Well she’d seen it all, all right. In the past two weeks he’d talked to just about every single person who lived on this flea-speck sand hill, and gone skulking into the mosquito and leach infested jungle searching for the alleged “savage monster” (which the natives had dubbed the “Island Terror”) that had killed, to date, fourteen goats, sixty-seven chickens, and three parrots. The descriptions of a strange, willowy creature with a striped, dull grey coat had been promising. Especially when coupled with stories of how the Island Terror had chased a bunch of tourists one night, and almost carried off someone’s pet iguana.

Finally, after days of tedious work, they’d managed to catch the beast red-handed as it assaulted yet another chicken coop. Only to find that the animal which stood snarling in the middle of a scattering of feathers and beaks was some tourist’s abandoned Standard Poodle, whose grown-out puppy cut still bore the decorative green stripes of some high-class pet boutique.

If he’d had a gun Maxwell would’ve shot the damned thing. Instead, he’d let Terrance ane the chicken’s owner throw a blanket over it and simply taken credit for having caught this terrible menace.

Not even talk of the Mayor holding a party that night in his honor could remove the sting of this latest humiliation. It was all that fucking Dru Holt’s fault. He wouldn’t be here wasting his time chasing after the Island Terrier (as he had since mentally dubbed it) if that bastard Holt hadn’t slipped up and stolen his job right out from under his nose.

Just the thought of how he’d been betrayed and screwed over was enough to raise his blood pressure. Dru, the little prick, has swanned his way into the producers good books—probably by sucking them all off, was his private thought, cause he sure couldn’t explain the little bastard’s sudden ascension to assistant investigator in the prior season by any other means. Then, when the show got picked up this year for a double-length, twelve episode season, he, Maxwell Browning, the already established Star, was told that his services wouldn’t be required. No, instead the producers had decided that little pansy prince Dru Holt would be the new host for the whole damned season!

He’d never expected to be tossed aside like that. The previous three years had consisted of six two hour specials, each hosted by the old geezer (who had started out as a naturalist and had won a bunch of awards which stood gleaming in the lights from the camera right behind the old so-and-so while he waffled on) who’d come up with the idea for the show. ‘Hosting,’ in the geezer’s case, consisted of sitting in an armchair in a well-lit book room making comments prior to each segment, followed by a quick summation in which he’d be joined by the guy who’d done the actual on-the-scene investigating. The first season they’d alternated between Maxwell and some other guy who’d quit after being bitten by an irate rabbit. The second season Maxwell had covered four of the six programs, with different guys “guest hosting” for the other two.

It was particularly annoying that Dru Holt had been discovered during one of Maxwell’s own segments which had been filmed in the middle of the second season. Dru, who’d been going for his doctorate while working for a Washington zoo, had been the assistant of a well-known professor they’d used to do some testing on some bone fragments. The professor had, very generously, credited Dru with doing most of the actual work, instead of hogging the spotlight himself like any reasonable man would have done. He’d even insisted that Dru have his share of camera time, and Maxwell had (it galled him to recall) agreed with the female producer who’d thought it a good idea to allow the good-looking young man to be in the segment. At the time he’d kinda liked the kid, who’d been helpful and treated him with the proper respect due to a Star like him. Clearly, Dru’s sucking up talents had already been at work.

He’d been utterly blind to the conspiracy which had been waged against him. The following season he, Maxwell, had covered the first three shows as lead investigator, with Dru following along as his gopher/assistant. Dru hadn’t even been present for the summatory chats with the host, that’s how much of a nothing he’d been.

Then… things got a bit hazy. He and Dru had worked together as partners for the fourth show—which hadn’t bothered him at the time, because he’d been distracted with attending several award shows (at which the show had done well although he himself had won nothing, damn it) and doing several publicity appearances. Dru had been included at the summation for that show, and he had to admit he’d been a bit impressed at the kid’s poise while talking to the host, whom Maxwell himself actively disliked. He didn’t see why some has-been PBS-loving animal tracker should still be taking the Lead Host title away from him, Maxwell, the Star who was doing all of the actual work. Even if the old fool had come up with the idea for the show, his presence was pointless now.

The very next day Maxwell had broken his fucking leg in three places at a party. Dru had handled the leg work (no pun intended) on the last two shows himself, with Maxwell’s contributions filmed from his hospital room. They’d only used a couple of his bits, which had annoyed him to no end when he’d seen the episodes.

But he hadn’t known they were going to do that at the time; although he had been aware that his contribution was going to be quite small, he’d assumed he’d be called in later to do voiceover narration after Dru finished stumbling around in the brush. Instead his contribution and experience had been tossed out of the window, and Dru had been made to look like the Star. It had been infuriating. But, like a true professional, he had tried to laugh it off, telling himself that the network and the producers were just playing with the kid, and that things would go right back to normal just as soon as he was back on his feet. After all, He’d reminded himself that he’d been on pretty strong painkillers while in the hospital; maybe they hadn’t liked the way they’d made him talk.

The ratings hike for Dru’s two solo shows had taken only Maxwell by surprise. It appeared that when they let Dru host those two shows the producers and show host/creator had already decided to dump poor, laid-up Maxwell in favor of their new flavor of the month if the show’s numbers stayed at or near their current level. And in fact they’d been phenomenal, and had continued to score higher than Maxwell’s episodes during re-runs.

Maxwell was certain that the numbers didn’t mean anything; no, he’d been tossed aside because everyone had fallen in love with that fucking pretty-boy, Dru. He’d called up the host in a drunken rage, demanding an explanation. The host, who disliked Maxwell just as much as Maxwell disliked him, had out and out told him that he’d been fired because Maxwell was a paranoid asshole and Dru was a “really nice kid.” Not only did everyone working on the show like Dru better, since the kid was hard-working and charming, but that his good natured acceptance of Maxwell’s careless on-screen contempt had raised him, in the eyes of the moronic tweens and teens (and their even more moronic mothers and aunts, who really should have been able to see just what a phony little fuck Dru really was, and appreciate a Real Man like Maxwell all the more) to dizzying heights of popularity. Hell, even the men who watched the show liked Dru better. Fucking bunch of fags.

Since then, Maxwell had been looking for something, some angle that could enable him to slip right back into his proper place as the show’s Star. The Island Terror had been the best of several bad lots, but like the others, it had turned into a farce on him, leaving him looking like a fool.