Fiction: The Evil Possum vs. Baldy!

 So I quit a decade-long career this week, after spending two weeks looking at a doodle of a cartoon mouse. And this is the scene that started it, from the same storyline as the battle demo. Yeah, these characters were always like this.

It was a low, wide compound, which seemed to slouch across the ground. Its outer layers were razor wire, its middle tiers were brick and barred gates, and its heart was a concrete block with grudging entry points and vision blocks. All were now in flames, in a scene like the Hell of the elder gods of a forgotten race. From the midst came shots and screams, not the cries of men but the skirling squeals of rats in a trap.

In the midst of it, ten creatures darted inward. They ran on two legs, yet their gait was the skulking of creatures whose instinct was to crawl. They bore tails that swished behind them, just above the ground. What could be seen of their faces were shining eyes, gleaming teeth, and whiskers that glimmered in the flames. Two more figures approached. One was like themselves, the other was much shorter and very fat, wearing a squashed fur cap. The smaller creature moved with a loping gait, halfway between running and jumping. When it gave a skirling squeal, the others turned attentively, if only out of curiosity. Then they followed a pointing finger. As smoke cleared, they beheld the likeness of a VW Beetle without a rear windshield, next to a breached door. The rats squealed and scurried after the shorter figure as he bounded into battle.

Up close, the rotund creature was nearly hairless and exceptionally ugly, despite large eyes and rounded ears that vaguely suggested cuteness. They did not make up for his mottled, vein-streaked pink skin and wrinkled folds of fat, nor for his perpetually shifting eyes. “There’s his frinkin’ car!” he squealed in a high-pitched, whistling voice. “That means he’s already inside or he’s comin’ back! You three frinkers, come with me! The rest of you, hold the rear an’ don’t frinkin’ die!” He unlimbered the wire stock of a scaled Skorpion machine pistol. It was clear from his bare arms that what the insulating fat covered was solid muscle. Three of the rats lined up to follow. His tufted tail stuck out nearly rigid behind him. He made as if to leap, but tumbled and rolled through the door instead. The chattering of his gun rang out. The followers rushed in with a chorus of squeals, leaving their companions chittering outside. A moment later, a volley of automatic fire rang out.

The small creature peered out a vision block. The rats who had remained outside lay dead or dying. One who started to lift a weapon abruptly twitched and lay still. A huge silhouette loomed over it, a third again the height of the tallest of the rodents and far more massive. “Frink of a frinkin’ frink,” he said.

“Altimus and his son are dead, as are his Second and his chief guards,” the figure outside called out in a nasal but commanding voice. “I breached his bunker with Panzerfaust and collapsed the escape tunnel with multiple timed demolition charges. The Revenants are no more.”

“Yeah?” the much smaller creature called out. “Why are you frinkin’ telling us?”

“I am giving you an opportunity to consider your position,” the giant said patiently. “You know who you face: No-Hands, El Diablo Sin Mano Derecho, Archididelphis invicta, the Unconquered King. 100 of the slaves and debtors of Altimus pooled their wealth for 10,000 dinars to free themselves from his bondage. Because the Revenants were pledged to avenge anyone who took the life of one of their own, it was necessary to strike while you were together. If you renounce your pledge, I may consider allowing you to leave.”

“Well, frink you, Iron Nuts!” the hairless creature called out.

Saucer-like ears rose, and a mane bristled upon a high brow. “Baldur Thorndyke?” No-Hands called out.

“Yeah,” the one unavoidably known as Baldy answered. “Small frinking world.”

“Yes,” No-Hands said. His lips curled, revealing the saw-edged teeth of a possum. “This is the second time we have met since we parted ways. Surely you have considered, there are ways to stay out of each other’s way.” Two of the rats abruptly rose up, straight into three blasts of a shotgun.

“I was the frinkin’ chief guard,” Baldy said. “Altimus pulled me off duty when I told him what his frinkin’ chances were.”

“Unfortunate for him; less so for you,” No-Hands said. “You are quite good at what you do. A creature of your talents should have no trouble finding another line of work, or an employer who would not come to my attention.”

“I’m the frinkin’ top-dollar talent,” Baldy answered. “I go where the frinkin’ money is. People who don’t worry about you don’t pay my frinkin’ going rates.”

“But you have nothing to spend your money on,” the possum said in irritation. “You have no family, no lovers, and no vices to speak of. Neither do I, of course, but all know that money is not the reason I do what I do. So why do you insist on risking your life for wretched beings you would kill for free if they did not pay you?”

“Because I’m the frinking best!” Baldy shrieked. He fired a full magazine at No-Hands, then rolled for the door. No-Hands switched his shotgun for a freshly loaded PPSh-41. He fired short bursts at a target that came bouncing like a lone photon in a hall of mirrors. Baldy answered with a semi-random volley that seemed to propel his globular body one way and then the other. Several times, his shots struck the chest of his foe, only to ricochet off what appeared to be a vest of rattlesnake skin inside No-Hands’ mink coat. Finally, Baldy launched himself straight at the possum, twice his height and nearly 10 times his mass. At the last moment, No-Hands swung his head forward, and Baldy bounced right off his skull. The mouse tumbled into the dark with a squeal of pain, and the possum staggered back against his car with a rumbling call of displeasure. He refocused his crossed eyes as the final rat reared up. He stepped forward and took aim, only to topple as a shotgun blast caught him in the chest.

“Not so tough, are you?” the rat said. He pumped the shotgun as he advanced. “You’re bigger than us. They say you’re smarter than us. But you go down the same as us.”

Then both barrels of a shotgun fired from inside a boot that had replaced No-Hands’ right foot.

“Yes,” No-Hands said as he sat up. “I do.”

