My Gun Has Bullets

by Lee Goldberg

  Charlie and Sabrina raced out of the courthouse on the other side and hurried down the steps into the town square of Anytown, USA. Behind them, they could hear the roar of the truck closing in. They only had a few seconds until Otto and Burt blew through the courthouse behind them and found them in the open.

  Charlie pointed to the end of the street, at the backdrop of a country road winding into the distance, which was painted onto the wall of soundstage 17.

  "That way," he said, nearly out of breath.

  "It's a dead end," she protested.

  "I know."

  And with that, he took her hand and they ran down Main Street to the country road backdrop. Charlie and Sabrina were barely across the square when the truck burst out of the courthouse, hurled into the fake columns, and crashed into the bandstand, flattening it.

  Charlie looked back to see the truck closing in behind them, the courthouse crumbling in its wake. It would only be a second or two before the truck mowed them down. They were all running out of road.

  "We'll get 'em before they reach the hills," Otto yelled, looking ahead at the long, winding road.

  "What hills?" Burt asked.

  Just as Otto realized his mistake, Charlie and Sabrina jumped into the brush on either side of the road. Otto stomped on the breaks, but it was too late.

  The truck slammed into the painted wall of soundstage 17, hurling Otto and Burt across the crumpled hood like two tuxedoed crash dummies. An instant later the truck exploded, coughing their flaming bodies up into the air, which was as close as they would ever get to being stars.

  Charlie and Sabrina straggled out of the bushes and stared at the burning truck, the flames licking the country road off the soundstage.

  "Let's go," Charlie said. "We don't want to be here when the police arrive.

  They slogged through Muck Thing's swamp lands, dashed down the Champs Elysées and cut across the post-apocalyptic landscape of Global Armageddon.

  They were winding through the rubble toward the bleachers when Delbert Skaggs popped up behind the burned-out car in front of them. He set his elbows on the charred hood, steadying the gun he held in his mangled hands.

  "End of the line," Delbert croaked, aiming the gun at Charlie.

  "Give up, Skaggs." Charlie stepped in front of Sabrina. "It's over."

  "For you it is," Delbert said. "Of all the people I've killed, I'm going to enjoy killing you the most, and until a few days ago, I didn't even know you."

  Charlie nervously shook his arm as if trying to get the blood circulating again. "I advise you to drop your gun."

  Delbert flashed a toothless grin. "Give me one good reason."

  The remote control dropped out of Charlie's sleeve into his hand. Charlie met Delbert's gaze. "Because my gun has bullets."

  Delbert cocked the trigger. "You don't have a gun."

  Charlie pressed a button. With a metallic roar, the Robokiller smashed through the skyscraper behind Delbert and fired two flaming missiles from his head-mounted cannons.

  Charlie and Sabrina hit the ground.

  Delbert whirled around to see the fake missiles streak past him on their thin wires, smacking harmlessly into the ground on either side of the burned-out car.

  He was starting to turn, a derisive laugh rising in his throat, when the explosive charge hidden under his feet went off, blowing him and the car hulk into the air.

  The car was rigged to a line that brought it back to earth. Delbert was not. The hitman cart-wheeled through the air, smacked into the bleachers, and broke through the floor, his body landing atop the half-eaten, decomposed corpse of Joel Metzger, who had been missing for days.

  As Charlie and Sabrina stood up, one of the resistance fighters' cannon-mounted jeeps burst through the debris behind them, firing rounds at the Robokiller. Charlie pulled Sabrina off the stage just as the Robokiller fired back, and the ground where they had been lying exploded.

  The two of them climbed onto the first row of the bleachers and sat down, catching their breath, the pyrotechnical extravaganza continuing on in front of them. In the distance, they could hear approaching sirens and the chopping rhythm of a helicopter streaking their way.

  Wincing, Charlie slid his dog-bitten arm around Sabrina's shoulder and drew her to him.

  "I think I've had enough of the tour," he said. "How about you?"

  Tag

  Six Months Later

  A fifty-year-old, cigar-chomping vaudeville comedian reincarnated as a French poodle—everyone knew that was Boo Boo's Dilemma. But when the dog is decapitated in a freak accident, and his head is attached to a malfunctioning robot, well, that's even funnier.

