

Shortly after 2 AM the Las Vegas 911 call center received a call. "There's a man out cold with a severe head injury inside suite 28666 of the Bellagio," uttered a man, sounding like John Wayne, the late movie star. End of call.

Minutes later another call came in. "I hearda loud bang. Then a man wearin' a white bathrobe rushed outta suite 28666. Bellagio! He was carryin' a bloody trophy," whispered a man with a phony New York accent.

"Speak up! Name and room number, please?"

"I'm justta good ole Samaritan. Capeesh?"

"Mr. Capeesh, are you in the room directly across from room 28666?"

"Gosh-darn it, nooo," slurred the caller in a Southern drawl prior to ending his call.

Two paramedics found J. T. Hunsucker lying face up in a pool of blood on a floor inside his luxury suite. Blood still flowed out of a hole in the comatose man's forehead due to a rare disease, the Von Willebrand Factor, resulting in excessive bleeding. The rescue team administered first aid before rushing J. T. to a nearby emergency facility.

Two detectives followed a barely sufficient trail of blood leading from the crime scene to Ben Artflick's door located on the next floor up. The actor was taken to the police station for questioning. Subsequently, the detectives discovered Ben's bloody Golden Man statuette in his bathroom sink.

The Las Vegas media ate it up. "Thin Skin Goes Hunting" read one headline, mocking the super celebrity's award winning movie. Then there were "Payback" and "Ham Strikes Back", feeble references to some of his earlier work. All headlines implied he was guilty. Oddly, outside of Sin City, there was little coverage. Unusual considering Hunsucker, a well-known movie critic, appeared weekly on a national TV show.

The press wasn't aware of an earlier Ben Artflick temper tantrum linked up with his long time foe, the result of cruel criticisms. The actor, new to the limelight, and Hunsucker were teenagers living just outside of Boston. The incident wasn't reported to the police. In fact several beatings of other film critics over the years were kept hush-hush with the help of a large stack of Benjamins. All those assaults were brought about by comments made regarding Ben's limited acting ability.

This is a story about an actor's rise to fame and his trial for murder. Very few people outside of Las Vegas know what happened there one night in October 2004 and the brief circus acts afterwards. Perhaps due to political reasons it didn't get much coverage. The names of real people have been changed to such a degree they are unidentifiable. . But this is not a fairy-tale. This is about REAL WITCHES.In fairy-tales, witches always wear silly black hats and black coats, and they ride on broomsticks. But this is not a fairy-tale. This is about REAL WITCHES.In fairy-tales, witches always wear silly black hats and black coats, and they ride on broomsticks. But this is not a fairy-tale. This is about REAL WITCHES.

"We have a celebrity in our class," said Ms Stoolie, standing by a small screen and VCR. "Last year our Ben starred in a very enlightening television series." Smiling, she pointed at one of her students.

All eyes fell upon the handsome notable. Ben, with a pompadour hairstyle and very tall for a 7th grader, slouched behind his desk. His heart beat faster, increasing the blood flow and causing his face to turn bright red. To show his displeasure he wore his 'you shouldn't have' expression. The teacher not noticing or not caring stuck to her lesson plan.

"Today we will explore the ocean with Ben and his crew. Enjoy!" The blabbermouth hit the play button.

Ben, strolling across the deck of a sailboat, appeared on the TV screen. "Hi, I'm Ben Artflick. Come sail with me on the Elektra." He paused in front of an instrument panel and pointed. "Holy cockerel! Check this out."

Several boys in the classroom giggled.

On the screen Ben explained the functions of the buttons and switches. Ho hum seemed to be the general response from his male peers. They were inattentive until Ben's character suffered from hypothermia: watchful due to an au naturel Ben sharing a sleeping bag with a naked man portraying his grandfather.

Gramps embraced Ben from behind, commonly referred to as spooning. The purpose was to raise Ben's body temperature. A couple of classmates implied the older man had an ulterior motive.

"Holy cockerel, Grandpa, that thermometer is big!" whispered Billy Mello, leaning over his desk located directly behind Ben.

Bryan, at the desk next to Ben's, leaned toward Ben and asked, "Did it hurt?"

Ben's icy stare transposed Bryan's grin to a look of fear. "Just kidding," the small boy mumbled with a friendly wave.

After the presentation the tallest egghead in the room complimented Ben on his excellent performance and dismissed her students. On the way out a couple of girls gave Ben a loving tap on his arm and praised his work. In the hallway a few of the boys shouted, "Boring!"

Ben ignored them as he hurried down the hallway and out of the building. Laugh it off; think about something funny, he thought as he galloped down the cement steps. Ben recalled John Book milking a cow in a scene from Witness. Eli had asked John if he ever had his hands on a teat before and John replied, "Not one this big."

Strolling down the sidewalk, Ben smiled and quickly gritted his teeth when he heard someone say faggot. He stopped and turned, facing two male classmates. "Are youse talkin' to me?" shouted Ben, grabbing one boy by his shirt and yanking him close enough to smell his unpleasant breath odor.

"No!" said the frightened schoolboy, turning his head to his friend for help.

"What's your problem, Artflick?" asked a boy with a flat top haircut and a severe acne problem. The pimple faced kid wore a red T-shirt that had Red Sox Nation in white lettering. Ben and half the kids in the neighborhood had a similar shirt or one just like it. "He was telling a joke. What does a faggot and a ambulance have in common?"

"They both get loaded from the rear," said the kid, staring at the Ben's huge fist. "Your scene in the sleeping bag made me remember it."

Ben let go of the teen and departed. He knew those punks considered him a nerd. Perform on stage or screen and you're a nerd or gay in their jaundiced eye. Perhaps it's jealousy, due to a lot of girls idealizing good looking performers. It didn't take too long for Ben to have plenty of female fans and male hecklers thanks to his TV show being shown in schools to most of the students living in Cambridge. That dubbed him the town's newest and youngest celebrity.

In his spare time Ben enjoyed playing a Rocky pinball. The same game Paulie smashed with a liquor bottle in Rocky 111. A duplicate machine was located inside a 7-Eleven next to his house. One day Jasper Tujan Hunsucker noticed Ben shaking the amusement device in the back of that convenience store. Hunsucker couldn't resist going up to the younger boy and teasing him about his acting skills.

"Ya know, Shirley Temple had flair at age four," Hunsucker declared, stopping next to Ben. Then he poked Ben's arm with a finger. "She had talent! You ain't got any, asslick."

Ben ignored him, absorbed in the game.

"Holy cockerel! That peanut butter looked like crap! Literally!" Hunsucker, already full height at sixteen, brought his face close to the taller boy. "After cuddling naked inside that sleeping bag, was there oral stimulation?" he asked, resting a hand on Ben's shoulder.

Ben's face turned red and his eyes narrowed, his left hand moved off the game and curled up into a fist. Uncontrollably, he landed a solid shot, hitting Hunsucker's upper lip and nose, bloodying both.

Stunned, Hunsucker touched his injuries. "Can't ya take a joke?" He started to whimper as tears flowed down his cheeks. "I'll get ya for this." He ran down the aisle and out of the store.

Later on Ben informed his mother he didn't want to act anymore. It was too stressful and it interfered with his obsession: baseball. His dream was to become a professional ballplayer. He thought missing a full season of Babe Ruth League in order to work on that TV series hurt his chances.

"You told me you wanted to be an actor, Ben," his mom said, gently touching his face. "That's why I got you that role."

"I changed my mind after dad took me to a ballgame in Pawtucket. Just watching Jim Rice hit a homer off of Mark 'The Bird' Fidrych convinced me. That ball going over the center field fence sent a chill down my spine. Mom, I could do that when I get older. I wanna do that!"

"Your gift is acting, not baseball. Very few have the opportunity to act on television."

"I'm a great ballplayer. Size matters! I'll be bigger than Jim Rice. I might be the next Ted Williams or Babe Ruth. You can watch me play at Fenway. I'll buy you and dad season tickets. No more TV roles, please."

"All right! Let me know when you change your mind. I'm sure you will. It's in your blood just like your father."

"Okay!" Ben shouted enthusiastically before fetching his hardball and leather mitt.

Ben exited his house and dashed to a nearby ball field hoping to play baseball. Only a short blond older boy with freckles and a small piggy nose, the nostrils turned up a little, was there, hitting stones with his Louisville Slugger. Ben watched a small rock soar deep to centerfield.

"Not bad," Ben said, moving toward the boy holding a bat, "for a little guy."

Damon Matthews pointed his bat at Ben. "You're Cambridge's new VIP. Wanna autograph my dick? Then I can show it to Penny and Cindy, your biggest fans."

"It's probably not long enough for my name: Ben. Who are Penny and Cindy?"

"A couple of ninth graders with big tits. I've been trying to get my hands on them for months. They're held up inside a house nearby, both of 'em, ah - the four of them. You might be the subversive device I need to get at them soft mounds of joy. You interested?"

"Maybe, if they're pretty."

"Penny's foxy. She's mine! You can have her cute bosomy buddy, Cindy."

Damon mentioned his name without the handshaking ritual. They hid their baseball equipment and headed for Penny's house two blocks away. Upon arrival at the three-story, three-family, dark green Victorian with white shutters, Damon led the way to the side entrance and up two flights of stairs, two steps at a time. Madonna singing 'And you know it's true, I'm horny, horny for you' could be heard outside the wooden door. Damon knocked three times. The music stopped.

Within a minute the door opened - about a foot. A girl with ash brown hair and freckles peered through the gap. "Whadda ya want, Matthews?" she asked in a distinctive voice, a nasal whine with a Boston accent.

"Can we come in?" His hand moved toward Ben and himself.

Penny recognized the young celebrity and flung the door wide open. "Come on in," she said, smiling broadly. "I saw you on television, Ben. You're a lot bigger in person."

Damon strutted into the large dining room as if he was the cat's meow. Ben went through the doorway and stepped aside; giving the girl enough space to shut the door while informing her that the show was filmed almost a year ago.

The girls, both substantially taller than Damon, ignored him and went up to Ben, asking all kinds of silly questions about acting and his TV series. Damon interrupted by handing Penny a small wrapped box he had pulled out of his pocked. "It's a tat," he said, grinning.

Penny briefly examined the gift box before showing Damon her 'what's this' look.

"You promised me a tit for a tat last week," he said, chuckling. "Remember?"

Penny moved her green eyes upward in disgust and tossed the package at Damon. It bounced off his forehead. She showed Ben a big smile. "He's a drifty nerd but you're cool. Very mature for your age - and tall, incredibly tall. I got a thing for tall boys."

"And cute. Very cute," said Cindy, touching Ben's arm and giving him a flirtatious smile. Her big blue eyes gazed into his eyes, and then she glanced at his lips, briefly, wondering if he's a great kisser, and once more to his eyes, holding a stare and rubbing a hand slowly over her short pixie style black hair.

Ben showed Cindy a half smile and turned to Penny, wearing a bright purple T-shirt with the words Boy Toys across her breasts. He glimpsed at the wording, wondering what kind of mother would allow clothing like that but he said, "Nice shirt."

"Wanna try to sweet talk me out of it?" Penny said with a 'come-and-get-it' look. "I think they're a nuisance, but boys seem to think they're fantastic."

Ben, in a tizzy, stood there thinking of something smart to say. "They kinda remind me of Jello," he said, immediately regretting it.

Damon was quick to react, disrespectfully. "You nincompoop! Say stop ya grinning and lift your linen. Show me your boobs see twins. Let's see the pair to remember. Bring out those two helpmates that can turn a wiener into linguica like magic." Damon raised his hands in disgust. "Anything to uncover boy's best friends."

Penny looked amused. "You're kinda cute, in a homely sort of way. Too bad you're such a minikin." She whirled to Cindy. "Care to lower your standards, Sunday afternoon, here? The tall one's mine!"

Cindy examined Damon. With a snarl she said, "Passable, barely, but you'll owe me."

"Listen up, boys," commanded Penny. After glancing at Damon she looked intently at Ben. "My mom's due home, shortly. Come back Sunday, and maybe, we can play spin the bottle."

"The kid's kissing game?" Ben asked.

"Not the way we play it, big fella."

On the way to the ball field, Damon let Ben have it. "You nitwit! Talk! Talk! Talk! What's wrong with your brain? Penny wanted to bring 'em out. All ya had to do was say please and thank you."

Ben laughed. "I'm not that desperate. Besides, I thought you wanted Penny."

"I do! But I'll take Cindy. Have tits will fondle. Don't matter to me."

"Doesn't matter."

"Huh?" Damon pondered for a moment. "That's right! Your mom's a teacher. I had her in the fifth grade. Nice long legs. Big tits."

"Careful!" Ben stared angrily at Damon. Then he eyed the chain-link fence surrounding the field. "I'll race you to the fence for a buck. You can have a thirty-foot head start."

They stopped.

Damon gazed at the barrier about a hundred yards away. "You're on." After taking ten long steps forward, he looked back at Ben. "Say when."

With his left foot forward, Ben bent down resting a hand on his knee, ready to run. "Go!"

They took off running. Damon easily beat Ben to the fence. A few seconds later, just enough time to catch their breaths, Ben extended his hand toward Damon, palm up. "Give me a buck."

Damon, confused, glared up at Ben. "I won!"

"I didn't say I'd win. I said I'll race you for a buck. Pay up!"

Damon pondered for a moment. "Okay, but I warn you, smart ass, I'll get even." He pulled out his wallet and removed a dollar. As he handed it to Ben he said, "I trusted you. Now I know better."

"Trust no one at first, my dad used to say. Wanna see Cat's Eye Saturday? It's playing in Harvard's Square."

"Sure, I'm a die-hard Stephen King fan."

"My dad worked on stage with James Woods." Ben looked down, embarrassed, "Too bad my dad had a drinking problem. He might've been a big movie star today."

That Saturday afternoon the boys left a small movie theater. There weren't many people around: a young girl in the ticket booth, several moviegoers, and some people entering and leaving nearby stores. Damon thought about a scene in the movie involving a wager over a cat making it safely across a busy street. He decided it was payback time.

Damon examined the traffic moving south in the single lane close to them and in two lanes traveling north on the other side of the solid white line. "Stand here and time me."

"Whatta ya gonna do?" asked Ben.

"You'll see!" When there was less traffic, he barked, "Time me!" Damon hurried onto the street. After reaching the other sidewalk, he turned, looked both ways before dashing back.

"How long did I take?" Damon asked Ben.

Ben glanced at his wristwatch. "About forty seconds."

"I bet you can't make it across the street," Damon's head tilted downward, eyeing Ben's sneakers. Not looking up from Ben's Niki Air Force Ones he continued, "and back with just one sneaker on in less than two minutes."

Ben, skeptical and distrusting, gave the wager some thought.

"You can jog or walk fast," Damon added as an attempt to distract and mislead.

Ben checked out the sparse traffic. "What's the catch?"

"No running! Van Kopit's rule of mental and physical changes."

"What? How much?"

"A sawbuck. Your money or your dignity?"

"Okay, ya gotta bet." Ben removed a sneaker. "Time me, sucker. If your trick is to block me, you're going down, small fry."

"Whoa! I said just one sneaker on, grammar specialist. Nothing else."

Ben thought it over. "All right - Lady Godiva did it." He stripped down to his underpants.

Surprised by Ben's reaction, Damon suddenly became confused and uneasy. He scanned the area. Only the girl in the ticket booth appeared to be watching, intently.

"Never mind - don't!"

"We have a bet," Ben put out his hand, "or give me a fin now. You'll save five."

"Nooo!" Damon shook his head. "The bet's off."

"No way! You offered, I accepted. It's a done deal." Ben removed his underwear.

The girl in the ticket booth picked up her phone to notify the police.

At a fast pace, Ben, wearing nothing but a sneaker, scurried across the street. Only a few passersby noticed. They stopped in wonder. When Ben reached the other sidewalk, a woman driver saw him and honked her horn prior to extending her arm out the car window, showing a big thumb up. Ben acknowledged her with a friendly wave before hurrying back.

After getting dressed, he put his hand out. "Pay me."

"We betta get out of here, fast."

Within a few minutes they were trotting down a narrow one-way street. A patrol car pulled up next to them. The police officer, with his elbow pointing out the open squad car window, grinned as he asked, "Which one of you is the streaka?"

Head down, Ben approached the car. "Sorry! It won't happen again, I promise." He held three fingers up. "Scout's honor."

"How old are you, kid?"

"Thirteen."

"You look a lot older." The cop recognized him. "Hey, are you that kid from that show filmed in Natick?"

"Yes, sir."

"My boy likes that show. I'll give you a warning this time. Although a good defense attorney might make the line-up interesting." He grinned, waved so long and drove away.

The following afternoon the boys made out with Penny and Cindy on a brown L-shaped suede sofa. Damon had a pleasurable two hours of kissing and boy handling Cindy. No resistance to groping outside her blouse \- strong opposition to touching flesh. Several times he tied to sneak a hand underneath her bra, but as soon as his finger tips worked their way under the elastic part, Cindy yanked his hand out from under her blouse.

Penny had no problem with Ben touching any part of her. She even assisted. While necking she unsnapped her bra. Then pulled his hand under her blouse and laid it on a breast. She caught Damon's attention when she stopped kissing and shouted out, "Let's play 69."

Damon liked that idea. In fact he was overjoyed and responded enthusiastically.

Ben didn't have a clue what 69 stood for, so he asked. Penny's answer was a little vague at first but Ben figured out the jest of things.

"No way!" he muttered. Back then, that kind of thing was frowned upon.

Damon appeared stunned and glared at Ben as if he was the village idiot.

Ben had the look of disgust on his face. One actor, a known lady's man, once warned him about the germs hiding in the forest and that the playground is too close to the dump. "I'm kinda germaphobic," he murmured.

"Come on! Don't be a prude." Damon pleaded. He turned to Cindy. "Do ya have any Listerine? That might help change his mind."

"Yes, but I'm not about to...with you...that's neva gonna happen."

Ben stood up, glancing at his watch. "I gotta get going. I promised my dad I'd go to the driving range with him at four."

"See ya later, big buddy," said Damon, attempting to embrace Cindy.

While pushing Damon away, Cindy rose from the sofa. "Four's company, three's a crowd."

Damon got the hint and tailgated his pal. As the boys headed for the door, Cindy pulled a wrapped lollipop out of her handbag. "Wanna lick my confection, Ben?" Cindy asked, holding the candy out in front of her face.

Without looking back, Ben grabbed the doorknob and said, "No, thanks!" He turned to Damon, murmuring, "I never heard it called that before."

Sitting on a park bench by the Charles River in JFK park on a summer day in 1987, Jenny Hunsucker, fifteen, wiped tears off her cheeks with a pink handkerchief. Thinking her boyfriend, Ben, had dumped her for another girl, she looked up at him and choked out, "Is it Tina? I noticed how she's all over you, lately."

Ben, fifteen, over 6 feet tall and muscular, stood in front of her. He looked around the park, fidgeting and acting very nervous. After lowering his eyes and zeroing in on a large red pimple on Jenny's nose, he flinched and looked away with a slight shutter. "No! It's sports: golf and baseball. Not much time for anything else."

Jenny blew her nose.

Ben glanced at her and quickly turned away, shading his eyes from the bright sun. "I gotta go. Damon's waiting." He took a few steps, stopped, looked over his shoulder and smiled. "Have fun in Arizona, Jenny. We'll talk when you get back."

Jenny nodded as she blew her nose, again. "See ya."

Ben felt guilty, shuffling down the walkway. The same grief he had after breaking up with Donna over her hairy armpits and Beth due to her big butt. But ditching Tina at first sighting of an appendix scar bothered him most since she wanted to have sex with him. That was his first chance to get terrifically physical.

Posters for the movies Witness and The Mosquito Coast hung on Damon's bedroom wall. Damon inserted a video into a VCR on a shelf below a TV and said, "You're too superficial."

Bobbie Jo and the Outlaw appeared on a small television. Damon, standing, pushed the fast forward button on a remote control, about to prove Lynda Carter had acted topless.

"It was hideous," Ben said, lounging in a leather armchair in front of a pine desk at the opposite end of the room.

"You're too shallow." Damon pushed pause. The image of Marjoe Gortner caressing Lynda's breast appeared on the TV screen. He stepped back, grinning and admiring the view. "I told ya! Worth the price of an admission. She makes my tongue hard."

"Damn, Wonder Woman naked! Who next, Mary Poppins?" Ben ogled the figure. "I'd lick her nips."

Damon pointed at the TV. "You'd go Deep South on her and brag about it."

"Not even if she shaved. You know, that germophobia problem."

"You would if you could. Fur or no fur."

"There's a mother lode like her in Hollywood. No pimples. Fewer germs. I heard some use bidets that have a potent germ killing spray," Ben said, mulling over his future. "I think I'll be a professional actor. Imagine, even a guy uglier than you got paid to feel up the best of the best. Better than hitting a ball over the Green Monster." He reevaluated, shook his head "Nah! Almost!"

"Chicks love movie stars. Tities galore. Drama school nerds today, Hollywood stars tomorrow. From Humpty Dumpty to Bond, James Bond."

Ben stood up and moseyed over to a bureau. He examined his long pompadour hair style in the mirror attached to a dresser. "You played a decent Humpty Dumpty in that school play. J. B., nah, too short for Bond and the J. B. spy in Ludlum's novels. I could play them." Ben imitated Sean Connery. "In Japan, men come first, women come second. I might retire there."

"I like your John Wayne impression better." Damon ejected the VHS tape. "So, ya gonna take that part in the television movie?" He put the movie in a plastic case.

"Yeah, it's just a small role. My mom's friend is a casting director. I'll get my five minutes in Helfnerland as a bonus, sooner or later. Then, maybe, politics. Look at Reagan. I'm smarter, taller, and a better actor. You can be my Bonzo."

"People might talk."

"Ya mean like Father Joe and Hunsucker overtones?" asked Ben, strolling toward the desk.

"That hoax was started by big butt Beth. She had the hots for Father Joe. Calls him Father Whattawaste 'cause of his good looks."

"Maybe due to his wasted knowledge. He knows who the bad girls are," said Ben, sitting on the desk.

"How's that?"

"Confessions, dickhead. But no way will people think we're gay. "Ben examined Damon and reconsidered. "Well, me, anyway. You, perhaps another Liberace. Damn, you look like the dude who sued him."

"He lost 'cause Liberace wasn't gay. It was all a show, as he called it. Without the show, ya had no business. The clothes attracted attention. That helped to sell seats. Liberace nailed women. Older women. He wrote a book about it: The Women I Loved."

"Liberace joked about liking tulips on his organ."

"Who doesn't? He said as an entertainer, you have to be surprising, find new things to make the audience stand up and take notice. That doesn't make him gay. But he might have a man or two in his closet."

"I don't care. It's his life. Let's go to the range and hit out a few balls."

A full moon reflected off the Charles River. Ben moped on a cement walkway running parallel to the waterway. He appeared extremely depressed. Damon, by his side, handed him a joint and commented on Glenn Close's sagging breasts. They had just viewed them on the big screen at a local theater. Ben brought the reefer to his lips and inhaled. He held the smoke in while returning the loco weed back to Damon. The shorter and older boy took a drag and flipped the butt towards the river. "Suck on that my huckleberry friend," Damon said, watching the stub hit the water, landing on the moon's reflection. Damon sang, "You vision maker, I'm after the rainbow's end, floatin' 'round the bend."

Ben's eyes enlarged as he watched the stub float away. He slowly exhaled. "There were three hits left on that."

"Nay, maybe two if I had my forceps. Alex Forrest was hot until her nude side shot. That was a woody killer."

Ben stopped and pointed at a bench. "The last time I saw Jenny she was sitting there. I dumped her over a zit. What's wrong with me?" Ben shook his head. "I can't believe she jumped into the Grand Canyon."

"It's not your fault." Damon grinned. "It's not your fault. Wanna big hug?" He opened his arms and took a half step toward Ben.

Ben pushed him. "Get away from me, dickhead."

"Ya know I'm just kidding. Can I tag along Sunday? I wanna meet that chick who was in Hair. Nice rack. Didn't seem like a natural blonde, though, after she came out of the water."

"I'd like to find out. I could go for an older woman like her. Yeah, you can come."

"Maybe I'll go wit' ya on your next audition. If ya don't mind the competition."

"I'm a professional. You don't have a chance."

Returning from New York in 1988, Ben and Damon sat side-by-side on a train. Ben appeared confused. Slowly shaking his head, he stared at his pal.

Damon smiled. "It's all in the verbalization, big buddy. Listen and learn. Mom, do you want my green stuff? That's how it's done."

"Right! You can handle one line. When there's a major talkfest I'm the ace. Like in our school plays. Who does Mr. Speca turn to - the tall sophomore or the short senior geek?"

Things change. If there's a part for a big bully, you're in. If the role requires a loveable guy with blond hair and blue eyes, that will be me. Soon, more tits than we can handle."

"Speaking of boobs, Moonstone Beach is close to where you'll be shooting. I hear it's the best nude beach in the USA. A great place for a wrap party. Convince the cast, buddy."

"In October? Not too likely, but I'd love to see that tall girl, Julia, wearing only a smile."

More than thirty young boys stood around reading scripts. Ben and Damon were going over their lines when a tall shapely woman entered the large room. Her loud voice yelling his name made Damon jump. Ben displayed no reaction whatsoever when his name was shouted out. Ben coolly approached the woman while Damon followed close behind him, appearing quite nervous.