Adaptation Insanity: The one that's the best Stephen King adaptation

 

Title: Misery

What Year?: 1990

Classification: Mashup

Rating: That’s Good! (4/4)

 

As I write this, I’m in an unplanned breather from my Halloween lineup, and the big change this time around is that I haven’t been leaning on movie reviews to fill it out. Now, I’m ready to get out one more, and I decided to go with more movies based on the works of Stephen King. And there was no better place to start than my pick for the best one of all. I speak of none other than Misery, as at a minimum the one that does the most to improve on the book.

Our story begins with a writer named Paul finishing his latest novel at an isolated cabin. He starts for home to a jaunty musical number, only to take a tumble on an icy mountain road. He wakes up to find himself being looked after by a matron named Annie who introduces herself as a nurse and his biggest fan. She assures him that the proper authorities and his agent have been notified, but proves evasive as he asks how soon they will come to pick him up. Soon enough, she lays out the truth: She has kept his rescue secret, while the wider world thinks he is dead. Annie wants Paul to herself, and when she finds out he has killed off the character that made him rich, she demands that he write a new adventure to bring her back. The author must write his own escape plan, if the nosey sheriff doesn’t get to him first- but the nurse is even deadlier than she seems!

Misery was a 1990 psychological horror film directed by Rob Reiner, based on the novel of the same name by Stephen King. It was the 17^th theatrical film based on King’s work, though only the 7^th based on one of his full-length novels. Development reportedly began after producer Andrew Scheiman personally recommended the book to Reiner. William Goldman, a veteran screenwriter and the author of The Princess Bride, wrote the final script. The late James Caan was cast as Paul Sheldon and Kathy Bates as Annie Wilkes, after the roles were offered to actors including Warren Beatty and Bette Midler respectively. The soundtrack was composed by Marc Shaiman. Few changes were made to the story, the most significant being the addition of the sheriff Buster played by Richard Farnsworth (d. 2000) and (spoiler…) the removal of an arc in which Paul publishes the final Misery novel after destroying a fake manuscript. Several early advertisements referenced a scene in which Annie severs Paul’s foot, which was altered in the final film. The film was a financial and critical success, earning over $60 million against a $20M budget, and won a Best Actress Oscar for Bates. James Caan died in June 2022 at age 82.

For my experiences, this is one where I’m foggier than usual. I distinctly recall seeing this movie on network television, and I can remember reading bits of the novel in the early 2000s, but I’m not quite certain which one came first. What I do recall is that I read the novel much later, somewhere in the 2015-2016 window, and very quickly concluded that the movie was if anything a substantial improvement. Sure, the book isn’t “bad”, but under scrutiny, it’s one of his more self-indulgent experiments, with a lot of on-the-nose venting that often seems to be at other writers’ expense. (Apart from anything else, Stephen King still hasn’t done a “real” sequel outside of the Dark Tower series…) By comparison, the movie improves as much as its medium can improve on a literary source, greatly aided by two superb actors. (And I meant to say a lot more about the soundtrack...) The one thing missing is the author’s searing hatred for his own character, which the novel transforms into revealed hypocrisy, but the difficulty of conveying that on-screen is obvious enough that the effective omissions of the ending are understandable.

Moving forward, I’m already feeling like this is a case in point of a movie “too good” for me to review in my usual format. What I find most worthy of comment is how easy it is to underestimate the rest of the cast in the face of Bates’ performance. Caan/ Paul himself is effectively turned into a supporting player, in itself a perversely effective subversion of the “damsel in distress” and the gender-role baggage that goes with it. That, in turn, pays off with real growth as the victim recovers and begins to develop his own plans. The big surprise is Farnsworth, whose only counterpart in the book is a nameless casualty of Annie’s wrath. He becomes an effective third player in the story, in the process adding a police-procedural element to the genre mix. It’s most intriguing to see his outside view of Paul Sheldon’s works. Finally, as with a number of things, his abrupt end is in its own way at least as brutal as anything in the book. (And dear Logos, I think I must have heard of the lawnmower scene when the movie was in theaters…)

Then, of course, there is Annie. What’s most striking is how easy it would have been for the filmmakers to compromise with an attractive or even “Hollywood unattractive” actress. Instead, we get a performer every bit as ungainly as King’s descriptions, without the script and cameras going into “fat-shaming” either.  We simply have a plus-size, middle-aged performer playing a character we could pity under any other circumstance. That is only the bedrock of her performance, which somehow gets more disturbing the more we can laugh. Then what I find most interesting is that her character becomes more sympathetic than the character in the original, and I have never been satisfied that this is simply because her bloodiest acts are removed or (arguably…) toned down. The screen version of Annie certainly tends to be absent-minded rather than actively sadistic, yet this is not played into a redeeming quality. It merely makes her less like Sid from Toy Story and more like Elmyra from Tiny Toons; she may not intend evil, but she is no less destructive for it. (Now I’m getting anger flashbacks to those idiot kids in ET…) To me, the difference is that it makes her more believable, and by implication not so different from any of us. And that brings me to a thought I had on my very first viewing, that her character would have been more disturbing and ultimately more frightening if the “backstory” had been cut entirely. All she needed to be was an outlier of toxic fandom that the wider world was still oblivious to. Portraying her otherwise was pretty much the same as making the big reveal in The Shining that Jack was a murderous wifebeater all along.

And that gets to the “one scene”, and there’s one that always stood out in the movie and the book. After Paul’s first attempt to revive Misery on demand, by rewriting the final scenes of his book, Annie simply says it’s “all wrong”. Paul is polite in asking for her input, with a level of returning assurance that will grow. To illustrate, she goes into a story of her childhood (which Paul questions in the book) of going to the serials, and an especially contrived resolution of a cliffhanger. Bates delivers it in top form, if anything with surprising restraint. She concludes, in a line that seems to be unique to the film, “Misery was buried in the ground at the end, Paul, so you’ll have to start there.” It’s all great, and it not only checks all the boxes of “AU” and “canon” that I can now hate that I know but does sound very much like me on one of my rants. This is what fandom is and was like, though I maintain that even then, we still understood that the point was to have fun. And I can give no better defense of the critique I laid out above than this, that if this sequence was the only time we learned anything about Annie’s past, the story wouldn’t be the least bit worse for it.