  And it was also Boo Boo's New Dilemma, the breakout hit of the new television season. The phenomenal numbers generated by the wacky sitcom allowed UBC to sweep Thursday night, an evening capped off by Agatha's Niece, starring Sabrina Bishop.

  On rival network MBC, Reed Roland made a triumphant return to television, turning Johnny Wildlife into Dr. Hook, who, in the premiere, captivated the nation by performing an emergency tracheotomy with his prosthesis on an ailing moose.

  But nothing surprised Charlie nearly as much as the news that Eddie Planet was back on television, executive-producing Sunn of a Gunn, starring Erik Estrada and Chad Everett, in the old Frankencop slot.

  Charlie Willis was cleared of all the charges against him, but it was a lengthy, excruciating process that cost him most of his My Gun Has Bullets earnings, and his show T-shirt, in attorney's fees.

  But Eddie Planet came out of the scandal completely clean, even sympathetic. He never had to defend himself, his reputation was never in question, and as hard as Charlie tried, he couldn't come up with one piece of evidence to implicate Eddie in the pIot.

  Eddie claimed to be an innocent dupe, unaware that Pinstripe Productions was owned by the mob, or that Delbert Skaggs was a hitman. Anyone who could have testified otherwise was dead or, in Daddy Crofoot's case, missing.

  It amazed Charlie even more now as he sat in Sabrina's trailer, feet up on the table, reading Daily Variety. Eddie took out a full-page advertisement mourning the passing of "Hollywood legend" and "consummate showman" Flint Westwood, who died on the operating table during penile implant surgery.

  So now the last person who could connect Eddie Planet to the scandal was dead, and Eddie couldn't resist using the event for self-promotion. He'd even taken out an ad praising Boyd Hartnell on the same day as his memorial service at Rolling Hills Pet Cemetery.

  Eventually, Charlie knew he'd find a way to make Eddie Planet pay for all the trouble he had caused. In the meantime, Charlie was happy just to have survived the ordeal, though he'd been marked forever by it. The scars from the bullet wound and the mauling of his arm would always be there to remind him.

  But he'd come out with his reputation intact and, more importantly, with the love of a beautiful woman, who just happened to be coming in the door.

  Sabrina, exhausted, trudged into the trailer between takes, still wearing her black leather jumpsuit. She kissed him on the cheek and grabbed an Evian from the fridge.

  "So, have you made a decision yet?" she asked.

  He tossed the Daily Variety on an empty seat and, for the first time in hours, looked down at the three badges on the table.

  One badge was from the Beverly Hills Police Department, offering him his old job back. One was from Pinnacle Pictures, offering him a job as the company's chief of worldwide security. The last one came from Jackson Burley and Don DeBono. It was Derek Thorne's badge, and if he pinned it on, they'd guarantee him twenty-two more episodes of My Gun Has Bullets.

  "No," he groaned. "I'm trying not to think about it."

  She set her Evian on the table, climbed into his lap, and straddled him. "Maybe I can help."

  He smiled, took her zipper in his teeth and peeled her jumpsuit open. "Did I ever tell you I have verisimilitude coming out of my pores?"

  She buried his face in her bosom, closed her eyes, and sighed. "I knew
it was something."

  About the Author

  Lee Goldberg is a two-time Edgar Award nominee whose many TV writing and/or producing credits include Martial Law, SeaQuest, Diagnosis Murder, The Cosby Mysteries, Hunter, Spenser: For Hire, Nero Wolfe, Missing and Monk.He's also the author of The Walk, Beyond the Beyond, Successful Television Writing, The Man With The Iron-On Badge and the Diagnosis Murder and Monk series of original mystery novels. As a TV development consultant, he's worked for production companies and broadcasters in Germany, Spain, Sweden, and the Netherlands. He currently serves on the board of directors of the Mystery Writers of America and is the co-founder of the International Association of Media Tie-in Writers.

