Inside Straight wc-18 Read online

  Now, actually sitting on the benches the Hollywood people had put out for them and watching the lights and cameras and the milling, he was starting to feel a little less intimidated. He and the other contestants were in four rows of benches just inside the first-base foul line. The three judges—Topper, Digger Downs, and the Harlem Hammer—sat at a raised table more or less on the pitcher's mound. The invisible mechanisms of television production—sound crew, cameras, make-up chairs, lousy buffet—were kept mostly between home plate and third base. The great expanse of the outfield was set aside for the aces to prove just how telegenic they were.

  Which, you could say, varied.

  Take, for instance, the poor bastard whose turn it was at present. He had his arms stretched dramatically toward the small, puffy clouds, and had for several seconds, as his determined look edged a little toward desperate.

  "What are we waiting for?" Jonathan whispered.

  "Big storm," the guy beside him—a deeply annoying speedster by the name Joe Twitch—muttered back. "Maybe a tornado."

  "Ah."

  They waited. The alleged ace shouted and curled his fingers into claws, projecting his will out to the wide bowl of sky. The other aces who had made it through the interview were sitting on folding chairs far enough away to be safe if anything did happen. The morning air smelled of gasoline and cut grass. Joe Twitch stood up and sat back down about thirty times in a minute and a half.

  "Hey," Jonathan said. "That cloud up there. The long one with the thin bit in the middle?"

  "Yeah?" Joe Twitch replied.

  "Looks kind of like a fish, if you squint a little."

  "Huh," Twitch said. And then, "Cool."

  The public address system whined. The Harlem Hammer was going to put the poor fucker out of his misery. Jonathan was half sorry to see the guy go. Only half.

  "Mr. Stormbringer?" the Harlem Hammer said. "Really, Mr. Storm-bringer, thank you very much for coming. If you could just . . ."

  "The darkness! It comes!" Stormbringer said in sepulchral tones. "The storm shall break!"

  An embarrassed silence fell.

  "You know," Jonathan said, "if we wait long enough, it's bound to rain. You know? Eventually."

  "Mr. Stormbringer," the Harlem Hammer tried again, while behind him Digger Downs pantomimed striking a gong. "If you could . . . ah . . . John? Could you take Mr. Stormbringer to the Green Room, please?"

  The vaguely familiar blond guy detached himself from the clot of technicians and walked, clipboard in hand, to escort the man out of the stadium. Jonathan squinted, trying to place him—café-au-lait skin, a little epicanthic folding around the eyes, blond hair out of a bottle.

  "Aw, man," he said.

  "What?" Twitch demanded.

  Jonathan gestured toward the blond with his chin. "That's John Fortune," he said.

  "Who?"

  "John Fortune. He was on the cover of Time a while back. Pulled the black queen, but everyone thought it was an ace. There was this whole, weird religious thing about him being the antichrist or the new messiah or something."

  "The one Fortunato died trying to fix up?"

  "Yeah, he's Fortunato's kid. And Peregrine's."

  Joe Twitch was silent for a moment. The only thing that seemed to slow him down was trying to think. Jonathan wondered if he could buy the guy a book of sudoku puzzles.

  "Peregrine's producing the show," Twitch said.

  "Yup."

  "So that poor fucker's working for his mom?"

  "How the mighty have fallen," Jonathan said dismissively. A new ace was taking the field—an older guy, skinny, with what appeared to be huge chrome boots, a brown leather jacket, and a 40s-era pilot's helmet, with straps that hung at the sides of his face like a beagle's ears.

  "Thank you," the Harlem Hammer said. "And you are?"

  "Jetman!" the new guy announced, rising up on the little cones of fire that appeared at the soles of his boots. He struck a heroic pose. "I am the man Jetboy would have been."

  "Oh good Christ," Jonathan muttered. "That was sixty years ago. Let the poor fucker die, can't you?"

  Apparently, he couldn't.

  Of the constant stream of wannabes presenting themselves to the world, Mr. Stormbringer had been the worst so far, but the guy who called himself the Crooner hadn't managed to do much either. And Jonathan's personal opinion was that Hell's Cook—a thick-necked man who could heat up skillets by looking at them—was really more deuce than ace, but at least he was a good showman.

