​During the eighties and nineties, I spent a hell of a lot of time driving from Los Angeles to Portland. I made the exhausting long haul at least once a month and it was always generally related to some sort of writing work, stand-up comedy work or both. Only on very few occasions was I lucky enough to have a production company flit the bill and fly me down. The results of these trips are unimportant. After all, don’t they keep reminding us, it’s about the journey and not the destination? To me, the exhausting drive became sort of a challenge. How fast can I do this and how many vehicles will I go through to best my personal record? Han Solo did the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs. If parsecs happened to be hours and the Kessel Run was roughly the exact same distance as Los Angeles from Portland, I had a shot.
 
I had made the exact same run several times in the mid-seventies, but things had changed since the days of Discos and the Pet Rock.  Back then it seemed the trip took an entire 24 hours of 55 miles per hour traveling, a maximum speed imposed by then President Jimmy Carter. Sure, there were a few spots of freeway that you could open it up, but it was not until the rescinding of Carter’s maximum speed by Ronald Reagan that I was able to dream of competing with Han Solo’s record.

​First things first, divide and conquer was my rule on this run. Break it up to into fueling, eating and restroom stops. Keep in mind, the adult diaper had yet to be invented, so there was no cheating. Portland to Ashland is generally considered to be 4 ½ to 5 hours. Dedicate yourself to making it in 4. This is harder in Oregon as the State PoPo are a bit harder on enforcing the limit than their CA brothers. Top off the tank and drive the 2 hours (really more like 2 hour and 22 minutes) to Redding CA. Now, if you leave Portland by 6 am, you should arrive in Redding just in time for lunch at In and Out Burger. 
 
Hint. When passing through the infamous fruit inspection station shortly after arriving in CA, when asked if you are carrying any fruits or vegetables, do not, I repeat do not, whisper to the guard that you have the heir to the Safeway Supermarket fortune bound and gagged in trunk. If you insist on doing so, you will need to make up some serious time later.
 
Burn about an hour for lunch. You earned it. And, if you play your cards right, you should only be one hour off schedule. Trust me, you can make it up later.
 
From Red Bluff to Sacramento is your first chance to make up some time. Traffic generally flows a bit faster as you are now in the Golden State. You’re going to need it because Sacramento to Stockton is a cluster fuck of congestion. 49 minutes 6am on a Sunday. Not today, you are hitting it about 3 pm. Be patient, it will all be over soon.
 
Stockton to LA – 5 hours and 4 minutes
 
Here’s your chance to demonstrate some real skills. This thing opens up once you past the Westley Rest Area at the junction of 505. Once you pass that gas station on the bluff, open it up to what drivers in Montana affectionately refer to as, “reasonable and prudent.” Watch out for extreme boredom. This can be the killer part of the tip where every landscape looks very much the same. Lesser drivers have been known to become clinically insane, pulling off onto the closest rest area, ditching all of their clothing, and racing naked through California Poppies. And be sure and roll up your windows and crank up the air conditioning at Harris Cattle Ranch if you want to live. 

In only a couple of hours you will arrive at the Grapevine, my wife’s personal nemesis and the gateway to southern CA. As steep as the Matterhorn, this stretch of freeway literally climbs up into the clouds and has witnessed more deaths than the entire Civil War.
 
If you’re extremely lucky, you may even sport your first celebrity. On my first drive, I happened to spot Optimus Prime, the Transformer, disguised as a semi-truck hauling tomatoes. No time for autographs as I had already reached the summit and was now racing downhill and through the seventeen fir trees that make up the entire Los Angeles Forest. Do not tarry at the historic wilderness to count the buried bodies, you’re almost at your destination. All you need to do is get past Magic Mountain, the Budweiser Brewery and you’re in the valley. Congratulations. You made it. Why, you’re practically a Cannonballer.  
 
My best time was 14 hours and 45 minutes, arriving just before sunset. My worst time. Well, let’s just say I was a bit older, the car smaller, and when I stepped out after the thousand mile plus trip, I possessed the posture of a 1960’s John Carradine.
 
Cheers.           .    

​Writing anything on spec (aka, the hell of it) is a crapshoot. That’s why it is very important to always get it in writing and to be paid up front. If you continue to write for free, producers will continue to refrain from paying you…anything. You become the date that is easy and “who will deliver the milk for free.” No matter how hard it is to bring the subject up, you must remember to always insist on cash upfront. And remember, it makes no difference who it is. Even the bigger names in show business will insist on getting something for nothing. Sometimes even stars and A-list producers have been known to exploit writing talent. If fact, if you research history long enough, you may discover that writing on speculation is actually the older of the two “oldest” professions. I was once in the office an executive who later become the president of the Motion Picture Academy. He was considering option a western I wrote for TNT. Coverage was good. It was merely a question of price. Without an agent, it was up to me to mention it and when I did, the expression on the man’s face was priceless. His eyes glazed over and all emotion drained from his exterior. He became speechless. Prying open his “discretionary fund” appeared to be not even an option.
 
With this cautionary paragraph out of the way, let’s move on. I presented the 10-page treatment to the producer at Warner’s a week later. He read it excitedly and immediately placed it in a memo folder, scribbling down the name to the appropriate studio head and handed it off to his assistant. He barely had time to tell me how great it was. It was already heading moving up the chain. I met the gentlemen who helped me orchestrate this deal on the lot. He had not even had a chance to read it, so he perused the treatment before the two of us said our goodbyes. Tom and I had done good, he reported. Our chances were solid. 
 
When I turned in our draft, the rumored stars of the project were Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman. Upon further research now, I discovered there were several other incarnations of Wild, Wild West out there. One was by legendary screenwriter Shane Black with Richard Donner scheduled to direct and Mel Gibson to star. I was brought into the picture when things had cooled off after a year or two. Now, apparently every producer with a shingle on the lot had been given a chance at the project. I was one of hundreds. Writers were literary bounty hunters and we were all after the same story.
​
Somewhere between 1995 and 1996, the die had been cast and Peters had been deemed the keeper of what they hoped would be the exciting new franchise. Will Smith had been announced to star and no less than Barry Sonnenfeld had been brought into direct. Several writers worked on the script, at the beginning credit going to the two lads who wrote both Short Circuit and Tremors. However, these two were jettisoned, replaced by the writers of Roger Rabbit. Soon, the total of screenwriters taking to half dozen. 
 
It seems Peters won on another front as well. His failed attempt at reviving Superman, resulted in a 3rd act masterpiece of an idea. He insisted that his hero fight a giant spider. In Wild, Wild West, the hairdresser finally got his wish. West and Gordon do tangle with a spider which also happens to be mechanical. 
 
Whenever I get to down in the dumps about this particular opportunity that got away, I simply google Will Smith hates Wild, Wild West and am rewarded by the headlines of the subsequent articles.
 