  If you liked MY GUN HAS BULLETS, you won't want to miss the sequel, DEAD SPACE (previously published under the title "Beyond the Beyond") also available in an ebook edition. Here's an excerpt…

  Conrad Stipe sat in the bar of the Spokane Marriott nursing his sixth Old Grand Dad, flashing his nicotine-stained teeth at the big-busted woman in the too-tight silver space suit. His dick was hard, which was a miracle, since the girdle cinched firmly around his flabby stomach cut off all the circulation to his groin hours ago.

  "I've seen the crab nebula up close and the milky way from a million miles," he slurred, staring into her blue contacts. "but I've never seen anything as beautiful as your eyes."

  "Wow," the woman shrieked, her face-lift stretched taut, "When Captain Pierce said that, just before kissing the six-breasted nymph of Zontar, I had my first orgasm, right there in front of the TV set."

  "I got a TV in my room," Stipe said, pinching his leg and feeling nothing. "Maybe you could show me how it happened." If he stood up now, using the bar for support, he figured the circulation to his legs might return. Then again, his hard-on might leave and not come back for weeks.

  She smiled, her capped teeth catching the fluorescent light like the Formica tiles in the men's room. "I can't believe this is actually happening to me."

  "Me, too." Stipe stifled a burp and marveled, for maybe the millionth time, at the sick, horrible unfairness of it all.

  There were hundreds of people in the hotel tonight, and every one of them thought he was the single greatest man on earth. Unfortunately, most of them were on the wrong side of forty and dressed like space aliens, wishing they'd finally outgrow their bad skin and dreaming they could be one of the TV characters he created out of spite and greed.

  Back in 1964, when he was a struggling TV writer, when his stomach was flat, his teeth were white, and his manhood was in constant tumescence, he signed a pilot deal for shit money to create a series for Pinnacle Pictures.

  But before he got around to writing the script, he was hired on the western series Destiny's Journey, where he quickly rose from staff writer to producer by writing the best damn episodic scripts on television. Those bastards who accused him of stealing credit, of simply sticking his names on other people's scripts didn't understand the genius of his subtle rewriting. His little touches made all the difference. If you leave the yeast out of dough, the bread doesn't rise.

  When the show ended five years later, naturally every studio in town was dangling big-money pilot deals in his face.

  That's when those assholes at Pinnacle started nagging him to honor their insulting, shit money contract. He tried to walk, telling them the statute of limitations had expired on the contract. But the lawyers told him a "statute of limitations" applied to crimes, not pilot contracts. The contract was a crime, he told them, but they couldn't see that. Lawyers. What the hell do they know?

  So he took Pinnacle's money, spent it on a pair of shoes, and hacked out the silliest piece of shit he could think of. A story about a military spaceship, run by a blowhard Captain who thinks with his pecker, a science officer with an elephant nose, and a lady doctor whose space-tits were actually a set of high-tech computers. He called it Beyond the Beyond.

  The network bought it. That's when Stipe realized how good Beyond the Beyond really was. He wrote it from his gut, from his anger, by-passing his intellect all together. Instead of writing crap, like he thought he had, he created a work of pure creative passion. It was brilliant.

  The pilot was unlike anything television had seen before. It blew the network away. They ordered 25 episodes. The ratings were lousy, but that was because the show was ahead of its time, it was smarter than the audience. The network picked it up for a second year, asking him to dumb it down, but he had integrity. He wasn't about to pander to the viewers. They would recognize quality programming.

  Well, they didn't.

  One day he woke up with an enormous hang-over to discover he'd somehow married the actress with the computer boobs, the network had canceled the show, and his career was over. He was ostracized because he was too smart, too hip, for the medium.

  Stipe fled to Europe, where he spent the next decade writing soft-core porno films -- but with class. Once again, he was ahead of his time, his little-seen Claudette's Boudoir predated Emmanuelle by years.

  He returned to the states just long enough to sign divorce papers, sell what little assets he had left, and see what was on TV. What he saw was Captain Pierce and Mr. Snork on the bridge of the starship Endeavor, shooting an aspirin beam at a cosmic space brain threatening to eat the universe.

  Beyond the Beyond reruns were playing twice-a-day on stations nationwide. He was getting pocket change in royalties, but he found out his ex-wife had a tidy little mail-order business going with selling old scripts, photos, and props to fans.

