My professional
geek friend Tabitha Grace Smith is getting married, and there aren’t a lot of
people who deserve a happy life as much as she does. As a gift, I’ve dedicated
a story to her. That’s right: I’m so cheap Tabz gets what would probably be
called a fanfiction, if not for the fact that the character I’m writing about
comes from my own stories. Still, I think anyone who knows her will see how she
inspired the tale.
To set it up,
the story is about Ian Grant, who’s on his way to Indiana to plan his sister’s
wedding … although she doesn’t know that … and doesn’t like him. Ian used to
chase trouble; these days it’s his reputation that does the chasing, as shown in
this scene from early in The Notorious
Ian Grant, when he finally reaches the Hoosier State and runs into Fran, a
police detective:
Fran gave Ian an even closer look, if that
was possible. “I’ve seen your jail book-in photos.”
“Was I smiling? Could you see my dimples?”
Fran … probably had a nice smile. He almost regretted letting his agent talk
him out of joining the cast of Lady Cop 3: Hollywood Vice,
especially since his agent dumped him weeks later.
“You smiled, but the bloody nose and the
missing tooth spoiled the effect.”
“They put the tooth back. See?” Ian gave
her his most ingratiating smile, to no effect.
“Very nice. However, around here those
trimmed stubbles are not in fashion.”
“I’ve driven for three days—”
“May I ask your
reason for being here, Mr. Grant?”
Uh-oh. Official voice. “It’s kind of
a long—”
“Make it a short.”
“Okay: redemption.”
Fran stared at him.
“See, I have no redeeming qualities...so I need to
develop some.”
After a moment Fran nodded. “Didn’t you
once beat up a bouncer in L.A.?”
“It was in Malibu, and I only hit him
once.”
So at least Ian
recognizes the problem. But before this scene he spends several days driving
from his California home—I wrote fanfics in which along the way he met up with
the brothers from Supernatural and
some characters from Buffy the Vampire
Slayer. To celebrate Tabitha’s impending nuptials, here’s Ian making a stop
along the way at a place that would be close to her heart. Happy wedding, Tabz!
I wish you many happy returns.
CHAOS AT THE CON
By Mark R Hunter
He
should have driven around Las Vegas. Surely Ian Grant wasn’t the first person
to have that thought.
Shutting
off his wedding planning audiobook, Ian braked and leaned forward as he
approached the North Point Hotel and Casino, on the sunbaked Strip. “The Vegas Science
Fiction Convention?” It sounded familiar. Hadn’t someone invited him to it?
The
smart thing would be to pass it by. He was on a strict timetable, after all,
even though only he knew it. Besides, these cons tended to attract the same
people, and Felicia Day didn’t like him much. Come to think of it, Stan Lee
still had a restraining order on him, the old grouch.
Ian
whipped his Mustang into the parking lot. When it came to walking into possibly
volatile situations, he had a reputation to maintain.
The
valet’s eyes widened when Ian hopped out of the car. “Dude, are you Ian Grant?
You totally rocked as Acid Spitter in ‘Tormentor 2’.”
“No,
I’m just cosplaying him—how did I do?” He handed the young man his keys, and
tried not to turn his head away from the reek of controlled substances. The
stuff made him sneeze. So did memories of the “Tormentor” movie franchise.
Especially the second one, his first, which he’d made during one of his
rebellious stages. Well, more
rebellious stages.
“Whoa—you
look just like him. But shouldn’t you have cosplayed the character, instead of
the actor?”
“Didn’t
have the costume budget.”
“Dude.”
He
would, Ian told himself, stick around just long enough to make a round of the
booths, grab some food and drink, and hit the men’s room. Maybe not in that
order. Definitely not in that order. It had been a long drive already.
The
men at the lobby door were dressed as Klingons. The earlier movie Klingons, not
the reboot. Walking boldly up to them, Ian growled, “nuqneH!”