2016. Will Smith Regrets Wild, Wild West, Will Smith Embarrassed by Wild, Wild West and my personal favorite, Why I Turned Down the Matrix to Make Wild, Wild West.
 
There is happiness in Hollywood. It’s merely knowing where to find it.

(From jplinde.com Close But No Cigar Department)
 
I mentioned in passing a couple weeks back, a treatment I co-wrote for a harried producer at Warner Brothers. I don’t remember his name (hey, it was the nineties) but I do remember sitting in his office, open comic books scattered about a glass coffee. Funny what you do and don’t remember.

​Anyway, it seemed said producer claimed he had pitched a Wild, Wild West movie and another rival producer, famed asshole Jon Peters and ex hairdresser, was about to steal it. To prove ownership, no-named producer was desperate to come up with a story idea that would convince the studio that he was the go-to guy. Well, much like the A-Team…
 
“If you have a problem (little or no money), if no one else can help, and if you can find him, maybe you can hire J.P. Linde.”
 
I met with the producer on a Friday with a promise to have a full treatment or him on or around the following week. Another not so fuzzy memory was the intense headache I had while in the meeting. My head was throbbing and once I adjourned, I skedaddled over to the studio commissary for a tin of Excedrin and a milk chaser. 

My cigarette with Timothy Dalton.

​Standing outside, waiting for the effects of the over the counter pain killer to take effect, I bumped into Timothy Dalton waiting for a valet to return his car. Minimal pleasantries were exchanged while the two of us mutually enjoyed the smooth tobacco flavor of our individual Marlboro cigarettes. Dalton, it turned out, was there to discuss taking over the role of Rhett Butler in the Gone with the Wind sequel, Scarlett. In hindsight, I should have tried to talk him out of it. After several moments, Dalton’s Honda Civic arrived and the extremely underrated James Bond slid into his car and cruised off the lot. If I believed in omens, it might have been a very good one indeed. 
 

​Thanks to the producer, still nameless, I possessed the galleys of a Wild Wild West Coffee table book with a synopsis of every single episode of the show’s entire 104 episode run. I readily admit to having never looked at the resource material and instead promptly called my good friend Tom McComb, my own personal resource on all pop references and television shows of the sixties, who proved to be more than up to the challenge.
 
In a flurry of writing that lasted most of three days and nights, Tom and I came up with the following scenario. Jules Verne, (who happens to have a brilliant and comely scientist daughter) has been kidnapped by the notorious Professor Loveless who will will activate Verne’s atomic device somewhere in the South China Sea. We also added a villainous steamship that doubled as a dirigible, a rocket sled for West’s signature railroad car and even had Artie going undercover, impersonating one Samuel Clemens (the first winner of the historic Mark Twain award) in a Nevada mining town for good measure. And, in keeping with the need for flawed heroes, so popular in the nineties, we made West despondent, drinking heavily over the assassination of his first presidential charge, James Garfield. To say that Tom and I threw everything in but the literary kitchen sink would be an understatement. Writers and comic friends who were lucky enough to get a first look were simply awestruck. Mostly in a good way. I humbly have to admit, that treatment was truly something.
 

I really thought we had a shot. And then, this happened.
  (Stay tuned for the conclusion next week!)

​ 
News Flash: Who’s Who in New Pulp by Ron Fortier has been released and you can now read all about me, Son of Ravage and hundreds of other authors, publishers and new pulp artists inside. A copy is less than 10 bucks with all proceeds going to charity. There is a hell of a lot of talented people out there, creating great adventure and new pulp stories. Why not find out who and where they are.
 
Welcome back. Things were a bit heavy for a while, so I thought it was high time to renew and refresh with a blog favorite (to this writer anyway): Odds and Ends. First things first. How are you all doing? In the words of Marc Maron, “Are you holding up okay?” Good!
 
Not sure what day of captivity this is. Travel has been restricted to only a few places and I only have my television, Apple Watch, iPhone, iPad, and two MacBook Pros to stay up to date. So, I will just have to guess that it is Saturday and get down to business.
 
Thanks for all the kind words and notes concerning my friend and colleague, Tom McComb. They are all truly appreciated. He was truly one of a kind and I wish you all could’ve met him.
 

​No spoilers: 
 
Speaking of great stories, took a sneak-peek at Star Trek: Picard. The rather surprise ending more than made up for a slow start and the addition of new characters and old colleague cameos is well worth the price of a CBS All Access subscription.  Patrick Stewart is great and the addition of Michael Chabon, writer of Kavalier and Clay, as showrunner is a masterful choice. Word of warning, this is not your mother or father’s ST: TNG. These characters are modern and smoke, vape and say the word “fucker” at least once every few episodes. I am so old. Why I remember the day when the TNG cast spoke in only Gene Roddenberry euphemisms and wore a colorful unitard. Is unitard even a word we can still say?

​One of the favorite comedies streaming on Netflix happens to be a sitcom that never really got the respect it deserved. Community, created by Dan Harmon, is worth a second look. Based on Harmon’s years at a community college (and hey, haven’t we all been there), Community manages to preset rich, nuanced characters with stories that often times are too good for mere television. The Russo Brothers (Marvel Universe super directors) produced episodes are among the best and the ensemble cast of McHale, Pudi, Bree, Jacobs. Brown and even Chase are all top-notch. However, it is the work of Donald Glover that is the standout for me. The versatile actor seems to bring his all to every single scene and episode. The pairing of Glover and Pudi is masterful and worth sticking with four of the six seasons. And staying for all six will only succeed in reminding you of how really great the first four were. There’s even a rumor of a movie on the horizon. Hmmm. Not so sure.
 
As we near word 500, it is time for a final thought. Hang in there! Be kind to one another, wear a mask, social distance, and try not be an asshole. Hey, the pressure is getting to everyone but that’ no excuse for having a meltdown. Which bring us to our new feature, Karen’s of the week. I think we can all agree on a couple of things. The upcoming election will never, ever take place (the Chinese will interfere and close the Post Office), and this, this is just classic Karen.

​I met him on an eventful spring day in 1972. He was already balding prematurely, smoked habitually and drove a Morris Minor “Woody” that he had restored himself. Whenever I would see him, he was either wearing a fraternity sweatshirt labeled UKE (Un Kappa Stubbe), or another that proclaimed his fictional employer to be none other than “Mkumba” Autobody. He had plenty of friends and obviously wielded a bit more influence at the ripe old age of 18 than I did and because of that, I just had to know him.
 
