As the penalty gate opens to allow the player back on the ice he turns and looks at MacLeod. He's tall, strong and good-looking, 44 years old. He smiles at MacLeod.
SABRE
(cont.)
Watch your head.
And he charges back onto the ice as MacLeod stares, dumbfounded.
TRANSITION TO:
INT. JOE’S—DAY
MACLEOD
Turns out he should've watched his.
Dawson looks at MacLeod with concern.
DAWSON
What do you mean? What happened?
MACLEOD
He gets in his car after the game. On the highway from Toronto to Buffalo there was a car crash. He died.
DAWSON
Sonofabitch.
Joe is quiet as he takes this in. He looks up at MacLeod.
DAWSON
(cont.)
What was his name? This hockey player.
MACLEOD
Horton. Tim Horton.
Dawson looks at MacLeod.
DAWSON
Tim Horton? The Tim Horton?
MACLEOD
The very same. The one and only brother of your brother-in-law, James Horton.
And off Dawson’s reaction . . .
CUT TO:
INT. MACLEOD'S LOFT—LATER
MacLeod has fired up his computer and punches some keys as Dawson looks over his shoulder.
DAWSON
(reading)
"No finer person, teammate, or hockey player ever lived." "One of the finest gentlemen ever to wear the Leaf colours."
He's upset. He walks over to the bar and pours himself a drink.
DAWSON
(cont.)
So James graduates from the Watcher Academy, tries to enlist the help of his brother, Tim. Gives him the whole routine, how Immortals have to be wiped off the face of the earth. Only Tim doesn't bite. In fact, he's a good guy. He decides to warn Immortals. So James kills him.
MACLEOD
Not exactly. Remember how he used Xavier St. Cloud to do his dirty work for him? That wasn't the first time he used those tactics.
DAWSON
Then who did it, dammit? Do you know?
MACLEOD
Oh, I know alright. Took me almost fourteen years to catch up with the guy. It was 1988, in Spokane, Washington. Not far from here.
He pours himself a drink and joins Dawson on the couch.
MACLEOD
(cont.)
I was playing center for the Spokane Chiefs of the Western Hockey League...
DAWSON
Wait a minute. Wait just a gosh darn minute. We've been through this already. You've already admitted you are not a hockey player so what in blazes are you trying to hand me?
MACLEOD
Well, actually, I was a hockey player. But only for one game. As it turns out, that one game was all I needed.
He takes a sip of his drink.
MACLEOD
(cont.)
Joe, how much do you know about hockey?
DAWSON
Not very much. Why?
MACLEOD
Let me tell you. Hockey's a rough tough game. I would even go so far as to call it a violent game. There are all kinds of mean, dirty things players can do to each other--elbowing, checking from behind, clipping, cross-checking, charging, interfering, tripping, board-checking, slashing, butt-ending, spearing the other guy with your stick. . . . Most of these infractions will draw a two or five minute penalty. I mean, even if you drop your gloves and fight, you only get five minutes in the box. It's all considered part of the game. What's more serious is when you draw blood. Jabbing your stick in someone’s face, knocking out a few teeth and drawing a bucket of blood will get you a one game suspension.
DAWSON
I know you're leading me somewhere, but I'm not sure where it is. Do you want to cut to the punchline?
MACLEOD
I was given a lifetime game misconduct. Actually . . . two lifetimes. We fought with sticks.
DAWSON
(incredulous)
You had a swordfight with your hockey sticks?
MACLEOD
A dandy. But that wasn't the worst of it.
DAWSON
I'm all ears.
MACLEOD
I tripped. Don't forget this was my one and only hockey game and he was much more proficient on ice. He started to undo his skate.
DAWSON
He was taking off his skate?
MACLEOD
Yeah. But the thing is, I managed to remove my skate first. I must add that nobody in any game had ever before seen a player remove his skates during a fight. The crowd went wild. There was a Gary Glitter rock song blasting from the speakers. The entire arena was on its feet, loving it, roaring for blood.
Dawson stares at him, hanging off his every word
MACLEOD
(cont.)
The guy tried to reason with me. He said since hockey was the religion of Canada, a hockey arena should be considered Holy Ground.
DAWSON
And? You agreed with him?
MacLeod smiles sheepishly.
MACLEOD
Not exactly. I got caught up in the moment. I pandered to the crowd.