The gal led them into another room. Upon entering they noticed a camera secured to six-feet long tri-pod positioned in front of four older men, sitting on metal folding chairs. The casting director, Howard, an elderly man with grey hair, approached them. He handed Ben and Damon large cards and magic markers. Quickly, Ben became aware of Howard's lazy eye. To avoid the sight of eyes looking in two different directions, he stared into the old man's mouth. My what yellow teeth you have, grandpa, and that odor, much more than an old man smell, more like crap in the morning, he thought to himself as Howard gave instructions. When the boys were finished writing on the cards, Howard took back the markers and moved toward his chair. Ben squeezed his nose, indicating phew. Only one of the three men watching smiled. The other two were not amused.

Ben, holding a large white card with his name printed in black letters just below his chin, moved to a white X painted on the floor in front of the camera. Relaxed and confident, he grinned. "Ben Artflick, sixteen, six-feet-two-inches and growing."

Noticeably nervous, Damon tramped over to Ben and faced the camera. He held up his card. "Damon Matthews, eighteen, five-feet-eight and a half inches."

Ben chuckled. "Yeah, on your tippy tip toes," he murmured.

Damon shot him a dirty look.

"Relax, buddy. It's just an audition." Ben winked and showed Damon a beaming smile. "You're too tense. Loosen up!"

"Proceed when ready," said Howard.

Ben and Damon faced each other. Damon spoke. "There's nothing you can do about it. So butt out." Damon raised his voice, in anger. "I can take care of myself just fine. All right?".

Ben didn't respond immediately. He shook his head slowly before saying, "No!"

"What do you mean 'no'?" Damon yelled.

Ben grinned. "No!"

"Okay, boys. Thanks for coming in. We'll contact your agent if we need you to come in again."

Ben, angry, moved toward Howard. "That's it - no? It cost me forty dollars to take the train here from Boston to say 'no' twice."

"Quite frankly, Ben, you're too tall for any part in this movie. Mr. Williams doesn't want a student seven inches plus taller than he is. Sorry." He turned to Damon. "Damon, so far, it's between you and Ethan Hawke. I like your chances."

On the way to the train station, Damon asked, "Do ya know which one was Hawke?"

"Yeah, the kid who resembled Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High." Ben thought ever since The Graduate in '67 too many leading roles were going to short unattractive actors. He wished for the days of Lancaster, O'toole, Stewart, Wayne, Peck and Flynn.

Damon didn't get the part, and, to make matters worse, that movie was the only one shown where he worked the following summer. It played in a single screen theater located in Harvard Square. Damon, wearing a black bow tie, maroon vest, white shirt and a name tag, sat in the ticket booth selling tickets to it and saying welcome to Lowe's.

Ben worked inside, selling popcorn, candy and soda. At the end of the night, they cleaned up the entire theater, including the bathrooms. All for minimum wage and to be part of the movie business.

The following year, six months after Ben graduated from high school, they moved to Hollywood, California. New York was okay for finding work in television but they thought they had a better chance to make the big time on the West Coast.

Dining on a bowl of Cheerios and watching the movie M*A*S*H, Damon sat on a beat up sofa. Just as a character on the small TV screen said, "How do you like them apples, Charlie?" the door to his small apartment opened. A young woman ambled into the room. Ben behind her closed the door. Damon stood, placed the bowl next to a notebook on a coffee table, wiped his hands on his dungarees, and showed the girl a friendly smile. "I'm Damon," he said, looking her over and noticing big breasts, long blonde hair, big blue eyes, tiny waist, about five-six, and dynamite smile.

"I'm Diane," the girl replied. "I just met Ben at an audition."

"How'd ya make out?" Damon asked gesturing in the direction of a love seat across from him. Then he picked up the notebook and a pen prior to sitting down.

Diane glanced up at Ben. He nodded. As she sat down, she said, "Not too good, but Ben did fantastic."

"Really?" Damon said, looking away from her and writing 'How you like them apples' in his notebook. "Excuse me. I'm working on a screenplay and had to write something before I forget it." His eyes shifted to his tall friend.

Ben, standing in the center of the room, stared down at Damon. "You'll never guess who I'll be working with. First clue." He cupped his hands way in front of his chest, indicating large breasts. "Second clue: we saw her breasts on your TV four years ago."

Damon smiled broadly. "Noooo! Not......"

"Yes! Yes! Wonder Woman! In the flesh! But I won't be groping her boobs like that lucky creep got to do in Bobbie Jo and the Outlaw. On screen, anyway. She plays an actress who has an affair with my father. And he's the guy who got killed in a night soap opera and came back in a shower scene a season later. Patrick Duff. A real butt head! He thought I was too tall for the role. He even measured my hair and suggested a crew cut to make me four inches shorter. It's just a TV movie but it'll pay our rent and more. Much more."

"It's a start. Better than waiting tables."

"How's it coming?" Ben pointed at the notebook.

Damon handed the pad up to Ben, who took it and read out loud. After a few minutes, he nodded in approval and handed it back. "Not bad! But that last line sounds familiar. I heard it somewhere."

"Last night at the strip joint. I said how do you like them melons, remember?"

Ben, squinted and tilted his head, pondering. "No, but I remember the melons." Ben turned to the television. Each cast member was being shown in a scene from the movie. Ben pointed at Jo Ann Pflug. "She's married to Chuck Woolery. Maybe she'll be in the studio tonight." Ben smiled at Diane. "Did you see M*A*S*H, the movie?"

Diane nodded.

"I love that mesmerizing grin on Lt. Dish's face, Jo Ann's character, after her night with the best-equipped dentist in the Army. The way she looked into the camera was tantalizing and hilarious. Exceptional movie making. Some day I''ll direct."

"She's married to Chuck?" Diane asked.

"I think so. My dad told me Woolery used to host the Wheel of Fortune show and told his viewers he's married to Lt. Dish."

"Odd that he referred to her as Lt. Dish. How much time do we have?"

Ben glanced at his watch. "We gotta get going. Let me change and we'll be on our way."

Ben and Diane sat in the studio audience, front row center by the raised platform. Large bright red valentine hearts covered most of the wall behind a large light purple sofa that had a wide armrest in the center. No one was on stage during the introduction via an overhead loudspeaker. Chuck Woolery was described as a devoted family man with eight children.

Ben whispered to Diane, "That's why we don't see Jo Ann anymore. She's busy raising eight kids."

Chuck appeared from an opening between pink curtains to the right of the sofa. He strolled toward the front center of the stage, smiling and waving to the applauding audience. When the hullabaloo was over, Chuck asked, "Are there any questions?" Standing in front of Ben, Chuck searched his audience. No waving hands. Nothing! He stared down at Ben, waiting.

Ben looked up, somewhat intimidated into asking a question. Just trying to be polite, he asked the first thing that came to his mind. "Is Lt. Dish in the audience?"

Chuck's smile immediately disappeared. His charming cheerful expression switched to the look of hate. "I have no idea who you're talking about, sir!" He roared in a very unfriendly manner.

Ben slid down his chair, embarrassed. His face turned red as tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He murmured. "You're married to Jo Ann Pflug, aren't you?"

"My wife's name is...Teri...Nelson...Woolery!" Chuck shouted, jabbing a finger at Ben after each name.

Ben slid down as far as he could, his head barely above the backrest. "Sorry, I was told you were married to Jo Ann Pflug."

Chuck glared down at him for a few moments before scanning the audience. "Are there any other questions?"

You could hear a pin drop. No sounds. No movement. The audience appeared stunned by what they had just witnessed. Chuck turned to the opening he had entered the stage from and said, "They won't let me forget my past." He looked at Ben. "I was married to Jo Ann a long, long time ago. I'm now happily married to David Nelson's daughter. She's a member of the Ozzie and Harriet family, not that Mash Medical unit."

Still rattled, Ben gave Diane a friendly smile. Diane was a bit fidgety as she stroked her long shiny blonde hair, uncovering an ear - an extremely large ear in Ben's perspective. He imagined her swimming in a pool, both ears exposed and flapping like a bird's wings. Suddenly she flew out of the water and into the air, like Dumbo the flying elephant. In a hushed tone, Ben sung, I done seen 'bout everything, when I saw a woman fly. Oh my!

Diane turned to him and smiled. "What are you singing?"

Ben whispered. "A blast from the past. Sorry, I must have been daydreaming."

"Where's Diane?" Damon asked, sitting on the sofa and jotting down something in his notebook.

"History! Dropped like a hot McDonald's coffee," replied Ben. He lowered his head, embarrassed. "It's baaack!"

"Ya kidding. Diane's flawless. What was it, dirt under a finger nail?"

"No, elephant ears. Twice the size of Clark Gable's, at least."

"Can I be brutally honest with you?"

"Yes! Yak away."

"You need help."

"Whatta 'bout you. Still a virgin prom night. And another guy bangs your date in front of you."

"An old boyfriend. It happens!"

"Ya should've laid him out. What's wrong with YOUR brain, dimwit?"

"I went to Harvard, stupid."

"Still stupid when you left Harvard."

Damon got off the sofa. "Give me a fucking break," he yelled while storming out of the living room. "I was just trying to help you."

Damon's first big break came in the fall of '91. Playing a memorable antagonist viewers will love at first and hate later in a major motion picture put him on top of the world: living the dream and working with his buddy in Massachusetts. Ben's role in the drama was much smaller. That didn't bother Ben as much as the reviews did after its release in '92.

Reclining on a loveseat with his feet on a coffee table, Ben read a newspaper. His brow furrowed. "They liked you. They really liked you. Damon is a standout. His diminutive frame standing way above, talent wise, the fine young cast that included Chris O'Donnell, Brendan Fraser, and Ben Artflick. A believable villain who remains human and understandable, despite being a prick." Ben's head snapped up from the paper. "That twitch from the Village Talk liked you too. She wrote all the young actors were bland except Damon Matthews. She thought you made a strong impression as the cruel Jew hating preppy." He tossed the paper on the table.

"Think about the positive aspect," said Damon, relaxing on his sofa, holding a pen and notebook. "When I'm a famous movie star, I'll get you good parts in my movies. Maybe some speaking roles. I promise."

"I recollect we both were paid thirty grand." Ben glanced up at the ceiling, stroking his chin. "Only you had to work your ass off and show it on the big screen for the world and your Catholic mother to see."

"Yes, but a role don't...doesn't get much better than that - does it?"

"No, a roll in the hay is better. You might find that out some day. Maybe with some lifts and a little plastic surgery. You should get that nose fixed. It reminds me of the front end of a shotgun."

Damon grinned as he jumped off the sofa, tossing his notebook and pen on top of the newspaper. "I'm ready to find out tonight. Let's go for a drink. I wanna see if we're recognized. Maybe I'll get lucky. Ya still have your phony ID?"

"Of course, I don't leave apartment without it."

Ben lowered himself onto a barstool. "Two T & T's, light on the ice, heavy on the Tanqueray, please," he said to a burly clean shaven, head and face, fellow standing behind the bar.

The bartender glanced at them. "I need to see identification."

Ben reached into his back pocket.

"Not you, him." He tilted his head toward Damon sitting on the adjacent stool.

Damon quickly pulled out his driver's license and handed it to the big bald guy.

The barkeep examined it and Damon's face before handing it back. "Thank you," he mumbled, stepping away to make the drinks.

Damon placed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar as Ben looked around the establishment. When their drinks arrived, Ben took a sip. It tasted harsh. He knew it wasn't Tanqueray. No doubt a cheap gin he thought to himself. A widespread crime ignored by lawmakers. Although he was only twenty, he had drunk enough Tanqueray to know the difference.

Damon appeared to like his. He took a big gulp, smacked his lips as he noticed two eye-catching women standing together on the other side of the large oval shaped bar. He slid off his stool, with drink in hand, en route to hit on two head turners. At the end of the bar two drunks argued as Damon approached.

"Hey, I'll kick your ass!" the larger man bellowed.

The smaller lush said, "I'll fucking end you!" as Damon strolled by, giving an ear to the tiff. "That last warning was creative. I gotta remember that," he thought to himself.

One of the two foxes rotated ninety degrees, facing an advancing Damon. He wound up close enough to get a whiff of the blonde's rose fragrance perfume. With a big smile he said, "Hi there!" Damon stared into her eyes for a moment before his eyes slid downward, stopping at her breasts. Once a breasts man, always a breasts man.

The petite, busty, woman grabbed Damon's chin and lifted his head until they made eye contact. She wore a revealing green top and talked with a southern accent. "Didn't your momma teach you how to approach a young woman?"

"I'm Damon Matthews, star of the hit movie Academy Allegiance," he said, slowly lifting his hands up and out, with a facial expression indicating 'there you have it'. I'm a movie star. "May I buy you two gorgeous treasures drinks?"

"That's an improvement." She smiled, offering her hand. "I'm April."

Damon took her hand and signaled Ben by nodding.

Seconds later Ben strutted up to them. "How's it going?" he asked the tall, trim, woman with short jet black hair. Barely noticeable was a small red political campaign button pinned to her pink sleeveless blouse.

"It's goin'! My name's Marcia," she replied with a New York accent. "Are ya a workin' actor, too?"

"I've been in a few." Ben smirked after noticing the 'Vote for Bo Marma' button on her blouse. He pointed, the tip of his finger coming close to touching the tiny circular endorsement, and groaned, "You know why he changed his name to Bo?"

"I'm not aware he did."

"He had trouble spelling Bob." Ben raised his voice, shaking a finger at her like an angry father. "That guy's dumber than Dan Partridge. He's incapable of spelling pot, let alone potato."

Glaring at Ben, hands on hips, she replied, "His opponent considered the rape of a child by Roman Polanski a misdemeanor. The killing of an unborn baby a matter of choice."

"Ben shifted to Damon. "Finish your drink. They're right-wingers on a crusade. Walking billboards don't put out. All show, no blow! Let's go back to our pad and work on that screenplay."

Pen in hand, Ben wrote 'Shame is my rein. A powerful restrain.' in a notebook spread open on a small wooden dining table in their kitchen. He turned a page and read to himself. His head shot up, diverting his attention to Damon sitting across from him, and asked, "I'll kill you? That's the best you can come up with?"

"How about I'll fucking end you?" Damon replied, quoting the drunk from the bar. "And he says it after he grabs Charles by the throat and lifts him off the floor."

"I guess that'll worked." Ben nodded approval. "I like it. It needs a little foreshadowing."

"Okay. Before that scene he says he can bench-press three hundred pounds."

"And a joke. After he says it he asks Charles what he can lift. Charles immediately changes the subject by asking him to pull his finger - then he farts." Ben burst into laughter.

"No, no, no. That sucks! Movies with fart jokes are harder to sell. Instead Charles points at a photo on a desk and asks if she's Saul's wife."

"My line is witty. Humor sells. Think of Blazing Saddles. And remember the dog running out of the room in 10? Then the line 'Whenever Mrs. Kissel breaks wind, we beat the dog'."

"More fitting might be Saul's wife farting so loud she wakes up and he takes the blame."

"Not funny! Mine is!"

"It's to show how much he loved her. If your girlfriend farted, she's history."

"Of course. I bet I'm not alone on that one. Who wants a girl who farts? Saul reminiscing about his imperfect wife might work." Ben went through the notebook, turning pages, skimming. He stopped and read out loud. "Ya know something. I'll have my Harvard degree and you'll be asking me if I want fries with my hamburger. Charles: Maybe. But at least I won't be a prick. Wanna take this outside?" Ben tossed the notebook. It stopped in front of Damon.

Damon glanced at the pad. He folded his arms and glared at Ben. "So, I spoofed my first big movie. That's not uncommon. Besides, nobody will notice, probably. Lame jokes done before, they remember."

"I see you spoofed a few flicks."

"Ripping off material from one film is plagiarism. Showboating tidbits from many is educational. Research! Paying homage! Whatever! Everybody does it. Besides, my creative writing professor at Harvard taught us to write and let the producers worry about the legal stuff."

"The same guy who wrote Swami?"

"Yes! He's a gifted writer."

"Swami had the reeking of an Ed Wood movie."

"It was a work of art."

"Similar to the painting of a tomato soup can."

"Exactly!"

Damon slid the pad back to his pal. Ben picked it up and read some more. "What does it smell like in the Sistine Chapel?"

"The ceiling was painted by Michelangelo."

"I know that, Damon," Ben said sarcastically, throwing the pad back to Damon. "Who cares what a five hundred year old church smells like? I guess old and musty."

Damon took a deep breath, shook his head and rolled his eyes. "You're a dickhead and I went to Harvard. Trust me, it's good." Damon stretched, keeping his eyes on Ben. "I gotta tell ya, 'bird-dog a lover with your eyes, chew over love with your heart,' doesn't work."

Ben's face transfigured into a squint-eyed, open-mouthed scowl. He shook a finger at Damon. "It's a metaphor." He pointed at himself. "It works for me!"

"I like it, Ben, but I doubt a psychiatrist would say it to a patient. Keep that train of thought on the right track is a maybe, so, we'll keep it in, for now."

"I got a feeling we're not equal anymore."

"When it came to writing, we never were. I went to Harvard!" Damon's mannerism changed from smug to cheerful with great ideas. "Let's write some scenes that will be fun to act out. And let's image Bob De Niro as the shrink and Morgan Freeman as the professor."

After numerous rewrites between acting gigs, Damon and Ben completed their screenplay in '94 and gave it to their agent, Rick White, insisting they star in the movie. Rick loved the script. Subsequent to passing it around town, there was a bidding contest. Acropolis won. Rick sent for the two writers to break the great news with one setback.

Rick, a Dustin Hoffman look-alike, only smaller, sat on his fancy leather office chair behind his stylish mahogany desk. Looking as if he had just won the lottery, he roared, "Acropolis' bid is out-of-sight: six hundred thou." He replaced his smile with a stern look. "But...the producers want known actors. Nobody knows who you guys are. Using unknowns in a ten-million-dollar production is unprecedented."

"What about Stallone? Did you bother to mention Rocky?" Damon asked, sitting on a small sofa next to Ben.

"Of course I did. They were firm about having full control. I wasn't about to argue and piss them off. One in the bush is worth two by hand. It's more than a half mil orgasm."

"Who do you work for, brain deficit?" Ben shouted as he stood up, pointing a stiff finger at his negotiator. "Your concern should be not to piss us off. Go back and tell them it's a package deal. You know, like we instructed you to do."

"Yeah!" Damon jumped to his feet. "How do ya like them apples? If they don't want us, fine. Fuck 'em. We'll wait a couple of years and produce it ourselves."

"It's a done deal. I couldn't risk a back pedal. That happens a lot in this business."

Ben stood there, stunned, wanting to hit Rick. Instead he tried to offend. "How does an ugly little weasel like you ever get laid?"

"I can touch my nose with my tongue." Rick shoved two checks across his desk. "I'll show 'em your best performances. I promise you both a screen-test, at least. In the meantime, they want a few rewrites."

A year slipped away and no developments, just a lot of rewriting. Based on the lack of feedback the duo suspected nobody from the studio bothered to read their changes. Convinced their baby was on hold, Ben decided to test them.

"Dr. Saul talks to Charles and unloads his conscious. Charles deliberates, gives Saul a soulful look, falls to his kness and starts blowing him," said Ben, not taking his eyes off his notebook.

Relaxing on a luxurious sofa, Damon nodded and laughed. "Noteworthy! That might raise an eyebrow or two. Maybe a couple of scenes with them jerking each other off might work."

As expected the porn wasn't noticed and Rick White was ordered to troubleshoot their dilemma. After several phone calls Rick met with the twosome in his office.

"Okay, it's in limbo. They own it and can fire you guys. Get a studio to buy it from them for a million bucks. If not, someone else will direct it, rewrite it, star in it and you two will be lucky to get invited to a fucking premiere." Rick leaned back on his office chair and swiveled from Damon to Ben, waiting for a response.

Ben folded his massive arms across his chest, shooting daggers at his agent. "Well, find our little one a new home. Earn that sixty grand we paid ya." He stood up and nodded to Damon. While strolling toward the door, Ben shouted, "Rick, get back to us pronto."

Damon followed Ben down the hall toward the elevator. Ben growled, "Fuck him! We're gonna contact every studio that was interested in it."

They did and several arranged a meeting, but basically told them to take a hike after hearing about their unflexible stand on staring roles. They loved the script but weren't willing to risk millions on a couple of wannabes. During lunch at a local Denny's restaurant in L.A., Ben met with a director buddy.

"Hervey loved it. But the blow jobs and jerking off scenes gotta come out. Mel Gibson's gonna direct. You have to meet with Mel. Be sure to tell him you love Braveheart."

Smiling broadly, Ben pondered for a moment. "I haven't seen it."

"Fucking lie to him and say you love Braveheart. Blow him if he asks."

"That's outta the question. A germaphobia thing. I'll run it by Damon."

Mel worked on the movie for a few months. Ben thought he was taking too much time and complained at that rate they were getting too old to play the main characters. Mel totally understood and let the project go.

Damon didn't care. He had lost forty pounds while shooting in a big flick staring Denzel Washington. Damon needed time to recover. To get back in shape for a role that he believed will lead to stardom.

Robert Redford considered directing the film but thought casting Leo and Brad might make it a better movie. Then a close friend of Matt's was giving the opportunity to direct. He wanted the chance years ago after first reading it. Not wasting much time the shooting began in April of '97, a wrap in nine weeks, and released in December.

The pair's determination paid off. They starred in their movie and it was a huge box office success, grossing over a hundred-forty-million-dollars. The critics loved it. All except J.T. Hunsucker, Ben's nemesis from Cambridge. He wrote, 'Ben Artflick was as stiff as one of the walking dead characters in an old film classic. His acting was so awful it gave the impression that Damon Matthews's performance was Golden Man worthy.'

In fact, it was. Damon was nominated for Best Actor. And their screenplay won in the Best Original Screenplay category. Both attended the celebrated ritual with their mothers. That gave the tabloids and J. T. Hunsucker something to gossip about. Ben and Damon didn't care. They wanted their moms to have the time of their lives. They deserved it. Neither thought, or even dreamed, they had a chance of winning. Neither one prepared a speech and it showed. They enthusiastically thanked everybody connected with the movie and everybody living in and around Boston, twice.

Backstage in the pressroom Ben held up his golden statue and said, "My mom's considering this her grandchild until she gets a real one."

A reporter asked Damon which award did he want to win.

Damon answered, "Ya gotta be kiddin'. I didn't care. Just being here was a thrill."

Their sensational movie was the number one box office hit three weeks in a row. Incredible job offers came pouring in: requests to work with major stars and acclaimed film directors. Damon said yes to Steven Spielberg. Ben agreed to work on several big budget films. The first went on to win Best Picture. The reviews on Ben's effort were fine until J. T. Hunsucker wrote Ben Artflick seemed out of place. All those capable actors talking with English accents and Ben with his New England accent. His 'One of our bright lights had gone out' line was barely audible and laughable. Perhaps Artflick adlibbed thinking of Broadway and not sixteen century England.

Hunsucker slammed all of Ben's undertakings. It didn't take too long for other critics to follow suit. Lamebrain see, Lamebrain do. The panning went on for years but didn't affect Ben's multi-million dollar salary as long as his movies made big profits.

While visiting Damon on the set of Rascals, a movie about Texas Hold 'em, Ben jumped into a card game, playing with six of the actors - two considered the best Hold 'em players in the world. He truly enjoyed the action. It was the start of a new-fangled time consuming venture. Ben had caught the Hold 'em bug.

His last three movies lost millions, declining the job offers, hence, plenty of time for his new passion: poker. He even hired a professional to give him some pointers. That paid off. Several months later he won a major tournament in California, more than a three-hundred-fifty thousand dollar acquisition. Shortly later a two-hundred-fifty thousand payday for attending the grand opening of a casino in West Virginia. Subsequently an invitation to play for charity on a new television series. No hard sell needed to get Damon to keep Ben company. Playing cards, competing with his pal, and money for his favorite charity was an offer he couldn't pass up.

Jay Douglas, a comic, hosted the first episode of Celebrity Poker. He led off with an introduction of five widely known personalities sitting around a poker table. His snippy blabbing before the start of the game upset a few competitors.

Jay, holding a microphone, stopped fifty-six-year-old actor, James Timber, and Gina Gershon, an attractive dark haired actress. He said to James, "I take it you know Gina?"

James, wearing a sweatshirt with a Foxwoods' casino logo, turned to Gina and smiled. "Of course! Actually, we dated."

A stunned Gina laughed out loud. "I never dated you!"

Jimmy, mortified, flopped back on his chair, extending his arms out in a what the f*** behavior. "We never dated?"

"Noooooo! We NEVER dated!"

James raised his arms and stared up at the ceiling before getting in Gina's face. "Mario's restaurant, L.A., two years ago. Hello!"

"You were interviewing me for a role, for Christ sakes."

Jay giggled and shook his head, enjoying the spat. "She didn't get the job, did she?"

James, closing his eyes, mouthed 'no'.

"Do we have a President Monroe/Lewinski situation here?" Jay pushed his microphone in front of Gina.

"Gina, you seem offended. You don't date older men?"

"Occasionally, if they're younger than my dad and Democrats."

Jay stepped to Gina's left by Kate Curio, a television journalist. He lowered his mike inches away from the forty-six-year-old bleached blonde woman. "I heard you dated older men back in the '80's. Perhaps trying to get ahead. Mr. King was twenty-six-years older than you, right?"

"Larry and I had one date. Nothing serious. Dinner."

"You ended up in his apartment. Some consider that serious, like rounding third base - about to slide into home. Was there a job interview on his couch by any chance?"

Kate's face turned bright red. Her throat constricted. The anger built up. She felt like storming off the set. Instead she said, "Muck off or I'm out of here."