In closing, what I come back to is what I really think of Stephen King. I’ve been very sparing in covering his work, but I have still covered a good sample: Creepshow, Maximum Overdrive, Sleepwalkers and most recently Trucks. (See also The Signal, kiiind of...) These definitely give a representative sample of what I find good in Mr. King’s work. I can add that what I find bad, I cannot find in any story or book I have read through. My overall policy with King has been to sample cautiously, and either read what engages with me or respectfully set aside what doesn’t. The end result is that I have read some of what is agreed to be his best work, skipped a number of his “classics” and come to greatly appreciate some of his works that remain decidedly offbeat. (Again, how in Cocytus did we not get a Rose Madder movie?) The present film similarly shows how to get a good movie out of King’s material: Don’t worry about what’s most popular, or his “best”, but just run with something that’s different. It’s a lesson Hollywood may not learn anytime soon, yet there are enough quirky projects out there to have hope for the future. For now, we can appreciate what we’ve got. “Isn’t that an oogie mess…”

The Horrible Horror Vault: The one where Kenny is the killer

 

 

Title: Terror Train

What Year?: 1980

Classification: Knockoff/ Mashup

Rating: It’s Okay! (3/4)

 

With this review, I’m continuing my semi-official survey of slasher movies, and I’m up to one I was actually looking forward to. As I have freely admitted, I have disliked slashers as much on principle as from experience. As a further consequence, many/ most of the ones I have seen are decent to good entries that fans of the genre acknowledge as well above average. On the other hand, I have on occasion found a film that I have been surprised isn’t much better known and regarded, and I consider the present example to be nothing less than one of the very best. I present Terror Train, a slasher movie good enough for even me to like. As it happens, I’ve been on the train.

Our story begins with a med school prank involving a real dead body that sends the intended victim into a breakdown. Fast forward, and we find the lunkheads and the semi-reluctant woman who participated on a night-long trip on an excursion train. It’s frat party meets masque as the coeds party away in costume, with further entertainment from a magician. But a killer has slipped into their midst, using the disguises of his victims. The body count rises, even as the actually competent authority figures in charge of the train lose track of one of the bodies. We all know this isn’t just a random guy, and he’s working his way up to the victim who might not deserve it. Will our final girl survive the night, or is this a one-way trip?

Terror Train was a 1980 horror/ slasher film directed by Robert Spottiswoode. The film was reportedly conceived by producer Daniel Grodnik as “Halloween on a train”. The film starred Jamie Lee Curtis as the damsel Alana and veteran stuntman/ character actor Ben Johnson as the conductor Carne, with David Copperfield as the unnamed Magician. The movie was filmed in late 1979 in Montreal, Canada, using an authentic engine and cars from the Canadian Pacific Railway. The role of the killer Kenny Hampson (yeah, 42-year-old spoiler) was played by Derek MacKinnon, described by Spottiswoode as a transvestite and a member of the local theatrical community. The finished film was distributed by Fox, with a reported $5M ad campaign that would have exceeded its original $3.5M budget. The film was a likely commercial disappointment, earning a box office of only $8M against its budget and expenses, and received mixed to poor reviews. Later critics and fans reappraised it as a superior 1980s slasher movie. Spottiswoode went on to a successful career as writer and director on films including 48 Hours and Tomorrow Never Dies. MacKinnon made several additional film and TV appearances, including an interview for the 1993 LGBT documentary Lip Gloss. A remake of Terror Train was released in 2022. As of late 2022, the original film is available for free streaming on Tubi.

For my experiences, I first heard of this film by pure serendipity, because the train cars used have appeared regularly at local railroad events. (Yeah, I do a lot of stuff I don’t write about.) I didn’t take an immediate interest in the movie, but it did eventually find its way into my rental queue early in the current year. After going in with especially low expectations, I was highly impressed with the film, enough to consider it not just one of the better slasher movies but quite possibly the best I had encountered first-hand. That really made it the kind of movie that usually does not suit my purposes, so I set it for another look down the line. After the rematch, I can still hold it up as at least among the smartest of vintage slashers.

Moving forward, the first things to say are by way of explaining my lead-in. The most striking thing about this movie is that it rarely if ever depends on the characters being dumb. The killer is genuinely clever, enough that he manages to cover his tracks even after evidence of his handiwork is discovered. The body count fodder, by comparison, certainly don’t act very bright, but then they have little reason to suspect they are in danger until very late in the film. The biggest departure from the still-emerging formula is the exceptionally proactive train crew. Of course, they try to cover up the first murder or so where more immediate action could have stopped the whole thing, plus they fail to stop the bad guy from removing evidence. On the other hand, they are quite effective in keeping the civilians from either panicking or directly interfering with their inquiries, which would be by far the greatest risks in a real-life situation. Most impressively, they ultimately unload everybody for an orderly inspection, which sets up a twist I had forgotten the details of. Finally, it is the conductor who finally deals with the villain, albeit after he almost does in the damsel.

This still doesn’t cover the most intriguing elements of the movie, the costumes, the train, and the quite unique villain. The costume party, lit and shot in a willfully lurid 1970s style, seems to reference “Masque of the Red Death”, with an effective surreal feel that is often lost in actual Poe adaptations (see Two Evil Eyes for a possible exception). The hedonistic atmosphere is increasingly contrasted with the confined spaces of the train environment, which hadn’t been used since The Horror Express and are treated at least as effectively here (perhaps better than Curtis…). It has been my further observation that this is where science fiction/ horror films often “cheat” by honeycombing their claustrophobic vehicle with improbably convenient places for both the protagonists and the villain/ monster to hide or escape, but these only figure once or twice here. In these terms, the only film to adhere so honestly to the premise is the ”B-17” segment of Heavy Metal. Finally, there is the killer, who is at face value given good reason for revenge. The usual temptation to find sympathy for the villain is tempered by the nature of his attacks; it’s of particular note that at least one victim seems to be a random target of opportunity, belying any intention of limiting his attacks to those who wronged him. When we do get a look at him, he is unsettlingly ordinary, a commendable counterpoint to the toxic glamor that would surround the genre. Then there is his voice, which I simply cannot do justice by describing.