DAWSON
You did it? You actually did it? Right there?
MacLeod shrugs.
MACLEOD
I gave the people what they wanted.
Joe Dawson stares incredulously.
MacLeod takes a sip. He smiles, nods to himself as he reminisces.
MACLEOD
(cont.)
Those blades are sharp.
And as Dawson's jaw drops open. . .
FADE OUT.
WRITER’S NOTE: Tim Horton was born in Cochrane, Ontario, on January 12, 1930. He played nineteen seasons with the Toronto Maple Leafs, including four Stanley Cup winners. He was finishing his career with the Buffalo Sabres when he was killed in a car accident on February 21, 1974, on his way home to Buffalo after a game in Toronto. Horton had opened thirty-five coffee shops before his death. There are now some thirteen hundred of them in Canada and the United States. Brad MacLeod played one game for the Spokane Chiefs of the WHL in 1987-88. He did not score any goals.
The Staircase
by Valentine Pelka
"KRONOS": Valentine Pelka
Casting for the role of Kronos, the leader of the mythical Four Horsemen in Highlander's historic "Revelation 6:8," was pivotal. Actor Valentine Pelka wasn't the most physically intimidating of the men who auditioned—in fact, in person he is almost unassuming!—but he had a way of becoming Kronos that was impressive, to say the least. Even on badly lit, badly shot audition videotapes, Valentine made the part his own. It's impossible now to imagine anyone else as Kronos. And, like many of the other recurring actors represented here, Valentine made more of the role than had originally been planned, returning for two additional episodes after his character had been killed. Though not set in the world of Highlander's Immortals, Valentine's story offers another perspective on the universal human themes of life, death, and the battle for survival.
Dedicated to my wife, Noriko, without whose encouragement and patience I would never have taken the top off the pen.
I
They had been anticipating this moment all day with a sort of impending dread. Dark, grey clouds hung around listlessly like celestial undertakers tired of waiting. The normally boisterous city traffic was sullen and hushed. People sat behind half-misted cafe windows and stared out, ruminating upon existence while others, seemingly anxious to avoid an end that might be nigh, scuttled bad-temperedly about clutching their inadequate umbrellas and silently loathed their fellow man. As the hidden sun finally sank below the horizon it was as if the city breathed a sigh of relief that the day had finally been put out of its misery. And somewhere a clock sounded four o'clock, perhaps out of respect for the deceased.
II
"So, Mr. Morris, how can I help you?"
> The question took him by surprise. "I rather had the impression, doctor, that I was paying you to tell me that."
She smiled, indulgently. "First of all, Mr. Morris, I'm not a doctor. Secondly, this is a consultation to assess if I can help you... there is no charge." She was not French, that much he could tell, but the accent was quite definite, Polish perhaps or Czech? "I have already talked to your specialist but I would like to hear from you why you think Dr. Gueritoimeme has referred you."
"Passing the buck, perhaps?" He shifted in his seat... mildly irritated by the directness of her approach... she expected answers from him and he had only brought an overnight case packed so full of preconceptions and skepticism that little room was left for objectivity.
"I have absolutely no idea... you'd have to ask him that."
He could feel a surge of his old irascibility mounting in his chest. "Look, doctor... I'm sorry, Mrs...." He looked up at her impatiently, waving his hand generally in her direction. "Mrs.... ?"
She smiled, "Kolyatowski, Miss. I'm not married."
"All right, Miss Kolyatowski. Look, I'm sorry to be rude but this..." He searched the air for the correct phrase but without success. "...THIS! It's just not me. Do you understand? This whole alternative, aromatherapy, sniff your way to a healthy life thing! Hm? I mean, contemplating your navel while breathing deeply and thinking nice thoughts is no doubt fine for some people but I don't happen to be one of them. I have a tumour the size of a small grape-fruit and it is malignant. That's a fact! Can't alter that fact, caught it a little late, that's all. The bloody treatment isn't working and I've got six or seven months to live. Maybe a little more if I give up cigarettes! For God's sake, can you believe he said that to me? Can you believe it!" He was very agitated by now, breathing heavily, tripping over himself as he searched his thesaurus of invective. "I'm going to die. I am going to die! Why don't we just cut all the bollocks... pardon my French!... and just admit it? I don't believe in God, Father Christmas, or the innate goodness of Mankind. It's too late to become a Buddhist and I can't stand spinach. Is the picture becoming clearer...?"