Jay hurried over to Ben. "Ah, Ben, Ham Ala King per renown film critic J. T. Hunsucker. A compliment - I think not!"

Sitting on a wooden chair, Ben tilted his body and peered up at the talk show host. "None taken," he said, grinning.

"J.T. thought you'd make a great hypnotist. You have a knack for putting film goers to sleep."

"I handle bullshit privately," Ben replied, still grinning.

"Was Kate the oldest woman you ever dated, Ben? Damn, she's old enough to be your mom."

"What?" Ben's grin switched to a serious look. "We were filming a segment for her show."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, lunch at your favorite diner, hitting baseballs inside Fenway Park, a visit to your mom's house, a few drinks afterwards - right?"

"Well, yeah, but...."

"I watched the entire unedited video. You ended up totally bombed. Muttering 'Those breasts look firm. Suspiciously firm I have to say. They're like two giant stones'." Jay chuckled. "Stones? You compared her breasts to gonads? What the muck were you thinking?"

Ben looked at Damon. "I'm ready."

Damon stood up. "Let's go!"

Ben slowly rose to his feet, glaring at Jay. "Tell your producers we'll be back when you're sacked. Selecting you instead of Foley was a dumb move." He got in Jay's face and poked his chest. "I can take a joke, but you were out for blood. Have a good day, shamsta."

The two buddies marched off the set. Outside Ben stated he needed a drink and had reason to celebrate.

"What?" asked Damon, stopping by their assigned golf cart.

"Let's walk," Ben said, waving a hand in the direction of the parking lot. "Ricki left me. She's riding her broom as we speak. Flying north to Monterey."

Damon nodded and headed toward the lot. "There's no truth to those tab stories about you going down of those strippers, right?"

"Total garbage. She knew that and was cool with me going to that strip joint. Ricki used booze as an excuse. Everything I did, she blamed on booze. She read I won two hundred grand at the blackjack table in Vegas and 'tipped out' my entire winnings. When I said so what, she assumed I must have been drunk."

Ben turned toward the entrance. Damon stopped. "We're ya going? The car's not in that direction."

"A cozy little place within walking distance. Nobody will bother us there."

"Why do you tip so much?"

"Karma! It must work. No other way to explain my success and luck in cards. And ya gotta have a lot of Karma to be elected president. Karma, my height, appeal and great hair, can't lose. Life dealt me a great hand. The flop was marvelous. The turn, so far, can't really complain."

Damon drank some beer out of a frosted mug. After wipping the foam off his philtrum, he asked Ben, "Tell me, at the congressional fundraiser, you did the president?"

Sitting across from Damon inside a small saloon, Ben downed his Absolut Vodka and grapefruit.

"Yeah!" He caught the bartender's attention and pointed at his empty glass. "I was a little nervous, surrounded by guys with guns and all. When I finished he said that's pretty good, my man."

"Who asked you to do him?"

"He did! I was doing my Al Pacino, ya, know, hello, whatta ya talkin' about when the president came up to me. He looked at me and asked, 'Oh, you imitate me do you?' What do you do? I launched into part of my favorite Bill Monroe speech. While doing it I looked over at our president, his jacket came open and he slapped his knee."

Ben eyeballed the bartender, a slender female, carrying his drink toward him. He pulled out his wallet and withdrew five one hundred dollar bills. The woman laid the libation on the table in front of him.

"This is for you," said Ben, handing her the cash. "That's to insure prompt delivery whenever my glass is half empty."

Without taking her eyes off Ben's face, she shoved the cash into a small blue pouch strapped to her hip. "Thank you, Mr. Artflick."

"You're welcome. And remember, a vote for Gore will get you more than a disturbed Bush will."

"Will do," she said, smiling, and then hurrying to her place of duty, behind the bar.

Damon leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "You should consider Rehab. I heard about your binges. And I saw that video. You were wasted, big buddy. I've never seen you that drunk. Displays like that could hurt your future political aspirations."

Ben stared at his drink, thinking how to respond. He lifted his head. "Ouch! I hate it when you're right. I drank myself Bush. Those fucking critics got to me. I'm not working because of them. They pan everything I do, lately. Fucking Hunsucker. I want to wring his scrawny neck." Ben lifted his glass, and then put it down without taking a sip. He pushed it away. "Okay! The next time I get plastered and embarrass myself, I'll put myself in."

The week after W. won the presidency, Ben checked himself into a Rehab Center in southern California. His stay was short. Out and working again after three weeks.

Despite bad reviews several of his movies were major hits. Even his one big budget stinker, Risk Taker, made money. His alcohol intake was minimal. At times he went a month without a drink. On occasion he had a couple. Only twice, over a two year period, he had more than a few. Not too bad for a recovering alcoholic.

In 2004 Ben pulled down twenty million dollars per movie. He had appeal, wit, and intellect, but his finicky nature was still a problem. The sight of a minor imperfection made him squeamish: hence the kiss-off of another sweetheart over a barely noticeable moustache. In the aftermath, he vowed to overcome that hang-up. Never again would he be bothered by a minor flaw in a woman's appearance.

Being hypersensitive to unflattering comments by film critics was another concern. "If only I had time to cool off," was his defense after tossing a reviewer into a fountain at the Cannes Film Festival.

"Oops!" he said after socking a columnist in the mouth. "Very sorry! I'll cover all dental work and I'll buy you a Porsche."

The writer, lying on the floor inside a fancy restaurant, checked his teeth with his tongue, no impairment. He got up and accepted the motor vehicle. No hard feelings.

After introducing Damon at an Awards Dinner, Josh Brolin joked, "Quite an actor, Damon Matthews. Not an asshole like his pard, Ben Artflick."

Ben, nearby at a table directly in front of them, nodded and smiled. He could take a shot as long as the wisecracker wasn't a film critic. He thought they were ogres. J. T. Hunsucker was the paramount troll. He hated Hunsucker, but usually watched Jasper's TV show.

The words "What To See with J.T. and Ellie" materialized on Ben's sixty-inch plasma TV hanging on his living room wall. A scene from Ben's most recent movie began with a large quivering jellyfish on the TV screen. Then a man, with a jagged scar on forehead, stared down at the semi-transparent sea creature. A large hand grabbed his shoulder, startling him. The small guy turned and looked up.

"Wow! You're. . . ugly," said the man, sounding weak-minded.

Ben, portraying an old man with half his face deformed, had only one open eye. It twitched as he stared down. "Remember me?"

The man appeared confused. "Nooo!"

"Remember my daughter, Cookie?"

Grinning, the man replied, "Yeah! I . . saw .. her titties."

Ben's face became tense, his eye twitching constantly. "You saw my wife's titties too." He shouted, "While you and your pals were raping her."

The television screen turned black momentary, indicating end of film clip.

J. T. Hunsucker's face appeared on Ben's TV screen. He removed his eyeglasses and held them away from his short, thin body. "That was a scene from 'Splitting Nines'; an exciting thriller spoiled by another wooden performance by Ben Artflick."

Ellie, an attractive woman sitting across from Hunsucker, crossed her shapely legs. "I disagree. I love Ben in this. He's delightfully creepy. An award winning performance."

"The Razzie Award," responded Hunsucker. "If he doesn't win his third, I'll eat his Golden Man."

Ben, using his remote control, turned off his television. The TV screen faded to black. "That's funny! I dreamt I shoved my Golden Man down his throat." Ben, sitting on his white leather sofa, laid the push button control on a coffee table. "I killed the bastard."

Ryan Kako stretched out on the other end of the long couch. He was a small man, blond hair with black roots, had non-speaking roles in Ben's last five movies. Thanks to Ben, he was one of the highest paid extras in the business. "I gotta golden member he can suck on," Ryan mumbled. "Don't let him bother you, he's a buffoon."

Ben's cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pant's pocket, looked at the caller ID and then spoke into the phone. "Hello, Dora."

"Were you watching his show?" asked Ben's fiancée.

"Of course, I like watching Ellie cross her legs."

"I don't have a problem when legs are crossed. Remember that when you're in Vegas."

"My mind will be on poker and you, Dora."

"Hunsucker will be there. If you run into him, don't let him get to you."

"If he does, I'll have Bo Greene bury him in the desert."

"Just ignore him. What happens in Vegas doesn't stay there in our line of work."

Sitting at their assigned poker tables, the vast majority of the players waited to engage in Texas Hold 'em. Spectators inside that enormous room in downtown Las Vegas sought autographs.

Ben, wearing a Boston Red Sox cap, occupied seat 5 at a table 66. He chatted with two young girls standing by his side. One lass had huge doe-eyes and the other a long pony tail.

"Fourteen inches," stated Ben in a matter of fact manner.

"You must be proud," responded Doe Eyes.

"Yes, very." He asked, "Would you like to see it?"

Doe Eyes appeared confused. "In your hotel room?"

"No, here." Ben slid his chair back, spreading his legs. Doe Eyes and Pony Tail stretched their necks, looking down. Ben reached down between his legs and picked up his Golden Man statuette. He handed it to Doe Eyes.

The girls admired the golden figurine as Ben said, "It's going on display in Debbie Reynold's new casino. She's going to pick it up later today. That's why I brought it here."

"Wasn't she the woman killed in Psycho?" asked Doe Eyes.

"No, that was Janet Leigh. Debbie played Kathy in Singin' in the Rain and Tammy."

J.T. Hunsucker, carrying a canvas bag and a Bloody Mary, approached Ben. "He didn't win that for acting. That's for sure!" Wearing a baggy long sleeve pink shirt with frills and a laced-up V-neck opening, he strutted by Ben and his two fans.

"Someday I'll knock some sense into that imp," Ben told the girls.

"What's his problem?" asked Doe Eyes.

"Nothing a shot of poison couldn't fix," said Ben, glaring at Hunsucker. He turned to Doe Eyes, sounding like Humphrey Bogart he made a toast with a space between his thumb and finger. "Here's lookin' at ya, kid."

"Casablanca!" Doe Eyes grinned, proud of herself.

"I only quote from the best." He mimicked chugging the toxin and tossing the imaginary tiny container over his shoulder. With the back of his hand, he wiped his lips. Suddenly, he grabbed his throat and had that panicky look of fear. His eyes closed as his arms fell limp to his side and his head slumped slowly forward.

"All the spectators must leave the poker area," ordered the tournament director over his intercom system.

Bill Monroe, a tall distinguished looking man with dyed light brown hair and a thick moustache, observed the players at his table, offering a friendly nod when there's eye contact. He knew he fit in with any group: rich or poor, conservative or liberal, white or black, any place, any time. His friendly personality and charm were two of his commendable traits. While Bill was President of the United States, women were attracted to him. In 2004 he was considered just another dirty old man, hitting on anyone wearing a skirt. He was about to make a move on a woman to his right when Hunsucker sat down on the chair between them.

"Mr. Hunsucker, Valerie and I love your show," said Bill as he offered his hand.

"Thanks," replied Hunsucker, ignoring Bill's hand. "Where's your Secret Service?"

"Don't need them. I'm saving the tax payers millions. Tricky Dick was the first. Perhaps the Dickster's only thoughtful act."

"Wasn't your wife interrogating your Secret Service agents after every trip?"

"Don't believe everything you read or hear, J. T. As you must know politicians are a target of comedians and the media. Their flexible relationship with the truth ought to be common knowledge by now."

"Flexible relationship with the truth?" Hunsucker smirked. "I heard cock-and-bull was your nickname."

Bill smiled broadly. "Thelma and Louise came up with a similar pet name in college. Perhaps that's what you actually heard." Bill winked at Hunsucker.

"Dealers, shuffle up and deal. The little blinds will be twenty-five and the big blinds fifty." The loud voice came out of loudspeakers located all-around the room.

Hunsucker leaned back and called out to Ben, "Ben, I heard you're making a movie with Adam Sandler: Stiff and Stiffer.

Ben, at the adjacent table, showed him the longer half a peace sign. Also known as a one finger salute.

Tony, a large man with a black bushy mustache and a huge hawk nose: similar to Barbra Streisand's nose - only larger, sat across from Hunsucker. Wearing glasses with a thick black frame, he glared at the small man in a flashy pink blouse. "Ben Artflick is a damn good actor. You don't know shit about acting."

"If I pull down on your oversize hooter, will chips come out?" asked Hunsucker, leaning to his side, trying to get a glance of Tony's profile.

"What?"

Hunsucker peered at the two cards dealt to him. He tossed two pink chips in front of him: a thousand chip bet. The other players mucked their cards. The dealer pushed the chips over to Hunsucker. "Smile. Keep those chins up," said Hunsucker, winking at Tony.

Tony pointed at Hunsucker. "Watch ya self, Tinker Bell. Ya might get hurt."

"Are your nose and moustache attached to your glasses?" Hunsucker smirked as he scratched the tip of his nose with his middle finger. "It appears you're wearing a disguise I saw at a novelty shop. You know, the Groucho Marx nose and glasses."

Terry Udo, the woman sitting beside Hunsucker, gave him a disgusted look.

Hunsucker noticed her and the letters CU on her shirt. "What's the C U stand for?"

"Connecticut University."

"Oh, I thought a couple of consonants might be missing." He showed her his sardonic smile. "Ya know, a four letter word for snatch. I don't mean grab."

Bill Monroe turned to Hunsucker. "You ought to watch what you say, Mr. Hunsucker."

Hunsucker gazed at his cards. He mucked them. "A horny ex-president and part-time gynecologist to the rescue. Cigars any one? Hey, Bill, what do those college kids call you after one of your million dollar lectures?"

"They call me Mr. President," said Bill, raising his voice and squinting as he glared down at Hunsucker. "While I was president, I felt like a fire hydrant looking at a pack of dogs when I was around people like you. That's over with. Now I'm just a man about to punch out a two-bit prick."

Hunsucker gawked at Bill. "Where's your sense of humor?"

"I left it on Pennsylvania Ave. Apologize to the lady."

Sheepishly, Hunsucker turned to Terry. "If I offended you, I apologize."

Terry leaned forward and smiled at Bill. "Thanks, Mr. President."

"Call me Bill. May I buy you a drink, later?"

"Sorry, I have a very jealous husband."

"I understand, fully."

Hunsucker examined his cards. "Do you think you were a good president?"

"I may not have been the greatest president, but I had fun."

Joe Udo, a huge man, stomped toward Terry and stopped behind Hunsucker.

"Terry, I'm out of it. A River kill."

The 'River' is the fifth and final card face up on the table.

Terry looked up at him. "That's too bad, Joe."

Hunsucker yelled at Terry. "It's your turn, lady. Console Mighty Joe Young later."

Joe glared down on Hunsucker. Suddenly, he grabbed his chair and jerked it high in the air, Hunsucker and all. Petrified, Hunsucker looked down as Joe told him, "We're taking this outside." He carried Hunsucker away from the table.

"Put him down, Joe," begged Terry.

Joe stopped by Ben and turned quickly toward Terry. Hunsucker''s Bloody Mary fell from his hand, landing on Ben's head. A panicky Hunsucker pointed at the gold medical I.D. bracelet dangling around his wrist. "Von Willebrand disease. I have von Willebrand disease." He looked down at Ben. "Help me, Ben, please help me."

Ben, ignoring his archenemy, removed his wet headpiece and examined it.

Several security guards rushed between the card tables. Joe placed the chair on the floor and ripped the plastic band off Hunsucker's wrist. While reading it his eyeballs went under his eyelids and then he collapsed. As soon as he hit the floor his body jerked and bounced in all directions.

After leaping out of her chair, Terry rushed over to him.

Sitting by Terry's empty chair, a young chubby man, missing a front tooth, exclaimed, "Wow! An athletic fit!"

Bill turned, correcting him. "Epileptic."

"Yeah, epicdick."

"What's your I.Q., young man?"

With pride, the chucky man pushed out his chest. "Twenty-twenty!"

"You're a Republican, aren't you?"

The pudgy guy nodded.

Julia Roberts, an actress, standing nearby, raised the corner of her upper lip - like a snarl. She glared down at the GOP member. "Hey, bubble boy!"

The young man's head snapped up. "What's that supposed to mean, lady?" Realizing it was Julia Roberts, he smiled.

"Republican comes in the dictionary just after reptile and just above repugnant," said the star of Pretty Woman.

The man's smile turned into a frown. "You must be Alberta Scankenstein."

"Know what I'd like to give you?" asked Julia. "Three words!"

"Do they rhyme with snow cob?" replied the chubby man.

"A swift kick!" Julia turned and strolled back to her table.

Ben got off his chair while people tended to Joe. "Excuse me," he said, carrying his cap and moving between the crowds of onlookers. He headed for the restroom.

Hunsucker, still on his chair, noticed Ben's Golden Man set upright under the table several feet away. He pondered for a moment before turning to his canvas bag on the floor by his table.

Ben entered the men's room, tossing his cap into a large trash can. To his right were a row of urinals. Over each porcelain wall fixture was a different life-size photo of a stunning woman, staring down, happy and appearing impressed. Beyond the 12 receptacles were six water closets.

Two young potheads, sharing a joint, stood by the opening to the last golden compartment.

Ben nodded and showed the space cadets a half-smile. The one wearing a 'Don't Worry, Be Happy' tee shirt extended the wacky weed toward the famous actor. Ben shook his head and pulled a pack of Camel cigarette's half-way out of his shirt pocket. "No thanks! I'm trying to quit."

Happy turned to his pal who was wearing a pink 'I Love Pussy' tee shirt with the words around the face of a white angora cat. "Wow! Carrying his stash in a cigarette package. Artflick has class!"

Happy handed what was left of the joint to his pal and stumped toward Ben's position at a urinal.

Ben examined the face of the beautiful blonde on the wall in front of him. It appeared to be a photo of Michelle Pfeiffer, holding a camera aimed downward at his penis. Jennifer Lopez, holding a long tape measure, hung over the urinal to his right and Teri Garr, holding an oversized magnifying glass, by the one to his left.

"Yo, Artflick, you the bomb in Spook," said Happy, stopping by Ben and checking him out.

Annoyed, Ben glared down at the guy. "That wasn't the first time."

"Hey, wait a second," Happy said, staring at Ben's penis. "You're not that dude who fucked a pie, are you?"

"No, that wasn't me," Ben said, yanking his zipper up. "Excuse me." He headed for a sink.

The two potheads moved toward the exit. "Nice meeting ya, Mr. Artflick," shouted Happy as he left the restroom, leisurely passing Bill Monroe.

While Ben was washing, Bill strolled up behind him. "Don't let him get to you, Ben."

Ben gazed at Bill's reflection in the mirror. "Excuse me, Mr. President?"

"Call me Bill. I'm incognito." Bill looked at himself in the reflector. He brushed off his moustache with his finger tips. "Hunsucker, ignore him and his reviews."

"I do. It's personal. I dumped his sister and broke his nose when I was a kid."

"Young boys break up with girls all the time."

"Not over a pimple. Thanks to me, Jenny killed herself. One witness - J. T. Hunsucker."

Bill touched Ben's shoulder. "You mourned long enough, my man. I'm meeting Greg Norman tonight. He's going to give me a pointer that will add 20 yards to my drive. Join us!"

Ben advanced toward the hand dryer. "I'll be too worn out by then."

"One drink!"

"Sorry, I'm a recovering alcoholic."

"Are you refusing to have a non-alcoholic beverage with an ex-president of the United States?"

Dancing topless on a long platform, three young full-figured women smiled at the men in a jam-packed dimly lit club. All eyes were on them except for two brown ones. Sitting at a small table by the back wall, Ben finished his fourth Vodka and grapefruit. He stood and extended his hand towards the ex-president. Bill took his baby blues off the women, got up and shook Ben's appendage.

"One more? Greg should be here, shortly."

"I feel lightheaded. One more and I might confront Hunsucker," he glanced at Hunsucker, sitting across the room, "and do something I might regret. Later!" Ben walked away.

Stopping by the exit, Ben spoke with three well-dressed elderly men. He pointed at Bill. One of the men, Ted Turner, took off in that direction.

Bill saw him coming. "Oh, brother! My biggest fan," he mumbled to himself. He stood to greet the 62 year old man with a handshake.

Ted pushed Bill's arm aside and gave him a big bear hug, whispering into Bill's ear. "Christianity is still a religion for losers. Mainly those Jesus freaks that walk around with ashes on their foreheads." Ted released Bill and stepped away.

"You still want to serve me?" Bill asked, then pushing his thumb back and forth into his open mouth.

"You knew what I meant." Ted landed a blow to Bill's arm. "Keeping out of trouble?"

"I'm in a strip joint in Las Vegas, what do you think?"

Ted smiled. "That's the man I voted for - twice. Gotta go!" He headed for the exit.

Hunsucker, sitting with a prostitute at a table by the opposite wall, watched Ted leave the club. He handed money to the hustler. She got up, sashayed over to Bill and gently rubbed his back as she sat down next to him. "Hello, handsome."

"Helloooo, gorgeous!"

The woman whispered into his ear.

Bill grinned. "Did Greg put you up to this?" Bill glanced over the area, looking for Greg Norman.

"No! Let's just say I'll have something to tell my grandkids some day. There's a room nearby." She pointed. "It'll be our secret."

"I heard that before." Bill pondered for a few seconds while examining the woman's pretty face and long cleavage. "Since Little Rock didn't beef up at the sight of you tells me something might be wrong in the state of Nevada. Sorry, I'm just a playful married man."

Standing by a sink, Ben shut the golden faucet, listening. He heard tapping, and then pounding on a door followed by a woman yelling, "It's the police."

"Just a minute," he shouted, hurrying out of the bathroom. His Golden Man, with streaks of blood on its base, was lying on its side in three inches of water.

Ben yanked the door wide open. Two police detectives, a man and a woman, stood outside the doorway. "Mr. Artflick, we'd like you to come down to the station," said the woman, Detective Manhatter.

"What's this all about?" Ben, knowing why they were there, adjusted his white robe.

Manhatter cocked her head, noticing a drop of blood on Ben's robe. "Mr. J. T. Hunsucker was found comatose in his room. There's a trail of blood from his suite to yours."

Ben glanced down at barely noticeable spot of blood. "May I call my lawyer?"

"Of course, from the station."

Ben, sweating profusely, slept on a cot in jail cell. In his dream he crept up to a door marked 28666. His hand pushed it open, and he stepped through the doorway.

Ben glanced around the room. Hunsucker was lying in a pool of blood next to a bed. Ben's girlfriend, Dora, wearing a nightgown and holding a bloody Golden Man trophy, sat on the bed, her back to Ben. Slowly her head turned 180 degrees, making a loud crunching sound like the cracking of small bones. Dora smiled at Ben.

"You got a purty smile," said an old drunk, standing in the next cell.

Ben's eyes opened and turned to the smiling drunk peering through the bars.

"Heeere's Johnny!" The drunk looked down at his erect penis. "How about it, purty boy? Make my day!"

On his back, Ben stared at the ceiling. "Usually, they just want an autograph."

The drunk heard someone approaching and zipped up. "I'm gonna tell what ya said."

Two extremely large police officers in uniform came up to Ben's cell. One of them unlocked it. "You have a visitor."

Ben sat across from Las Vegas Larry Johns, a 69 year old Jack Nicholson look-a-like, at a rectangular table in a small windowless conference room. Larry was the best and most expensive lawyer in Nevada mainly because of his political clout. He knew a lot of influential officials and was quite friendly with most of the judges in Las Vegas.

Larry thumbed through the police report. "You'll be out of here shortly. After I talk to Hunsucker, I'll figure out our best options," he said, looking down. He lifted his head and eyeballed Ben. "He's comatose, but his doctor assured me he'd be awake in a day or two."

Just twenty minutes before those words, Hunsucker, a bandage wrapped around his head, slept on a hospital bed. A nearby heart monitor showed sign waves and then a flat line. An alarm went off. A couple of nurses rushed to his aid.

Larry's cell phone played, 'My savior's back and you're gonna be in trouble, hey-la, hey-la, my savior's back.' Larry pulled out his phone and glanced at the caller I.D.

"What's up?" he asked into the mouthpiece. He listened. "Thanks!" He put the phone away. "Hunsucker died. Getting you out will be difficult, but I can pull it off. I'll need ten million for bond and a million dollar retainer for starters. Do you have that on you?"

"Noooo, but I can get it. Do you think I'll be able to leave the states? I'm scheduled to start a movie in a couple of weeks in L.A., but I might have a two day shoot in Canada."

"Possibly, if we get the right judge. The docket is full, but I know a judge scheduled to go on a vacation after the holidays. If I can convince her to postpone her trip and find a place to hold a trial, we could conceivably have opening statements in January."

"That fast?" Ben's look of joy quickly turned to one of disbelief. "Doesn't seem too likely."

"It's going to cost you plenty, my wealthy friend. That, I can guarantee. As a rule prison is for the disadvantaged. You're privileged: having enough cash to avoid residency."

Ben and Las Vegas Larry stood in front of several microphones above the courthouse steps. "Ben is free on bail. Due to a full court docket, all parties have agreed to hold the trial in a meeting hall at the Circus Circus Casino early next year."

The crowd laughed.

Larry lingered several seconds and then continued. "I know, but it's either there or wait until the courthouse is available. That's all I'm permitted to tell you. We all know how the prosecution loves to keep the truth from the public as long as possible. Thank you."

Larry pulled Ben aside. "Finish the poker tournament. Go back right away. Don't talk about the case. If compelled - you're innocent, you have faith in the legal system and confidence in the intelligent Las Vegas people. Absolutely no details."