The two took startled steps
backward, and looked at each other. “We, um, don’t actually know any Klingon,”
one said.
“I said hello, kind of.” Taking on
an offended expression, Ian brushed by, growling something that he hoped would
be mistaken for an alien language. He knew only two words of Klingon himself,
and used the second as he passed. “Nice Bat’leth.”
“Oh, thanks. My brother made it for
me in his shop.” He looked down at his bladed weapon, which really was nicely
done, and totally missed that Ian had passed without a ticket.
Ian
had no idea if he was supposed to present a ticket, but better safe than
banned. “Like taking candy from a Klingon …”
He made it well into the crowded
hall before a woman wearing a blue box crashed into him. “Oh, sorry!” she said,
as he helped steady her.
“No problem. Aren’t you
claustrophobic in there?” He waited for the inevitable shriek of recognition,
which sometimes was followed with catcalls, and occasionally fruit.
“Oh, no—it’s bigger on the inside.
Thanks!” She went on by, flashing him a smile as she passed.
Ian had a little experience in this
genre, having built up his CV a bit with SyFy original movies. But with all
that makeup he’d been unrecognizable in “Tormentor 2 or 3”, and managed to walk
around the hallways mostly unrecognized. And thank goodness, considering his
habit on that movie’s set of sneaking up on people in full makeup and freaking
them out.
Those
few people in the crowd who did find him familiar shook it off, assuming a
celebrity would be busy on a panel, or at least have a handler. He even
stumbled upon an autograph session and got signatures from half the surviving
cast of “The Walking Dead”.
It was nice. The closest he came to
being stalked was when three fans cosplaying zombies chased him away from
Norman Reedus. Personally, Ian thought there were enough zombies in Hollywood,
let alone here.
He consumed a Coney dog and headed
toward the exit with a huge cup of soda—probably not a good idea, considering
he had thousands of miles to go. Then someone grabbed him by the arm.
“Mr. Grant! OMG, I didn’t think
you’d be showing. We never got a response from your agent.”
At first he thought it was a child.
The top of her head came to his chin, and her long blonde hair was arranged in
some kind of weird style that produced two tight buns on the top of her head.
She wore a short, stylized schoolgirl outfit, spectacularly red, white and
blue, with tall red boots and long gloves. Ian started to compliment her, but
remembered the “child” part. “Say, how old are you?”
“I’m nineteen. Why?”
“Do you have any ID? That getup
makes you look like you’re twelve.”
“I’m Sailor Moon.”
“Of course you are.” A glimpse of
the exit reminded him of his timetable and he tried to pull away, but her grip
was like the Jaws of Life. “Okay, are you really a superhero? Because if so,
someone should point out that you forgot to take off your glasses.”
With her other hand, she pushed up
the red plastic frames. “I could make this outfit or buy contacts—I made a
choice. Look, I know you’re trying to make time with me, but we’re late for the
panel.”
“I’m not trying—“
“Please. Why do you think we invited
you?” To Ian’s surprise, she started dragging him through the hall. “I’m
Serena. That’s my real name, so deal with it.”
He wasn’t sure why that name should
be a big deal, but he could go with it. “So, I know your real name and that you
hide your Moonish identity with glasses. Suppose I’m a villain?”
Serena turned back, her gaze raking
over his jeans, black t-shirt, and green cross-trainers. “That’s why you’re
here, dummy.” A near-collision with two Cylons made the girl turn her attention
back to their path. “Move it! Celeb coming through!”
I
have a bad feeling about this. “Listen, Serena, there’s something you need
to know.”
“If it’s about the shade of color on
my bow, forget it—I did the best I could, and I’m not getting into any more kerfuffles.”
“It’s a very nice bow, very … large.
No, I needed to tell you I’m not Ian Grant.”
She stopped, so quickly he almost
slammed into her. Turning, she examined him closely. “You messing with me, bad
boy?”
