Chapter 7: CHAPTER SEVEN

At noon the next day Fenwick glanced at the a copy of the rewritten screenplay Creighton had slaved over all night long. The producer/director shuffled through the room with eyes half closed. Fenwick wished the man would go to sleep for a long, long time.

The script sucked worse than the original screenplay. A lot of romance, yes, and even a hot and heavy sex scene between Benita Corovelli and Cal Torrence, but the dialogue would have the audience rolling in the aisles, doubling over with laughter. Didn’t the man read aloud what he had written?

Chandrha had a part, even Rheôvhan had a few lines, but the major part of the movie belonged to Jhevharel. A dragon with fur? The audience would never go for that.

Why had he come here in the first place? Why hadn’t he just created a CGI dragon like Creighton wanted in the first place? He wanted to slap himself on the forehead for ever coming up with the idea of using one of the whistling dragons for Creighton’s picture.

And now the man had this bright idea of creating a brand new film, a fantasy-romance, he called it.

“Oh, Clarence.” That was Benita, wearing her costume, a long red dress flowing down to her ankles, her black hair done up in a bun at the back. “I looked at Harold’s new script. It’s going to be so romantic.’

“Yeah.” Bullshit.

“You don’t sound enthusiastic. You think it is not good.”

“He should have left it the way it was,” he said. “He isn’t cut out to make a romantic picture.”

“He wants to do something different.”

“There’s a sex scene in it.”

“So? Why should it bother you?”

“It’s not a matter of it bothering me. Have you read the dialogue out loud?”

“No, I just...” She shook her head.

“Read it aloud.”

He walked over to the diner to grab some lunch. He hoped not to run into Creighton, but the director was sitting at one of the tables, the script in front of him.

“Can I tell you something?” Fenwick asked.

Creighton looked up. “What do you think of it?”

“That?” He tapped the cover of the 8 1/2 by 11 script. “You want my honest opinion?”

“No, I want you to lie.” Creighton shifted his head past Fenwick. Alice brought over a plate of scrambled eggs and hash browns. “Yes, I want your honest opinion.”

“It’s... great.”

“You’re lying,” a familiar voice behind him said.

He turned around. Two Tereskàdians stood just inside the door. Chandrha and Rheôvhan, and their whistling dragons.

“Why do you say that?” Creighton asked.

“I don’t know what he thinks of your script,” Chandrha said, “but if he tells you it’s great, he’s lying.”

“I’m putting you in the film, you and your mate.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” she said. “I looked at your script. You have me doing things that would be impossible for me to do.”

“Like?”

“Like crying... and anger... and fear. I can’t do that. And I certainly can’t say the words you want me to say.”

“Oh, come on. You mean you can’t act?”

“Anything we do which runs counter to what we’re really feeling is a lie. And since we can’t lie...”

“So if I tell you to yell at Rheôvhan like it says in the script you can’t do that because you’re not angry at him.”

“That’s right.”

Creighton patted his script. “What the fuck am I going to do now? I wanted to include the villagers in this film, but now...” He shrugged, almost ready to admit defeat.

Defeat was not an option.

An hour later Fenwick was sitting in the diner, Creighton beside him, huddled like players in a football game. Creighton had his hand around a glass of beer, the foam threatening to escape down the side, but he didn’t care.

Fenwick’s hands were folded on the table, and he was waiting for Creighton to break the unbearable silence. The man was thinking, thinking, trying to figure out how to put these aliens in his picture. Why put them in the picture at all? That wasn’t his plan, was it? It was supposed to be about maidens in distress and knights riding to the rescue, and fire-breathing dragons. If it weren’t for his trip up here, they’d be well into the picture.

“How about ‘Teen Monsters from Mars – The Sequel?’ ” Fenwick could almost taste the bitterness in Creighton’s voice.

He said nothing, left Creighton to fend for himself.

Creighton picked up the glass. “I had this great idea, but now it’s all fucked up because of those aliens.”

“Maybe you should go with your original idea,” he ventured.

“Piece of crap,” Creighton said. “Don’t you think I know that? They’re laughing behind my back. Besides, I rewrote the thing. Scribbled something that’s supposed to be a romantic... what? Adventure, I guess.”

“I’m sure it’s good.”