Ravishing Red and Gorgeous Golden Brown stood and talked by a casino bar. Bill entered the room and zeroed in on the two hotties. He pranced over to them. "Do you beautiful ladies know how many ex-presidents it takes to satisfy two gorgeous women?"

Ravishing Red glared at Bill. "I beg your pardon?"

"One. Me! You don't have to beg for a pardon, I'd pardon you in a heartbeat. For free!"

The red head narrowed her eyes. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Sorry! I look at you and see fillet mignon. I love steak. Haven't had any in months." He smiled, noticing Ben approaching.

Ben nodded and attempted to rush by. Bill reached out and grabbed his arm. "Ben, give us a minute, please."

The women smiled as they examined Ben, head to toe.

"I'm kinda in a hurry, Mr. President."

"Call me Bill. This will only take a minute."

The women went up to Ben and rubbed his arms as Bill continued. "I read you said presidents get more women than actors?"

"I never said that."

"You, Brad, Mel, even that little wiener kid, Colin, can have their way with almost any woman available. Am I right, girls?"

In unison, they replied, "I'll say."

"I'm sorry, I have to make a couple of important calls. We only have twenty minutes."

Gorgeous Golden Brown asked, "Can I get your autograph?"

"Sure."

The tall voluptuous woman handed Ben a pen and opened her blouse: no bra.

Bill ogled her breasts. "Fantastic! The pair that dreams are made of. And the best pair I've seen today, by far!"

"My girlfriend, Dora, wouldn't appreciate that. Is there anything else I could autograph?"

"A blank check would be nice."

"Leave your names and addresses with the bartender and I'll mail you both some autographed photos. May I buy you girls a round of drinks?"

The woman buttoned her blouse. "Sure, I'll have another. Ya know, everybody I know loved 'Day of Infamy'. I thought you did a great job."

"Thanks. It grossed over two hundred million despite the bad reviews." Ben signaled the bartender to bring some drinks. He laid a fifty dollar bill on the black granite bar. "It was nice meeting you girls. Later, Bill." He hurried away.

Bill eyed the women. "Y'all want my autograph?"

They replied, in unison, "Go yank yourself."

It was after 11 P.M. The lights from the casino illuminated the sidewalk. Ben and Bill exited the casino. Ben appeared tired, but Bill seemed cheerful and wide awake. "You look depressed, my man. Don't worry, you'll be exonerated. I'm sure of it."

"It's not that. My girl dumped me today. She thinks I'm a murderer."

"I see. A real downer."

Tipsy Tina and Plastered Poehler, both falling-down drunk, staggered down the sidewalk. They noticed Ben and stumbled over to him.

"Hey, you're Ben Artflick! Do ya wanna come up to my room for a drink or anything else ya might want," slurred Tipsy Tina, wearing a transparent white blouse.

Plastered Poehler wore a black tee shirt with large white lettering stating 'George Bush sucks'. She wobbled back-and-forth, studying Ben with her bloodshot eyes.. "You're a pretty man. You're not gay, are you?"

Bill ogled the women. "Hello, ladies. Y'all recognize me?" He smiled.

The women glanced at Bill. Plastered Poehler said, "Fuck off!"

Tipsy Tina asked Ben, "Can I get your autograph?"

"Yeah, autograph my bum." Plastered Poehler caressed Ben's arm.

Tipsy Tina pushed her friend away from Ben and handed him a Casino magazine. "Any crude compliment to Tina Fey, one hot babe, will do it."

"I'll settle for a nice kiss." Plastered Poehler closed her eyes and puckered up while Ben autographed the magazine.

After Ben handed the periodical to Tipsy Tina, he took off down the sidewalk.

Poehler opened her eyes. She noticed Ben was gone and Bill looking her over. "Eat me!"

"Any time! You had me at 'fuck off'.'"

Both women showed Bill their middle fingers before staggering away.

Bill jogged up to Ben. "Ringo, my favorite Starr, is performing at the Four Queens. Let's stop by. I'll introduce you."

"You know him, personally?"

"We're good friends. Had him over the White House a few times. He didn't even have to donate. We made a fortune off of Spielberg and Fonda."

"I'd like to, but I'm going to call it a night. I'm tired. Trouble sleeping. You wouldn't believe the weird dreams I've been having."

"You need a Serotonin producing snack and a cup of chamomile tea. A slice of turkey on whole wheat with tomatoes should do the trick. I know just the place."

"No, I don't think so."

"I insist."

Bill and Ben sat in a diner sipping their tea. A waitress removed two small plates and placed the bill on the table. Bill snatched it up. "Forget about Dora, Ben." He watched the waitress walk away, enjoying the view. "Better to find out now then after you're married."

"Find out what?"

"She didn't love you. You realize that, don't you?"

Ben shook his head.

"I may be shy around women, and at times manipulated, but I know them. A lady in love would never leave her love one when he needs her most. Never!"

"You're shy around women?"

"Always have been. Valerie had to make the first move. We were classmates at Yale. Every time she was near I'd just stared and admired her beauty. She noticed and several times gave me that come over and talk to me smile. I didn't. Afraid of rejection, I guess. Finally, in the library, I was leaning against the wall, in awe, watching her read. She closed her book, came over and said, 'I'm Valerie, need any help holding up that wall?' After a brief chat, we just stood there staring at each other with our shoulders resting against the wall. Then she asked, 'What are you thinking about?' I said, 'Guess? And I hope we're thinking about the same thing'. We weren't! But Valerie and I hit it off. She was beautiful and brilliant. When things got bad, she was always there comforting me. No matter what! I'm a lucky man."

"But you're always chasing women."

"Just lately. It's a self-worth thing. You're too young to understand. I adore women. Always have." He smiled, reminiscing about his good times. "Speaking of dreams, I used to have this reoccurring one. I'd convince a girl with a deep innie to play finger in belly button. Then it would get pitch black. The dialogue was always the same but the girls were different. The girls would say 'Hey! That's not my belly button.' I'd reply 'That's not my finger'."

Ben finished his tea. "I gotta go."

"I hope you get a good night sleep. The food and tea ought to help. Tomorrow, you and me, final table, my man."

Ben tossed and turned on his king size bed. He dreamt he's in court sitting on a witness stand, shouting, "You can't handle the truth." Then he talked fast. "Sir, we perform in a world that has critics, and those critics can't tell a great performance from a bad one."

Ben inspected the jury: all famous film critics. "I know you don't want me on that screen, but you need me on that screen. We use words like box office gross, admissions, and rentals." He pointed to himself. "I fill those seats. I have neither the time nor inclination to explain how to the ones who question the manner in which I provide entertainment. I suggest to people like you to pick up a script and try acting. And we don't make movies for critics, since you don't pay to see them. We make them for the paying public." He shouted, "Are we clear?"

An alarm went off.

Ben and Bill were the last two sitting at the final table. Ben peeked at his two cards: pocket rockets - two black aces. "I should just limp in, but I'll raise: three hundred thousand."

Bill glanced at his cards. "I never limp in. I'm always stable and able." He pushed three tall stacks of chips into the pot. The dealer buried a card and turned up: ace, seven, ten, rainbow - no matching suits. No flush draw.

Bill distracted Ben momentary by pointing at a plaque on the wall. "The third man rule is in effect. Do you know what that means, Ben?"

Ben glanced at the wording. "Yes, the third person leaving the table has 10 minutes to return."

"Just wondering. Valerie has a similar sign over her bed."

"You better hope she doesn't watch the tape of this."

"Valerie has a great sense of humor, although she hides it well."

Ben stacked some chips. He bet one million on his 3 aces. Bill, the chip leader, called and then waved at the camera. The dealer buried a card and turned up a two of spades. Still no flush draw. Only hitting 4 of a kind or a inside straight could possible beat him on the river. Ben held back a smile, knowing he had the best hand and was at least an eleven to one favorite to win the pot.

"Three million," Ben said, pushing stacks of chips in front of him.

Bill peeked at his cards. Then he crossed his arms, staring at Ben. "This is my first tournament. Never played before. Damon had to do a re-shot in Morocco and offered me his seat. "I raise, the size of the pot."

Ben said, "All in!"

"My favorite two words, but a new meaning. I guess I'm pot committed. Call," said Bill, turning up a six and a nine, unsuited. "I need an eight for a straight. One time, dealer."

The dealer took his time, holding the cards in his hands for ten seconds before slowly burying a card face down. Another ten seconds later he turned up the eight of hearts.

Ben stared at the card in disbelief. He stood and extended his hand toward Bill. "Congratulations, Mr. President."

They shook hands. "Call me Bill. I've been lucky. All my winnings will go to Save the Children." He gripped Ben's arm. "Things will work out for you, my man. And I'll be there for you during the trial. That's a promise."

Close to sunset, Sam Bell staggered down a sidewalk. His Dodger's baseball cap covered his eyebrows and his jacket was zipped-up to his neck. He stopped in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater and peered down at Steve McQueen's signature, handprints, footprints, and the word THANKS imprinted in the cement. He mumbled you're welcome, faggot, as he got down on his knees. After placing his much larger hand over McQueen's handprint he said, "Ha! Probably hung like a gerbil."

With difficulty he got back on his feet. He walked awkwardly on the pavement running alongside Hollywood Boulevard. A woman wearing a large trash bag as a dress strolled by. He turned, eyeing the woman. "Is that Warhol's latest design?" he yelled.

Losing balance while turning around, he wobbled to his right directly in the path of an approaching Ben. Ben stepped to his right while Sam moved to his left. They shifted in front of each other two more times. Ben smiled.

"Excuse me," Ben said, turning sideways and making a 'be my guest arm gesture'.

Sam stopped and faced Ben. He pulled a revolver out from under his jacket and pointed at Ben's face.

Ben pushed the weapon to the side before landing hard right to Sam's head, knocking him down.

"I'm sorry," said a remorseful Ben, looking down at his stunned victim. He lifted his head.

"Mike, we have a problem."

"Cut!" yelled Mike, the director.

The director took Ben aside to discuss his mind-blowing mistake. Perhaps it wasn't a slip-up, the director wondered. Since Sam teased Ben about murdering a film critic. Ben insisted his mind was elsewhere. It was on the upcoming trial. He whispered a hundred thousand dollars should appease the injured bit-player and suggested keeping the punch in the film. A wee bit of reality might help in this unrealistic snore fest. The writer/director did have one decent movie under his belt. Maybe the extremely talented leading players had a lot to do with the outcome. Since his others were awful.

Sitting behind the steering wheel of a Cadillac Seville, Ben, with a wide handle bar moustache, flipped his newfangled five feet long pony tail over the headrest. Samuel Jackson wearing an open yellow silk shirt and a purple beret fidgeted with his large necklace while sitting on the passenger side.

"I ought to wrap this around your neck, motha fucka," Jackson shouted, lifting his golden choker. "Man, I don't wanna hear your fuckin' excuses."

Ben got mad, gripping the wheel hard. Barely opening his mouth, he imitated De Niro.

"I ain't givin' you fuckin' excuses, I'm givin' you fuckin' reasons."

Jackson flipped his hands in the air. "Oh, ya gonna tell me the reason you cost me a days shooting was a lack of concentration, motha fucka! Let me tell you the reason. You ain't got it any more. Your acting ain't worth shit no more! This movie's gonna flop because of you, murderer!"

"You best be backing off!"

"Whadda ya gonna, kill me with one of you Razzie awards?"

Ben made a large loop out of his pony tail and started to strangle Jackson with it.

Ben woke up in a cold sweat. He looked at the digital clock next to the telephone. He dragged his legs from under the coverings and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his fingers through his thick hair while putting his feet inside leather slippers. Time to get ready for work. He stood up for a few seconds before flopping on the bed. Flat on his back he closed his eyes thinking the movie he's making is straight to DVD rubbish. His character will garner no sympathy from the audience and none of the so called jokes work. Hoping this won't be his last project before moving into a gated community with suited guards - no pool or pets. A life of reading, writing, and weight lifting. All because he had to run after his dust collector. Whatta fish! Someone had set him up and he took the bait. He had to be stupid or crazy to do such a thing. Being drunk had little to do with it.

John Kennedy's finger tips gently brushed a hair off his tailored suit, thinking how would JFK answer that question. A statement made by Vaughn Meader before his First Family record came to mind. The forty-year-old man with a JFK hair style leaned back on his wooden chair, imitating JFK. "I don't see why a person of the Jewish faith can't be President of the United States. I know as a Catholic I could never vote for him."

"That may have had schoolboys rolling in the aisles forty years ago, not today. Besides he's not Jewish, his grandparents were," said Ava, sitting across from John. "You look like JFK, but you're politically retarded. You let your little brain do all your thinking."

"Okay, right, once or twice my little brain did talk to the big brain. That doesn't mean it does my thinking. Still, it would love to have a pillow talk with you, Ava. Wanna say hello to my little friend?"

Dr. Phil Boyer, short and bald, sat on a black leather recliner, writing in a notebook. "It talked?" Dr. Phil asked, with a prominent French accent.

"Well, it communicated to me. Made it known it wanted Ava. Sort of like raising a hand with enthusiasm and then pointing."

Ava, a beautiful woman with jet black hair, crossed her long legs while winking at John and showing him an enticing smile. Then she uncrossed her legs and spread her knees, slowly. The space between her thighs opened. The gap got wider and wider.

"Wanna see Abby Lincoln?" Ava asked.

John stared, nodding.

Ava flashed him for a mini-second and re-crossed her legs.

"You're no Sharon Stone." John complained, disappointed. "Too quick!"

"Sharon's display was pay-for-view. Mine was complimentary."

"Have you asked Ava out, John?" Dr. Phil asked.

"Of course. She's just a tease," John pointed at Ava's legs, "obviously. She would invite me to her pool and say no swimming allowed. You catch my drift?"

Dr. Phil scribbled on his pad. "She told the group she's a nymphomaniac."

"Right! How come you're the only one drilling on weekends?" asked John, showing a sexual connotation hand gesture.

"We're working on a screenplay," Ava said in a sexy voice.

"Sure ya are! Are Jerry Stiller and Meg Ryan going to live happily ever after this time?" asked John.

"It was Tom Hanks, retardo," said Ava, rolling her eyes.

"That would hurt if it wasn't from a tramp with the sex life of a rabbit and the brain of a Republican." John frowned, crossing his arms.

Dr. Phil looked up and around at his group: two women and two men. "That's enough! I did not have sex with that woman, Ava Gardman, Rodney."

John squinted and glared at Boyer. "I told you not to call me that."

Ray Shaw, a tall good looking man in his in his early 30's, sat next to John. Grinning, Ray gawked at John.

John turned to him, annoyed. "Ya wanna a piece of me, chum?" He held up a clinched fist.

Ray became serious, mean looking. "You're not my chum, weirdo."

"What's that?"

"You heard me, kooky."

"Mess with me, mama's boy, and I'll knock you back to Rhode Island."

"Let's try to be more lovable," said Boyer. "As I was saying, Rod...ney, you're not John Kennedy, and we're now in Kansas, not Massachusetts."

John glared at Dr. Phil, stammering, "You...I'll...no wonder you..."

"Yes, you're exactly right," interrupted Ava, grinning. "Do ya have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore, Rodney?"

John jumped out of his seat, furious. "I'm John Kennedy! We're in Salem, Mass. And you're out to nail that ugly witch." He pointed at Dorothy Day, a woman with a terrific profile and a great body. Her hair long blonde hair completely covered half her forehead.

"That's not true, Rodney. Dorothy is a beautiful person. It would be unethical for me to date her."

John put his hands over his ears. "You have no ethics and she's a freak."

Dorothy, sad and hurt, stared at the floor. She moved a hand under her hair and rubbed the side of her forehead.

"Apologize to Dorothy," Boyer said, raising his voice.

"That's okay. He's right." Dorothy showed John a friendly smile.

Ava touched Dorothy's arm. "You're not a freak. Far from it. You need to find a good man. Not a shallow bastard like the ones here."

John squinted at Dorothy. Sounding exactly like JFK he said, "Try the circus."

Boyer stood and glanced over his group. "That's it for today."

John headed for the door while the other patients got on their feet. As Ray followed John, he shot him in the back of the head with his finger gun. He murmured, "Welcome to Dallas." He blew the imaginary smoke away from his finger tip. "I acted alone!"

Ava stepped through the doorway. Dorothy was a few feet behind her when Dr. Phi touched her shoulder and said, "Dorothy, I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes, please."

Ava, standing in the hallway, had a distrusting expression as she turned, faced Boyer and gave him the evil eye. He slammed the door in her face.

"Dorothy, have you ever been hypnotized?" asked Dr. Boyer.

Three months after his arrest, Ben sat with Las Vegas Larry in a booth in the far corner of a hotel bar. He nursed a vodka and grapefruit as Larry talked. "I've retained F. U. Dailey and Henry Notfree. F.U.'s in town representing a psychiatrist that has a hypnosis act. He seemed eager to come on board for a nominal fee and a percentage of monies earned from guest appearances and any merchandising. Henry demanded a hundred grand plus expenses. With him and his reputation on your side, he's worth every penny. We managed to get Ratchit to agree to get it over with as quickly as possible. Other than that, we start openings Monday."

Bill Monroe, now with gray hair and no moustache, approached them. He pointed to the seat next to Ben and asked, "May I?"

"Sure, Mr. President."

"Call me Bill." He beckoned a busty waitress who showed lots of cleavage. "I'd like to be sitting across from those dairy delights during a mild earthquake."

The waitress sashayed over to him. Bill asked, "How about a Bill's joie de vivre?"

She appeared confused. "Never heard of it."

"It starts in my luxury suite. Then you'll have the time of your life."

"Sorry, I like my men newish, a few decades younger. Hey, I heard of you. My grandmother used to call you the minute man."

"Yeah, but it's a great sixty seconds." He glanced at the men. "So I'm told."

"I'll still pass on your generous offer. What are you drinking?"

"Wild Turkey on the rocks. Some chips, preferably Lays."

Bill ogled her backside as she swayed away. "Wow! Impressive! Ben, don't women look spectacular coming and going?"

Ben glanced at the woman. "Yeah, Bill, she looks very nice. What brings you back to Las Vegas?"

"To testify against you, my man. Sorry. I saw you leave Hunsucker's room." He seemed legitimately apologetic and regretful. "I don't know how, but they tracked me down. I tried to be evasive but it didn't work."

Larry glared at Bill. "You're quite the liar, aren't you?"

"I've been known to tell a tale or two. Hell, I'm a politician."

"You won't be so smug after I'm finished with you, my friend."

Ben looked at Larry. "You knew he was their witness?"

"Of course, but he'll be waving a white flag before you can say if I were a single man, I'd hit on her. That's a good looking mummy."

Bill grinned as he shook his head, slowly. "That Ice Princess was well-preserved. She looked a lot younger than Bob Dole. Actually I heard they dated in high school."

Ben tossed and turned on his king size bed. He dreamt he's dressed in uniform as George Patton, standing in front of a large American flag. "Now, I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a case by lying to the jury. He won his case by making the other dumb bastard get caught lying to the jury." Ben turned and strolled in front of the flag. "Thirty years from now, when you're sitting with your grandson on your knee and he asks you, 'How did you beat the rap, Grandpa?' You won't have to say I shoveled shit to the jury."

Ben's eyes opened. Rather quickly, he sat upright. Another nightmare.

Arnold Schwarzenegger, smiling, strolled through the casino. A shapely woman leaned over the railing of a crap table, shaking a pair a dice. She tossed them to the far end of the green playing area. Arnold patted her butt as he walked by. His victim glared up at the man standing beside her. He stepped back, pointing at the huge man walking away.

Through a huge opening away from the gambling tables was the hotel registration area. Dorothy faced the registration counter while standing a couple of feet away.

The desk clerk handed Dorothy a small envelope. "Enjoy your stay."

"Thank you." Dorothy picked up her suitcase and moved to an area away from the check-in area.

A young boy walking between his parents pointed at Dorothy. "Look! It's the bride of Frankenstein."

Dorothy noticed the boy and smiled at him as she adjusted her hair, covering her scar. Faking a smile to hide her pain was an everyday occurrence. It hurt knowing her deformity was repugnant, but she smiled to hide her misery. She put her suitcase down, bent and pulled the zipper to the open position.

Arnold, followed closely by Ben, eyed Dorothy's butt. He grinned as he approached her.

Dorothy took a cloth pouch filled with silver dollars out of her suitcase. Arnold smacked her butt as he passed by. Dorothy dropped her pouch as she shot straight up. Silver dollars rolled out of the pouch. Ben stopped behind Dorothy, looking down at the silver dollars. Dorothy turned, looked up at Ben and swiftly slapped his face.

"Ouch! What was that for?" Ben, stunned, rubbed the side of his face.

Dorothy ignored him, bent and picked up her pouch and the silver dollars.

Bill Monroe hurried over to Dorothy. "I saw the whole thing, pretty lady. You hit an innocent man." Bill pointed at the huge man over fifty feet away. "The Republican Groper did it. That dingy barbarian is a known degenerate. I'll never understand how a Kennedy could get mixed up with such a sexist boar and bore."

Dorothy stood up and examined Bill. "You look very familiar. Do I know you?"

"No! Wanna get to know me - up close and personal? I can be a hoot." He gently touched her arm. "I'd love to show you Vegas or my suite."

Dorothy, embarrassed, turned to Ben. "Excuse me. You didn't slap my ... you didn't touch me?"

"Of course not."

"Oh, please forgive me. I'm terribly sorry."

Ben gazed into her big blue eyes. Mesmerized. Suddenly, he flinched at the sight of a large ugly jagged scar along the side of her forehead, mostly covered by blonde hair.

"It's hideous, I know." Dorothy adjusted her hair, feeling uncomfortable.

"Oh, no, please forgive me. You have no idea how sorry I am. I have this problem."

"That's okay. I understand. It happens all the time."

"I'm so embarrassed. Are you busy? Have you eaten?"

"Well, no, I just checked in."

"Have breakfast with me, please."

Bill grinned. "You're slick, my man. I gotta hand it to ya."

Dorothy and Ben ignored Bill. They stared at each other.

Bill, showing Ben a thumb up, strolled away.

"Okay, I'll have breakfast with you." Dorothy extended her hand. "I'm Dorothy."

Ben held her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Dorothy."

Dorothy stared at Ben, waiting. "And you're?"

"I'm sorry. You don't know who I am, do you?"

"Should I?"

"No, I guess not. I'm Ben."

"Pleased to meet you, Ben."

Ben and Dorothy were situated at a table in a very fancy restaurant away from the other customers. She poured a little cream in her coffee. "What were you in?"

"Shakespeare in Lust."

"Oh, I loved that movie. Gwyneth Pooltrow, Judi Dish, Geoffry Rash, Joseph Fannes, Tom Walkinson, Robert Everett...oh, yes, Colin Forth. Who did you play?"

"Ned Allen."

Dorothy pondered, then smiled. "I remember you, now. You look so different in person. Better looking and bigger. Much bigger. Strikingly handsome."

Ben smiled.

"But you did seem a little out of place in that movie. You know, because of your New England accent."

Ben appeared hurt. Thinking she must have read Hunsucker's review. "That bad?"

"No, I'm teasing. You did a fine job, but I thought you were from Boston."

"Cambridge, actually. Several yards outside of Boston. Yet, my poker handle is Boston Fathead. Did my performance make you laugh?"

"Yes," she touched his arm. "What else were you in?"

"Will Goes Hunting."

"Great movie. Damon Matthews and Robert Williams were fantastic. Is Damon gay?"

"There have been rumors. Do you have any plans for today?"

"No, I flew in this morning. The person I suppose to meet here got held up."

"Would you like to see the Grand Canyon?"

"Yes, I'd love to, but..."

Ben reached across the table and grabbed Dorothy's hands. He stared into her eyes. "It would mean a lot to me."

"Why? Guilt? Because you hurt my feelings? I know what I look like."

"You're beautiful."

"Normally I would say have another drink, but you're drinking coffee. Why me?"

"An upcoming trial got me down. I could use your company. I was attracted to you the moment I saw your smile and looked into your eyes. That rarely happens to me."

Dorothy admired Ben's face. "What trial?"

Ben hesitated for a few seconds. Thinking of a way to avoid answering the question.

"Forgive me. I'd rather not talk about it right now. A little later if you agree to fly with me over the Grand Canyon."

"Well, okay. I hear it's breathtaking."

A helicopter flew above the Grand Canyon. Its size was overwhelming. The variety of colors were remarkable. Each layer of pale purples, blues, reds, pinks, and oranges appeared and faded in a constant change of spectacular scenery.

Dorothy peered out a window and asked, "Was your relationship with Dora the longest?"

Ben, by her side, admired the stunning views. "No, not even close. My longest...that would have to be Damon."

They looked at each other. Dorothy smiled. "You're kidding, right?"

Looking very sincere, he answered, "No, I'm not. We were going to get married in Fenway Pahk. It was in all the papers after we showed up at the award's ritual with our mothers. Then we became rich and famous. Women were willing to date us. Even Damon. Can you believe that?"

Dorothy laughed and pushed Ben's shoulder. "You almost had me fooled. You're a good actor. You know that?"

"If you're anticipating a modest reply, you're mistaken. I'm great but no one noticed, yet. Perhaps when I play a character like myself, maybe superman, then I'll win an acting award."

"Conceit, I like that in a man. Have you always joked about your sexuality?"

"Damon and I are heterosexuals and close friends since childhood. When the tabloids started printing ridiculous stories about us, I started to make fun of their fabrications."

"So, Damon isn't gay?"

"Of course not, but there was a time, once, in high school, we were in the shower area and he said, 'Wow!'"