That leaves the “one scene”, and I’m going with one of the kills that I honestly wanted another look at. It all starts with the killer making his way through the train in what looks like a Groucho Marx mask. He passes an especially jubilant partygoer in a lizard-man suit, who addresses him by the name of the original owner. (As noted, it’s not at all clear that the villain knew as much…) It’s enough to draw his attention away from another potential partygoer. By then, the lizard-man has raised his own mask to reveal his face. The camera focuses on the eyes of the masked pretender, which convey a clear sense of calculation and perhaps genuine amusement. The lizard-man finally announces that he has the “good stuff”, and leads him fatefully to a lavatory. As the door closes behind them, the partygoer looks over his shoulder, and finally seems to suspect that something is amiss. As he starts to ask a question, the villain raises his mask. The target finally moves, too late, and what follows is really barely a moment longer than what I have recounted. It’s a fine bit of cinematography, exactly what should be expected from a true best of the genre.

In closing, I come to the rating, and here, the real question is if this can truly be considered the “best” slasher movie. After both reflection and viewings of other material, I must say it is not quite there (that distinction definitely goes to one of the Halloween movies, and that would keep us up all night), which is the main reason I have given it anything but the highest rating. I will further admit that it does have its weaknesses even compared to other slasher movies. The one question I cannot answer is, what are you even looking for in a slasher movie? To me, a slasher movie I can tolerate is a pleasant surprise, so 3 out of 4 is praise enough. And if you are one of the people who really like slashers, there is no reason you wouldn’t love this movie. I for one can leave it at that, and call it a night. Further up and further in…

Fiction: The Adventures of Chelsea the Social Worker, Part 13!

 I was debating whether to skip blogging this week, so of course, what I'm back with is even more of Chelsea. I have literally spent months planning this out, and it took maybe a few days to write. As usual, the full table of contents is at the end.

It had really started in the parking garage, as an officer circled the perimeter in search of an unclassified being known only as Skinny McCoy. He paused as he passed the main elevator, then looked over his shoulder. He nodded in satisfaction; there was no one there, there was no room for anyone there. So, he moved on, never seeing the shape of the wraith literally flattened into 15 centimeters of space between the columns of the elevator shaft.

It took less than 30 seconds for the assassin to ascend the shaft like a chimney. He then swung his way along the underside of a footbridge to an adjoining aquatic center. He vaulted onto a balcony in a kind of cartwheel, his limbs and body twisting. As he touched down, he opened a leather case at his waist and snapped together two halves of an archaic large-caliber repeating rifle. He made a strange downward motion that slid back the trigger guard and a section of the grip, opening the breech. Rather than cycle a round from the magazine, he loaded a cartridge from the gun belt at his waist directly into the chamber. By the time the breech shut, he was at the corner railing. In the next moment, he fired.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, in the market floor of the shopping plaza, several figures moved toward Chelsea. There were a maintenance AI, holding a pry bar, a Woolie who needed no weapon, a rider on a one-wheeled scooter wearing a helmet and jumpsuit that hid his identity, and at least two nondescript humans. One of the humans turned at a tap on his shoulder. He saw only blunt spikes on a bronze fist, and then he went down.

From there, a number of things happened virtually simultaneously. Three slugs hit the nearest flexiglass pane, one of which penetrated. The rider fired a spear gun at Chelsea, just as Shad pushed her to the floor. That projectile also embedded in the window pane, trailing a nearly invisible filament. And the three other attackers still standing wheeled about to face the apparition of Deve, a metallic humanoid with a multiplying number of arms that sprouted blades as they appeared. He started with four arms, the upper two bearing heavy triangular thrusting blades that sprouted from the knuckles, the lower arms sprouting twin parrying daggers from above and below. There was still more secondary cutlery, including a thin arrow-like blade from the knuckles on the lower left hand and the knuckleduster studs on the right. The AI got in a shot then and there, burying the pry bar in Deve’s lower back with a resonating klong. Deve countered with his upper left hand, exposing circuitry with a slash from one of a pair of parrying blades on either side before knocking the AI aside with the trowel blade in the center. That was when Deve reversed his two arms and revealed his full ten-limbed fan. From what became the uppermost arms sprang a pair of evil-looking S-shaped blades that seemed twisted more than curved, one ending in an upturned point, the other in a claw-like downward hook.

As Deve shouted his challenge, three more shots hit the window, and two of them came through. When a slug actually ricocheted off the tabletop, Chelsea tested if it could be overturned. Momentary inspection confirmed that the frame and “decorative” stonework of the round top were heavy enough to hold itself and the supporting hyperboloid frame in place by gravity alone. Even as she made that discovery, there was a crash as the Woolie lifted the entire top of another table and slammed it across Deve’s chest, with a motion that might have flung it if the range had been any greater. The living statue slid back, his whole torso creased by the impact. In several places, his bronze hide was split, revealing a wire mesh that seemed to knit itself back together as the breaks sealed. He still made a prefect thrust as the Woolie lunged in, driving his upturned blade straight through the roof of the Woolie’s mouth. There was a horrible garbling from the creature, until a strike from the knuckle studs dropped it like a limp rag doll. That was time enough for the remaining human attacker to grab for the imbedded pry bar. He withdrew with a scream, leaving the skin of his palms on top of a layer of ice crystals that covered the metal. There was a ripple in Deve’s hide like flexing muscles, and the object was abruptly expelled, to shatter as it hit the floor.