His name was Tom McComb and he passed away last week. He died in his sleep, most likely the effect of 50 years of accumulated tobacco smoke with the additional assistance of vast quantities of Rum and other assorted spirits. On a positive note regarding his smoking habit, the RJ Reynolds Tobacco Company had awarded Tom a plethora of colorful merchandise for his faithful patronage, all he was required to do was clip the labels from his hundreds of cartons of cigarettes. He was best man at my wedding and was a best friend for life. He was a chemist, a writer, a comedian, a doorman, and an adventurer. With him, I have roared down a perilous SW Portland hill in a Morris Minor with no brakes, witnessed the midnight dance of druids followed up with the stunning solar eclipse of 1979. I have even performed at the Spokane World’s Fair in one of his plays, The Scout and the Switchblade, to a crowd of thousands. Along with Alan Turner, we co-created one of Portland’s first improv and Sketch comedy troupes, No Prisoners. When I was hired as a field reporter for the television show Around Town and was asked to produce a story on a local travel guide who specializes in tracking Bigfoot, I invited Tom to come along as a special advisor. Frankly, I could not dream of someone more qualified.
 

​He was a hell of writer that did not write nearly enough but made the writers he worked with so much better. While with No Prisoners, he wrote some of the most funny and original sketches I had ever seen. The Fir Family (a sitcom featuring a family of trees), The I Heart Oregon Brigade (notable characters including General Eugene Springfield) and A Fourth for Toffit (game night taken to the extreme). In the early 90s, I had co-written a television situation comedy pilot with another great friend, comic mastermind Jerry Lambert. It was basically Barney Miller with Forest Rangers and the pilot had issues and needed some fleshing out. Obviously, I sought out Tom McComb. In one pass he managed to flesh out the characters, add a new one, an east-coast mobster who was in witness protection and voila, we were up and running. 
 
Sometime in the same hazy decade, I had been asked by a producer at Warner Brothers to come up with a story treatment for The Wild, Wild West. The project was being wrestled away from said producer and he needed something to prove ownership fast. Again, I sought out Tom McComb. In one week, we came up with a story that involved Cossacks, Jules Verne, Mark Twain, a volcano, a flying schooner and one atomic device. Sadly, Jon Peters won the day, and no one ever saw our version. You’ll just have to trust me on this, ours was much, much better. 
 
During the first comedy boom in Portland, Tom, while working his way through Portland State University toward a chemistry degree, became the celebrated doorman of not just one comedy venue, but two. Tuesday, it was the Leakey Roof Tavern open mic, and his rehearsed banter with one of the revolving emcees. On Friday and Saturdays, it was on to Reuben’s Five. His relationship with the local comedians never really ended. He hosted weekly poker games at his rented house behind the porno theatre, treating us to his infamous marijuana infused home brew while dealing treacherous hands of seven-card no peaky baseball (threes, nines and Jacks were wild).  Often times he’d drag his ancient Risk board down to Harvey’s Comedy Club for a quick match between shows and sets. 
 
Oh, and did I mention, he could get away with murder. I once witnessed him stop an entire ride at Disneyland by attempting to switch boats just so he could ride along with a couple of attractive women. He was socially awkward but always funny as hell. A few of us were at a costume party, all in civilian clothes when a comely woman approached Tom and asked about his costume. “Who are you supposed to be?” Without missing a beat Tom deadpanned, “I’m the Green River killer.” 
 
When I needed anything in the world, he was always there. All of my fictional works have a character named Doc, a nickname we gave Tommy during one of our weekly poker games. In my creative mind’s eye, he was everything from a disgruntled biker in my screenplay The Touristers to the prematurely balding colleague in my book Son of Ravage. He was just that memorable. He inspired others as well, ever seen the DVD cover of Return of the Killer Tomatoes? Tom was the model for the killer tomato.

​My wife and I last saw Tom while he in the process of moving to Kansas from Southern CA. He was overweight, had emphysema but on his stay with us limited his drinking to a few beers. It was great to see him. He announced he was writing a memoir about his experience writing and performing the play, The Scout and the Switchblade and asked if I would take a look. I had taken first looks at a lot of Tom McComb projects over the years, including a drunken, whoring Hemmingway-like travelogue chasing a solar eclipse across Northern Mexico (which was fantastic by the way), to a high-tech version of Gulliver’s Travels. Sadly, his accomplishments were great but generally totaled only a handful of pages. To the best of my knowledge, all his works remained unfinished. He had a problem finishing what he began. What can I say? He was just that good.

After his move to Kansas correspondence between the two of us sort of dried up. I would send an email and Tom would reply back with a brief sentence or two. When I finished a final draft of my manuscript, Son of Ravage, I sent it to Tom for critique. His response was typical Tom. “I’m not in enough pages,” he declared defiantly. “The character of Brain gets far more dialogue.”

​Rest in Peace, Tommy. I love you. We will never see your like again.  
 

​“On the face of it, few historical incidents seem more unlikely to spawn a Broadway musical than that solemn moment in the history of mankind, the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Yet 1776... most handsomely demonstrated that people who merely go 'on the face of it' are occasionally outrageously wrong.... [1776] is a most striking, most gripping musical. I recommend it without reservation. It makes even an Englishman's heart beat faster... the characters are most unusually full... for Mr. Stone's book is literate, urbane and, on occasion, very amusing.... William Daniels has given many persuasive performances in the past, but nothing, I think, can have been so effective as his John Adams here. This is a beautiful mixture of pride, ambition, an almost priggish sense of justice and yet – the saving grace of the character – an ironic self-awareness. “

Clive Barnes


In honor of the television premiere of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s “Hamilton” on Disney Plus, I thought it was high-time we revisit the first Broadway Musical to highlight the madcap misadventures of our founding fathers, 1776.With music and lyrics by Sherman Edwards and a book by Peter Stone, the show is based on the events leading up to the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Loads of laughs, right? Not so fast.

A musical based on such an historic event is not such a big deal in the Trump era. But, back in the day, there was more to personal freedom than whether it is unconstitutional to wear a face covering or storm your state capital with your AK-47. We believed that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. As a society, we have chosen to believe in other things such as Q-Anon and evil pizza parlors.

But, I digress.

​Starring Mr. Feeny himself, William Daniels (John Adams), and with a supporting cast that includes, blacklisted actor Howard Da Silva (as Benjamin Franklin), The White Shadow himself Ken Howard (Thomas Jefferson) and featuring the very comely Blythe Danner (as Gwyneth Paltrow’s mother), it opened in 1969 to rave reviews and eventually won Tony Awards for Best Musical, Best Director, Actor and Actress and Best Celebrity offspring from a television actor. In 1998, Brent Spiner (Data from Star Trek) was instrumental in reviving the project for Broadway and even managed to convince veteran actor Pat Hingle into playing Franklin himself. Again, allocates and awards followed, winning Tony’s coveted Best Revival.
 
“Perhaps not. But don’t forget that most men without property would rather protect the possibility of becoming rich than face the reality of being poor. And that is why, they will follow us.”
 