“Um … I’m actually cosplaying Ian
Grant. How did I do?”
For a long moment, Serena stared at
him. Maybe it was the glasses, but Serena’s eyes seemed to be throwing sparks.
“Why didn’t you dress up as one of his characters?”
“I figured he was a character in and
of himself.”
“You got that right.” After a quick
glance around her, Serena grabbed two hands full of Ian’s t-shirt and drew him
down to his level. “Now listen here, faux-Grant. I promised the panel I’d bring
a guy in. Simon Helberg punked out on me. Mark Sheppard wouldn’t even return my
calls.”
The combination of names stirred
Ian’s memory, but he couldn’t quite place why. “Well, that’s just—“
She gave an extra tug, and lowered
her voice so she could just be heard over the crowd. “So here’s what we’re
going to do. You’re going to go on with this perfect impersonation of Ian
Grant, and attend the panel. Afterward, assuming you survive, people will buy
you drinks and suck up to you, and women dressed as green Orion slave girls
will want to go up to your hotel room and let you lick their makeup off. It’s
lime Kool-Aid. But if you don’t do
it, I will personally make you look like you’re wearing that acid-spitter
makeup again. Capisce?”
“Wow. You’re incredibly sexy right
now. Was Sailor Moon this take-charge?”
She tugged on him again. “My version
is. And thank you. Now, are you coming?”
Ian checked his phone. He’d tarried
too long, but getting to Indiana a few hours later shouldn’t be such a big deal.
He also saw six texts from his newly ex-girlfriend, the first of which started
with several X-rated words. But never mind that … Sailor Serena clearly needed
his aid and, contrary to his reputation, he couldn’t stand not coming to the
aid of a damsel in distress.
“Okay, Princess. Count me in.”
“Yay!” Serena grabbed his arm again,
and they hurried toward a conference room door while she spoke urgently into a
cell phone. Ian didn’t hesitate, confident he could charm any audience.
Then he saw the sign, shouting out
the panel’s purpose from the main entrance:
MEET
THE CAST AND CREW OF THE TORMENTOR MOVIES
“Ladies
and gentlemen—please give a big Vegas Con welcome to actor Ian Grant!”
Serena
shoved him forward, then took a guarding position in the doorway. There had to
be a thousand people in the room … although “Tormentor 3” had been released
years before, the franchise kept chugging along.
As Ian headed toward the front, he
tried to gauge his chances of being lynched. About half the audience cheered
wildly, while the applause of the rest could best be called “polite”. The good
news was that, although he recognized most of the actors, producers and writers
on the panel, none had a restraining order against him. The bad news was that
they were all women.
One of them—the producer of the
series—pointed toward the podium. “Late as usual, but your timing is impeccable,
Ian. By all means, do take the center seat.”
“Ah … the place of ‘honor’.”
Stressing the word got him a laugh, so when he took his seat Ian turned the
soda so the cup’s logo faced the audience. “I don’t have an endorsement
contract, but what the heck—maybe they’ll
decide to give me some money later.” Another laugh. So far, so good.
“Hello, Ian,” said an actor beside him, in
such a silky smooth tone that he immediately knew he was in trouble. “I assume
you know why you’re here?”
“To be tarred and feathered?” It
couldn’t be a coincidence that they’d been seated side by side. He’d dated Terri,
a former gymnast hired for her athletic ability, who’d become the tough star of
the entire “Tormentor” franchise. In fact, he’d started dating her on the set
of the second film … and she dumped him during post-production. “Hello, Terri.
Haven’t seen you since you ran over me with a tank.” Come to think of it, almost
every woman here had killed him, directed him being killed, or written him
being killed.
“We were just discussing how you
were something of the court jester on the set, with your puns, practical jokes,
always breaking up the crew …”
A titter ran through the audience.
What had they been talking about before he arrived? He’d been twenty-one when
he joined the franchise as the main villain. A kid, full of vigor and empty of
thought, except for the thought of sex. Ian was barely able to hide a shudder.