Dorothy smiled, then glared at Ben. "I thought you had more class than that."

"I think he was impressed with my hairy chest. He said 'Wow!' when Robert Williams took off his shirt, too."

"Isn't he the funniest man alive?"

"Maybe. I can get tickets for his show tonight. Would you like to go?"

"I would love to go."

The MGM Grand theater was filled to capacity. In front were rectangle tables running perpendicular to the huge stage. Followed by a long row of large padded red booths with very high backs. Dorothy and Ben sat in the center booth.

Robert Williams performed on stage. "Adam and Eve were working in their garden. Eve bent over. Adam, standing behind her, looked at the two curvaceous knolls separated by a long narrow gap. Whoa!" Robert jumped back and stared at his crotch. "What the.... Eve, take a look at this thing. Careful, I don't know how big it will get." He pointed at his crotch. "It seems to be pointing at you. Like it wants something." He looked at his crotch, then straight ahead. "Eve, it's now pointing at your mouth." Robert imitated Walter Cronkite. "History was made that day in the Garden of Eden."

The crowd laughed. Robert glanced around the audience and stopped. "Speaking of stiff things. I see a dear old friend. We called him Starchy on the set: Ben Artflick."

A light shined on Ben and Dorothy. Ben stood and waved to the audience.

"Ben was so stiff we would take his pulse every day to make sure he was alive."

The crowd laughed. Ben turned red.

"I'd tell him you're like an oak. Big. Solid. Be more like a palm tree. Flexible. Acting is like sex. Movement helps."

Ben and Dorothy strolled down a sidewalk on the Las Vegas Strip. The bright lights from all the casinos made it appear like daytime. Dorothy touched Ben's arm. "I had a wonderful day."

"Me too. How about some golf tomorrow? I know a great track."

"Sure, I'd love to."

"I was worried. I thought to myself, I hope she doesn't mind going out with a bad actor".

Dorothy laughed. "I don't mind as long as you don't make me sit through your movies."

"Hey! All my movies are gooood."

Dorothy gave him a stern look.
"Well, almost all. I forgot about Tuff Love. Only a 2.3 rating on IMDB. Heck, Glen or Glenda got a 3.0. So, I guess it might be bad."

They both looked happy. After gazing into each other's eyes, they kissed. Several cars drove by. Still embraced, Ben raised an arm and waved at the sound of tooting horns.

Ben alone on his bed dreamt he's at a small table across from Dorothy. An enormous pile of oyster shells lay on the center of the table between them. Ben stroked his chin, raising an eye brow. "Don't be pessimistic, it's not your style. Ya wanna compliment, okay, here goes. I got this problem. Now, my agent says that in fifty to sixty percent of the cases involving bad acting, drama school helps. I hate school, hate it. I'm using the word hate about school. Anyway, my compliment to you is, the day after you said you admire good acting, I enrolled in acting school."

Dorothy pushes her hair away from her face revealing a scar twice as large as her real scar. "I don't quite get how that's a compliment for me."

"You make me want to be a better actor."

Dan, a Robert Redford look-a-like, stood on a huge green, facing a deep bunker. Sand flew over the lip of the trap five times. Each time followed by a loud "Damn!" Suddenly a sand wedge came hurling out of the sand trap and soared over Dan's head.

Bill, standing in the sand trap, yelled "Whack!" as he tossed his golf ball out of the trap and onto the green. It landed three feet from the hole. Bill climbed out of the trap and said, "I'm there in two, Dan."

Dan dropped his putter and put his hands on his hips. "What about them misses - sand flying all over the place?" Dan moved his hands in circles above his shoulders

"What misses?" Bill took a whiff of clean fresh air. "It smells great out here, Dan, you handsome devil. You gonna believe your eyes or me?"

"Are ya faking oldtimer's disease, Ronald Reagan? A word of advice: never surrender to what's right."

"My name's Bill. Are you hinting I'm a fabulist?"

"No politics! Okay? No way are you're putting for par."

"Thank you, Dan. Your handsomeness is only surpassed by your liberality." Bill marched over to his ball and picked it up. "Give me a 3."

"I didn't give you that putt."

"You just did. Alzheimer's or are you a welcher?"

"My ancestors came over on the Mayflower. Stop changing the subject, Keyser Susy."

"It's Bill!" He noticed the group waiting to hit on the tee. "Putt out! We'll discuss it later."

Ben and Dorothy, both wearing bright stylish golfing clothes, strolled down the center of a fairway. A couple of young boys carrying their golf clubs were close behind. A ball traveling at a high velocity hit Ben's testicles. He fell to his knees.

Bill Monroe, smiling, hurried across the rough toward Ben. "I'm soooo sorry. I tried to slice it from behind a tree, but I pulled it."

Ben, on his knees, in pain, glared up at Bill.

"Is that you, Ben?" asked Bill.

Dan came up behind Bill. They approached Ben.

"This guy's kicking my butt, Ben." Bill moved a thumb toward Dan. "He's good, for a Republican."

Dan extended his hand out to Ben. "I'm Dan Partridge." Ben looked up in agony and shook his hand. "My wife Marilyn is a big fan of yours. Actually she called out your name once while we were making love."

Bill touched Dan's arm. "She called out Brad when she was with me."

Dan, with a puzzled expression, turned to Bill.

"Oops! I promised I wouldn't tell." He winked at Ben.

Dorothy helped Ben to his feet. Bill gave her the once over. "Hello, again, pretty lady. My wife, Valerie, will be here Tuesday. The four of us have to get together."

"We'll have to wait and see," said Ben prior to leaving with Dorothy.

Bill turned to his golfing buddy. "Valerie doesn't enjoy your company, Dan. Sorry! It's not because you're a Republican. She grew up in Republican household. She can't stand whiners. She thinks you're one. Ya know, for bellyaching about a unwed mother on a TV comedy. Damn, Dan. Get a life. You're in dire need of human liposuction. That common practice by liberals, women and some men, and not involving medical devices."

"Enough of your mind games, let's play golf. I've had more fun playing with myself."

"I'm sure you do."

A large crowd of people, venders, and reporters swarmed the parking lots in front of the Circus Circus Casino. One vender displayed t-shirts with NOT GUILTY and GUILTY under Ben's face. Another vender had cups and hats with Ben's face on them.

Reporters, holding microphones, stood by the entrance under a large neon sign of a smiling clown. Nancy Lovelace, a KGB anchor woman, positioned herself in front of a television camera. In a high pitch annoying drawl she spoke into her microphone. "Ben Artflick is guilty, guilty, guilty. For two whole months that prima donna was allowed to come and go as he pleased. Hellooo! Is Judge Chutzpa completely mad," she moved her finger in a circular motion around the side of her head, "- allowing him to leave the country - or is she simply star struck? Wake up Judge! Ben Artflick is a cold blooded murderer."

In order to get the trial underway so quickly, Ben agreed to pay for the hall rental and all the furnishings. Money wasn't an issue. His main concern was to get the affliction over with as soon as possible. The room's dimensions were 34' X 64' with a 11' ceiling height. It had all the furnishing of a courtroom plus something unusual: houseplants. Behind the newly constructed jury box on the floor in front of floor length windows was a row of lavenders, upright stems and flowers ranging from pastel to very dark purple. Their pleasant sweet aroma filled the air. The shades ended several feet above the floor, allowing the flowers their much needed sunlight and covering most of the only windows in the room. The lavenders weren't visible unless you looked behind the jury box, but their pleasurable odor was nose-catching.

Larry insisted on the flowers while negotiating with a Circus Circus representative. He wanted the jurors to be as comfortable as possible and intended on letting them know he was responsible for the indoor planting. Ratchit, the prosecutor, wasn't aware of Larry's transactions.

Marsha Ratchit was petite, barely over five-feet tall, with short well groomed jet black hair. Wearing a gray stylish suit, she sauntered in front of a jury of ten women, two men, and two women alternate jurors. "The evidence will show that Ben Artflick, that very handsome man," she pointed at Ben who was sitting between Larry and F. U. Dailey, "is a murderer. He hit J.T. Hunsucker so hard with his trophy that the frail diminutive man went into a coma."

Ratchit reached the end of the jury box and did an about-face. Making eye contact with each juror, she strolled in front of them. "We have a mountain of evidence. It all leads to one person, one person only, Ben Artflick. Ben's baseball cap, found next to the victim. A bloody shoe print, size fourteen, Ben's size, left in the room. We have his shoes with the victim's blood on them. Ben's robe with the victim's blood on it. The murder weapon, Ben's Golden Man statuette found in Ben's sink, soaking in water. A trail of the victim's blood from his body to Ben's suite is devastating proof of Ben Artflick's guilt."

Ratchit stopped and glanced over the jurors. "We have an eyewitness who saw Ben leave J. T. Hunsucker's suite just twenty minutes before his body was discovered. We have his friend who heard him say he dreamt about shoving his award down Mr. Hunsucker's throat, killing him. We have a witness who heard him say he was going to knock some sense into him. And Ben said he wanted to murder him with poison." She put her hands on a rail in front of the jurors. "J.T. Hunsucker was murdered simply because he gave Ben a poor movie review. That and the unquestionable fact that Ben hated J. T. Hunsucker was the motive."

Half the jurors weren't paying attention to Ratchit. A few were admiring the defendant and the balances were looking over spectators, hoping to notice some celebrities.

Ratchit was aware of that. She raised her voice, almost shouting. One juror, startled, took her eyes off Ben and gave Ratchit a dirty look. Ratchit stared back and said, "Ben Artflick is a known alcoholic and there are reports of drug usage. One witness said he carries marijuana cigarettes inside a Camel package."

Larry jumped out of his seat. "Objection! Does Ms Ratchit intend on having witnesses testify about rumors they heard? Or what they read in the Enquirer? I rarely object to outlandish statements during an opening statement. This is more than just engaging in inflammatory rhetoric. Ms Ratchit knows better."

Ratchit was quick to defend herself. "Your Honor, Mr. Johns knows it's improper and rude to interrupt an opening statement. Now is not the time to argue the exceptions to the rule against hearsay."

Judge Frances Chutzpa, an attractive lazy eyed woman, sneered down at Ratchit. "Sustained! This isn't about hearsay. Rumors of drug usage? Are you trying to get a mistrial? Continue. I think you should make it quick before you get into serious trouble."

Ratchit, frustrated and angry, eyed each member of the jury. "You will hear testimony that Ben left a strip joint inebriated, drunk, shortly before Mr. Hunsucker was discovered in a coma. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is a no brainer. Do your duty and do the right thing."

Ratchit strolled away from the jury as Las Vegas Larry Johns marched toward her. He whispered, "I love your suit."

Smiling broadly, Larry stopped in front of the jury and looked them over. He greeted them and waited for them to verbally respond. He argued the nuts and bolts Ratchit had against his client and assured them when the prosecution rested her case, they will find that there isn't as much as an ant hill of evidence against his client except, maybe, the words from a known liar.

Then he shared a short story about Mrs. Mal, a woman about to turn ninety-two. She and Joe, her husband of seventy years, shared a tiny three room apartment in Brooklyn, New York. Their budget was so tight they couldn't afford a telephone. Joe had flown to California to attend a funeral and was due back before her birthday.

With an amusing smile, Larry glanced at each member of the jury. "There was a loud knock on her door. She opened it. A young man wearing a RDS messenger service uniform stood there holding a message. Confident it was birthday wishes from Joe or another loved one, she requested the man to sing the message. At her age she never heard a singing telegram and figured this might be her last chance." Larry took a few steps, still glancing over the jurors. "The man resisted and she pleaded endlessly. The man finally gave in and sang, 'Dada, da da da, your husband Joe is dead!'"

Larry noticed a few jurors laughed, a couple smiled and the rest looked confused. "You're probably wondering what does that have to do with this case. Well, Mrs. Mal passed out, falling hard to the floor. Knowing Mrs. Mal had a serious heart problem, consideration was taken to tell her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death. The young courier was instructed to make sure the woman was sitting down prior to giving her the message. The man disobeyed his orders. The ambulance physician who attended to her and the staff at the hospital thought she was okay. She was brought home from the hospital after a brief check-up and died from a head injury caused by the fall. The messenger killed her - right? No, the staff at the hospital was to blame and paid dearly for their slip-up."

Head down, Larry strolled a few steps in front of the jury, letting his last words sink in. "At the end of this trial, you all will be aware of why I told about my grandmother's death. Until then, keep your minds and ears open and render the correct verdict. The only verdict: not guilty."

Sitting on the witness stand, Detective Mark Furia examined a Boston Red Sox cap. "Yes, it is the one I found by a pool of blood inside Mr. Hunsucker's suite."

Ratchit took the cap. "Besides the blood, is there anything else on the cap?"

"Yes, there's a large tomato juice stain on top of it."

Carrying the small hat by its visor, Ratchit strutted over to the jury. She pointed at the discoloration and handed the cap to juror one. After all the jurors examined the cap, Ratchit returned it to the evidence table. "Your witness."

F.U. Dailey stomped up to the witness and glared at him. He spoke in a loud and commanding tone of voice. "Detective Furia, are you anti-Semitic?"

"Absolutely not!"

Ratchit quickly arose to her feet. "Objection! That's not relevant. Ben's not Jewish."

F.U. responded. "Most anti-Semites believe all actors are at least part Jewish. Benjamin, in Hebrew, means son of my right hand. Everybody knows that. It doesn't matter what my client's faith is, it's certainly relevant if an anti-Semitic police officer believes he's Jewish. Framing someone out of blind hatred because of one's color or faith is always relevant. I might add, you only assume Benny's not Jewish. His faith is off-the-record for now."

"Overruled! I'm going to allow a little leeway," said Judge Chutzpa.

F.U. moved closer to Furia. "Do you refer to Jewish people as hymies?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Do you use the word 'hymie' in describing certain Jewish people?"

"No, sir."

"Have you used that word in the last ten years, Detective Furia?"

"Not that I recall, F.U., no."

"You mean if you called someone a hymie you have forgotten it, detective?"

"I'm not sure I can answer the question the way you phrased it."

"I want you to assume perhaps since '94 or 95, you have addressed a Jewish person as a hymie. Is it possible you have forgotten?"

"No, not possible."

"Are you therefore saying that you have not used that word in the past ten years?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying."

"And you say under oath you have not spoken to and about Jews as hymies in the past ten years?"

"Yes!"

"So, if a woman was to say that you used that word, she would be a liar?"

"Yes!"

"All of them, Detective Furia?"

"Yes, F.U.!"

After Furia, a bartender testified that she had made Hunsucker a Bloody Mary shortly before the seizure incident. Several witnesses testified that they saw Hunsucker spill his drink on top of Ben's hat. Then a young chemist testified the stain on the cap had all the ingredients of a Bloody Mary. Then he showed enlarged photo's of several hairs found in the crime scene compared to samples taken from Ben. Although the hairs were dead ringers, the odds of others having the same hair aren't as astronomical as in DNA matches. Beforehand, the judge instructed Ratchit not to use the word match when referring to those carbon copy hairs. When Ratchit asked the witness if he considered the hair samples exact matches, Chutzpa went wild.

Apparently freaked-out, the judge pointed and shouted, "If I hear that word come out of your mouth again, you're going to spend the night in jail."

Following a lunch break Michael Badman, MD Forensic Pathologist, took the witness stand. Dr. Badman, an obese man in his sixties, had a bad comb over. While constantly talking with his hands, he tried to keep his gray hair in place every ten seconds or so. It was extremely distracting. So much that Larry even objected and recommended a recess in order to buy hair spray or a good pair of scissors to eliminate the interference. The judge overruled him both times.

The expert testified about the nature and extent of Hunsucker's injuries. He concluded with reasonable medical certainty that blunt force trauma to the victim's forehead caused intracerebral hemorrhage and hematoma, which, in turn, led to intracranial pressure. The cause of death was the hemorrhage. His direct examination, including exhibits, lasted three hours. One male juror fell asleep. The judge ordered another juror to wake him after his snoring became loud and exceedingly noticeable.

Larry's cross examination was fast as usual. The doctor agreed a relatively minor force to the skull and brain can be catastrophic. A minor injury can cause the brain to swell against the skull and cause unconsciousness or a coma. That can affect the ability of the brain to stimulate breathing and control blood pressure leading to death. By the time Larry was finished, he had the expert agreeing that the undetected trauma to the back of the head, assumed from the fall, was the cause of death. Larry didn't stop there.

"Will you stop that, please?" Larry shouted at the witness.

"Excuse me?" Badman stroked his hair.

"That!" Larry pointed to the top of Badman's head. "We all know your bald. Put your hands in your pockets, please. Do something!"

"Objection!" Ratchit was out of her seat, fuming.

"Sit down," ordered the judge.

Larry turned to the judge. "I apologize, Your Honor. It's annoying! Bad manners if you ask me. He should be allowed to wear a hat if he's so ill-at-ease about his baldness."

"Objection sustained! Let his hair go, counselor."

Larry faced the jury, keeping his eyes off the witness. "Dr. Badman, why did you mislead this jury about the cause of death?"

"Objection!" Ratchit was on her feet.

"Overruled! Sit down, Ms Ratchit." The judge stared angrily at Ratchit until she took her seat.

"The witness will answer."

Dr. Badman, conscious about the long gray hairs slowly descending down his forehead but afraid to push them back up, chocked out, "I didn't mislead anybody or alter my testimony. I simply responded to your 'if' questions." He quickly pushed his hairs back in place.

Still eyeing the jury, Larry said, "Those ifs are solid facts in this case."

"Objection! He's just posturing in front of the jury, Your Honor."

Before the judge could make a ruling, Larry asked, "Doctor, if the swelling we discussed caused his death," Larry paused and smiled at the jury, "is it fair to say he would be alive today if the staff at the hospital had noticed it?"

Dr. Badman mumbled, "That's feasible."

"Speak up, for the jury," said Larry, winking at juror #4, the oldest woman juror.

"That's feasible!"

Larry turned, facing the witness. "Yes, you're right. But ya gotta do something about that hair." He quickly turned to the judge. "I have no further questions for this witness."

Ratchit didn't redirect. The damage was done. The witness seemed disturbed and more questions by Larry might make matters worse. That was it for day one.

An ornate Romanesque garden setting surrounded the rectangular shaped inside pool. Ben and Dorothy swam the length of it together. They reached the end and turned toward each other, keeping just their heads above the water. They stared into each other's eyes. "You're beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."

Dorothy turned her head. "Don't. Please don't. I know what I look like. I see how people react when they look at me."

Ben placed a hand on her shoulder. "I mean it. That scar doesn't take away your natural beauty. You're a beautiful woman."

Tears flowed down Dorothy's cheeks. She swam away. Ben went under the water, after her. Dorothy swam. Ben's arms came out of the water and wrapped around her. She stopped swimming and disappeared under the water.

Ben and Dorothy embraced and kissed under water. Her body turned, revealing huge ugly scars on her back and shoulder.

In March of 2002, Dorothy was on foot in Baghdad with a patrol of soldiers. A lone suicide bomber wearing an explosive vest walked up to the soldiers behind her and blew himself up. The enormous blast killed two of the soldiers instantly. Two others died shortly later. Shrapnel hit Dorothy's left shoulder, back and side of head, removing part of her skull. She was knocked unconscious.

She was midway through her second tour of duty in Iraq. Like many, her time was extended due to lack of manpower. As usual, she never complained. She knew all the possibilities when she enlisted in the National Guard for money and a roof over her head. Moving in with her mother and abusive step-father was out the question. If he came on to her as he had done while she was a teenager, she assumed she would hurt him.

She considered herself lucky to get a job immediately after high school. Working a cash register at a local convenience store didn't pay a lot but it was enough to get her own little efficiency apartment in Fair Tree, Kansas, population: under two thousand. Her boyfriend of six years, starting their senior year, was a handsome boy afraid of commitment and lived at home with his parents until he was twenty-four. While working as a stage hand in Branson, Missouri, he impregnated a dancer and married her. He had been away for two months when Dorothy stopped hearing from him. So when she got the news a couple of months later she wasn't too surprised. But she was stunned when she got the word her store was closing. A Super Wal-Mart had opened nearby and the little store couldn't compete. After collecting unemployment benefits for a couple of months and being unable to find a job, Dorothy enlisted. It appeared to be the only job available.

The night club was very classy. The lights were dimmed down and the dance floor was huge. People line-danced to the music. Ben and Dorothy sat at a small table.

"Actually, I was lucky. Four soldiers were killed. It happened so fast that I never knew what hit us." Dorothy picked up a glass of wine and took a sip. "I woke up in the hospital wrapped up like a mummy. I'm lucky to be alive. But at times I feel like the Elephant Man."

"That's ridiculous. You're beautiful."

"Stop saying that. Please! You should have seen your expression when you first noticed my scar."

"I was startled. It's a scar from a wound. My reaction was like, wow, that must have hurt. Then I concentrated on your beauty, not that slight imperfection."

Dorothy pushed her hair up, revealing the entire scar. "Imperfection? How would like to introduce me to your friends with my hair up?"

"Hair up or down, you're still beautiful. Why can't you accept that?"

"Even my psychiatrist says I'm no longer attractive."

"What? He must be a quack. No wonder you have low self esteem." Ben turned his head and stared. "I don't believe it."

Bill and Valerie sat down at a table. Bill smiled and waved at Ben.

"I can't believe that guy. Wherever I go, he shows up."

Elvira played over the loudspeakers. Ben took Dorothy by the hand and led her to the dance floor. Bill and Valerie stood and quickly joined them. The four danced side-by-side.

Bill, admiring Ben's footwork, said, "You're better than Travolta, Ben."

"Acting or dancing?"

"Both."

"My biggest fan."

Dorothy smiled at Ben. "And better looking."

Valerie examined Ben and smiled. "That's for sure."

"My wife just flew in today and she's flirting with you already. Women, I'll never understand them. That's why a man's best friend is his dog. More loyalty."

Another song played and they continued to dance.

Nancy Lovelace stood under the Circus Circus clown. "Good morning, everyone. This is day two of the J. T. Hunsucker murder trial. A loveable little man brutally beaten to death by an unremorseful brute. Holy moly, it's hard to believe he's walking the streets a free man. The evidence against this thug is overwhelming. Not to mention the three unidentified individuals who claim this so-called actor offered them money to kill the respectable film critic. The jury will not hear that concrete evidence. Instead the judge will allow the murderer's defense team to bring them into their fantasy world. That's where reality is replaced by illusions and film star envy. The way the judge ogles the defendant is shameful. I swear she must change her silky drawers during every recess."

Sitting straight up on the witness stand Detective Manhatter brought her knees close together, keeping her eyes on the mouth of the questioner. Ratchit, wearing a blue blazer and gray skirt, stared up at her. "Did you come across the defendant's Golden Man?"

"Yes, in the defendant's bathroom sink."

"What, if anything, was on the Golden Man?"

"Blood."

"You testified earlier that traces of blood led you to the defendant's suite. Did you notice anything unusual about the defendant or his clothing after he opened the door?"

"Yes, I noticed what appeared to be blood on his white robe."

`

"Did you inquire..."

"Objection!" Larry was on his feet. "Benny was following my orders not to answer any questions. Not only is that a legal right, it's the sensible thing to do."

"Withdrawn!" Ratchit moved away from Manhatter. "Your witness."

Larry marched up to the her. He talked fast and loud. "How about a little water?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you have a hearing problem, detective?"

"No."

"Then answer the question, detective."

"What question?"

"Water, detective, water."

"No, thank you."

"Is there a reason you don't want to cooperate?"

"I want to cooperate."

"Was there water on the Golden Man?"

"What?"

"Detective Manhatter, you testified that there was blood on the trophy and no water, correct?"

"Well, I said there was blood on it."

"Your testimony amounts to no water on the trophy when you saw the blood. So I take it you noticed the blood when the trophy was dry, no water, and after Furia, the Jew hater, put blood on it?"

Ratchit jumped to her feet. "Objection!"

"Sustained."

"Detective, who convinced a judge to issue a warrant to search Benny's room?"

"Detective Furia."

"I thought so! I'm through with this - police woman."

Next Dennis Flunk, a forensic expert, testified that Hunsucker's blood was on the Golden Man trophy, his robe and on Ben's shoes, and that a bloody shoe print, size fourteen, matched Ben's shoe.

Larry, wearing size fourteen shoes, hobbled over to Flunk. "Mr. Flunk, do you have any idea how many people in the entire world wear a size fourteen shoe?"

"No."

Larry nodded to two of his associates. They stood and hobbled around the table, stopped and stood in front of it. They both were wearing size fourteen shoes. "Mr. Flunk, look at F.U. Dailey's, Henry Notfree's and my shoes."

Flunk glanced at the shoes. The jurors looked over the shoes. Judge Chutzpa peered down at the shoes. Larry asked, "What size shoe do you think we're wearing?"

"Size fourteen?"

"Thank you, Mr. Flunk. Isn't it possible that anybody wearing a size fourteen shoe could have stepped in the blood and left that shoe print?"

"Yes."

"If Detective Furia was wearing a size fourteen shoe, he could have left that print?"

"Yes."

"In fact, anybody could have put Ben's shoe into the blood and made that print, correct?"

"Yes, that's possible."

"Thank you, Mr. Flunk."

Ryan Kako, Ben's roommate, squirmed on the witness stand.

Ratchit asked, "You've been living in Ben's house for the last two years, correct?"

"Yes, until I find my own place."

"Did you and Ben, together, watch Mr. Hunsucker give a review of Splitting Nines?"

"Yes."

"What, if anything, did Ben say?"