In 1972, one-time studio chief and all-time asshole, Jack Warner decided to bring the historic musical to the silver screen with mixed results. Previewing the picture for another kindred asshole, President Richard M Nixon, the two conspired to cut one of the musical numbers that undercut the fabric of the entire play. A subsequent DVD and Blu-Ray release have returned the edited number and cuts to the motion picture and now you can see it as original Broadway and Film Director Peter Hunt had intended.   

​I enjoy this musical. So much so that I’ve performed in it twice. Once, at the award-winning drama school where I got my celebrated start in show business, James Madison High School. I performed in it once again in a Bicentennial production in 1976 with the Peanut Gallery Players. I’ve always considered 1776 to be an almost perfect blend of storytelling; historical drama, musical comedy, and, of course, badly done Benjamin Franklin wigs. 

​From Calypso Band to a founding member of Second City, he’s one of America’s greatest unsung talents. With his broad range, he elicits so many emotions from his wide audience.  After several nominations, he eventually won a much-deserved Academy Award for best supporting actor in Little Miss Sunshine. It’s time we give one of my favorite actors (comedic or otherwise) his due. Let’s take a look at a short list of some of my favorite films of Mr. Alan Arkin.
 
Note: This is by no means and exhaustive look at such an incredible career. There is no top five order to this list as these performances are equally masterful in my mind.
 

​Freebie and the Bean  (1974)
 
In the words of Quentin Tarantino himself, “Freebie and the Bean is nothing short of a masterpiece.” Stanley Kubrick called it the best film of the year. Director Richard Rush (who a short time later gave us the wonderful The Stunt Man), gives us one for the most interesting and controversial cop films in the history of cinema. It was reported that not wanting to be overshadowed by gun fights and car crashes, James Caan and Arkin met frequently to improvise, flesh-out their respective roles and bring out more of their characters. It certainly pays off. In my opinion, these two performances actually give birth to the modern buddy cop movie. There were others slightly before it, Peter Hyam’s Busting to name one, but they are nothing like this. It is worth noting that that this is a very controversial film and not for those who become squeamish with characters that are grossly insensitive to the cultures that surround them. Still, it if you can get past this, it’s definitely worth a view.

The In-Laws (1979)
 
Originally intended as a sequel to Freebie and the Bean, this film by director Andrew Bergman, is considered to be one of the 100 best comedies of all time. Once again, the relationship between Peter Falk and Arkin is unsurpassed, proving that chemistry and teamwork can easily elevate a film from mere comedy to a revered classic. No one commits to a role like Alan Arkin. He is totally invested, and it shows in every scene.
 
Glengarry Glen Ross (1992)
 
Powerful and haunting characterization of a man who has seen better days and who takes career chances by teaming up with a much bolder and foolish man. There is an abundance of masterful acting in this adaptation of Mamet’s play. However, as your mother always warned you, keep an eye on the quiet ones. The ones who take it all in and say the least. That is Arkin’s portrayal of George Aaronow. George is the same talking to clients as he is with co-workers and there-in lies the steadied, calculated brilliance of this important role.
 
The Seven-Percent Solution (1976)
 
Alan Arkin as Sigmund Freud? Yeah, and he actually pulls it off. I was skeptical at first as well. Never manic, this characterization is quiet and studied, with tongue planted firmly in cheek. The humor is subtle but rewarding as the father of modern psychiatry is teamed with the legendary, cocaine-addled Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr. Watson.  It’s a strangely athletic performance for Arkin and one that proves his ability to deliver in big, Hollywood tentpole motion productions.
 
 
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (1968)
 
Another film in AFI’s 100 of the top films, Arkin’s sensitive and brilliant portrayal of a deaf mute on a tragic journey to rejoin a friend. This film again proves the wide spectrum of talent in one lone individual. Alan Arkin was the first actor chosen for this film and for good reason. He is the rock-solid foundation of the entire film, the other actors hovering around like planets orbiting the sun.  
 
Argo (2012)
 
So, you have a recipe, possess most of your ingredients and you are missing just one small item that can truly make the meal memorable. In the case of Argo, it’s Alan Arkin. As we have witnessed time and time again, Arkin was the first person cast and for good reason. Don’t get me wrong, I think this is a riveting movie and Ben Affleck dedication to getting it done right is nothing short of great filmmaking. But it is the addition of Alan Arkin as Lester Siegel, the recruited movie producer who agrees to a very outlandish plan, that takes this recipe to its full potential. Arkin injects just enough anxiety, concern and show biz world weariness to elevate this film into another Academy Award nomination.

​And, we’re back!
 
First things first, a special thanks to everyone who has visited read, and commented on the first chapter from the Sequel of Savage. It’s extremely gratifying to report that those two installments were the most popular of the entire history of my blog, bringing a plethora of new visitors. Thank you, thank you and, to you in the very back, thank you!
 
And now, onto new business. What better way to cleanse a blog pallet than to compile the top five films of Peter Sellers? Granted, there is a hell of a lot of great movies to choose from. And, this is only one guy’s lowly opinion, so we’ll just stick to the highlights. And I  swear to God, there’s not a Pink Panther film in the bunch. So, let’s get started and, as David Letterman was fond of saying, “Please, no wagering.”

​#5. The Mouse that Roared. 1959
 
Simple yet charming, this British production features a tour de-force performance from Sellers playing 3 separate roles (Duchess Gloriana XII; Count Rupert Mountjoy, the Prime Minister; and Tully Bascomb a chap leading the small invasion force to attack the United States).
Satiric, funny and sweet all at the same time, there is just way too much to love about this underrated little film. Oh, and it has Jean Seberg, so there is that.

​4. The Party (1968)
 
I think this is director Blake Edwards’ and Peter Sellers’ best film collaboration. A salute to the comedians of the silent past with very little dialogue throughout the entire picture. And, when you do get some dialogue, it’s of the rewarding “Birdy Num-Num” variety. There is a great documentary on the making of this classic which you can find on youTube. I definitely recommend it if you’re a fan. There are issues with this film, of course. But, if you can look past them, you’ll have one of my favorite films by a great comedic actor.

​#3 Lolita 1962
 
Kubrick for the win on this accessible version of the very controversial source novel. Sellers is in top form as one Clare Quilty, a bizarre, twitchy man competing for the affections of the underaged nymphet. This is an odd movie and Sellers’ performance only adds to all of the discomfort. While differing greatly from the source material, it’s still a gripping tale of a man on the verge of insanity.
 