  Finally, there were people out there who recognized that the show was about something, and that he was a visionary. And he was. Among other things, he quickly envisioned turning that fervent devotion into cash.

  The first Beyond the Beyond convention at the Fresno Hilton drew 5000 fans who inexplicably paid $15 each to dress in costumes, discuss minute details of each episode, and listen to him talk about all those courageous, artistic battles he never fought.

  And that had been his life since. The conventions were still good for five or six grand in cash, a couple ardent but lousy blowjobs from obese women in polyester space suits, and few free nights in an airport Hilton with a full mini-bar.

  It was a slow death, but at least he wasn't enduring the ignominy alone. Kent Steed was stuffed into a booth in the coffee shop, wearing his decaying, rubber elephant nose, and signing copies of his self-published memoirs Call Me Mister Snork. And Nicole Huston, the yeoman who was reduced to a cube and crushed by an alien with donkey ears in episode 27, was selling pictures of herself in the lobby, $1 plain, $5 signed. Guy Goddard, who played Capt. Pierce, was a recluse who never ventured out of his Van Nuys house without his uniform.

  Stipe's long-stifled burp suddenly broke free, and if it hadn't, he might never have noticed the woman's hand on his thigh.

  He had no idea how long her hand had been there, but it made him re-think the girdle issue. What was more important, hiding his flab or regaining circulation in his lower extremities? Of course, if women saw the flab, there might not be any action in the extremities to feel any way.

  Then again, who was he kidding? They weren't after his body, they wanted piece of his soul, not that he had any to give. He worked in television. At least he did, a long time ago, back when the hag with her hand on his thigh was young and found ecstasy in front of a 19-inch Magnavox.

  "Why did the nymphs of Zontar have six breasts?" she asked.

  He had absolutely no idea. "Because their young are very hungry." With one hand gripping the bar, he slowly rose to his feet. He could tell she wasn't happy with his answer.

  "It was a metaphor for socialism in an idealized, yet decadent, democratic context," he added.

  She trembled. "I'm the luckiest woman on earth."

  * * * * * *

  Her illusions about Stipe ended the moment he peeled open his Velcro girdle and his stomach flopped down over his crotch, hiding whatever might be there.

  His illusions about her began the
moment she unzipped her space suit, and her flesh burst out the seams like Pop 'n Fresh dough. But they were too far along and far too desperate to stop now.

  They had dream sex.

  The wanna-be Nymph of Zontar dreamed she was being colonized by Captain Pierce and the Confederation of Aligned Galaxies. Stipe dreamed he was young, successful, and frolicking with the buxom cowgirl from Big Hooters magazine's "Vixens of Double-D Ranch" spread.

  Five minutes later, it was over, leaving one of them unsatisfied and embittered, the other flatulent and fast asleep. She zipped herself back into her space-suit and slipped out of his room, plotting to switch her precious scifi allegiance to SeaQuest.

  Stipe woke up hung-over early the next morning, had a good-morning vomit, then packed what was left in the minibar into his suitcase, and hurried to the lobby before any Beyonders woke up to pester him. He'd be at the airport, heading back to Los Angeles, before they were even out of their Beyond the Beyond jammies. But he was only two steps out of the elevator when someone spoke behind him.

  "Mr. Stipe?"

  Stipe froze. So much for a clean getaway. He turned around expecting another pimply-faced goof in a Confederation uniform and a Snorkie nose. Instead, he saw a barrel-chested man in a chauffeur's tailored suit and dark, impenetrable sunglasses, reaching for his suitcase.

  "I have a limousine waiting for you outside, sir."

  If it was like the one that picked him up at the airport, it could mean a twenty minute drive stuck in a Hyundai with three bald teenagers, each one wanting to show him the body parts they'd pierced with Confederation insignia pins.

  "I'll pass," Stipe yanked the suitcase away from the man's grasp.

  "You're keeping Mr. Kinoy waiting, sir."

  Stipe stared incredulously at the man. "Are you trying to tell me Milo Kinoy, one of the richest, sons-of-a-bitches on the planet, sent his limo to Spokane-fucking-Washington just to give me a lift to the airport?"