  And there had been some decent ones, too. Jonathan's benchmate, Joe Twitch, had made a pretty good showing and also managed to be so abrasive it was clear he'd be a good engine of petty social drama. The six-five bear, Matryoshka—who split into two five-eight bears when you hit him, and then four five-footers, and so on, apparently until you stopped hitting him—had been decent. The eleven-year-old girl carrying her stuffed dragon had seemed like a sad joke until she made the toy into a fifty-foot, fire-breathing, scales-as-armor version of itself. She'd also had a bag of other little stuffed toys. Even Digger Downs had dropped his comments about wild card daycare. Jonathan was willing to put even money she'd make the cut.

  Jetman finished his presentation to polite applause, and the blond—John Fortune—appeared at Jonathan's side.

  "Jonathan Hive?" Fortune asked.

  "That's me."

  "Okay, you're up next. We're going to be filming from cameras two and three," he said, pointing at a couple of the many setups in the stadium. "The judges all have monitors up there, so if you have the choice, it's better to play to the cameras than the people."

  "Great," Jonathan said, mentally remaking his presentation. "Okay, yeah. Thanks."

  "No trouble," Fortune said.

  "Any other advice?"

  Fortune looked serious for a moment. He was a good-looking kid, but maybe a little lost around the eyes.

  "You're the guy who turns into wasps, right? Okay, the guy on camera two is really afraid of bees, so anything you want to do up close to the lens, go for camera three."

  "And that one's camera three?"

  "You got it," Fortune said. Jonathan redid his routine again.

  "Cool. Thanks."

  Jonathan took a deep breath, rose to his feet, and walked forward to the clear area that Jetman had vacated. Jonathan nodded to the judges, flashed a smile at the other aces, and stepped out of his loafers. The grass tickled the soles of his feet.

  "Anything you'd like to say? No? Well, then, when you're ready," Topper said.

  It felt like breathing in—the comfortable swelling of the chest and rib cage—but it didn't stop. His body widened and became lighter; his field of vision slowly expanded. Distantly, he could feel his clothes drop through where his arms and legs had been. A couple bugs were tangled up in them, left behind like nail clippings.

  Jonathan rose up above the crowd, seeing them all at once through hundreds of thousands of compound eyes. Hearing their voices even over the hum of his wings. He had no particular form now, and the joy of flying, the freedom of his swarm-shaped body, trilled and vibrated in him. He hadn't really cut loose in days. He had to focus and think about his routine. He brought his multiform attention to bear on the crowd, picked a woman sitting in clear view of camera three who looked game, and sent a tendril of wasps to her. When they landed on her lap, he could see her stiffen, and then as he moved the tiny bodies to spell out words, relax slightly.

  It is okay. Do not be scared.

  He covered her in a bright green, crawling ball gown, then burst back up into the air and sped to the end of the stadium and back, circled around, and then it was time for the grand finale. It was hard to consciously form his body, and his kinesthetic sense was fairly rough, so he sent a couple wasps to sit on top of camera three and concentrated on the view through their eyes.

  Slowly, carefully, he adjusted the swarm into a smaller, tighter, angrily buzzing mass. When the insects were thick enough to block the daylight, he moved. It w
as like dancing and also like trying to balance a pencil. The swarm that was his flesh took shape—huge, floating, ill-formed letters. EAT AT JOE'S.

  He took the swarm back to his fallen clothes, the insects crawling into the spaces within the cloth and pushing gently out to allow another few wasps in and then more and more as the bugs congealed again into flesh. He was tired and exhilarated. He took a bow to the polite clapping. The judges asked a couple of questions—yes, the wasps could sting; there were around a hundred thousand wasps in the swarm; yes, if he flew through insecticide, he would get viciously ill. Digger Downs called him Bugsy, the Harlem Hammer asked about his blog (an extra couple thousand hits if that made it to the final cut), and it was over. He walked back to his seat on the benches.

  "Nice," Joe Twitch said.

  Someone gently tapped Jonathan's shoulder. The woman he'd volunteered for his demonstration. She looked different, now that he could only see her from one angle at a time.

  "Hey," Jonathan said, smiling.

  "Hey." She had a nice voice. Sexy. "Jonathan Hive? That's what you call yourself? Well, Bugsy, if you ever try to feel me up like that again, I'll kill you. Okay?"