​#2 Dr. Strangelove 1964
 
Another brilliantly satiric piece of filmmaking by none other than Stanley Kubrick. Sellers is  brilliant, again playing three roles. For me, shining even brighter than Dr. Strangelove himself is the harried representative from the RAF, Group Captain Lionel Mandrake. What makes this film work on such a high-level level is the addition of a razor-sharp script by Terry Southern, Peter George as well as Kubrick himself. Only adding to the masterpiece, the hilarious performances from George C. Scott and revered funny man Sterling Hayden.  We say it a lot, but this movie truly is a classic. 

​Being There 1979
 
As far as I am concerned, all of the above picks make-up an ace-high straight, the trump card being the incredibly moving Academy Award nominated performance based on the Jerzy Kosinski’s novel. Some say the only reason it did not win an Academy Award for Sellers was the blooper outtake tacked on the end credits of the film. Makes no difference to me.  This masterpiece, directed by Hal Ashby, has humor, pathos and satire blended perfectly. It is not only a striking commentary for television culture of 1978, but for 2020 as well. We have turned into a nation of illiterate Chauncey Gardeners, our need for television replaced with Social Media. Our benign, passive stupidity replaced with angry, uninformed self-righteousness. Sellers’ performance continues to resonate with me as one of the best (comedic or otherwise) of all time. This was a pet project for the actor and he struggled to make it for over a decade. It was definitely worth the wait.
 

​Okay, I am exhausted. Until next week, keep those cards and letters coming. Stay Safe!

​     Well, here we are. Another week already come and gone and the final installment from the sequel to Son of Savage,
 
As promised, the thrilling conclusion of  The Chunnel.
 

​The H.O.R.D.A. came to a stop fifty feet away from Beast and Face’s last known location. The two men had obviously been moved, their homing beacons announcing a new location just beyond a wall of solid rock. A dark, foreboding barrier of the earth’s crust separated the stalled machine from two missing friends. The powerful excavation machine powered down abruptly. It was going nowhere. It lay inert and silent, sleeping beneath the earth with seemingly no chance of ever completing its mission.
     The inside mechanics rattled for a brief second before a panel slid open exposing the uncomfortable human hiding inside. The male was in his thirties, with long curly hair in what was best described as a Jewish fro. He possessed what appeared to be an unremarkable physique which appeared at any rate conducive to adventuring of any kind. Barry Ravage sat up in the canister, stretched out his arms, his hyper-sensitive eyes piercing the pitch-black darkness. His entire body was vibrating, an inherited signature family alarm. It was an action that criminals the world over would very soon learn to fear. 
     The son of Ravage vaulted out of the contraption, crouching low enough so as not to bang his head in the cramped space of the newly excavated tunnel. He turned back, reaching inside the innards of the mechanical beast and removed a large knapsack. He threw the pack over his shoulder, removed an all-purpose crescent wrench and started a quick operation, separating the laser drill from the tip of the H.O.R.D.A. He promptly secured the removed device to the metallic stock of what was best described as some futuristic weapon.
     “Hold on, you two,” the hero muttered confidently to himself. “I’m going as fast as I can.”
 
     The two men hung upside down in the utter blackness. Face was the first to regain consciousness, his head pounding from the onslaught of blood racing there from his extremities.  He groped around and finally locating it, removing the retractable flashlight from his belt. He switched it on and gasped unexpectedly. The beam highlighted a craggy floor of rock one hundred feet below.
     “Why doesn’t this surprise me?” he asked himself.  The actor rotated the beam past the unconscious body of his friend Beast, focusing on the rest of the bodies hanging alongside of them. Like themselves, the men were all upside down. Their necks were severed, gaping fleshy grins covered in a waxy, dark crust. The rest of the bodies were caked in their own dried blood.
     “Beast, wake up,” A panicked Face urged. “I’m pretty sure now that I didn’t cut myself.”
     The burly colleague moaned, opening his eyes. He looked down at the cavern floor below before the beam from his colleague’s flashlight hit him directly into his eyes. “Such a head rush,” he exclaimed, squinting. “Hey, do you mind?”
     “I hate you,” Face stated for the record. The actor was, as usual, agitated as he flashed the light over the hanging deceased. “Another Feng Shui experiment gone horribly wrong.”
     “The missing men.”
     “Gee, you think?” Face said. “We need to get out of here before we become the other white meat.”
     “Us,” Beast agreed. “It’s what’s for dinner.  
     The actor struggled. It was no use. “Our hands and ankles are bound, and we’re upside down, dangling precariously hundreds of feet over jagged rock.”
     “A smile is a frown that’s upside down.” 
     “What the hell are you talking about?” We’re upside down and this is not a…Ohhh!”
     The big man was whistling, already hard at work. He had dug the tiny pocketknife from his jeans pocket and had flipped it open. Blade revealed; Beast contorted his torso into an inverted sit-up. It was quite the accomplishment for a man of his overall shape. He was now able to reach his feet and was hacking away at the thick sticky substance that held him upside down. With a sudden yank, a foot came free and the burly adventurer dangled dangerously, one foot keeping him from a deadly plummet. “Whoa! I may need to rethink this.”
     “Gee, you think?”
 
     The creature slithered through the dank blackness, latching misshapen, gnarled talons onto the stalactites erupting from the ceiling of ancient rock. It hissed as it maneuvered across the secret nest toward the suspended bodies of its bumbling prey. It had been weeks since it’s last feeding of warm flesh. Buried in a state of suspended hibernation had awaken the shadowy abomination’s appetite. Explosions and the roar of modern machinery burrowing through the rock had been its alarm clock, awaking it from the rock prison. Once freed, it had choice but to make the excavation site its feeding grounds. 
     Mankind had attempted to destroy it centuries before and failed. Unlucky researchers from the Royal Science Academy did manage to capture the legendary beast in a dark cave on the European continent for transportation to England for study. But it escaped, creating deathly havoc on the board the sailing vessel. Finally caught with the aid of a fishing net, a desperate crew disposed of the monster by throwing it overboard. But the plan backfired when an unexpected volcanic anomaly encased the demon in a sepulcher of cooling lava, and it plummeted to the bottom of the icy waters inert but alive. A century later an underground earthquake broke open the ocean floor. A fissure formed, the stone sarcophagus slipping through the opening in the earth like a posted envelope. Now, thanks to the excavation of the new, futuristic Chunnel, the long-forgotten angel of death had been set free.
     After its unexpected resurrection, the slithering monstrosity kept above the bright excavation lights, creeping along the rock ceilings of the manmade tunnels. Dinner was easy as dropping down on an unsuspecting human prey, stunning them with venom and transporting the meal back to the hidden nest. Upside down, the blood of the victims rushed to the heads and it was merely a case of slicing through the vulnerable flesh of the neck and dining on the warm, crimson life-force as it emptied out the bodies.
     The capture of these two had been the easiest by far. Arguing loudly, the two humans had blundered directly under it and it took no time to subdue them and haul them to its nest.  In devilish anticipation, the creature opened a maw, exposing hundreds of razor-pointed teeth and screeched. It was the sound of approaching death. 
     “It good be friendly” Beast attempted feebly.
     “Sure it could. Why don’t you ask the rest of its dinner guests?”
     Beast wielded the tiny blade of the knife at the shadow creeped toward them. Whatever it was, it was well over 11 feet in length from claw to head. The creature possessed a leathery hide and two blood-red eyes that seemed to radiate through the darkness. “Get any closer and I’ll stick you with my blade,” Beast warned.
     “Well that will definitely make it think twice,” Face blurted. “It’s not stopping!”
     It moved effortlessly, parting the decaying bodies of previous meals and revealed itself fully. The beam from Face’s flashlight hit it directly in had to be the creature’s face and the entire body flinched, hissing again over the unexpected onslaught of light. Beady red eyes studied the actor and his friend. The mouth, once full of nothing but teeth, retracted, making way for a fleshy pink duct of pulsing membrane.
     “Last warning,” Beast offered somewhat sheepishly. “Don’t force me to go all West Side Story on your ass.”
     “This is a hell of a time to make fun of my love for musical theatre,” Face fired back. “And I don’t think it’s a fan.”
     The creature hopped forward, landing several feet from Beast.
     “I wouldn’t,” Face warned. “I’m pretty sure my friend has Hep C.”
     “What?” Beast protested. “That’s just rude.”
     “I’m not saying you do,” Face corrected. “I’m just saying you might.”
     The health warning did nothing to deter the creature from an unquenchable hunger. It was now well within striking distance. It reached out with a razor-sharp claw, aiming a malformed talon directly at Beast’s throat. Apparently, he blonde actor was to be the second course.
     “Mommy,” Face whimpered.
 