"After Hunsucker said he would eat Ben's Golden Man, Ben said that's funny, I dreamt about shoving my Golden Man down his throat, killing him."

"Objection!" Larry rose from his chair, smiling. "Move to strike the hearsay stuff about a dream. Really! Benny's dream is somehow relevant?"

"Another example of hate for the victim and wanting to hurt him even in his subconscious mind," said Ratchit, knowing Kako's testimony shouldn't be allowed by law.

"I'm going to allow it," declared Chutzpa, startling Ratchit.

Larry grinned, knowing he had solid ground for a new trial if he lost, which he knew was highly unlikely, but it's nice to have get out of jail card just in case."

F.U. Dailey marched up to Kako. "Mr. Kako, were you a boy scout?"

"Yes."

"So was I, Mr. Kako, so was I. Let me ask you, ex-scout to ex-scout, didn't you

say you had a Golden Man he can suck on?"

"I was joking, F.U."

"Are you a homosexual, Mr. Kako?"

"No."

F.U. leaned close to Kako and inspected his face. "Are you wearing make-up, Mr.

Kako?"

"A little."

"Do you dye your hair?"

"Yes."

"You're doing an interview for Hard Print, correct?"

"Yes."

"How much are they paying you?"

"Ten thousand dollars."

"Really! For testifying against a friend who lets you live in his home rent free?"

Ratchit, frustrated, stood. "Objection!"

"Withdrawn. I have nothing further for this - ungrateful freeloader."

Ratchit had no desire to have a career criminal tell what he heard while in a cell next to the defendant's. The nasty drunkard had innumerable convictions for cons, break-ins, indecent exposure and drunken disorder. Yet, her boss wanted the degenerate to testify he heard Ben say in his sleep he only regretted not bashing Hunsucker's head in years ago.

Instead of going up to the witness, Larry stood, facing the jury and said he wouldn't dignify anything that witness had to say with a question. Before sitting back down, he said, "Goes to show you how low they'll stoop to nail Benny to a cross."

Ratchit rose from her chair but the judge spoke before she got to say a word.

"Sit down!" ordered Judge Chutzpa. "Let's break for lunch. I want everybody back and ready to go by two." She slammed her gavel.

Ratchit ate her six inch Subway grinder at a small table inside Slots - A - Fun located next door to Circus Circus. After din-din she went over her notes until ten minutes to two. Then she headed back to work. On the way Detective Furia stopped her and complained about the constant allegations about him being anti-Semitic and planting evidence. He and his family had received numerous threats. She assured him she was doing all she could for now before rushing away.

All eyes were on Ratchit when she entered the large room.

Judge Chutzpa glanced at her watch prior to displaying an angry expression. "You're late."

"I'm sorry, Your Honor. I was detained about a serious problem involving testimony. It won't happen again." Ratchit stopped by her chair and put her paperwork on the table.

"I'm fining you two hundred dollars."

"Excuse me, Your Honor, may I remind you Larry was thirty minutes late this morning." Stunned, she lowered herself onto her chair and murmured, "No apology! No excuse! No sanction!"

"Thank you, Ms Ratchit. The fine's one thousand dollars. Care to try for two?"

"No, Your Honor."

Doe-Eyes testified about Ben wearing a Red Sox cap, showing her his trophy, and Ben saying he wanted to kill Hunsucker. Larry proved Doe-Eyes wasn't too bright, and implied she was an illegal drug user and a part time hooker.

The final witness that day gave evidence that the blood leading up to Ben's door matched Hunsucker's blood type. Larry got him to say it was unlikely but it could have been planted.

An usher escorted Ben and Dorothy to a booth inside the Hilton showroom. Ben handed him a hundred dollar bill.

"Thank you, Mr. Artflick. Do you mind if President Monroe and his lovely wife share your booth?" The usher put the tip in his pocket.

Ben glanced at Dorothy. She laughed. He turned to the escort. "Not at all!"

As Valerie slid toward Ben, Bill, smiling broadly, waved at the audience. No one appeared to notice him. He slid next to his wife. "My good buddy, Ringo, called and told me you'll be here. Thought we could join him on stage. Might help your case."

"How's that?"

"Trust me, Ben. I know people. Singing with Ringo Starr and an ex-president in front of a Vegas crowd will impress the jurors. The press will eat it up."

"Singing?"

"Of course, what else would we be doing on stage?"

A waitress approached. Bill pointed at the drinks in front of Ben and Dorothy. "Y'all ready for another?"

Ben and Dorothy declined.

"Get us a couple of those rum drinks with the little umbrellas and plenty of fruit. Lots of cherries. Oh, and two dozen oysters, half on ice and half steamed." The waitress jotted down the orders and left. Bill wrapped an arm around his wife and gently squeezed her. "Who knows? I might get lucky."

Valerie murmured out of the side of her mouth. "You better be referring to the slot machines."

All the lights dimmed. It got almost pitch black. A half dozen different color spot lights shone on the huge stage. A silver circular spaceship surrounded by thick clouds of white smoke hovered over the stage. It descended onto the wooden floor. A rectangular hatch opened on the front of the ship and slowly dropped to the floor. A short man wearing a silver spacesuit and helmet appeared in the opening of the ship. He sauntered down the plank and stepped on the stage. The hatch closed and the ship took off displaying a variety of bright lights.

The man walked to the edge of the stage and removed his helmet. Ringo Starr sporting a full black beard waved at the audience. They gave him a standing ovation as the lights came on and a full orchestra rose from below the stage. Ringo bowed to the audience, and then sang I Wanna Be Your Man.

After an hour or so, Ringo beckoned Ben and Bill to join him on stage. He introduced and praised both of them. With a little coaxing Ben agreed to sing Act Naturally with his two sidekicks. A teleprompter rose several feet by the edge of the stage. Ben and Bill sang the lyrics shown on the device. When they got to the second line of the second verse, Ringo and Bill stopped singing. Ben continued, alone. "Might win a Golden Man, you can never tell." The trio sang the rest of the song together.

Bill whispered into Ringo's ear. He nodded and rushed over to his maestro. Bill, holding a microphone, strolled toward Valerie. "This is to the love of my life." He pointed at Valerie and sang. "You're more than a pie in the sky, from the moment you caught my eye. Your beautiful face, all that splendor and grace. Eyes that glister and shine. I can't believe you're mine. And ooh what a set, I fell for them the moment we met. Then you touched my face, my heart started to race. I knew then my love was true. They'll be no other but you." Bill threw a kiss to Valerie and mouthed, "I love you."

Larry stood in front of the Circus Circus casino talking to a handful of reporters.

With her back to Larry, Nancy Lovelace spoke into her camera. "Judge Chutzpa, what's on your mind, if you have one? We're all permitted to be irresponsible, but you're abusing that right. Holy moly, you're supposed to be a judge for Christ sakes. You're letting that clown, Las Vegas Larry, turn your courtroom into a circus. Let's see what that comic performer has to say." She turned and approached Larry. Her cameraman followed.

Larry noticed her approaching and headed for the entrance to the casino. Nancy chased after him. "Excuse me, Larry. Just one question, please?"

Larry glanced at her but continued to walk. "If I stop to give every dog a bone, that'll be less time for my client. But I'd be willing to shove a bone in your mouth on behalf of my client if it would stop your mindless babbling." He entered the casino.

Nancy yelled, "I'm willing to back up all my misstatements of facts. How about you?"

Bill Monroe strutted between the rows of spectators and up to the witness stand.

He sat down and scanned the jury. Juror four, a woman with huge breasts, wore a sweatshirt with the words NEW YORK GIANTS embossed across her chest. Bill murmured, "They certainly are!"

Marsha Ratchit stood in front of Bill. "Pardon?"

"Sorry, pretty lady, just thinking out loud."

After a number of introduction type questions, Rachit asked, "Mr. Monroe, tell the jury what you heard, if anything, on the night in question?"

"About two A.M. I heard a thump. I looked out my peephole and saw Ben leaving Mr. Hunsucker's room. I noticed the bloody shoe prints, so I telephoned the police."

"You're absolutely sure it was Ben Artflick?"

"I'm sure. I opened the door a little. Ben and I are close friends. He's a great guy. Nothing like the guy he played in The Stock Brokers. My pal can act."

There was a loud gasp from the spectators. The jurors gave Bill a distrusting look.

"Well, he can! Don't believe everything you read in the newspapers."

Ratchit adjusted her suit jacket. "Was he carrying anything?"

"Yes, a Golden Man statuette."

Ratchit turned to Las Vegas Larry. "Your witness."

Larry marched up to Bill. "You like to tell a tale or two, don't you?"

"Sure. I got a good one about this golfer who..."

"You lie a lot, don't you?"

"Well, Larry, we ought to get a definition before I can answer that truthfully. I'm a politician - a good one." Bill glanced at the jury and smiled. "As a politician, I talk in semantics. A lot of words have various meanings. For example, oral gratification. You know what I'm taking about, Larry." Bill winked at Larry. "A judge ruled oral gratification and sexual relations have two different meanings."

Larry interrupted. "Please answer my question."

"Many people believe I was lying. Legally, I wasn't. A judge made that clear. Even before her ruling most young fellas in Arkansas knew the difference between a BJ and a roll in the hay."

"I don't have clue what you're talking about. Are you a liar?"

"Define liar. When my loving wife asks me how something looks, I'm going to say good or great no matter what I think. I'm not a stupid man. Would I lie about something significant, like facts in a murder case? Absolutely not!"

Larry showed the jurors an expression of disbelief. "When it comes to traditional manliness: manhood, how do you rate yourself?"

"I'll put manhood up against yours any time."

"Do you understand the question?"

"Sure I do. I'm well known for my ability to rise to the occasion." Showing sincerity, he looked at the jurors. "On any occasion! I'm proud of my manly qualities: my characteristics and all my accomplishments. I'm as honest as the next politician, or lawyer, probably more so."

"Where were you a little after one, the night in question?"

"At a little bar down the street from Binion's Casino."

"Who were you with?"

"Well, I went there with Ben. Had a drink with Greg Norman. And left with Mr. Hunsucker."

"Mr. Hunsucker was a homosexual, correct?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Hey! Watch yourself. I'm straight."

"Didn't you and Mr. Hunsucker share a taxi back to your casino?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you walk him to his door?"

"I wouldn't say I walked him to his door. His room was across from mine."

"Did you enter Mr. Hunsucker's room?"

"Absolutely not. I ought to kick your butt. I'm mad as Hell, and I'm not going to take this any more. I had enough of your mindless innuendo. The last thing I need is the press implying I'm gay. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay. You know, I have a wife, Valerie."

"I'm through with this fella. Permission to recall at a later date, if necessary."

"Granted!" said Judge Chutzpa. She turned to Bill. "You may step down."

Bill squinted as he stared at Larry.

A large number of hateful reviews written by Hunsucker were put into evidence. Hunsucker's TV co-star read out loud ten of Hunsucker's published writings to the jury. When Larry finished questioning her, Ratchit rested the state's case.

Larry sitting next to Ben, leaned toward him and whispered, "There's enough time. I want you to get a haircut immediately after you leave here today. An Afro!"

It was a lovely evening. Ben, with an Afro haircut, and Dorothy strolled past the fountains in front of the Bellagio Casino. "I love those fountains. If I could, I'd come here every night at eight and watch the fountains dance to Singing in the Rain." She glanced at her wristwatch. "We have a ten minute wait. So, Larry didn't tell you why he wanted you to get an Afro?"

"No, he gave me his usual 'trust me' routine. Why won't you have dinner with me tomorrow?"

"I'm meeting with a friend. He was supposed to come here with me, but he was held up. Actually I don't even know why I accepted his invitation. He's my psychiatrist."

Ben appeared stunned. "The quack? It's unethical for a psychiatrist to date a patient?"

Dorothy stopped and grabbed Ben's hands. She gazed up at him. "Ben, we're just friends. He's here to negotiate a hypnosis act and suggested we meet here and take in a few shows. That's all. I'll have dinner with him. Then I'll tell him I won't be able to spend any more time with him. And, of course, I'll be in court tomorrow."

Nancy Lovelace spoke in front of her camera. "Holy moly, talk about a fast and speedy trial. It took just three days of testimony three months after the murder was committed for Ms. Ratchit to prove her case beyond all doubt. He's guilty, guilty, guilty! No smoke screen here. Just hard undeniable evidence. In other words: motive, eye witnesses, weapon, blood, clothing, forensics Hello! Bring out the needle. It's legal injection time."

Dorothy sat in the back of the courtroom, smiling. Some of the people around her were laughing out loud.

The Red Sox cap rested on top of Ben's Afro as he stood in front of the jury.

Ratchit pleaded with him, "Mr. Artflick, please put the hat on properly."

Ben pulled down on the cap and removed his hands. It popped back up to the top of his head.

Larry pointed. "See! It doesn't fit."

"Like wearing a glove over another glove. Get real! Nobody's that stupid." Ratchit appeared frustrated. "Your Honor, may we approach?"

Judge Chutzpa nodded. Ratchit and Larry hurried over to her.

"Your Honor, this is a circus and Las Vegas Larry's the ring master."

"I'm fining you a thousand dollars, Ms. Ratchit. I've warned you about wisecracks."

"Your Honor, I believe we're finished with this demonstration. May I proceed and call my first witness."

"I thought you called Mr. Artflick?" Ratchit asked.

"No, I don't intend on having Ben testify."

"Your Honor, I should be able to cross on the issue of whether it's his hat or not."

Judge Chutzpa pondered, eyeing Larry for a rebuttal.

"Your Honor, it's clearly Ben's constitutional right to decide if he wants to testify. All I did was put on a simple demonstration that Ms. Ratchit and Your Honor agreed to. Ben never said a word. May I proceed?"

Judge Chutzpa smiled at him. "Of course, proceed."

Sitting on the witness stand, Goldie Horn, blonde, large blue eyes, still very attractive for a fifty-year old woman, said, "Yes, Mark Furia said a hymie is a Jewish person."

The crowd gasped as Larry stood in front of her, proud of his discovery. "Do you know exactly when he said hymie, Ms. Horn?"

"Uh-huh, ten years tomorrow. I know because it was on my birthday."

"You're positively sure that Mark Furia said within the last ten years that a hymie is a Jewish person?"

"Uh-huh, I'm sure."

"Your witness."

Ratchit stormed over to her. "What prompted Mr. Furia to say that word, Ms. Horn?"

"We were playing scrabble. He made that word and said hymie is a Jewish person."

Ratchit turned towards the judge. "Your Honor, permission to approach?"

Judge Chutzpa nodded. Ratchit rushed over to her. "Your Honor, this foolishness is a waste of the court's time. I request that her testimony be stricken from record and we move on something that's remotely relevant to this murder trial. Fine, Detective Furia may have knowing lied about using that word, once, ten years ago. That doesn't mean he hates Jewish people. It certainly has nothing to do with planting evidence to frame Mr. Artflick."

Larry, standing beside Ratchit, shook his head and smiled at Judge Chutzpa. "Ms. Rachit has a problem: her star witness committed perjury. I want Detective Furia recalled to the stand so I can question him about this serious felony. If he refuses to answer my questions, I want his testimony and the cap thrown out."

Ratchit stood in disbelief. "Star witness? He testified about a baseball cap found at the murder scene. What's this, an episode of the Twilight Zone? I can't believe any of this. He said a word ten years ago. So what? You can't be serious."

"As serious as an intern on her knees in the oval office." Larry showed Ratchit a big smile. "I have a video of your detective saying hymie and other contemptible epithets. Mark Furia is a lying, jealous, perjuring genocidal racist. He framed Benny."

"The three of us will view that video in my chambers later on." Judge Chutzpa peered over her glasses. "Ms Ratchit, I've warned you several times. I'm fining you a thousand dollars for that Twilight Zone remark."

Ratchit lost control and shouted, "What's your problem?"

"You best not be raising your voice to me in my courtroom, Ms Ratchit."

"I didn't, Your Honor," Ratchit shouted back.

"You did it again. That'll be another thousand. Next time, a weekend in jail. Do you have any more questions for this witness?"

"Yes, I do, Your Honor." Ratchit moped back to the witness.

"What made you come forward with this information?"

"Mark Furia is a liar and a cheater. I thought the court should know that."

"What did he lie about?"

"You can't use slang words in scrabble. I found out after he won the game by only a few points that hymie is an offensive slang word."

"So, you don't think it was possible that he just made an honest mistake?"

"No, he wanted head. He'd lie and cheat for it. He pressured me into a wager. I didn't think he had a chance. Otherwise I never would have bet him. I was on a diet at the time."

Ratchit brought to light that the two had played scrabble three times prior to the infamous hymie word. And after numerous questions the witness reluctantly revealed the same wager had been made every time.

Ratchit looked with a critical eye upon the flustered witness. "Did you have sex with Mark Furia after the third game of scrabble?"

Goldie turned her head to the side and gazed up at the ceiling. "I don't remember!"

"After the second game, did you have sex?"

"I don't remember!"

"After the first game, did you have sex?"

"No! I won!"

Ratchit faced the jurors and rolled her eyes. "No further questions."

Larry rose. "I think this would be a good time to visit Ben's suite."

Ratchit said. "Your Honor, I fail to see anything probative inside Ben's suite."

An angry Judge Chutzpa scrutinized her. "Your objection was noted for the record when we went over this. Your wisecracks and re-questioning my rulings must stop or you'll be spending the night in jail. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Honor. I apologize to the court."

Chutzpa showed Ben a friendly smile. "Okay, the bus is parked out back for the jury. The rest of us will follow in Larry's limo."

Larry said, "Your Honor, may I suggest, before we tour the suite, we all go to the Reno for lunch. They have a fabulous buffet. My treat."

Judge Chutzpa looked at Ratchit for approval. "Do you object, Ms. Ratchit?"

"Yes, Your Honor. I request that the state pick up the tab for the jury's meal."

"Okay, and Larry can leave the tip. Fair enough. Let's travel." She slammed her gavel.

The jury, Judge Chutzpa, Larry, Ratchit and Ben walked through the lobby filled with well known celebrities. Many ran up to Ben and shook his hand. Ben appeared surprised and embarrassed. The jurors were in awe. As they headed for the hallway, Bruce Willis and Russell Crowe approached Ben. They both shook his hand and wished him luck with the trial.

The group continued on to the hallway. Ben, Larry and Judge Chutzpa walked together, followed by Ratchit and the jury. They headed down the hallway toward the elevator. It opened and Robert Williams stepped out. He hurried toward them, stopping and shaking Ben's hand. "Ben, how you doing?"

"Hello, Robert."

"How about some tickets to my show tonight. Bring all your friends."

The jurors smiled.

Ratchit rolled her eyes. "Your Honor?"

Judge Chutzpa smiled at Robert. "Thank you for your generous offer Mr. Williams, but...

"I understand, lady in black rope. When the trial is over, I want all of you to be my guest. Dinner and show, on me."

"It still may not be appropriate."

"Why not? There are plenty of seats. The last time my show sold out, Cher was dating adults."

Judge Chutzpa gently touched his arm. "Thanks again, but we have to pass on your generous offer."

The jurors displayed their disappointment. One, a pretty redhead, raised her hand. "Mr. Williams can I get your autograph?"

Robert eyed the judge for approval.

"Okay, but please hurry."

Ratchit pouted as she glanced at her watch. "This is highly inappropriate."

Ben opened the door to his suite and entered. The group followed him.

Stretched out on a sofa, Damon watched All My Children on television. The walls were completely covered with pictures of children, Ben's parents, JFK, the Star of David, and a large Jewish Home Blessing plaque.

Ben noticed his buddy. "Damon, what are you doing here?"

"I just got into town. I thought I'd surprise ya. The bellboy let me in."

"I must be on Candid Camera," said Ratchit, glancing around the crowded room. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, Allen Funt. I know you're here."

Judge Chutzpa glared at her. "I hope you brought your tooth brush with you, Ms. Ratchit. "You're going to need it."

Ratchit lay on a bunk inside a jail cell. She stared at the ceiling, thinking about the case and knowing that the jury will never convict. It was obvious day one. The way they looked at Ben. When she spoke most of them ignored her and looked around the room. Every time Larry spoke they all were very attentive. Some seemed to jot down every word as if in some way they were relevant to this murder trial. Words that defied all logic. It was mind-boggling to her that a judge that would allow controversy over the utterances of an offensive word spoken ten years ago - especially in front of a jury that included six Jewish women.

Recalling a classmate that graduated last in her class brought a smile to her face. A nice guy but not too bright, but he made it. He'd lay a gift on his professor's desk before class: fruit, jewelry, alcohol, golf balls, Playboy magazines, DVDs, CDs. One time he left a bag of marijuana. The professor saw it and slipped it into his pocket as if it was a tip. During that class the professor was about to critique the material covered. The dunce sat confused. When the teacher asked what was troubling him, he responded with, "I thought critique was a yard game played with balls, big wooden hammers and metal hoops."

Rachit thought he's probably a judge today. People love ass kissers. It doesn't matter how inept they are; it seems like they advance faster than hard working and knowledgeable people. Most important of all, in making judgeship, it's knowing the right people. Connections. Ability doesn't matter. That's how so many fools got to wear a robe. What bothers her most is their power to toss people in jail or fine them at a whim. No trial! And they get away with it.

Rachit's mind drifted to the look on Ben's face when he saw Damon on the sofa. It was one of complete surprise. An embarrassment. She saw that look many times in the so-called courtroom. For an unremorseful murderer, he seems to be humiliated quite easily. She had read a recent study concluding that's actually a sign of trustworthiness and generosity. No doubt Ben is extremely bighearted: known for being the most generous personality in the movie industry.

She glanced at the bars. This can't be happening, she thought. I'm in jail and a murderer is probably reminiscing about old times with a friend in a luxury suite. And she wasn't looking forward to viewing Furnia's video prior to battle. Fearing the trial might turn into the Furnia catastrophe instead of the Ben Artflick murder case. It appeared that way.

A uniformed police officer approached Ratchit's cell. "I'm here to set you free," he said, with a friendly smile.

Damon sat on a large recliner, laughing hysterically.

Grinning, Ben prepared a couple of drinks in front of a black mini-bar. He brought one to his buddy and sat down on a sofa across from him.

Damon sipped his drink. "Not bad. A kid went to a whorehouse. The Madame realized it was his first time and took him to her room. The boy agreed to play 69, although he didn't have a clue what it was. During the process, the woman passed a little gas. The boy got up and ran over to the window, opened it and stuck his head outside. During the next try she did it again. This time, after sticking his head out the window, he went for his clothes. She asked him why. He said if you think I'm taking 67 more of those, you're crazy."

Ben, grinning, put his drink on the coffee table and folded his arms. He slowly shook his head. He recalled a Saturday afternoon Damon and he were making out with a couple of girls. He pointed at Damon. "You're about to bring up the time I didn't know what 69 meant and you did, aren't you?"

"Nah! I was thinking about the time I thought Wonder Woman was submarine worthy and you thought - not."

"No big deal. I thought maybe the pubes absorbed the pee. So I was a little finicky then."

"Finicky? You were superficial. You dumped Jenny over a pimple."

"You have no idea how much that Jenny dig hurt. If I thought you knew, you would be needing a good plastic surgeon."

"Sorry!" Damon held up his drink. "I wasn't thinking. Remember Fellatio Hornblower?"

Ben chuckled. "Of course, poor girl. Having a name like Hornblower was bad enough."

"Yeah, the kids only teased her about her last name. If they only had a clue what her first name meant, they would have had a field day."

"I heard she's a Wall Street Trader. Her name might have helped her get a head." Ben downed his drink. "Ya ready for another?" He lifted his glass.

Damon nodded. "You betcha!"

Ben stood and headed for the mini-bar. "Flashback to the crush you had on Marsha. Remember what you told me about carrying her books? Whatta jerk!"

Damon smiled. "Ah, pretty Marsha. You're right. I was a jerk, but I was only 10. All the boys in the class liked Marsha. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Freckles." Damon points a finger into the air, signifying something more important. "All her teeth!"

While Ben made the drinks, Damon recalled Marsha walking on the sidewalk holding several books close to her flat chest. Damon idolized Marsha. From the moment she first entered the classroom, he couldn't take his eyes off her. Her phenomenal smile gave him pleasure. He had never seen anyone that breathtaking; God's greatest achievement. He could feast his eyes on her for hours and thoroughly enjoy every moment. It took several weeks to make his first move. One sunny day, after school, he followed close behind trying to get up enough nerve to walk next to her. As he stared at her blonde hair, he could feel his heart pound rapidly. He wondered if she could hear it. Then he thought, "What do I say? Hi, Marsha. How ya doing, Marsha? Do ya mind if I walk with ya?" His throat felt very dry. He knew he would have trouble talking to her. So, when she stopped and turned toward him, he froze. She gave him a friendly smile and asked if he wanted to carry her books. Stunned by the smile and request, he barely got out, "No! Carry them yourself." He immediately regretted saying that. Extremely embarrassed by his stupidity, he perspired and felt weak all over. He turned and rushed away, never looking back.

Ben handed Damon another drink and said, "If only we could rewind and do things over."

Damon nodded. "Thanks!" He took a swig and placed the glass on a round blue table protector. "Retakes in life would be great. I usually get it right after a couple."

"More like a dozen or so."

"Yeah, and who got the best actor nomination, you big stiff?"

Ben glimpsed at his watch. "Gotta meet with Larry." He stood. "Then Dorothy. Maybe you should check out Robert's act. He says there are plenty of seats available."

Ben met with Larry in his office.

"Who decorated my room?" asked Ben.

"I did. Like it?"