  The woman's hand vanished in a burst of concentrated flame like a blowtorch and then popped back. She smiled, eyes hard, nodded once, and went back to her seat.

  Jonathan turned back to Joe Twitch.

  "Oops," Twitch said.

  "Yeah. Oops," Jonathan agreed.

  "You get that often?"

  "What? Death threats?"

  "Bugsy."

  "Oh, that. Yeah."

  Posted Today 12:18 pm

  AMERICAN HERO | EXCITED | "AMERICAN IDIOT"—GREEN DAY

  Well, it's official. I'm in. It's almost midnight, but this isn't getting posted until tomorrow sometime. As part of the deal with the network, I'm letting a guy in the legal department vet my blog posts while I'm on the show. Everyone wave to Kenny! (Hi, Kenny!)

  [ED: Hi everyone—Kenny]

  I've just gotten back from the getting-to-know-all-about-you party with my teammates. Chateau Marmont. Very John Belushi-died-here Hollywood chic. All the contestants were present, and there's twenty-eight of us, so grab your scorecards, kids. It's gonna be a bumpy ride.

  I sat next to the Candle, whose ace powers appear to involve looking like his hair's on fire, across from the fattest woman I've met in recent memory—the Amazing Bubbles.

  I'm told that she stores kinetic energy as fat, and was apparently dragged behind a Cadillac before coming to the party, because, oh, my, God. The only one bigger than her was a Southern Baptist preacher in a bariatric wheelchair who calls himself Holy Roller and weighs in at six-hundred-some pounds. Neither of them turn out to be on my team, so I'm just hoping some of the challenges we're facing involve getting into an elevator.

  (On a personal note: Yes, Grandpa, Jetman made it on, and your cap lock key's stuck again. Ask Gramma to fix it for you.)

  After serving us dinner and recording all our conversations and interviewing each of us separately, we got assigned to teams. It wasn't quite the Sorting Hat, but it had some of that feel. Big ramp-up by Peregrine to each announcement, clapping, cheering, smiles—everyone has a drink, and then the next one up. By the end we were all pretty tipsy, so I imagine we made total assholes of ourselves, pouting and preening for the cameras. Frankly, I was too drunk to remember the details. I'll just have to catch it when it broadcasts, same as the rest of you.

  I've been assigned to Hearts because God forbid the media ever do anything with the wild card virus that isn't a pun. There are three other teams: Diamonds, Clubs, and Spades. We all hugged and learned and grew and pledged to work together as a team until it stops being convenient.

  Then we all piled into a limo and rode to our new secret lair. I shit you not. Secret lair.

  It's an old mansion all tricked out to make Big Brother cream himself. Cameras everywhere but the bathrooms (and no bets that there aren't a couple undocumented features there, too) and a little confessional where we get to gossip and backbite to our dearest, closest confidant: everyone in the freaking world.

  Let me introduce the contestants, Johnny. Team Hearts is:

  Drummer Boy—aka Michael Vogali. Yes, that Drummer Boy. Percussionist for Joker Plague, seven-foot ohmigod, six arms, more tattoos than a biker's convention. He spent the whole dinner signing autographs and chatting up an ace who everyone called Pop Tart, but not to her face. Since I don't listen to Joker Plague and I'm not a thirteen-year-old fangirl, I was unaware that he has six built-in tympanic regions on his chest. Yes, he is his own drum set.

  Wild Fox—aka Andrew Yamauchi. Nice enough fella. Apparently can do something with illusions that's all very thematically appropriate if you know a lot more about Japanese mythology than I do. He'll be easy to identify when you watch the show. He's the one with the great big poofy fox tail. Seriously. He has a tail.

  Curveball—aka Kate Brandt. Nice-looking girl next door. Anything she throws, she can not only control in flight but detonate on impact. She was showing off a little at the dinner and wound up exploding a water pitcher with a grain of rice.

  She may have been just an ee-tinsey bit drunk. In all fairness, though, she's pretty cute when she's drunk.

  Earth Witch—aka Ana Cortez. Another of our carefully ethnically diverse team with, sex-appealwise, a lovely personality and great sense of humor, I'm sure. She can dig holes in the ground with her mind. Yes, I'm not making this up. One of our super-heroes is a ditch digger of Mexican extraction. I'm not sure how this got by the Hollywood liberal politically correct establishment, but I think it's funny as hell. No disrespect intended; some of my best friends are vicious racial stereotypes.