     Barry operated the heavy laser drill bit by hand, boring through the rock. It was slow going as he was forced to drag the heavy shell of the H.O.R.D.A. behind him. His belt had looped around a grip in the device and slipped around his shoulder. His lean muscles handled the weight effortlessly while all the while his keen mind counted off how much time he had left. Even if everything went according to plan, he still might not make it. The last dark thought stuck to close to home and he quickened an already accelerated pace.
 
     “Who is he and what the bloody hell is he doing?”
     The power and lights flickered and returned, anxious executives and engineers gathered around the monitor, watching the human bore through the earth with the dismantled laser drill. Cameras, housed along the hull of the drill, were providing the startling video.
     Doc took a grateful drag off his cigarette. “Gentlemen, meet Barry Ravage.”
     “I thought you said he was otherwise engaged,” another engineer chimed in.
     “Perhaps he felt that announcing his presence might jeopardize your chances,” Brain theorized. “He is rather unpredictable.”
     “He was hiding in that contraption all along?” an overweight executive protested. ”Why for god’s sake?
     Beast and Doc studied each other silently. There was no arguing their friend’s peculiar way of doing things. His behavior had been strange enough before the pasta strainer, transfer device had changed all their lives. Now, this type of bizarre behavior seemed to be all part of his heroic routine.
 
     It watched the enemy break through the wall of rock wall and enter its nesting area. The perspiring mortal, dragging the bulky metallic cylinder behind. The creature paused, drawing itself into the darkness of the rocks and peering down at the unexpected arrival with demon’s eyes. The human was wearing dark goggles as if the special eyewear might even the odds. It would not. It would dispose of this trespasser as it had all the others. The arrival had interrupted an ancient ritual and it would pay for that with its life.
     Barry positioned the remains of the H.O.R.D.A in the middle of the chamber and waited. Hopefully, he had arrived in time. He did not have long to wait. The son of Ravage heard the leathery creature unwrap its body from the rock and instinctively knew it was ready to strike. Barry grabbed the lid of the H.O.R.D.A, attempting to throw it open but was too late. The creature dropped, landing on the metallic shell. Barry fell back as the hellish terror rose to its full height. 
     It was some ancient mix of human and demon, far more deadly than any predator found in the known world. Barry reached into his vest pocket and revealed the crucifix. Unlike the Barry of old, his new incarnation of hero was prepared for any uncertainty.
     The creature snarled with a guttural contempt that had been spawned beyond the very gates of hell. “You think I’m a vampire? That worthless trinket is of no consequence to me.”
     “Better to have it and not need it,” Barry quipped. The son of Ravage folded the arms of the religious trinket, pushed a hidden button and launched the crucifix, the icon taking off from his hand like a sizzling bottle rocket. 
     The creature dodged the ensuing explosion and pounced. Barry dropped backwards, rolling onto his back and pushing off. He landed back on his feet, striking a posture that signaled he was now on offense. The creature lunged again as Barry slid out of the way, grabbing the devil by its leathery dark hide.
     “Stay right where you are,” Barry grunted.
     The creature broke free easily, its strength no match for the human. Barry watched through his infrared night goggles as the creature launched itself upward, once again attaching itself to the rock ceiling.
     “I will satisfy my timeless hunger with the flesh of your friends,” the creature threatened. “No one can stop me. I have been kissed by the devil himself.” 
     “Can you please keep it down.” It was the soft moaning voice of Face. It came from somewhere in the darkness above. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
     Barry peered up into the darkness, recognizing the bodies of his friends now hanging upside down. One barely moved. The heavier of the two, the one called Beast, was deathly still.
     “Hang on,” Barry muttered to himself. 
     “Kneel and worship me,” the creature bellowed from above. “Kneel and renounce your God.”
     Barry, sensing the battle was about over, complied. “I’m an American,” he answered. “We worship nothing but consumerism and the almighty dollar.” He looked up and spotted the shadowy creature. “Sorry.”
     “Remove that device from your head,” the creature instructed. “Gaze upon me with mortal eyes.”
     Barry reached over the goggles unhooking them from the back. He would have to act fast. His whole body was vibrating, shaking as he crawled forward until he could reach out and feel the cold steel of the H.O.R.D.A.
     “Release my friends, Barry shouted as he grabbed the lid of the device. “Last warning.”
     “I take life,” the creature hissed. “I do not spare it.”
     “Suit yourself,” Barry muttered. “But perhaps I can shed a little light on the subject.”
     Barry threw open the lid and flipped the switch inside the shell. A mixture of ultraviolet light and radiation flooded the cavern. The creature shrieked, covering its face with leathery wings. It was too late. The light was piercing its flesh and was searing it alive. The same light that treated keratosis, psoriasis and eczema was now at work on this ancient beast, melting him from the inside out.
     The creature hissed and dropped. Barry dove out of the way as it exploded mid-air, disintegrating into a dust that was old as the ages.
     Barry reached into the tanning bed nestled inside the metallic shell and switched off. He had built it specifically for Face to deal with his skin condition and had inserted it inside the H.O.R.D.A last minute before it was shipped off to England. There was something about the disappearance of the workers that warned Barry Ravage he may be needing it.
 