All the while, a whine came from the mounted attacker’s spear gun, which Chelsea assumed was to retrieve the harpoon for a second shot. Suddenly, the whole pane came loose. She screeched as it crashed down on the tabletop. The escorting officer Hexley opened fire as a cluster of passers-by gathered at the new opening. “Do not engage them!” Deve called out as he made his retreat toward them. “I have challenged them; they will destroy me first, if they can. Get them to safety!”  As he spoke, he traded slashes and feints with the AI, who now brandished a buzzsaw, and two more human attackers who hung back. Hexley nodded, then fired a final shot that knocked a revolver from the hand of a goon trying to use the window frame for cover. Deve leaped back, just as a Dodge A108 crashed through the entrance.

The van careened along on its rims, knocking aside two tables. It barely got all the way inside before it ground to an inevitable halt. That was enough to ensure that the goons who piled out came out of loading doors on both sides and in the rear, a dozen at least, and they did indeed focus on Deve. His upper three arms held off any attempt to rush him, while those who tried to catch him from behind or the sides were met by an assortment of grappling weapons in his lower four arms, including a short 15 cm version of the trowel blades. The most unwary lost an arm to a slash of the scythe blade. His protective suit made itself a torniquet, tightening over the wound. Another managed to hit him in the knee with a sledge hammer, only to be hit backhanded with what looked like a baling hook. Others brought firearms to bear, with little more effect. Pocket pistols and snubnose revolvers merely rang off his hide. A more consequential over-under12 gauge drew a sound like rain with a blast to a chest, followed by a deep gong as a slug went clean through and through. Then a goon still in the passenger seat of the van opened fire with a Soviet submachine gun. At that, Deve launched the middle blade on his left parrying hand, striking the gunman in the shoulder.

Meanwhile, Chelsea and her companions hurried toward the shop that filled the far end of the market area. Chelsea saw that many of the customers and staff had already gathered there. Several waved for them to go back. In the corner of her eye, she saw a merchant still huddling behind his cart. Suddenly, the straggler rose, and Hexley opened fire, staggering him with stun round. Hexley staggered in turn. Only then did she see a gun, already skittering across the floor.

In the midst of the fray, the mounted attacker raised a whole second spear gun and rolled forward to meet the bronze god, weaving and bobbing through the fray. The spear struck Deve in the middle left shoulder, possibly deflected by a stroke of his blades. The rider turned away, clearly aiming to wrap Deve with the carbon filament quite capable of shearing through bronze and steel alike. But he snared the cable with the triangular blade on the very arm it had pierced, wrapping it around the parrying blades on either side. A sharp pull drew the rider straight into a downward blow from a longer blade on the upper hand. A built-in safety cut the cable as the attacker literally flew from the saddle, his helmet not merely pierced but shattered. A split second later, he crashed through the cart before coming to a halt barely a meter from Chelsea. She reflexively turned her head, and gasped as she finally saw his eyes through the shattered visor. They were the same uncanny blue as the AI they had left behind. As the second AI turned his, or its, head, the eyes visibly locked on the loose gun.

“It’s the Triplets,” Hexley said, gripping her arm. “Deregistered AI, completely rogue. There were 3 of them, anyway. We thought we got two.” The pointing finger literally twitched as if in yearning reflex, but when it started to go through the motion of a trigger pull, the whole hand closed into a fist. She looked back to the spear gun; its grip was a simple paddle with a wire loop around the trigger.

“They really don’t take chances, do they?” she mused out loud as the AI rose to his feet. Then she shrieked as one more rifle slug came through the nearest window pane. Hexley and Shad pulled her into the store as an emergency barricade lowered behind them, but the AI had already turned back to Deve.

* * *

In the midst of it all, Frank sat at the wheel of Chelsea’s camper van, drumming his fingers on the dashboard. He looked to the officer beside him, and the giant echidna called Hector in the back seat. “Look,” he said, “don’t you have your own orders?”

“Sure,” said the human officer, who had still never identified himself except as Hexley. “Monitor the perimeter. Intervene if backup is needed. It isn’t.”

Frank gave him a hard stare. “So you’re sure two more officers won’t make any difference?”

“Not for what it would cost to get in there,” Hexley answered frankly. “The important thing is that we have a cordon around the area. From there, our officers will move in, detain any and all hostile parties, and secure the person or persons of interest. Breaking the cordon for any reason could double the time it takes to complete our objective.”

“Yeah?” Frank said. “But supposing you wanted to go in, would they let you?”

Hexley didn’t answer immediately. Hector whistled and shrugged, a singularly expressive gesture in itself. “Sure,” Hexley said grudgingly. “Between me and the monotreme, we have enough rank to pull that we could go in.”

“Then look at it this way,” Frank said. “The `person or persons of interest’ are my best friend and the girl who made him happier than any guy in the world, plus my wife and your brother. So, do you really just want to sit here?”

Hexley nodded. “No,” he said. “I suppose I don’t.” Frank grinned as he started the engine.

* * *

Deve stood at by as the goons swarmed in. His gray-green hide shone gold from numerous blows. In several places, gray vapor wafted from holes and cracks that had not yet closed. The AIs led yet another charge. One still swung a buzz saw, with one remaining arm. The other wielded a pipe, more as a mace than a club. The living idol skewered the latter with his triangular blades, but still took a blow to the head. The impact dented an ornate frill on his sculpted headpiece; it also cracked the pipe, revealing a filling of cement. The other AI lunged in with the saw, shearing off Deve’s left arm. He countered with the already bloody sickle blade, shearing off the other arm. A goon tried to exploit the opening, only to have his helmet caved in by a crescent-shaped fist axe. The remaining AI struck again, and again. Deve’s eyes flashed white as the pipe split across his face. He swung his remaining trowel blade straight up, driving the AI face-first into a light fixture overhead. He then slashed down, shearing straight through its torso. Two hapless goons dropped under the resulting shower of sparks, parts and fluids. That was when the literally disarmed AI charged head-down, with a dozen goons behind, slamming Deve into the barricade.