"To be truthful - no. You've made my trial into a farce. I can't believe the judge is letting you get away with your tactics."

"Would you rather be spending the rest of your life in prison?"

"Of course not. But I don't want people believing I killed Hunsucker and beat the rap because of my celebrity status and wealth."

"And I want Angelina Jolie to sit on my face. That's not going to happen. Face the facts, you look guilty as Hell. I'm a slick lawyer, not a miracle worker."

"I want to testify."

"Absolutely not! Ratchit will eat you up. Don't underestimate her. Listen, juror six, the automobile mechanic, will be dismissed tomorrow. Then we'll have the jury in our pocket, don't blow it. Trust me, I know my job."

Dorothy, in a trance, sat in a booth while Boyer swung a silver medallion in front of her face. "You can't see him any more. Tell him you're through with him. Draft dodger." He put the medal away.

Bill and Valarie sat in the booth behind Dorothy. Bill pointed behind him and mouthed something to his wife. She nodded.

Ben scampered over to Dorothy's booth. "I just got your message. I got over here as fast as I could."

Dorothy looked up at him. "We're through, Ben, sorry."

Boyer sat back in his booth, his arms spread out. "Dorothy and I came to Vegas to get married, Ben. She met you and began to have second thoughts. We talked it over and decided to get married tomorrow night."

Ben gazed into Dorothy's eyes. "Dorothy, you mean a lot more to me. You must realize that. Is what he said true?"

"Yes, Ben, it's true. It's been fun, but I'm in love with Dr. Phil. Excuse us!"

She got up and moved toward the exit. A tear flowed down a cheek. Boyer chased after her.

Bill stood. "Don't look so depressed, my man. I heard everything that charlatan said, and I have a plan for tomorrow night. Sit down."

Ben sat. "Hello, Mrs. Monroe. You look elegant, as usual."

"Why thank you, Ben." She showed him a friendly smile.

Bill squinted at the two of them. "Hey, I'm sitting here. I'm sitting here. You're hitting on my sweetheart, Ben, and I don't like it."

Ben had a confused expression. "What? I'm just being polite."

"Not with my wife, you're not." Bill checked the room for eavesdroppers and whispered, "We'll meet tomorrow, sevenish, at the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. Lucky for you I'm close friends with the owner. What size dress do you wear?"

"What? What's this all about?"

"Dorothy was hypnotized. I heard it all \- every word. I'll arrange everything. Don't worry. I want you thinking straight when you testify tomorrow."

"I'm not. Larry's against it."

"That's because he thinks you're guilty. Testify! I know people and they want to hear you say you didn't do it."

"I don't know."

"Didn't you vote for me?"

"Twice! What was I thinking?"

"Exactly! You heard me deny all those bogus allegations. If I hadn't, our country would have missed out on a prosperous seven years. So, I made a few questionable appointments. Her fault!" He pointed at Valerie. "Testify! I guarantee you will be acquitted."

Ben tossed and turned on his bed. He dreamt he's on the witness chair. He constantly moved a pair of dice in his hand and acted nervous. "Ah-h, but the People's Awards, that's...that's where I had all of them critics. They laughed at me and made jokes about my acting, but I proved beyond the shadow of a doubt and without...campaigning that I could act with the best of them. Four nominations and a win for Best Kiss. Huh! Huh! I showed 'em. I - I - I would have won more if they hadn't pulled the Artflick out of action. They set me up just to keep me off the screen. To give other actors a chance. I'm innocent, I tell ya, innocent."

His eyes opened.

Nancy Lovelace spoke in front of her camera. "Yesterday court watchers were stunned when the not too bright murderer showed up looking like O.J. in a scene out of the movie Naked Gun. Holy moly, the goon had an Afro. Man! I kid you not. And then his lawyer had the audacity to say the cap doesn't fit. Brother! It's deja vu all over again. Then the judge took the jury on a star studded trip. Yes, that's right. They got to see some of Hollywood's biggest stars up close. And I heard this morning the thug himself might testify. Talk about delusions of adequacy. No way will he take the stand. He couldn't undergo a cross-examination. He would fold like one of Larry's blow-up dolls. And that jury best remember a zebra never changes its spots. He might kill again."

Larry met with Judge Chutzpa in her chambers. She was buttoning her blouse as he sat relaxed with his feet on her desk.

"Thanks again for removing the mechanic. He could have been a problem."

Chutzpa grabbed her black robe off a hanger. "Maybe I should be putting on a black hat too."

"No, you're not a witch. We'll, Samantha on Bewitched, maybe."

"I didn't say a pointed one." She put on the robe. "Having sex with you during a trial, no big thing. We've done that before."

"Thanks! You telling me your uncontrollable shaking was an act? Like something out of When Sally met Harry?"

"No, you're a great stud. I doubt if we could get disbarred over that. But the money, that's a serious breach."

"No problem. Give it back."

"That's not going to happen. You better never mention it to anyone. I mean anyone!"

"Of course. And remember to deposit only the money you win from the casino."

Ratchit, and Furia discussed Goldie in the district attorney's office. He vaguely recalled the scrabble game and the sex afterwards. No big deal. The woman obviously has a mental disorder. They dated a few times over the last ten years. The last time was about three years ago. Dinner and sex at her place. He never called her after that. The woman looked great but certainly a nutcase. Maybe she was being vindictive because he never called after he promised he would.

The district attorney, Salvador Iberri, wanted to know why Furia didn't inform Ratchit as soon as he realized he had referred to Jews as hymies. Furia laughed, not taking him too seriously until Iberri told him he was fired and he was going to need a good attorney.

"For what?" asked Furia, stupefied.

"Perjury and rape," answered Iberri, leaning back on his overstuffed leather office chair.

Ratchit touched Furia's arm. "I'm sorry. I fought like Hell for you. I have absolutely nothing to do with it."

"Goldie never said I raped her," Furia yelled in a heated rage.

"We know. You just confessed you knew she had a mental disorder, Detective Furia. Twice!" Iberri held up two fingers, grinning ear-to-ear. "California Penal Code Section 261. Rape is an act of sexual intercourse accomplished with a person not the spouse of the perpetrator, where a person is incapable, because of a mental disorder of giving legal consent, and this is known to the concupiscent asshole committing the act."

Furia shook his head. "She's not that wacky. A typical Valley girl. A total space cadet, yes. An airhead, yes, yes. Mentally ill, legally, no fucking way."

"Now tell us about a video with you rambling about hymies and niggers."

Furia thought for a moment, grinning. "I acted in a movie about nineteen-ninety. I played an Iris cop for Christ sakes. I said wop a few times, too, with an on again, off again, Irish brogue. I'm Italian! When ya see the video, even you'll be able to tell I'm acting, poorly in fact."

"Okay, I'll give you a break. Retire. Talk to a lawyer and be ready if Judge Chutzpa wants you back on the witness stand."

"I'll think about it." Furia stormed out of the office.

Iberri gave steadfast directives to Ratchit involving Furia in her closing argument. That convinced her he was on the take. Larry must have paid him off. Just like Larry must have gotten to Judge Chutzpa. No way were those two that grossly incompetent.

A nine minute video was shown in the judge's chambers. Ratchit argued that it was just part of a movie shot fourteen years ago. Furia was playing a character.

"We don't know that or when it was taped," said Larry. "It doesn't matter. He referred to them as hymies two more times, acting or not. He should have informed us when asked, instead of committing perjury."

"I agree," interjected the judge. "I construe that tape and his utterance of the word during a scrabble game germane. He might have committed perjury. I want him back on the stand."

The judge allowed the jury to hear Furia utter hymie twice along with nigger three times. The entire nine minute plus scenes with Furia was played in open court just for the media covering the trial. No conceivable reason and no legal justification were given to Ratchit over her objections. Chutzpa said she didn't want to be accused of 'suppressing information of vital public interest' and 'no other reason but to satisfy public interest'.

Mark Furia was recalled to the witness stand. It was clear the prosecution left him in the cold. His lawyer warned him not to admit he said a hymie is a Jewish person without a plea agreement of some kind. There was no way he could defend himself from F. U.'s deviously phrased yes-or-no questions about a word used in a board game. So instead of answering any questions he took the Fifth Amendment privilege thirteen times and Chutzpa wouldn't end the foolishness. The last two inquiries were devastating to the prosecution.

"Did you falsify any police reports in this case?" asked F. U. Dailey.

"I proclaim my Fifth Amendment privilege."

"Detective Furia, did you plant or manufacture any evidence in this case?"

"I proclaim my Fifth Amendment privilege."

After Furia was excused a bearded man identifying himself as a rabbi for Jews for Jesus testified Furia had stopped him from handing out leaflets in front of Hooter's Casino. Followed by Furia's neighbor claiming the detective collected swastikas, German decorations for heroism, daggers, and swords.

Afterward Henry Notfree, a charismatic Asian testified about the drop of blood on the white robe. He was charming, making the jurors laugh a couple of times, while showing results of test involving blood splatter. His experienced conclusion after many test told him, "Something wrong!" That's all Larry wanted out of him. Innuendo!

"After an adept analysis, is it plausible the blood was planted on the robe?" asked Larry.

"Do lots of tests. All times more blood. Something wrong!"

Larry turned facing the jury and mouthed 'something wrong' while slowly nodding. "Your witness."

Ratchit rushed over to Notfree. "Larry dubbed you the 'preeminent dean of forensics' and the 'top forensic sleuth' in our universe. Isn't it true, today, you're just a witness paid to give your opinion on how a drop of blood may have gotten on a robe?"

"Objection!"

The judge removed her glasses. "Frankly, if I were in your high heels, I would just accentuate the positive in a friendly and profession manner, given his outstanding reputation. No, don't you mess with Dr. Notfree. Not in my court. Watch yourself, Ms Ratchit. Continue."

"You were paid one hundred thousand dollars, plus expenses, to assist Mr. Artflick in proving his innocents, correct?"

"No, to do lots of tests on robe. To be witness. My time bery costly."

"So, without any rationalization whatsoever as to how the blood might have gotten on the robe, except for 'something wrong', is it fair to say you may be the best witness money can buy?"

"Objection!"

"Yes, you've gone too far. Dr. Notfree, you're excused. It's been a pleasure. Ms Ratchit, I'll deal with you later." Chutzpa eyeballed Larry. "Next witness, Mr. Johns."

Larry slanted his body close to Ben and whispered, "It's over! If you testify, you eradicate all the work we accomplished on your behalf. Don't testify and I promise the judge will declare you not guilty. No jury! No risk!"

"Do it!" said Ben, loud and clear.

"I call Benny Artflick to the stand."

After being sworn in and answering undemanding questions for about an hour, Ben's eyes were on Larry, knowing the next inquiry.

"Did you murder J.T. Hunsucker?" asked Larry.

"Absolutely not," replied Ben.

"Where you in his room that night?"

"Yes, after I received a phone call."

A telephone rang. Ben, wearing a white bath robe, picked up the handset and placed it to his ear. "Hello."

"Your Golden Man is in room 28666. You'll have five minutes to retrieve it," a man murmured into an untraceable cell phone.

Ben briefly mulled over the situation, put on his shoes and left his room. He hurried over to the elevator and took it to the floor below his. Ben crept up to room 28666. The door was ajar. He knocked. It opened some more. He put his head into the room. "Hello?"

Ben stepped into the room and surveyed the space. He darted across the room.

Hunsucker was lying on the floor in a large pool of blood around his head. Ben kneeled down and touched Hunsucker's neck. He felt a pulse and scanned the room, looking for the closest telephone. A foot went into the blood as he hurried to the phone by the bed. His finger pushed 9 1 1. Doing his John Wayne impression, he requested an ambulance and gave his location. After hanging up he noticed his Golden Man by Hunsucker's head. The base was covered in blood. He rushed over to it, bent down, picked up his Golden Man and hurried out of the room.

"Benny, why didn't you wait for the paramedics to arrive?"

"No doubt I should have. I thought he would be okay. No reason to think otherwise." Ben turned his face toward the jury. "I knew J.T. was a homosexual. The media would have had a field day. Although we were bitter enemies over our lifetimes, the tabloids and the internet still would have spread absurd rumors that his injuries were results of a lover's quarrel. I real don't care. But the truth is I would be offered fewer, if any, leading man rules. Believe me it happens in the movie business. Can't explain why. Mainly because there's no logically explanation. Like many of Judge Chutzpa's rulings."

The judge slammed her gavel. "Watch yourself or you'll be spending a great deal of time behind bars no matter what this jury decides."

To give Chutzpa time to cool off, Larry interrupted. "Your Honor, it's past one and my stomach is calling out to me. Shall we continue after a brief lunch?"

Ratchit stood in front of Ben. "How did your Golden Man end up in Mr. Hunsucker's suite?"

"I have no idea. All I know it was stolen during the poker tournament."

"Do you own a Boston Red Sox cap?"

"I did. It had a drink on it, so I threw it in the trash in the men's room at the casino. That probably was my hat in his room. I have no idea how it got there."

"So, your testimony is your trophy: the murder weapon found in your suite, your hat found at the murder scene, your footprints found at the murder scene and leading to your suite, and your dislike for a film critic who had been harassing you for years, are all just unfortunate coincidences?"

Ben made eye contact with all the jurors. The women and one man smiled at him. "I told the truth. I can only tell you what I know. Yes, that's my footprint. I was there, but I didn't knock him unconscious. Based on everything we all know, I can guess how the cap and trophy got there. I'm confident you all can, too."

After Damon and two major movie stars testified on Ben's outstanding character, the judge precluded a long list of celebrities from testifying. Of course Larry vehemently objected before calling his final witness, Tony DiSerio, the Groucho Marx look-a-like from the poker table, who had Mafia ties according to Larry.

Tony DiSerio, sweating profusely as he grinds his teeth, sat on the witness stand. "I don't have no Mafia ties."

Larry moved close to DiSerio, within striking distance. "Mr. DiSerio, which is more realistic, The Sopranos or The Godfather ?"

"Objection!" Ratchit shouted, jumping to her feet.

"Sustained." Judge Chutzpa peered down at Larry. "That's enough. Move on!"

Larry, turned, facing the jury. "Mr. DiSerio, where were you that night?"

"In my hotel room, alone."

Larry pondered, turned and moved as close as possible to Tony. "Do you agree it's fair to say you threatened to beat up Mr. Hunsucker?"

"Like I said before, I warned him if he didn't stop messing with me, I would hurt him. Ya know slap him around a little bit."

Larry strolled toward the jury. "And the police never questioned you. I wonder why?"

Ratchit got up. "Objection!"

"I apologize. I was just thinking the obvious out loud." Larry grinned at the jury before facing the judge. "That's all I have Your Honor. I'm ready for closing arguments."

Convinced she had already lost her case it wasn't worth asking for more time to prepare. "I'm ready now, Your Honor."

Ratchit went over the evidence and reminded the jurors about the oath they took.

Larry strolled toward the jury box, eyeing each juror. He stopped several feet in front of jurors three and four, sitting side-by-side in the front row. Larry reached inside his pant's pocket and pulled out a quarter. "Ms Ratchit is hoping for a coin toss. A fifty-fifty chance of putting an innocent man in prison for the rest of his life." He tossed the coin four feet in the air, caught it, placed in on the back of his hand, and examined it. His head moved slowly side-to-side, appearing sad.

Larry turned and pointed at Ms Ratchit. "She wants you all to dismiss reasonable doubt. Out damn reasonable doubt. Out damn reasonable doubt. In order for her to pull an upset, to chalk up a win, put an upstanding, very charitable, innocent person in prison for life, you must completely ignore reasonable doubt. She knows that. She's a smart lawyer."

Larry turned, looking each and every juror in the eye as he spoke. "There's absolutely no doubt Tony DiSerio made a threat. He confessed. And he admitted to calling Hunsucker, Tinker Bell. Clearly he's a hate filled bigot with odds-on mafia connections. Without a reliable alibi. And the police didn't even bother to ask him a few routine questions normally required in an honest, efficient investigation."

He pondered for a few seconds, letting his words sink in. "Don't let Joe Young's name slip from your memory bank. An enormous, unstable man, seen by many - abducting Mr. Hunsucker. No doubt his goal was to beat the foul mouth bastard to a pulp for insulting his wife. Ask yourself, why wasn't mighty Joe Young questioned? At least the police should have tried to make it appear that there was somewhat of an investigation. You know, to satisfy possible great thinkers that may be on the jury and know the importance of proving a case beyond a reasonable doubt. Most honorable Americans do believe that. But sadly, on rare occasions, some are fooled by slick, deceitful prosecuting attorneys."

Larry brought his hands together, as if to pray. "Please, I'll get down on my knees if I have to. I beg you, don't be bamboozled." He pointed at Ms Ratchit, again. "Ms Ratchit is a fox in men's clothing. Her first performance, ah, first closing, was very good considering the lack of evidence."

Standing in front of the jurors, he brought a finger up. "She almost got the jury she wanted - eleven women. She wanted twelve." He moved his hand down. "Hoping the mere fact that Bennny is a handsome, successful man might give her an edge. After all, she's a woman. If Leslie Faith Abraham can flimflam seven women to ignore all the facts in a double homicide, she might be able to do the same. And I'm sure Lorena Babbit came to her mind while thinking about a case involving a handsome John Wayne type defendant."

Larry slowly pushed the palm of his hand against the side of his forehead. "I shouldn't have said that. Just mentioning such baseless, foundationless logic is incomprehensible. It certainly is NOT Benny's thinking or mine. We, like Ms Ratchit, are extremely pleased with the jury selection. An innocent man's dream team. Open minded, intelligent, female jurors. A rationale extremely different than Ms Ratchit's motivation. We want a decision based solely on the facts. In this case, there are none indicating Benny struck that film critic."

Larry took his time pacing back-and-forth in front of the jurors. "As you all know, this isn't a television show. I'm not Perry Mason. I can't tell you who murdered J. T. Hunsucker. But I know in my heart that the answer lies somewhere in the world that William DeWitt Monroe inhabited. We know he left the bar drunk with a known homosexual. We all know Mr. Monroe enjoys oral sex. But, he doesn't consider it sex. So, in his mind, he won't be having sex with another man. Something goes wrong. Monroe hits J. T. Hunsucker with the trophy he took from the poker room. He hurries to his room, across the hall, and telephones Benny. Tells him where his stolen trophy is located. After he sees Benny leaving Hunsucker's room, he telephones the police. It could be that simple. And that is something any intelligent person will call reasonable doubt."

Larry turned, facing Ratchit. He smiled. She smiled back, unshaken. She knew the 'Bill Monroe did it' theory would be part of Larry's defense.

Larry turned to the jurors. "Under oath, Benny explained everything he knew to you. He made a mistake and he apologized. Even if he had remained at the crime scene, nothing would have changed. They wanted him. Mark my words, all the pips, partners in prosecution, will be on talk shows and writing books. They're going to make a lot of money - win or lose. It doesn't Matter. What does matter, a great deal, to me, to Benny, and to anybody with an ounce of decency, is an innocent man should NOT spend the rest of his life in prison for something he didn't do. But that's up to you fine American citizens. Do the right thing. The sooner the better. Thank you very much for you time."

Larry moved away from the jurors as Ratchit approached. Ratchit stopped, smiled and nodded. "I saw Larry early this morning walking down lovers' lane holding his own tiny hand." She paused, hoping for snickers or smiles. Almost nothing! Several jurors suppressed a chuckle at the mention of Larry's tiny hand.

Ratchit glanced at Larry, who was examining his hand. She continued. "You all must have noticed how tiny it is. I'm sure he makes love to the little thing, but that has nothing to do with this murder case. Neither do Mr. DeSireo and Mr. Young. They're known as smoke screens used by slick, dickless, defense attorneys."

Judge Chutzpa banged her gavel. "Watch yourself, Ms. Ratchit."

Larry jumped up. "I object to her insinuation as to the ...

"I apologize. I won't mention his little limb again, I promise. May I continue, Your Honor?"

"Proceed."

"Did Mark Furia lie when he testified before you saying he did not use a racial epithet in the last ten years? Yes! Is he anti-Semitic? Yes! Is he the worst the Las Vegas Police Department has to offer? Yes! Do we wish he was never hired to work with us? Yes! In fact, do we wish he wasn't living on this planet? Yes!" Ratchit knew those weren't her words and they weren't true. None of it! She should have quit or faced the consequences rather than deliver that ridiculous spiel.

Ratchit strolled in front of the jurors trying to recuperate her composure. "Mark Furia did not conspire with Detective Manhatter to frame Ben Artflick. That's totally absurd. You must recognize that you can't pick and choose questions once you invoke your Fifth Amendment, right?" She scanned the jurors. Half nodded. "Answer one question and you must answer all or be held in contempt. As usual, Las Vegas Larry provided good drama to some. Comedy to others."

While pondering for a moment in front of the jury, Ratchil closed her eyes and rubbed her temple. She opened her eyes, glaring at a juror who was ogling Ben. "Sometimes smoke screens work if the jurors are gullible. Case in point: the O.J. jurors. I know you're not easy to fool. That's the primary reason I approved all of you. I'm confident you will do the right thing."

Ratchit took a quick look at the faces of the jury. She realized it was hopeless. Hung at best and that was highly unlikely. "I went over the evidence. Mr. Artflick's explanations came three months after Mr. Hunsucker died and after the state proved he did it beyond a reasonable doubt. Yes, motive, his weapon, a witness, he was at the crime scene, together, add up to beyond a reasonable doubt. It's crystal clear Furia didn't frame him. Yet, Ben wanted you to believe that. Think about that. And the paid witness from the East. The 'something wrong' guy. Why did he try to fool you? Why not just put on an honest case and let you all decide? I won't waste any more of your precious time. To the few that listened, thank you very much. To the ones that slept, or just sat there admiring the defendant, all I can say is... well, I better not. You all took an oath to listen to both sides of this case before committing yourself to either. One or two of you must have paid attention. Try to get through to the others what you heard and saw. Then discuss the evidence. Consider the victim, J. T. Hunsucker, a neighbor. Consider the defendant another neighbor, nothing more, nothing less. Then decide."

Everybody was on their feet as the jury left the room. After the door closed, Larry gathered his paperwork together. He turned to Ben, at his side. "You're going to owe Chutzpa a big hard one when this is over."

Ben glanced at the judge, who was talking to her court stenographer. "What?"

"A good pat on the back. She helped you out immensely."

"How long do you think the jury will be?"

"Ya never know. Several hours. A day or two. Maybe more."

The jury came back into the room. Judge Chutzpa stood by the door to her chambers. The jury foreperson, a pretty woman, raised her arm. The judge looked at her. "Is there a problem?"

"No, Your Honor. We reached a verdict."

Furia stepped out of the Circus Circus's back exit. A short man shoved a microphone inches away from his face and asked, "Ratchit slimed you. Your thoughts?"

"The presumption of innocence suppose to apply inside a courtroom. Ratchit openly convicted me. The judge who ordered my arrest allowed her to do it without a trial." Furia glanced at the CNN letters on the microphone. "You people at the communist numbskull network probably haven't realized Las Vegas Larry got to both of them. That's what he does best. Everybody in town knows that. There's no other possibility. They're not as dumb as you pinkoes at CNN. Oh, if you shove that microphone in my face again, I'll shove it down your throat. And this isn't a dream." Furia strutted away from the correspondent.

Outside the meeting room, Ben signed autographs for the jurors. The jury foreperson touched Ben's arm. "I loved you in The Mall Critics."

"Thank you."

"Do ya wanna come to my room and let me relieve all that tension that must be built up inside you?" She gazed up at him in admiration. "I'm a licensed masseuse."

"No thank you. I have to be somewhere very important to me."

Dorothy and Boyer walked toward a large lighted marquee with the lettering "VIVA LAS VEGAS WEDDING CHAPEL". "I should feel happy and excited, but I don't. I feel sad. And I can't stop thinking about Ben."

Boyer stopped and grabbed Dorothy by the shoulders. "Look into my eyes." Dorothy complied. "Basic training." Dorothy went into a trance. "You will forget Ben Artflick completely. You will have no remembrance of him. You love Phil Boyer and only Phil Boyer. Draft dodger."

Dorothy came out of the trance. She looked at Boyer. "I love you, Phil Boyer."

"I love you too, Dorothy. Elvis is waiting."

They entered the chapel. Inside, Bill, wearing an Elvis Presley wig and a white outfit with red, white and blue rhinestones, greeted them. He imitated Elvis. "Welcome to the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel."

Boyer glanced around the chapel. "Nice place."

"Thank you very much. Please follow me."

Bill stood in front of Dorothy and Boyer on a beautifully decorated alter. Ben, wearing a long red wig and a dress, sat at an organ to their side. He played a little of Here Comes the Bride that was simply horrible. Boyer tilted his head slightly, looking behind Bill. A door was ajar. Valarie smiled at Boyer as she started to unbutton her blouse. Boyer's eye's opened wider.

Valerie, wearing a sexy purple bra, removed her blouse and dropped it on the floor. She winked at Boyer as she slowly unfastened the buttons running down the side of her skirt.

Bill started the ceremony. "Marriage starts out like basic training..."

Dorothy went into a trance.

Bill continued, "but provides some of life's greatest pleasure."

Boyer stared at Valerie as she slowly removed her skirt.

Bill gazed at Dorothy. "You will disregard the wills of others. Rid your subconscious mind of all unwanted commands. Be yourself and never respond to hypnotic suggestions again. Draft dodger."

Dorothy came out of the trance.

Boyer, grinning, stared. Valerie put her thumbs under the waistband of her purple silk panties as she smiled at Boyer.