“Well … I’m still bad with the puns, although I’d like to think I’ve matured a
little overall.”
That brought a laugh from both the
audience and the panel, who all apparently thought he was joking.
“Talking about you on the set got us
on the subject of sexism in the entertainment industry.” This from a redhead
further down the line, who Ian recognized with a start as a fairly well known
director of other films. She’d been a production assistant when he signed on
for “Tormentor 2”. She’d also fallen for a certain rakish actor who was happy
to fall right back, until a week later when she decided he was too immature for
her. That made Terri a rebound relationship.
Oh,
boy. I’ve been set up. They were either going to talk about me, or jump down my
throat. And the worst part is, they might be right.
When Ian didn’t reply, the redhead
continued. “Our contention is that sexism runs rampant in the entertainment
industry, not to mention it’s a continuing problem at cons like this. We
thought it would be only fair to get the other side’s point of view.”
“The other side?” This must be what it’s like to dance in a
minefield. “Do you mean the other side as in men, or the other side as in
sexist people?”
“Is there a difference?”
The audience held its collective
breath.
Where the hell were Shephard and
Helberg when he needed them? Wait, hadn’t they been killed off in IV and I,
respectively?
Before Ian could formulate an
answer, Terri spoke again. “It’s pandemic in Hollywood, and has been since the
beginning. Your father could probably speak about it even more than you could.”
Ian felt his hands close into fists,
and forced them into his lap as cold swept through him. “My father? Well, it
depends on your definition of sexist. Charles Grant never looked down on
someone in the business because of their sex, never treated them differently
other than to watch his language and hold the door for them. If being a good man is sexism, then yeah.”
Ian stopped, feeling his face redden
in the silence. That went south fast.
“But I thought you hated your
father,” someone in the crowd said.
“I thought I did, too.” Carefully,
Ian placed his hands flat on the podium. “Maybe I was just jealous because he’s
a better man than I.”
“Then what about you, Ian?” Terri
seemed determined to get back on track. “Would you call yourself a feminist?”
Wow—loaded question time. “Not
really. I never gave it much thought, to be honest.”
“But a person who dumps enough women
gets a reputation.”
“Yes, and someone who believes
everything they read in scandal sheets gets stupid.”
Terri leaned back, eyes and mouth
wide.
“I’ve broken up with exactly two
women in my entire life. Usually they leave me, because I’m a reprobate.” The
crowd tittered. “Did I use the word right?”
A few seats down, the producer spoke
up. “You did … and three syllables, too.”
”It’s
all that fancy book learnin’. I know my own weaknesses. But I would never
consider a woman to be a weaker sex.” He rubbed his sore arm, and looked across
the crowd to see Serena, who was staring at him intensely. His cosplay game, at
least as far as she was concerned, appeared to be up.
“Yes, but what about …” Terri’s brow
furled. She was, he assumed, trying to think of a time during his hard partying
ways when he’d been seen treating a woman badly.
Time to twist the knife a little.
“In fact, I remember a movie set in which not one, but two women made passes at
me. Man, you are so good at skating on thin ice.
Terri and the redhead—Robin, that
was her name!—had the good grace to blush. Thank goodness, for his case, that
Robin well and firmly dumped him before Terri cornered him in her trailer.
Running lines, indeed!
“I guess what I’m saying is, a man
can have fun and be a basic ne’er do well without objectifying women.”
Ah, an appreciative laugh. He had
the crowd.
“Ian …” Terri had a look on her
face, one he should have recognized and feared from entertainment reporters.
“Why do you think sexual harassment is such a problem at cons?”
“Well, I don’t know—I suppose if you
get a bunch of undersexed nerds who aren’t familiar with being in social
situations, they need to learn to take the feelings of others into
consideration.”
A communal gasp.
Oh,
I’m so stupid. Always talking first, thinking later. Ian glanced around for
an exit.