Creighton glared at him. “You want me to bring one of those aliens in here? They can tell if you’re lying. And I know you’re lying, Fenwick. You think I’m a piece of shit, right? Right. I can’t write, I can’t produce, and I can’t fucking direct.” He pushed back his chair so hard it wobbled before it settled down again, picked up the glass as he stood up. “You know what? We’re going to make that picture... complete with aliens... well, Chandrha and that pet of hers.”

“Jhevharel is not her pet,” he said.

“Whatever.” Creighton headed for the door. “Do they have a meeting place somewhere around here?”

“I’m not sure, unless you go to Chandrha’s home.”

“All right, let’s go.” Creighton stormed out of the diner like a man late for the most important mission in his life, and perhaps it was.

The worst director of the 21^st century, still trying to churn out another disaster of a movie. Once you head down that road, there was no turning back. He couldn’t picture Creighton a few years down the road, coming up with a film the critics and the audience would rave about. Harold Creighton had laid claim to the title of worst director when he released ‘Teen Monsters from Mars,’ a film so bad there weren’t enough rotten tomatoes in the world to toss at it.

Creighton reached Chandrha’s home just ahead of him. When he knocked on the door, it opened and Chandrha peered out. A smaller version of herself peeked out from behind her. Fenwick could tell the cub was afraid by the way she shivered.

“I’d like to talk to you and your mate,” Creighton said.

“Sure,” Chandrha said, stepping aside. “Come on in.”

Fenwick pushed in behind Creighton. The home wasn’t large but it did look cozy. What had he been expecting, a twenty-room mansion? Two rooms, this one living room, kitchen, dining room. Kitchen? Why did they need a kitchen? These aliens were carnivores. They hunted prey that lived in this area, and they ate their food raw. And they sucked the teats of their whistling dragons. Oh yes, that was rather unusual. A species that lived entirely on meat, and drank the milk of their whistling dragons exclusively.

The bedroom also puzzled him. No door, so he took a surreptitious look into the room, which contained two beds, one regular sized, one smaller. No closet, of course, since the Tereskàdians wore no clothes. Bathroom somewhere nearby. The aliens ate and drank, so they had to eliminate.

“I still want you in my film,” Creighton said.

“Why? I told you...”

“We’ll work our way around you,” he said. “You do have emotions, don’t you? Or are you related to the Vulcans?”

“Vulcans?”

“Yeah, like Spock.”

“Spock? I don’t know any Spock.”

“Star Trek.”

“I never heard of it.”

“Spock is a Vulcan on Star Trek.”

“What is Star Trek?”

“It is... was a TV show... and then a series of movies... and a bunch of spin offs.”

“Why don’t you use this Spock?”

“He’s not real.”

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“I thought he was a Vulcan.”

“He is... was... on the show, I mean.”

“So he doesn’t come from Vulcan?”

“No. He’s an actor.”

“Spock is an actor.”

“Leonard Nimoy played him on the television series.”

“Who is Leonard Nimoy?”

“He was an actor.”

“Was?”

“He died a few years ago.”

“So there is no Spock and no Vulcan.”

“Well, Spock is still around.”

“You’re confusing me, Sen Creighton.”

Fenwick laid a hand on Creighton’s arm. “Why don’t we talk about what we came here for?”

“If I were to do this...” She glanced at Rheôvhan, busy with Ad‘herha. “What would I have to do?”

“Be yourself,” Creighton said.

Rheôvhan stood up, came over. “What does that mean?”

“I want her, and you, to do what you normally do,” Creighton said. “We’re going to film everything, and we’re going to incorporate it into the movie.”

“Just my mate and I?” Rheôvhan asked.

“The village. We’ll use the entire village. Everyone who lives here will be in the picture. Maybe... maybe I’ll make a documentary.” He turned to Fenwick. “How does that sound?”

Fenwick shook his head. It couldn’t be. First a movie about fire-breathing dragons, then a romantic adventure set in an alien village, and now a documentary? This man was impossible, impossible to work for, impossible to even stand beside him.

“It sounds interesting,” he said, and wished he hadn’t.

“Is he lying?” Creighton asked the aliens.

“Yes,” Chandrha said.

“All right, I’m lying,” Fenwick said. “It’s not a good idea. If you want the truth, Mr. Creighton, it’s crap. You’re not a documentary director.”

“Well, fuck you, Fenwick, you’re fired.” Creighton’s words bit into him like a shark. “I don’t need special effects for a documentary.”