     The five colleagues had reunited in the cavern where Barry had proved victorious over the ancient foe. The engineers had arrived and rescued Beast and Face from their prison and the bodies of the deceased workers had been retrieved and would soon to be reunited with their grieving families.
     The English executive who hired Barry had joined a handful of befuddled engineers. Despite the loss, the work would resume. The Chunnel would finish on time. 
     A round, middle-aged man with a nose ripe with booze berries stepped forward. “We’re extremely grateful,” he announced. “How much do we owe you?”
     Doc removed the invoice out of his pocket and handed it to the man in charge. The executive unfolded it and read with disbelieving, blood-shot eyes. “A half a million pounds to the International Planned Parenthood Federation? This is bloody outrageous. I’m Catholic.” He blustered. “The Board of Directors will have my head for this.”
     “Better them than him,” Beast said, grinning and pointing upward. 
     “They do very good work. We took the liberty of alerting the organization, along with the press before our arrival,” Brain said. “They’ll be expecting your donation any time.”
     “It is extremely generous,” Doc added. “Thank you.”
     With nothing else to say, the red-faced conservative stalked off, leaving Barry alone with his friends.
     It had been agreed by all concerned parties that payments or rewards from their exploits would be donated to charity. There were hundreds of organizations that needed help. It is what Barry’s father would have wanted. Maybe his birth mother would have wanted it too. Barry would never be sure. He still knew nothing about her, and it left an increasing longing that he felt could never be filled.
     “An actual demonic manifestation in animal form,” Brain said. “I would have liked to have seen that.”
     “It was a beaut,” Face added. “And all the more menacing when you are hanging upside down.” The actor’s face became suddenly flushed as an unexpected queasiness seized him. He needed to sit down and quickly.
     “It was the mother of all demonic manifestations,” Beast exclaimed.
     “Mother,” Barry muttered to himself. “I wonder.”
     “And you owe me a tanning bed,” the actor protested feebly. He had broken out in a flop sweat and his insides were suddenly tied into one nauseous knot. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he whispered before losing consciousness. Beast caught the blonde actor on the way down to the floor and looked over at Barry helplessly.
     “Let’s get him out of here,” Barry ordered. “Now.”
 

It’s been a year and a half since the publication of the first novel in the Son of Ravage series. Some of you have expressed an interest in when the next book will arrive, and I can only address your question with a noncommittal soon. The good news is, the first draft has been completed. The birth was painful, coming in at a hefty 100,000 words and now needs to go through the process of careful editing and preparation for its presentation into this troubled world. In the meantime, here’s a little taste, a literary hors d'oeuvre of what our merry little band of adventurers have been up to since we’ve last seen them.  Barry Lives!
 
J.P. Linde, June 6, 2020.
 

                                                                        Sequel of Ravage
 
                                                                            The Chunnel
 
                                                                                    1989

     Deep beneath the English Channel, surrounded on all sides by ancient limestone, history is being made. An underground tunnel, linking two great European countries is being chiseled out of billion-year-old rock. When completed, it will rank amongst mankind’s greatest engineering achievements, born out of blood, sweat, and brilliance. It will be the largest tunnel of its kind, 32 miles in length and will hasten the dawning of a new economic reality in Europe. A cynical press has nicknamed the herculean project, the Chunnel and right now, the future of the entire project is in peril.
     “Mister Barry Ravage sends his regrets but is extremely confident you will find his colleagues, and the mechanism, more than up to the task.” 
      The pale, spectacled man, dressed entirely in black, stood by an invention that he and his colleagues had designed less than six months before. Construction of the prototype had just been completed in Canada and this was to be its first true, working trial. The machine was one of a kind; fast, portable and capable of tunneling through solid rock in a matter of seconds. The mechanical marvel was only the size of a small refrigerator and, at first glance, appeared bulky and unwieldy. But first looks can also be deceiving. The mechanical mole could burrow through any density of rock, extract ore or minerals and record the whole process via remote control video. 
     The initial purpose of the machine was to assist a primitive tribe of Guna Indians in extracting gold from the mountaintop mines located in remote mountains of Panama. For generations, the thankless task had been accomplished with nothing but hard work and sweat. The uncomplaining natives had not yet laid eyes on the contraption as the inventors had taken it for a last-minute trip across the Atlantic Ocean. These sudden circumstances were indeed dire, the sophisticated technology required for a rescue mission of the highest priority.
     Doc lit a cigarette and drew deeply from a blend of Turkish and Virginia tobacco. “No worries,” the portly co-inventor boasted. “We’ll have your people back in no time. This machine won’t stop until it finds them.” The prematurely balding chemist was attired in his signature lab coat. He turned to his pale colleague and glanced at his watch. “How long have they been down there?” he asked with more than a tinge of concern in his voice.
     “They’re overdue.” Brain returned quietly in his customarily droning monotone. “I don’t think we can stall these people much longer.”
      Doc turned back to the assembled and stroked the smooth metallic surface of the H.O.R.D.A. “We named this device after a creature from Star Trek,” he explained. Stalling seemed to be the only option for the small audience of anxious executives. 
     “Devil in the Dark,” Brain added. “First season, aired on March 9, 1967.”
     “Episode 26.”
     “Forget about that,” one particularly surly engineer interrupted in a heavy, almost comical French accent. The man was obviously no fan of science fiction, literary or televised. “We have men missing down there and we were told that this Barry Ravage was the only one who could get the job done. Obviously, he was too busy for us and his comments are nothing more than a boast. It seems we have been taken in by a charlatan and are owed our substantial monetary deposit back.”
     The crowd was turning ugly very quickly. 
     “Hmmm,” Brain offered. He caressed the handle of his sheathed sword cane and wondered secretly if he might be needing it soon. He was becoming convinced that Engineering executives became unhinged far too easily.
     “As soon as we hear back from our colleagues,” Doc said. “We’ll launch it.”
     “No offense,” another Engineer, this one Scottish, interjected. This man had spent most of his adult life in some sort of mine and his abrupt, negative demeanor reflected the mood of someone who had spent too much of his adult life underground. “But I believe you fellows don’t know what the bloody hell you’re doing.”
     “No offense taken,” Brain lied, fingering the small button that released the blade from its wooden sheath.
     “Not knowing what we’re doing has never stopped us before,” Doc blustered. He reached for his pocket and felt the reassuring comfort of the hard pack of Camel Wide cigarettes.  He hoped he had enough the deadly, addictive cylinders to get him through the rest of this extremely trying day.
     Doc and Brain were relatively new to the hero game, drafted into service by an even more unlikely candidate, their friend Barry Levitt. Barry began this new vocation under the insistence of a deceased birth father, Rock Ravage, most commonly known by criminals as the Ravager. The son of the deceased hero had drafted his closest colleagues into a career of adventuring, and the sophomore team remained woefully inexperienced when it came to interacting with an often times cynical public. Never-the-less, Barry’s four friends muddled through the best they could, having already learned the most important rule to being a hero; that pretending was often times just as important as actually knowing.
 