“But aren’t all these people nerds?”
Smiling sweetly, Terri swept her arm out toward the crowd. “A thousand nerds,
and you just called them anti-social and backward.”
“I didn’t call them backward!”
The audience murmured. Angrily.
“And so many of these nerds are
women,” Terri continued. “How does being a nerd give men a pass to make a pass,
but not women?”
“I didn’t say it gave them a pass!
It’s an issue of consent. Look, if a nerd woman wants to be horny. I absolutely
approve and that didn’t come out right.”
By the main door, Serena suddenly
pointed at him and shrieked, “That’s the real Ian Grant!”
It should have confused everyone.
But the crowd took Serena’s sailor suited words to mean something else,
something much worse. A low chant began: “The real Ian Grant. The real Ian
Grant …”
When young, he’d dreamed of being in
a place where women outnumbered him. Here was fate, laughing at that dream.
Then two Klingons burst through the
door, almost knocking Serena over. “Stop that man!” one of them yelled,
brandishing his Bat’leth. “He’s an imposter! And he didn’t register!”
“I gotta go.” Standing, Ian grabbed
at his soda.
“Where are you going, Ian?” Grinning,
Terri tilted her head with the expression of someone who’d managed mayhem.
“Um … Albuquerque.” Better a lie
than to lead an angry crowd to Indiana. Leaving the soda, Ian made for a side
exit he’d identified earlier. Safety first. One of the other panel members
tried to trip him, but he’d long ago learned to vault such small obstacles
Ian slammed through the exit into a
side hallway. He oriented himself, then headed toward the convention center’s
front doors—which took him right by the main entrance to the conference room
he’d just left. The startled Klingons whirled, while beside them Serena caught
his eye and gave him thumbs up.
“Real or not, best panel ever! Now
get out, or I’ll punish you.”
“Thanks for the good time, Sailor
Serena!” Twisting his way through the crowd, Ian knew he had it made. There
would be confusion behind him, and any mass attempt to chase him would come up
against the crowd already there. He reached into his jeans pocket for his keys.
His hand came up with a valet
ticket.
“Shoot. I mean, frak.” Still another
example of him not thinking things through. He twisted around, taking in the
crowd, then raised his voice and pointed back the way he’d come.
“It’s Joss Whedon! I just saw Joss Whedon over there! Nathan Fillion
is with him!”
For an instant the crowd froze—then
the stampede began. He dodged over to a booth and hugged the wall until most of
the screaming crowd swept past, then broke for the front doors.
The
entrance was now being guarded by Batman and an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., or maybe
a Man In Black. “Hey! There are two Klingons back there attacking people with a
Bat’leth.”
The two stood on tip toes, trying to
see over the mob. “A real Bat’leth?” Batman asked.
“I think it’s plastic
molding—they’re bopping people over the head with it. One of them just smashed
a Sixties model of The Enterprise.”
“No!”
The two left their posts, heading back to where two blood-smelling mobs had
crashed into each other.
Rushing
outside, Ian found the same valet waiting with a somewhat vacant expression. “Dude,
man, I’ve got a confession: I really am Ian Grant.”
“Oh, man. Dude.”
“And I’ve got a hundred dollar tip
if you get my Mustang back here fast. But without damage. And no smoking in
it.”
“Um, you mean no more smoking?”
“Now!”
Taking
the ticket, the valet ran as if the “Lost” smoke monster was chasing him.
Which, in this place, it might be.
Ian looked around for the best place to hide. The parking lot was too far, and
if he went inside he might not be able to reach the door again before a rabid
mob of aliens and space queens tore him into bite sized chunks.
“Ian! Over here!”
The woman who waved him over stood
near the door, wearing a strange silvery dress that gave her a bell shaped
appearance, and was covered with little half spheres. She also wore a headpiece
that caused what appeared to be a toilet plunger to poke out from her forehead.
It took a moment for him to recognize the face.