 

Chelsea stared about inside the store they had just entered. Behind her, the emergency barrier shut and locked, already bowed by the battle outside. The small crowd drew back from her. “Look,” Shad said, “we got together, that pissed my Maimeo off, and her boss drew on Spike. What would any of you have done?”

The bystanders seemed to relax, though most kept their distance. The group withdrew toward the other side of the store. Her gaze reached a bystander who leaned against a wall to one side. She couldn’t really see the face, but the eyes met hers… pale, piercing blue eyes. And then, for a few moments, things were hazy. When things cleared, she was looking down at a figure at her feet… and a head halfway across the store. “Um,” she said. “did I just decapitate an outlaw AI?”

“I’m not sure,” Shad said. “It happened really fast.”

“Okay,” Chelsea said. She turned to Hexley. “What do we do now?”

“We stay here and wait for a Riot unit,” he said. “What the Hell else would we do?”

It was Diane who spoke up. “Uh-uh,” she said. “As long as we’re in here, they keep coming, even if it’s through Deve. When they get through, they aren’t going to worry about collateral damage. And one of them is still out there. I am going to find a way out of here.”

Hexley stared outside. “Fine, you’re probably right,” he said. “But if we try it, we’re doing it right.” He pointed out the side entrance. “If I open that door, we’ll be in the cross corridor. From there, we can double back to the curb, go down the main throughway to the elevators, or cut all the way across to the other side of the Aster. The only problem is, they will be covering at least one.” Even as he spoke, he punched in a code.

As they emerged, Hexley pointed to a camera at the corner, and then to Chelsea’s wrist organizer. “I have your organizer set to receive the feed from that camera,” he said. It showed the corridor ahead, which ended between two banks of elevators, currently oddly empty. “You could walk out of there now, you just couldn’t come back in. We can do better…”

Shad pulled back Chelsea before she could pass the officer as he reached the corner. Hexley waved them to stay, then crossed the corridor to a barricade ahead. There was just enough of a recess to provide cover as he worked. He looked merely puzzled at the sound of the entrance to the main corridor opening from outside. He started to call out as he leaned around the corner- and then staggered and dropped as four shots rang out.

Only then did Chelsea look at her wrist, and see the silhouette of the wraith standing in the doorway. The voice that came down the hall was oddly soft, and all the more unnerving for it: “You just donta listen…”

Part I: The romance!

Part II: The parking violation!

Part III: Capsule hotel destruction!

Part IV: The Kelsiraptor, and Harryhausen monster bureaucrat!

Part V: The restraining order!

Part VI: The trial, part 1!

Part VII: The trial, part 2, with the King Kong Moral Contraband film!

Part VIII: The goon!

Part IX: The religion!

Part X: Kloe!!!

Part XI: The Arcostate Zoo, plus Spike's Southside Motorcycle Gang!

Part XII: Skinny McCoy!!!

No Good Very Bad Movies Countdown 6: The one that's the worst Muppet movie

 

 

Title: The Happytime Murders

What Year?: 2018

Classification: Parody/ Mashup

Rating: Who Cares??? (2/3)

 

As I write this, I’m fresh off a string of reviews of good or at least entertaining movies, including a couple that found their way into this feature. Just in case you were wondering if this means I’m going soft, my projected lineup will be going back to the baddies, especially from the modern era. As it happens, I have one particular film I had thought about on and off that definitely fits the bill as a representation of the worst modern trends while falling into its own very odd subniche. I present The Happytime Murders, an adult Muppet parody from none other than the Jim Henson crew.

Our story begins with a quick introduction to a society where humans coexist with sentient puppets with stuffing in place of guts. But the puppets aren’t happy, marginalized and plagued by crime, substance abuse and intra-ethnic violence. In the midst of it, we meet Phil Phillips, an ex-cop turned private eye based on a single failure we’re going to hear far too much about. When he’s hired for a routine blackmail case, his investigation takes him to the scene of a multiple Muppetcide whose victims include one of the cast of an in-universe Sesame Street/ minstrel show analog called The Happytime Gang. The detective soon realizes that someone is out to wipe out the whole cast of the show, including his own brother. It’s up to him to find the surviving cast before the killer does, and figure out who’s trying to set him up. But to succeed, he’s going to need help from his human ex-partner.

The Happytime Murders was a 2018 film by STX and Henson Alternative, directed by Brian Henson , the son of the late Jim Henson (see The Dark Crystal). The film had reportedly been in development for at least a decade prior to release, with its eventual script credited to Todd Berger. The film starred Bill Barretta performing and voicing Phil and Melissa McCarthy as Connie Edwards, with Elizabeth Banks as Jenny, the Happytime Gang’s only human cast member. Other crew for the puppets included Kevin Clash and Drew Massey, performing as Bumblypants and Vinny in a porn shop sequence. The film was a commercial failure, earning an estimated world-wide box office of $27.5 million against a budget of at least $40M, and received very poorly by critics, several of whom described it as the worst film of the year. At the Razzie Awards, it “lost” that distinction to Holmes and Watson, while earning a Worst Actress award for McCarthy. It remains available on disc and streaming.

For my experiences, this film always stood out as an example of the same trends driving adult-oriented animation, taking traditionally “family friendly” genres and sources and turning it dark, subversive or entirely crude. What came to my mind in the course of this review is that this very mixed trend overlaps closely overlaps with what is called “over the top”, and the epiphany that led me to is that many of the most insightful examples came significantly earlier in live-action media. The paradox that becomes evident is that this can work independent of rating and content. You can find it in clever PG/ PG-13 films like Killer Klowns From Outer Space, in R-rated gore fests like Dead Alive and From Dusk Till Dawn, and in foreign films like House that never got anywhere near the Western mainstream. The chronic problem is that people who set out to do it are usually not the ones who succeed, and this is the archetypal example.