     “What the was that?” The handsome blonde actor reached up and wiped the unexplainable warm drop of liquid from his forehead. Anything dripping this far underground should be cold, he reasoned. Whatever landed on the top of his head was unmistakably warm and also slimy. Unexplained droppings were not the only thing on his mind. The man called Face was growing more anxious with every step in the dark, dank underground. At any second, the actor thought the entire southern portion of the North Sea could drop down on top of him. 
     Beast aimed his flashlight into an adjoining rocky alcove. Doc and Brain, had sent their two colleagues ahead to scout for clues and to find the best location to launch the H.O.R.D.A. The plan was to radio back in one hour. Ninety full minutes had passed and the two had made one miscalculation after another. Now, Face and the hulking man-child nicknamed Beast were hopelessly lost.
     “None of this is on the map,” Face announced belligerently, thumping his finger onto the unfolded map that his colleague held in his huge, paws. “And I think some giant cave bird just shit on me.”
     “No birds,” Beast growled back. “Probably a bat. It’s Ebola you have to worry about.”
     This news resulted in several minutes of animated antics before Face finally calmed down. He jumped, he shouted, he screamed, pointing a threatening finger at his hulking, Neanderthal-looking friend. “I’m going back,” he announced, turning abruptly and realizing he had no clue as to which direction offered a safe retreat. “Any second my entire body may bleed-out from some deadly and mysterious virus.”
     “Calm down.”
     “Why would I want to do that?”
     “No. I mean we’re not lost,” Beast answered. “There’s a way out just beyond that turn.” The big man tapped the unfolded map with a brutish finger. “There.”
     “What are we even doing here?” Face whined. “Are we looking for the missing men or a place to launch that infernal machine? And why doesn’t anyone tell me anything?”
     “Because you never listen.”
     The two adventurers found themselves in familiar territory, smack dab in the middle of the vast transportation hub. From here, engineers and excavators, travelled via electric shuttles, that moved 24 hours to and from the work site. Powerful work lights blazed overhead, and despite the cold and dampness, provided a feeling of relative safety below the earth’s surface. The vast and usually busy cavern was completely empty and eerily quiet.
     All work on the Chunnel had halted and there remained only a half a mile of rock separating the English workers from their French brothers. Under normal circumstances, the engineers would have completed the task. But these were not normal circumstances. Seven British engineers were missing, and that number did not account for the 13 French who disappeared shortly after construction began. All of the victims had vanished into thin air and both governments had long since exhausted their security resources searching for them. The British and the French officials had nowhere else to turn. And, in the last year at least, when individuals, or governments, had nowhere else to turn, the new protocol was to contact Barry Ravage.
     “Serious Sally sells seashells on the salty seashore.” Face stood dead center in the middle of the cavern with his arms outstretched. “I’ve sounded better,” he announced. “This cold and damp’s affecting my sinuses and psoriasis.”
     Another drop of liquid spattered atop the center of the actor’s head. Face ran a hand through his blonde hair and felt the consistency of the deposit.
     “That’s not a bat shit,” Face shrieked.
     “What are you yammering about?” Beast asked.
     Face was focused on his finger. “This isn’t from a bird or a bat or anything else,” he said holding out his finger for an examination by his colleague. “Look!”
     “Uh-uh,” Beast grunted his refusal. “You ain’t getting me to pull your finger.”
     “Here!” A third of his index finger was covered in thick, crimson.
     “You cut yourself,” the big man declared. The brutish man had never been particularly good at deductive reasoning. He pursued his options much like his ancient forebears; by instinct.
     I didn’t cut myself,” Face said. “It’s coming from up there!”
     Beast was already on the walkie-talkie. “Doc, Brain,” he said. “You copy?”
      Face ripped the walkie-talkie out of his friend’s hands. “Shut off the overhead lights.”
     “What’s going on?” Doc’s response from the other end was comprised of mostly static.
     “Now!” Face rubbed the dark liquid off on his jeans. 
     A brief click followed a total, pitch-black darkness.
     “Flashlights on,” Face said, pointing the beam of his flashlight at the rock above the lights.
     Beast complied, once again unsnapping the retractable flashlight from his belt.  “Whoa,” he managed. The big man, never at a loss for words, was speechless. Wide brown eyes attempted to make sense at the horror he was witnessing.  
     Face raised the walkie-talkie once more. “Guys,” he said, his baritone voice cracking. “I think we found your men.”
     “What are you talking about? Where? Over.”
     “We’re going to need a very long ladder,” he said. “Over.”
 
     Another full hour had passed and the H.O.R.D.A. performed to expectations, slicing through the solid rock like a hot knife through butter. The drill spun effortlessly through the sandstone strata while the side lasers made short work the residual debris. For a bulky machine, it was quite nimble, adjusting to changes in the rock and taking the corners deftly. 
     Brain kept his eyes on the Sony monitors, his pale, steady hands operating the controls with a cool, professional assuredness. Doc, walkie-talkie clenched in one hand stood, huddled over his friend’s shoulder and followed the action on the screen. The portly chemist watched the grainy green blip on screen and nervously pondered the appropriate time for his next cigarette. They were now searching the last known location of his two friends and something kept gnawing at him that they were too late. The blinking dot that signaled their friend’s location had ceased. The machine was on its way to their last known direction.
     The two yanks were surrounded by the skeptical engineers who had been overseeing the underground construction. So far, no one on the team was much impressed by the actions of the Americans. It was becoming obvious that the Ravage crew had no clue of what they were doing and had lost two more of their own men in the rescue operation.
     “Anything,” Brain asked as he commandeered the H.O.R.D.A toward the blinking light that represented their friend’s last location.
     “I don’t see a thing,” Doc answered. “How much time?”
     “Less than a minute.”
     The lights overhead flickered and the instrument panel blinked. The surrounding audience hurried away in search of the back-up generator.  With no lights in the entire Chunnel, things had unexpectedly just gone from bad to worse. The monitors blinked and Brain felt control of the H.O.R.D.A. slip away.
     “That’s it,” Brain announced in his customary monotone. “I can no longer control it. I’m going to have to shut it down.”
     “We did the best we could,” Doc mumbled. He put down the Walkie-talkie and his hand reached into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes. “It’s out of our hands now.”
     “Out of your hands?” one agitated executive announced. “That’s it? There’s no one else?”
     “One chance remains,” Brain commented in his signature monotone. “Our best chance.”
 
Next Week: The Conclusion