“Aren’t you the lady in the blue
box?”
“Costume change. Speaking of which
…” She grabbed his already sore arm and dragged him over to where the box had
been placed, by a wall not far from the door. “Get in, and keep your head in.
Pretend you’re a turtle.”
“But I’ll never—“
“Bigger on the inside.” She shoved
him closer, and Ian reluctantly stepped into the box and swung it shut around
him. Sure enough, he was just able to fit his torso and head into it, although
his legs stuck out. His savior’s voice was muffled. “Just stand there and look
like you’re cosplaying.”
“You knew who I was all along!”
“No, I didn’t figure it out until
you passed.” Something hit him on the head, and by luck he managed to catch a
pen as it fell past. “Sign the inside of the box! And not on the picture.”
“What’s your name?”
“Tabitha.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Tabitha.” Maybe literally.
He heard a commotion go by, and
chose to ignore it as he squinted to find a place that hadn’t already been
signed. Electing to avoid the area around Felicia Day’s autograph, he picked a
spot between Katee Sackhoff and David
Duchovny and wrote a very heartfelt note. Boy, a lot of celebrities had been in
this thing.
He tried to ignore the face that
stared back at him. Affixed to the rear of the box’s doors was the photo of an older,
gray haired man with craggy eyebrows, staring at him with such intensity that
he had flashbacks to his father’s most famous looks of disapproval. “The Twelfth
Doctor, I presume?” Ian muttered. “Do you need a separate agent for those
eyebrows? What, they don’t have hair trimmers on your planet?”
The noise died down, and after a
moment the door swung open to reveal Tabitha. “You didn’t hurt Peter, did you?”
“I beg your—“
“Hurry, they’ll be back soon.”
Ian stepped out of the box, and
found the crowd had disappeared. “Where are they?”
“Half
of them think they’re chasing you around the parking lot, and the other half
are trying to keep the Klingons from tearing up the “Star Trek” table. The
Klingons are very confused.” Tabitha grinned. “They turned on the loudspeaker
from your room, and ... well, usually I only collect autographs, but I figured
this time I’d collect a rescue.”
“It was my pleasure.”
She
shook her head. “I could tell they were setting you up, but next time somebody
brings up a serious issue, try to think about it … well, seriously. Okay?”
“I’ll
never let my words get me in trouble again. Geronimo!” Ian kissed her on the
cheek, then headed for the parking lot.
The valet stood there, smiling as he
held out the keys. “That was legendary, man.”
“I know, right?” He slapped a bill
into the valet’s hands and grabbed the keys, then headed for the car. “Can’t
help noticing the windows are all open.”
“Air conditioner wasn’t working.”
“Right. Take care, friend. You know,
I wasn’t aware they had valets at events like this.”
“Dude, they don’t. You never
actually asked if I was the valet—I gave you a movie ticket. I just hang out
here because nerd girls are sexy.”
“So they are.” Before Ian could say
anything more, he glimpsed an approaching crowd of aliens and superheroes, and
hit the gas.
As he left town, Ian Grant rolled up
the windows and turned on the air conditioner, which worked just fine. He’d had
more surreal experiences, he decided, although not all at the same time. From
here on in, straight to Indiana—no more side trips. And no more joking before
he thought.
Naturally, he became immersed in his
wedding planning audiobook and soon took a wrong turn. It didn’t hit him until later,
the irony of going from The Vegas Science Fiction Convention to Nevada
State Route 375 …
Nicely done, Mark!
ReplyDeleteA great prequel short!
ReplyDeleteHe'll never get to Indiana at that rate. Loved the valet.
ReplyDeleteThe trip is half the fun!
DeleteReally good, Mark. I loved it. Fun, fun read.
ReplyDeleteThanks--and fun to write!
DeleteVery smooth. Nice job.
ReplyDeleteIt was one of those few stories that was fun to write, and still not a pain to edit.
Delete