That brings us right to the first and foremost reality of the film, it’s one of the most egregious cases I’ve encountered of “too much and not enough”. This shows obviously in the rating. Anything that gets developed in a worthwhile way could have remained intact at PG-13, perhaps with some invented puppet slang in place of profanity, while anything that would have justified the R rating, especially the flying-fluff violence, isn’t pursued nearly far enough for a payoff. The mismatch shows even more in the story and above all the so-called mystery. The problem here is that great lengths are taken to create deeper motivation for the killer(s) where more clever takes, both comedic and “straight”, have long since deconstructed such things as unnecessary. In reality, there’s just two quite obvious scenarios: Either the killer is a member of the cast, with some ultimately interchangeable grievance, or it’s all the work of some crazed fan whose further motivations would be useless to analyze. Then my big rant is that the latter scenario, not even mentioned on screen, should absolutely have been the one pursued. Heck, now I’m getting a picture of a “collector” with a Muppet version of the Predator’s trophy room…

Even with that dissection out of the way, I freely admit that I haven’t gotten to the core of the story. The mystery genre has always been character-driven, especially the hard-boiled/ noir variety that this movie clearly aims to emulate, and there’s plenty of ways to redeem a “bad” plot. The difficulty here is that we have characters who are mismatched in development as well as personality. By my blunt-instrument assessment, Phil the puppet is a developed character who belongs in this world, as much as we know of it.  His human partner, on the other hand, feels like a man’s idea of Miss McCarthy playing herself. This imbalance is directly compounded by already dodgy worldbuilding when it comes to their backstory. The patently absurd accusation that Phil would refuse to harm another puppet could have worked as an illustration of the self-contradictory nature of prejudice, if the wonky racial metaphors had lasted that long. The implied tension between them, however, is just more contrived drama in an assumed universe where gross-out gags and emotional manipulation have long since displaced any pretense of logic.

That leaves the “one scene”, and there is truly just one sequence I can accept as justifying the very existence of this misbegotten experiment, and it’s dug in enough that I can reconstruct it from a viewing a few days before this review. About 15 minutes in, Phil has found his way to a puppet porn shop, owned by Vinny, a scuzzy buzzard introduced in voice-over as “not really a friend, more of a disgusting acquaintance”. Vinny and his shop more than justify the description, complete with the agitated rabbit Bumblypants. While Phil is looking around a backroom that somehow doesn’t contain a well-prepared ambush, an armed black-clad intruder enters, who is never really identified. It seems to be a human, though there’s so little that’s on the puppets’ scale that we can’t really tell. Vinny promptly announces, “We’re having a sale, anything you want,” while the rabbit freezes in place, and the skill of both performers is clearly evident. The intruder is distracted by the bystander, long enough for Vinny to draw. There’s a veritable spray of stuffing in the exchange of fire. The killer turns back to the rabbit, whose reaction is shown with two plastic Easter eggs, then the camera zooms in on the shotgun muzzle. Per my usually refrain, it’s a good scene that delivers on the potential of the premise, honestly a major reason I saw fit to look at the movie again. But in light of what follows, it’s a true bait and switch. If the rest of the movie was like this, it would be From Dusk Till Dawn with fluff instead of vampire guts. (How did I use that one as a “good” example twice???) Instead, we get a feature-length TV animation pilot for a show that isn’t animated and also isn’t funny.

In closing, I’m left not just with the rating, but with the tagline. Of course, this isn’t technically a Muppet movie, and considering that the franchise and its offshoots have been around on every media platform for over 60 years, there’s undoubtedly “real” Muppet offerings that are worse. But this is a full-length movie from the same company and crew, with the specific intention of appealing to “mature” audiences. In those terms, I can’t say I actively hate it, if only because of the fine work of Barretta and the supporting crew. For sheer disappointment, however, this is possibly the lowest they’ve come since “Trek 1”. With that, I shake my head and keep walking. And I’m definitely scraping my shoes when I get to the welcome mat.

Fiction: The adventures of Chelsea the social worker, part 3!

 Because I'm still completely unprepared, I'm filling out the lineup with more of Chelsea the social worker. This time around, I've gotten to the kind of thing I started writing this thing for. Per standard procedure, here's links for the first and previous installments. 

Two weeks after their meeting, they met with a cleric who finalized a divorce, and an 8-armed bureaucrat who approved an application for a domestic partnership. That night, they met up with Shad’s friends at the theater. There were two men, and a woman whose hair was dyed a reddish purple. “Chelsea, meet John and Tilly,” Shad said, introducing the woman and a man with his arm around her. “And this is Frank.” He introduced a vaguely seedy, dark-haired man who didn’t try to hide a grin.

 “So, you’re Chelsea,” John said. “You know, people at the office were taking bets if you were even real. I said, there’s no way Shad made up what he says about you.”

“Well, I am real, last I checked,” Chelsea said. “As of today, I’m officially his domestic partner. Also, the hair’s all natural.” She looked at Tilly, and back at Shad.

 “So, we have our own studio, kind of,” Shad said. “We’ve all been together since vocational school. We mostly do graphics for ads and PSAs. Frank’s the brains of the outfit, Tilly’s our muse, John’s the inventor, and I’m the odd-jobs man.”

 “I see,” Chelsea said. “So, do you all work with stop-motion? Shad’s been telling me all about it…”

“No, we’ve spent 5 years trying to get him to stop,” Tilly said.

“It’s a niche market, but there’s money there,” Shad said. “You just need an in with the connoisseurs. We’ll get it.”

“This is what we have to deal with,” Tilly said. “The fact is, his stuff’s better than anything the old Masters ever did, at least for the time and budgets we have to work with, but it’s not landing the contracts.”