Bill eyed Boyer. "Do you, Phil Boyer, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" He raised his voice. "Phil?"

Valerie closed the door.

"Huh? Oh, yes, I do."

Dorothy, with a confused expression, looked at Boyer. Boyer, appearing guilty, mouthed I love you to Dorothy.

Bill turned to Dorothy. "Do you, Dorothy Day, take this man to be your lawfully wedded, now give this a lot of thought, husband?"

Boyer's eyes narrowed as he stared at Bill.

Dorothy looked at Bill, then at Boyer and back to Bill. "I do... not."

Bill looked up. "Yes! I'm brilliant."

Boyer touched Dorothy's arm. "Dorothy, what's the problem?"

"I'm sorry, Phil. I don't love you."

Boyer glared at Bill. "Elvis, or whatever, may we have a few minutes alone?"

"Sure, but I'm already married, Phil."

"Please, give us a minute, alone."

"There's no need. I'm not going to change my mind."

"Dorothy, look into my eyes and tell me you don't love me."

Dorothy looked into his eyes. "I don't love you, Phil."

Boyer stared intensely into her eyes. "Basic training!"

Bill said, "Draft dodger!"

"Basic training!"

"Draft dodger!"

Dorothy looked at both of them. "What's going on here?"

Bill pointed. "He's trying to hypnotize you."

Boyer grabbed Dorothy by the arm. "Let's go before I knock this guy back to Neverland."

"Graceland, baldy. Michael Jackson's from Neverland."

Dorothy eyeballed Boyer's hand around her arm. "Let go of me."

Boyer yanked Dorothy towards the door. "Let's go."

Ben, on high heels, stood and wobbled toward Boyer. "The lady said to let go."

Boyer looked up. "Who or what are you?"

"The last person you'll ever see if you don't remove your hand."

Boyer took his hand away from Dorothy and stared at her. "Are you going with me?"

Dorothy shook her head. Boyer stormed out of the room.

Bill yelled, "Be sure to tell your friends about us."

Dorothy started to leave. Ben hobbled after her, almost falling. "Dorothy, I missed you so much. The thought of losing you was agonizing." He removed his wig.

Dorothy, confused, stared up at Ben. She studied his face carefully. He looked familiar, but everything was hazy. She'd met him before. She was sure he was an actor. "Are you Hugh Jackman?"

"It's Ben." He opened his arms, waiting for a hug. "I love you!"

"I'm sorry. You seem like a nice guy..." Dorothy examined him again. "For some reason I can't remember the last few days. Except for Dr. Phil. God, I think I might have slept with him. I can't understand why. I'm leaving Las Vegas, who knows what I'll do next." She started for the exit.

Bill grabbed her arms and shook her. "Snap out of it." He bent down, looking into her eyes. "If you leave, you'll regret it - today, tomorrow and for the rest of your life."

"That was touching," said Dorothy. "If you don't let go of my arms, I'll hurt you."

Bill lifted his hands in the air. He turned toward Ben. "I heard something like that on TCM last week. Thought it was worth a try."

Dorothy hurried out of the room.

Bill put a hand on Ben's shoulder. "Sorry, my man. We tried." He looked down, shaking his head in remorse. "Try sending her flowers, candy and a note. Tomorrow afternoon I'm playing in Larry's poker game. Boyer will be there. He's one of Larry's clients. Maybe he'll tell me how to get Dorothy to remember you."

"I was invited too. I might play, now. I miss her. I've never felt this way before."

"You'll get her back. You're no Forrest Gump."

"I'll see you tomorrow." Ben, carrying the wig, hobbled away.

A door opened and Valerie in her purple underwear beckoned Bill with her finger. "Ya got sixty seconds to spare?"

Bill looked up and said in his Elvis voice, "Thank you very much!"

Ben marched down the Las Vegas Strip carrying his high heels. A few people stopped and stared. A woman pointed at him. "That's Ben Artflick wearing a dress. I told you he was gay. All the really handsome Hollywood men are. I heard that on Fox."

Ben dreamt he was Forest Gump. The way Forest looked while sitting on the bench: a bewilderment expression, terrible haircut, a cream summer suit and a plaid shirt with the top button done up. Instead of a bench Ben sat on a sofa with Dorothy in his large recreation room. One end of the area has several French doors that lead to a deck. At the opposite end a 60 inch plasma television mounted to the wall. The other walls were covered with paintings of actors: George C. Scott, as Patton, standing in front of an American flag. Marlon Brando, as the Godfather, stroking a white cat. Robert De Niro, as Jake La Motta, standing in front of a mirror. There were seventy paintings, all of actors in their award winning roles.

Ben, depressed, stared at the floor and mumbled, "But you won't go out with me?"

Dorothy took a gander at the paintings on the wall. "You don't wanna go out with me. I'm hideous."

Ben turned to Dorothy. "I do. You're my girl."

"I'll never be your girl, Ben. You're too shallow and self centered."

The next morning Ben moved along in a buffet line putting food on his tray. He noticed a woman resembling Dorothy walking by. He chased after her. Ben zigged and zaggeds between people. He knocked a tray out of the hands of a tall fat woman.

"Sorry," Ben hollered, looking back.

Ben caught up to the woman. "Dorothy?"

She turned and looked up at Ben. A big smile appeared. "If that's your pick up line, it works for me."

"I'm terribly sorry; I thought you were somebody else."

Ben turned. The fat woman stood in front of him holding a plate full of blueberries. She pushed the blueberries into Ben's face. He licked his upper lip. "Not bad."

Ben, his face covered with blueberries, hurried toward the men's room.

Dorothy strolled by Ben toward the exit. As he entered the men's room Dorothy left the restaurant.

In a private room Ben sat with Bill, Larry, Boyer, F. U. Bailey, Jesus Ferguson, a professional poker player, and two other men at a poker table. Boyer was next to the dealer, directly across from Ben.

Bill, sitting between Ben and Boyer, placed a pile of chips out in front of him. "Make that seven thousand."

Everybody but Boyer immediately tossed in their cards.

Boyer pushed all his chips in front of him. "All in!"

Bill didn't hesitate. "I'll call your obvious bluff." He placed his cards face up on the table. "Two kings."

Boyer mucked his cards face down. "Damn! I had queens," lied Boyer, attempting to deceive the other players.

Bill stacked his chips and imitated Elvis. "Thank you very much."

Boyer stared at him through his thick glasses. "I thought that was you."

"Yes sir, my French fish, that was me rescuing a damsel in distress."

Boyer took out his wallet. "You did me a favor. I don't know what I was doing falling for that freak. Though, she does give great head when she's under hypnosis."

Gripping the arms of his chair, Ben lifted himself into the air, landing feet first hard against the floor, making a loud sound. The veins in his huge forearms looked like a road map. He moseyed over to Boyer. Everybody was quiet as Boyer glared up at the angry giant.

"Go ahead. I'll own your rich ass." Boyer glanced at F. U. Dailey. "Tell him F. U."

Dailey sneered at him. "You're on your own, prick."

Ben grabbed Boyer around the neck and lifted him off his chair. While holding Boyer in the air, Ben turned with his back to the table. He took a few steps and pushed the doc's head against the wall. Boyer's feet dangled several feet above the floor, kicking the wall and trying to remove the powerful hands from his neck. They wouldn't budge. His face was bright red. He tried to cry for help but couldn't. When he made eye contact with Ben, he suddenly realized he could be looking into the eyes of a murderer about to kill his second victim.

Bill grinned at Boyer. "Dr. Phil, you even look like a prick. The resemblance is uncanny."

Jesus murmured, "I know a good place to bury him just outside of town."

Boyer's eyes darted to Bill and then back to Ben. His face showed great panic.

Ben dropped him to the floor. "I don't want another trial." He went back to his seat. "Watch your mouth! Or next time I'll finish what I started. "

Bill leaned toward Boyer. "Want some more chips, dickhead?"

Boyer nodded while rubbing his neck.

F. U. Dailey said, "Bring him another fifty-thousand. He's good for it."

The dealer dealt two cards to everyone. F. U. Dailey bet a thousand. Larry made it ten thousand. Everybody, including Dailey tossed in their cards. He grinned at Larry. "You going to show us, Larry."

Larry tossed his cards, face down. "Sorry, I only show women, F. U."

Bill said, "Me too, but every time I do, it's in all the newspapers."

F. U. stacked his chips. "What did expect? You were president."

"What's your problem, Bill? Valerie doesn't like sex?" asked Larry.

"She did until I didn't recognize her voice, once. She called my office to tell me she was pregnant. Without thinking, I asked 'who is this'."

F. U. laughed and said, "Most wives are bitches. Very unforgiving."

"Mine's an angel," said Larry, leaning back, acting serious.

F. U. appeared confused. "Wife? I didn't know you were married."

Larry glanced at his cards. "She died ten years ago." Larry winked at Bill as he mucked his cards. "When alive she was a nagging bitch. Now she's an angel."

The men laughed.

Boyer, holding a pair of eights, made a bet. "Make it two thousand."

Bill threw his cards in front of the dealer. Ben laid his face down in front of him. "I call."

The rest of the players folded.

The dealer turned up a ten, eight and a jack, all spades. Boyer bet six thousand. Ben called. The dealer turned up an eight of hearts. Boyer checked his four eights.

Ben bet four thousand.

Boyer made it ten thousand.

Ben asked, "How much do you have?"

Boyer glared back. "What's the problem: unable to subtract from fifty grand?"

Ben stacked some chips. "I'll put you all in. I'm smart enough to know when you're bluffing. Everybody here does! And you don't have a clue."

"Care to make a side bet? More than the fifty grand I had at the start of this hand? If you do, I'll tell you how to get Dorothy to remember you. I guarantee it!"

"How much more? I know you're bluffing, but ya might get lucky on the river."

"Well, it's no limit. It should be at least twice the size of the pot now and after the river card."

Ben examined his two cards and pondered while crossing his arms as he stared at Boyer.

"Since you might be bluffing, I gotta be able to raise twice the size of the pot if I want to."

"Okay! It's a deal, right?"

Ben nodded. "What do I say to Dorothy?

"Tell her 'Love heals all scars. I love you.'" Boyer showed Ben an ear-to-ear grin. "I'll raise: two hundred thousand."

Larry chimed in. "Now, wait a minute, Boyer. You better have the cash if you go down. We all know Ben's good for it - even after that costly trial."

F.U. nodded. "Boyer had three times that amount in the bank this morning."

"I call," said Ben.

The dealer turned up a Jack of hearts.

"I bet another two hundred thousand," said Boyer, glaring at Ben, hoping for a call.

Without hesitation Ben re-raised. "Make it one point eight million! I can add and multiply."

Taken aback by the enormous amount that he couldn't cover, Boyer examined the cards on the table, thinking again what Ben could possibly have. On the flop he thought Ben had a flush. Now he feared a straight flush. He must have the nine and Queen of spades. Nothing else makes any sense. He's too cool and confident. It can't be a bluff.

"I don't have that kind of money. Tell him, F. U."

Ben remained calm and spoke softly. "The agreement was I could double the size of the pot. Right, F. U.?"

F.U. nodded. "That was the agreement."

"How much equity in your house?" asked Ben.

Boyer pondered for a moment. "Maybe four...five hundred thousand."

"No problem! If you lose, I'll take your house, car, and all your savings. That's the bet. If I'm bluffing, I'll still give you the one point eight million. How about that: I'm giving you odds?"

For ten minutes at least the players remained quiet while Boyer mulled over his next move. Sweating profusely with an open mouth, he lingered speechless, hoping for a tell he looked incredulously at Ben. Ben stared back, motionless. Bill said the first words in a very low tone and very softly, hardly noticeable. Something about a strong smelling body odor while pointing at Boyer.

"Christ, we don't have all day." Larry said, turning to F. U., "You've known this turkey his entire life?"

"Not yet. Maybe by tomorrow that might be the case," answered F.U. "You better not kill yourself after this, Phil. Remember our contract with MGM. You owe me."

"I fold!" Boyer laid his eights on the table, face up.

Ben turned over his cards

Boyer's eyes opened wide as he stared at the cards in disbelief. All choked up he could hardly say, "You called me with a deuce and a seven, unsuited?"

Ben glanced at his watch. "It's been an enjoyable six hours, but I have to find someone by a fountain in twenty-minutes." He stood up. "Larry, take care of my winnings, please?"

"Will do! Great bluff! I heard you were one of the best bluffers around. Now, I believe it."

"Thanks! Gotta go!" Ben left the room.

Larry turned to Boyer. "Doc, wanna earn a few bucks? I need you to hypnotize a judge."

Bill placed a hand on Boyer's shoulder. "I gotta job for you too, Phil. The modus operandi you used to bring Dorothy to her knees was extremely sleazy. In fact, illegal! To avoid jail time, I'll offer you a real challenge: hypnotize my wife and make me her only human pacifier."

Ben trotted down the sidewalk, stopping by the dancing fountains in front of the Bellagio. The sound of an orchestra playing, "Singing in the Rain" filled the air. Bright color lights shined on the fountains as they danced in the air.

Ben glanced up and down the strip as Dorothy stood on the other side of the street watching the show. It didn't take too long to notice her. He smiled and without thinking or glancing to his left, he stepped onto the street. There was the loud sound of screeching tires as a car hit Ben, slamming him against the paved road. His head hit hard.

Ben slept on a hospital bed. His head was wrapped in white bandages. Sitting by his side, Bill read a book: The Art of Hypnosis. Ben's eyes opened. He glanced around the room.

"What happened?"

"I missed my flight home. Valerie left without me."

"What am I doing here?"

"You've been out for three days." Bill pulled out cell phone and pushed a speed dial button. He put the phone to his ear as he talked to Ben. "They had to cut open your skull, buddy. You're going to have some ugly scars." He spoke into the phone. "He's awake!" He put the phone away. "Ben, I have to tell you something. Since you're sick in bed, I feel a little safer. If the jury had convicted you, I would have come forward with the truth. I did it! Getting it off my chest will help me breath easier. I hear it's liberating."

Nude women danced on stage as Bill stood talking with Greg Norman, a professional golfer. By the back wall, Greg demonstrated a golf swing. Afterwards they shook hands prior to Greg walking away. Bill sat down at a small table and watched the girls dance.

Carrying his canvas bag, J.T. Hunsucker, drunk, staggered over to Bill. "Do you mind if I join ya? I thought we could share a taxi when you're ready to leave."

"Sure, I'm all set now. Let's get on our way before I do something that I might regret later."

Sitting on the back seat inside a taxi, Hunsucker laid his canvas bag on the seat between Bill and himself.

"What's in the bag, J.T.?" Bill asked. "It looks heavy."

"A secret," he slurred, patting the bag. "Stop by my room and I'll show ya, big guy. It'll blow your mind."

Bill and Hunsucker entered a fancy suite. Hunsucker flipped on a light switch. He took a Red Sox baseball cap out of the bag and placed it on his head, sideways. It was too big for him. The visor, slanting downward, touched the top of his ear.

Eyeing the cap, Bill said, "That looks like Ben's hat."

"It is. I'm gonna play a little joke on Mr. Asslick."

"What kind of a joke, J. T.?"

"I'm gonna leave the cap and..." Hunsucker pulled the Golden Man out of the bag. "...this at a local brothel."

"I don't get the joke."

"The media will eat it up. I can picture the headlines, 'Artflick Nails Four at Brothel'."

"I still don't see any humor in that, at all. It's just mean. Stop harassing the guy. He's not responsible for your sister's suicide. She is! Learn to live with the truth. No matter how painful it is."

"Jenny didn't kill herself."

A rat terrier chased a jackrabbit along the edge of the Grand Canyon.

A young Hunsicker took off his thick glasses and placed them in his shirt pocket. "Take a couple of steps backwards." He peered through the lens of a small camera.

Jenny stood several feet away from the edge of the Grand Canyon. She took a step backwards just missing the jackrabbit running behind her by the edge. Without looking behind, she took another step into the rat terrier, causing her to lose her balance and fall backwards into the canyon, screaming.

Showing signs of guilt, Hunsucker blurted out, "I told my parent she jumped. I didn't want them to blame me."

"Then why do you pick on Ben?"

"He said in an interview that I would praise 'Plan Nine from Outer Space' if the price was right."

"Sue him for defamation of character."

"I can't. He knows a producer who paid me for positive reviews. Before the TV show, that's how I made my money. It's the business I'm in."

"Then let it go. That's it. You keep putting him down because of one remark?"

"That and he broke my nose before Jenny died. I hate him. Always have."

"We're all hurt, at one time or another. We just have to move on."

"I guess you're right. You're a smart... and handsome man."

"Thanks! Let me take a look at that Golden Man."

Hunsucker handed him the Golden Man.

Bill examined it and lifted it up above his head "This is heavy."

Hunsucker turned and staggered toward a mini-bar six feet away. "May I fix you a drink, Bill?"

Bill held the Golden Man like a golf club. "Wild Turkey on the rocks, J.T." He took his golf stance and a couple of short swings. "My golf swing was clocked at a hundred miles per hour. Not too shabby. The shark showed me a new swing. A real monster."

Hunsucker, in front of the mini-bar, turned, facing Bill.

Bill, his side to Hunsucker, gripped the Golden Man firmly in front of his crotch. His knees slightly bent. His head down and still. Bill brought the Golden Man straight back and above his shoulders. He swung down with all his strength. During the follow through, the statuette flew out of his hands.

It sailed through the air at an incredible speed.

"Fore!" Bill shouted as the bottom of the Golden Man hit solidly against Hunsucker's forehead. He fell backwards, like a dropped anchor. His head hitting hard against the white granite flooring. The cap plopped off his head and on to the floor as Hunsucker's head bounced a few times.

"Oops!" Bill said, prior to rushing over to the injured critic.

A gigantic lump grew on his forehead. It bursts. Blood shot out, high into the air like a geyser.

"Yikes!" said Bill.

"It reminded me of Old Faithful," said Bill with a remorseful head-shake. "The geyser, not Valerie. I wiped my prints off the trophy and placed it upright by Hunsucker's head. Don't really know why, but I did. Maybe to help frame you if he didn't make it."

From his bed, Ben glared up at Bill. "I ought to turn you in."

"You won't. You know there's nothing to gain, except for the tabloids." Bill offered his hand to Ben. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I'll pay all you legal expenses and give you whatever else you want."

"Obviously, I'm pissed off."

"I know, Ben. We can't undo the past. I was drunk. That's a fact, not an excuse."

"If I ever need you to play a part in a movie, you'd better be there for me."

"Of course. That goes without saying. Hey, I got this great idea..."

"Forget it."

Dorothy entered the room. "Hello, Ben."

The men looked at her. Bill leaned and whispered to Ben. "Our secret, until the right time?"

Ben glared at Bill. "We'll see."

Bill said his good-byes and left the room.

Ben turned to Dorothy. "So, you remember me?"

"Yeah! Bill came up to me and got fresh. He said something about my scars and loving me. After I slapped his face, I thought of you. Ever since then I had this strange feeling."

"I know that feeling."

"What is it?"

"Come over here and I'll whisper it in your ear."

Dorothy sauntered over and put her ear close to Ben's mouth. "It's called love. I love you too. Will you marry me?"

"I don't know. It depends on your scars. I can be kinda shallow, you know."

"Me too!"

They kissed.

Bill ran into the room. "Ben, I just heard. You've been nominated for best actor."

Ben, completely bald with ugly scars around his head, stood at a urinal inside an elegant restroom. Jack Nicholson, wearing sunglasses, walked up to the urinal next to Ben's. Ben, looking confused, turned to him. "Larry?"

Jack, staring at the wall, grinned. "Try looking at my face, Ben."

"I'm sorry, Jack. I thought you were someone else."

Ben zipped-up and rushed over to a sink. While washing his hands Jack strolled over to him. "Ya know, Ben, I gave a bad performance once: The St. Valentine's Day Massacre. Newman, The Silver Chalice." Jack cleaned his hands in the sink next to Ben's. "So ya had a little more than your share. What really counts is that you gave several good performances that people at large liked. And doesn't the nomination blow your mind?"

"Yeah, it's exciting."

"What I'm trying to say, Ben, even though some us can get away with murder, be cool. Take it out on the bastard's property: house or car. Don't kill him."

"I didn't kill Hunsucker."

"Whatever. I'm just giving you a little advice, Ben. Good luck tonight. I don't need another one. I've won three already, you know." Grinning, he held up three fingers.

"Thanks!" Ben left the restroom.

Jack stared at his face in the mirror. "Did ya getta load of that head?"

An actress, holding a large envelope, stood on a stage in front of a microphone. She opened the envelope and pulled out a large card. She read it. "Ben Artflick for Splitting Nines."

Sitting between Bill and Dorothy in the front row of the Eastman Theater, Ben's smile turned to one of surprise. He kissed Dorothy. He stood and attempted to shake Bill's hand. Bill gave him a big bear hug before he rushed up to the stage.

Bill waved good-bye. "Th-th-th-that's all folks!"

Reading a screenplay, Bill sat behind his mahogany desk. Jack Bender, a short, fat, balding man stood in front of a window, looking out. Bill slammed the screenplay on his desk. "You got to be kidding. Who wrote this crap?"

"Ben Artflick. Ten million dollars, Mr. President?"

"I'm depicted as a sex fiend and a fool. Not to mention, murderer."

"It was an accident, Mr. President. And you're not playing yourself. You'll be playing a fictitious character: Bill Monroe. People will understand that."

"You tell Harvey I can't do it. I'm not an actor and Hillary would never allow it. It might hurt her chances in two-thousand-eight."

"How about twenty million?"

"And five percent of the gross?"

"Gross profits in the USA."

"And Japan?"

"I think so."

Bill rubbed his temple, thinking. He arched an eyebrow. "Bill ought to have some dream sequences."

"With beautiful nude women?"

Bill smiled at the man. "Just a few. And a rewrite. Jillion Mouthharp put something in my coffee. I'm sure of it. I fell asleep at my desk. Basically I thought I was having a nightmare. That quarter ton tomato was down on her knees in my oval office. When I realized it wasn't a bad dream - too late. I believed she and Rip the transvestite set me up. Could never prove it. Not without water boarding or something similar." Bill grinned, while visualizing the two women being lowered onto a bed of hot red coals. "Here a chance to tell the American people what really happened. I am not a sexual predator."

"Drugging you is hard to swallow, Mr. President," Jack said, with a smirk.

"Call me Bill. Remember, this was April, '96. Just the rumor of an intern siphoning my bodily fluids even without my permission would have cost me too many electoral votes. I swear to you I'm telling the truth. Do you believe me, Jack?"

"No," said Jack, folding his arms while shaking his head. "Absolutely not!"

"See! Even my wife didn't believe me. That's the reason I didn't tell the truth back then. Would anybody believed me?"

"The Dixie Chicks. Penn. Hanks. Dave Matthews. Bill Maher. I know two them believe Mount Rushmore is one of the Natural Seven Wonders of the World. I couldn't convince them otherwise. I tried. One got so angry when I laughed, uncontrollably, he called me an ignorant twat."

"Jack, every controversy has two sides. Examine the facts. Appearances are frequently deceiving. Ask yourself, 'what do people do when noticing a stain?' Try to remove it immediately - right?"

Jack nods.

"Nobody would keep a stain as a memento. Think about it. Their plan was to make money. Lots of it. And they did. At my family's expense. Include the frame-up and we have a deal. I'll even persuade Hillary to do that cameo strip tease for a few million."

"I'll have to get Harvey's approval."

"Fine! Now let me tell you the rest of Ben's story. The real story. He dumped the real you know who, that Dorothy character, when he discovered she was a Republican. Found himself a beautiful liberal actress. Flawless. The guy is that shallow! They got married months later on Mr. Die Hard's private island. Hillary and I weren't invited to the wedding. I could understand not being best man, but no invite? The rest is tabloid history."

"So, we have a deal depending on Harvey's approval?"

"It depends upon what the meaning of the word approval means. If approval means approval, and not just to his satisfaction, that's one thing. If it means, his approval of my approval, that was a completely true statement. Meaning, if he agrees to all my demands, then it's 'All right, Mr. Spielberg, I'm ready for my close-up'."

"Ben might direct after his 'Blondy' project."

Bill shifted his office chair to his right. He stared out the window at the city, pondering; thinking about a conversation he once had with Ben after a fund raiser in Beverly Hills. They had put away quite a few and just the two of them were reminiscing about Las Vegas. A guilt-ridden Ben confessed to the murder of J.T. Hunsucker.

After wiping his prints off the handset, Ben headed for his trophy that was standing upright in a pool of blood by Hunsucker's head. As he reached for it, J.T.'s eyes opened. Ben froze, momentary. Hunsucker sat up. Ben, standing behind him with one foot in the blood, whacked the back of J.T.'s head with the base of the statuette. Remarkably, only one drop of blood flew off the trophy and landed on Ben's white robe. In a panic, not thinking about his cap or the blood on his shoe, he rushed back to his suite.

It was the injury to the back of Hunsucker's head that killed him. The swelling off his brain against his skull stopped the blood flow.

The large blue office chair swiveled to the left, stopping with Bill facing Jack. "If the story isn't honest, it stands out like Whoopi Goldberg at a George Lincoln Rockwell meeting. Ben knows that. He's a great director."

"I don't understand your point."

"It's the entity admirable men are made of. You'll get the picture if Ben directs. Otherwise it will be just an episode Ben will take to his grave. I'll never tell!" Bill leaned back, putting his feet on the desk. "Jack, I think this might be the beginning of a lucrative contract. When Harvey agrees, call me. I'm sure Ben will agree to the rewrites."

THE END