  Hardhat—aka Todd "T.T." Taszycki. Lest we be accused of not having some good old salt-of-the-earth, blue-collar types, there's Todd. A lifelong construction worker, Todd can create temporary girders with his mind. I'm not sure how he's going to play on the tube, since I haven't heard him speak a single sentence yet that was fit for broadcast. Anyone who thinks of the network as "a damn friendly bunch of cocksuckers" is okay by me. (Hey, Kenny, can we say "cocksuckers" on the Internet?)

  Gardener—aka Jerusha Carter. She plants things. They grow. Gardener, get it?

  And, of course, myself.

  Now for the predictions:

  First one out is going to be Gardener. Be serious. "Stop, foul villain, or I shall carpet your lawn with giant daffodils!" How useful is that?

  Drummer Boy is also going to be out within the first round or two. The guy's a rock star. One little thing to tweak his ego, and he's outta here.

  And for evil team dynamics, keep your eye on Earth Witch versus Curveball. Earth Witch isn't the kind of girl that gets asked out to the dance, and Curveball . . . well, like the poet said, everyone has a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room.

  There's gonna be blood. Count on it.

  80 COMMENTS | POST COMMENT

  4. From The Desk of Rebecca Lieberman

  FROM THE DESK OF

  REBECCA LIEBERMAN

  from: Becca

  to: Michael Berman

  re: American Hero promo copy

  Hey, Mike.

  Here's the promotional copy and head shots for the American Hero print campaign, for your approval. Please get your tweaks and changes back to me by the 17th. Thanks. (There's two head shots for Tiffani, you'll notice, one normal and one where she's gone diamond. Let me know which one you want to use. Oh, and Alan wants to tint Toad Man green in his head shot, though it's my understanding that he's only green as a toad. What do you say?)

  There will be four broadsheets, one for each team. We'll be slapping them on buses in the top twenty media markets, as well as the El in Chicago, the NYC subway, and most major airports. We'll also be using them as full-page ads in People, Us, Entertainment Weekly, Daily Variety, Hollywood Reporter, Aces, TV Guide, Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, Parade, and assorted Sunday supplements. If Drummer Boy survives the first few cu
ts and makes a good run, I might be able to get him the cover of Rolling Stone as well.

  We're also planning a major giveaway of promotional T-shirts the week that AH premieres. Each shirt will have the picture of a contestant on the front, with the team slogan and emblem on the back. The idea is one to a customer, so we can track the demand and get a better idea which contestants are most popular. And the deal with Burger King's about to close, so we'll also have a line of special promotional cups. Be the first kid on your block to collect all twenty-eight. We'll be tracking those, too.

  Plus, we're lining up some regional media in the home markets of each contestant—print features, local television, etc. When the time is right, Maxim and Playboy have both expressed interest in doing photo spreads on some of our female contestants. Maxim has Jade Blossom at the top of their list, but Hef wants Curveball. Must be that whole girl-next-door thing. Maybe you could have Peregrine talk to her. Playboy worked for Peri once upon a time. I think my father still has the centerfold hanging in the garage. (No one seems to want Toad Man or Holy Roller to take off their clothes, can't think why).

  So, take a look and shoot these back to me ASAP.

  luv,

  Becky

  HELP IS WHERE THE HEARTS ARE.

  ANA delves deep. Stone and soil, clay and sand, they're all putty in her hands. She's the

  EARTH WITCH!

  Ana Cortez

  Las Vegas, New Mexico

  KATE's the all-American girl with the all-American arm. She'll zip it past you or throw it through you. Nobody can hit

  CURVEBALL!

  Kathleen Brandt

  Portland, Oregon

  MIKE's large, he's loud, he's pierced, he has six arms and attitude to spare. He'll rock you and he'll roll you. Let's hear it for

  DRUMMER BOY!

  Michael Vogali

  On Tour, the World

  Keep your green thumb, JERUSHA has ten green fingers. Mighty oaks spring up from tiny acorns at her command. Here she is, the

  GARDENER!

  Jerusha Carter

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  JONATHAN bugs out at the first sign of trouble, but he still packs a nasty sting. He's