“Fine,” Fenwick said, voice ice cold. “I don’t need no damn director who couldn’t direct if his life depended upon it. In case you didn’t know, ‘Teen Monsters from Mars’ is on everyone’s top ten list of worst films ever. Another ‘Plan 9 from Outer Space.’ ” He walked to the door, rested his hand on the knob. “As far as I’m concerned, I hope you go down the drain, Creighton. If you make this picture you’ll be the laughing stock of the film industry, the world. And Chandrha, you’d better watch yourself. He’s bound to change his mind. Next thing you know he’ll want to make a musical, with you in the leading role and Jhevharel whistling the tunes.”

Creighton picked up a bowl, tossed it at Fenwick who managed to duck just in time. It was made of plastic, and empty, so all it did was slide off the door. Fenwick bent down and picked it up, handed it back to Chandrha.

“Get out of here, both of you,” she said. “I won’t have my house turned into a battlefield.”

“I’ll be back to talk with you,” Creighton said.

“No, you won’t,” she said. Her ears were back. “You shouldn’t have come here in the first place. There are too many of you. I’m going to speak with Arak, and he’s going to see about getting everyone of you out of this village.”

“You can’t do that.”

“We can, and we will. Now get out.”

The door slammed behind them after they had left the house. They stood there for a few moments, then Fenwick said, rather mildly. “Maybe we should go back to the original. I’ll make the biggest, meanest, son-of-a-bitch fire-breathing dragon you ever laid your eyes on.”

“Fuck you,” Creighton snarled, and stalked off.

“Mr. Creighton...”

Creighton stopped, turned around. “Oh, now it’s ‘Mr. Creighton’ again. I fired you, Fenwick. You’re history. I don’t give a rat’s turd about your CGI dragon. I had something here, you know. Sure, I changed my mind a couple of times, but I’m in charge of this picture, so I can do whatever the fuck I want. What’s wrong with a documentary about these aliens, show them in a positive light. You know there are people out there who still don’t trust them. All we’ve got about them is little bits and pieces in the news, and that’s it. We want to know more about them, we want to know what makes them tick.”

“And you’re the man who can do it? The man who gave us ‘Teen Monsters from Mars?’ ”

“Let me tell you something, Fenwick. You don’t like it because if I go ahead with this idea you won’t be needed. There’ll be dragons, all right, but not your dragons, it’ll be the whistling dragons. Everything natural. No fire breathing, no kidnapped virgins, no knights in shining armor. A documentary, Fenwick, that’s what I want to make.”

It would be a documentary until he changed his mind. Sooner or later the idea of a documentary would fall by the wayside.

Arak came over half an hour later, and told Creighton and the crew to get ready to leave. In two hours, a plane was scheduled to land, and they had better be on it.

“We’re shooting a film,” Creighton said.

Arak took in the surroundings. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“We’re in the planning stage.”

“You’re in the leaving stage. Two hours.”

Creighton poked the old man’s chest. “I don’t take orders from you. You get the fuck out of my way, or...”

Arak grasped Creighton’s arm, twisted it behind the man’s back. “Or what?” He applied enough pressure to make Creighton yelp.

“We have permission from the Canadian government,” Creighton said, wincing, “and you can’t deny us that permission. I’m here to shoot a film, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

The old man released the arm. “How long?”

“How long?”

“How long does it take to make a movie?”

“A month... maybe two months.”

“All right,” the old man said, “you can make your movie. Once you have it completed, I’d like you and your cast and crew to leave.”

“I intend to do that,” he said, but he was talking to the old man’s back.

Arak stopped, turned. “Of course you realize in two months it’ll be December. This isn’t Los Angeles, you know.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“What kind of movie are you making?”

“A documentary.” He didn’t sound too sure.

If that was the case, Creighton would have no use for Benita Corovelli or Cal Torrence, or that new kid from Calgary, or Toronto, or wherever.

“No, wait a minute,” Creighton said. “A fantasy... yes, a fantasy.”

Fenwick slapped his forehead, hard.

“ ‘The Pit of Hell’ was supposed to be a horror movie,” Creighton said, “but I just want to make a straight fantasy.”

Benita and Cal and the kid were back in business.

Creighton tapped his fingers together, spread his hands wide. “Dragons of the North, how does that sound?”

“Fine,” Arak said. How could one little word translate into so much boredom?

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