"Helena... my name is Helena...." She walked over to her desk and reached down into a drawer. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
III
"There are two ways of looking at your predicament, Mr. Morris. Your interpretation is that you are dying and there is nothing anyone can do. Dr. Gueritoimeme sees things slightly differently and hence his suggestion that we meet. Basically he feels that all things being equal you have a fighting chance of responding well to your treatment. But all things are not equal, are they, Mr. Morris?" She looked at him very pointedly as she stubbed out her cigarette. "That wasn't a rhetorical question."
It was like a game of chess and he sensed she had spotted his weakness very early on. "What do you mean?"
Her next move was direct and decisive. "Dr. Gueritoimeme believes that the obstacle to your successful treatment lies not within the invasive nature of your tumour and his ability to treat it but rather inside your own head."
His contemptuous "Pah!" was a tad too theatrical to be truly convincing and he knew it.... "That is typical... just... I mean... I mean... oh, God!!" The vehicle of his indignation had just run out of gas and he was having to get out and push.
"How many psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb, Mr. Morris?... Do you understand my point? Your doctor can do very little to help you beat your cancer if you have not yet resolved the question of whether you really want to live or not. And yet, given all you have said, I can't help wondering why you are here." She let that hang in the air for a few moments and then, very softly, said, "I'm a hypnotherapist, Mr. Morris. I try to help people in your position to tap the enormous potential of the brain to find its own solutions when all artificial means appear to be failing. But you have to want to live... otherwise we'd both be wasting our time, wouldn't we?"
IV
He was in a wheelchair, and spinning the wheels as fast as his blistered hands would allow. He daren't look over his shoulder and what good would it do anyway? He knew it was behind him and gaining on him with every hour that passed. The landscape was tarmac as far as the eye could see, with here and there the rusting frame of a supermarket trolley. There was light but seemingly no source and he cast no shadow as he careered along. To call it a road would be misleading because nothing existed either side of it and "it" didn't appear to lead anywhere but he had an instinct that this was all. The road was all, leading everywhere and yet nowhere. Choose a direction and the road would accommodate you with its effortless tarmacadam glide. There were no trees, no weeds, no streetlights, no pedestrians, no lines on the road because there was no traffic and no need to distinguish one side from the other. There was nothing on the horizon in any direction to look forward to or to aim for. The smooth, dark grey mass undulated to a never-ending perspective fade-out. Stranger still was the lack of breeze.... The speedometer on his chair was needling ninety m.p.h. which seemed a trifle fast for an invalid carriage and yet he was more concerned about the lack of atmospheric resistance. There was no wind! In fact there appeared to be no climate at all. Where was he? It was no world he had ever encountered and yet it seemed to him to be familiar. The sky was there because it was above the land, such as it was, but it wasn't blue, or grey, or any colour... and yet there it hung above his head, a flat, colourless, empty space seemingly without dimension or content.
Suddenly he heard a sound behind him which started quietly at first but steadily built until he recognised it to be laughter, deep, mocking, goading laughter. It seemed to echo inside his skull and the noise level grew and grew until he thought he could stand it no longer. He covered his ears with his bloodied hands and shut his eyes tight as if he could negate the sound but it was impossible. The laughter in his head had built to such a level that he thought his skull would split and it was only the fact that his hands were clasping his head so tightly that prevented this from happening. Eventually he could stand it no longer and as he felt the warm trickle of blood trickling from his ears and down his neck he let out a desperate scream and...
V
...he fell off the couch in a heap on the sitting room floor. He decided to stay still. "Better not make any rash decisions at this juncture," he thought. He had a fair idea what was awaiting him and, in truth, he was putting off the inevitable. In his experience, and recently his research in this area had been extensive, any position approximating to the horizontal was pretty safe. The side of his head reclined on the rather worn Afghan carpet, the left cheek puffed and squashed out like that of a lop-sided Botticelli cherub. He'd never liked the pattern and had made a fuss about it at the time but his ex-wife had bullied him into buying it. How she would enjoy his present predicament, his mouth half-full of medium pile Afghan shag, arse in the air, his nose being forced to sniff the accumulated dust of a failed and bitter marriage. "Should have thrown it out together with her bloody Barry Manilow albums," he thought.
An Evening at Joe's Page 17