 “I could help you,” Chelsea said almost instinctively. “Really. My Department has been expanding our media footprint. They’re looking for new talent, people with a different perspective. It’s not just promos, either. They want to revamp our educational resources. What we’ve got is so weak, we got a memorandum authorizing us to evaluate confiscated Moral Contraband. Our senior instructor looked into it; she said there was nothing there, either. You ever think of anything like that… hypothetically?”

 “I’ve been working on something that could have applications,” John said. “I could demonstrate it, for your instructor. She sounds like she’s cool…”

“Dear Logos, you have no idea,” Chelsea said. “But yeah, I’m sure she would meet with you.” The conversation continued evasively, until Tilly convinced Frank to bring her their meal. The other men quickly followed. As they departed, Tilly turned to Chelsea.

 “So, you’re a social worker,” Tilly said. “Do you like saving people, Ms. Social Worker? Are you here to save Shad? To save us?”

“That’s not what we do,” Chelsea said. “We help people, or get them help from the right people. The rest is up to them.”

“Okay,” Tilly said. “Maybe you aren’t mental. You still don’t know what you’re doing.”

 Chelsea met her gaze. “If you have something to tell me, as a social worker, it will be confidential,” she said. “At least from anyone except his current case worker.”

“Fair enough,” Tilly said. “The first thing to know, he’s my ex, more or less. So is Frank, but that was another thing. And I don’t know if he pulled the virgin bit on you, but he did plenty, and saw plenty more.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Chelsea said. “If it comes to that, I can guess… He took care of you, but you had to ask to do anything for him.”

“Yeah, you’re on track,” Tilly said. “How about his diagnoses?”

Chelsea blushed involuntarily. “I reviewed his file,” she said. “He’s diagnosed with autism and mild obsessive-compulsive tendencies. He received appropriate treatment at an early age. All his outcomes were positive: Supportive family, full social integration in age-appropriate activities, no sexualized bullying. As far as current functioning, he’s literally at high normal.”

“Sure, that’s right too,” Tilly said. “Did they tell you about his depression? The paranoid ideation? The suicide attempt?”

Chelsea leaned forward. “He told me he had a problem, once,” she said. “He told me he talked to someone he knew would make sure he got help. I suppose that would be you. Are you going to tell me you were just being a friend?”

“I had broken up with him,” Tilly said. “We really weren’t a thing to begin with. I finally just told him, it wasn’t ever going to happen. We were still in school. He had been doing okay, except he kept falling behind when he was spending time with me. In two weeks, he completely fell apart, missed a deadline to submit his project, got in a fight that could have put him in jail. Then he called me, said he had a plan and the things he needed to do it.”

“You said yourself, he called you,” Chelsea said. “He wanted help. He got it. He’s better, now.”

“You don’t understand,” Tilly said. “You don’t want to understand. I’ll admit, I didn’t either, for a long time. He’s always doing `better’… until he isn’t. You like the Greek myths, don’t you? He’s the hero that the oracle told his fate, and he’s running from it, and running is all he can do, because the prophecy was never about what happens to him, it’s about who he is. You can’t fix him, you can’t change him, you can’t save him. If you try, it will only make things worse.”

“I don’t want to change him,” Chelsea said. “I took him for partner and a father, not a boy to take care of. I’m getting everything I want from him, just the way he is.”

Tilly just shook her head. “You’re mental, even more than he is,” she said. “But Logos help you, you know what you’re doing.”

As the men cheerfully returned, she rose and went to the washroom. A nondescript woman entered just behind her. “Did you tell her?” she said nonchalantly.

“Yes,” Tilly said. “I told her everything, and I got her responses on tape.”

“Good,” the other woman said. “We will reward you and your partner for this.”

“Keep it,” Tilly said. She promptly walked out.

* * *

 

They went to a film that started at 8. It proved to be a film where a mythic hero named Batman fought a vampire. Frank offered an invitation to come to a private party. At a glance from Chelsea, Shad politely declined. They quickly made their way to the Hellas Therapeutic Hotel, otherwise known as the Big H. It was a capsule hotel, where modules like oversized storage lockers could be rented for a night. It and other establishments like it were infamous as a haven for those seeking one-night stands, though in reality, only about a fifth of its customers at any given time were sharing units. The rest were the displaced, recent immigrants, travelers from other Arcostates, and those too weary to make a trip home. These were all segregated strictly, unless as sometimes happened, they met a companion and upgraded.

The facility was submerged underground, between the Gordon Center and a major transit center. Its floorplan was indeed a letter H, with the main entrances at either end of the crossbar. They descended the stairs hand in hand, to emerge among a dozen shuffling guests. They were lined up at 6 automated check-in stations, which dispensed a key and a token for a machine that dispensed disposable pajamas. The pair walked straight up to one of two that could be used to check into a two-person module. Chelsea tapped in a code for her credit account to keep the transaction confidential. She covered her mouth as a message appeared on the screen: WELCOME REPEAT CUSTOMER WOULD YOU LIKE TO APPLY FOR A DISCOUNT? She quickly clicked NO.

She received two keys, on a single chain. They consisted of a plastic head and a cylindrical plug. There was much amusement about what might happen if a guest had the wrong key, or traded with another. In fact, the keys held an electronic mechanism that automatically recognized the user’s finger prints and remained linked until it was returned. They tapped the keys to complete the link, then Chelsea gave Shad his key. As she turned, she said involuntarily, “Diane?” Sure enough, Diane was right there, clearly dressed for work. She looked over her shoulder, and simply shook her head. Chelsea scrambled through the door that led to the female side of the hotel.

Inside the door was a passage 60 feet long, with showers, lockers and changing rooms on the right and two rows of modules on the left. The shape made her think of toy train whistles, round-cornered boxes 8 feet long and 5 feet on a side including a 4X4 flexiglass door. The security was quite simple; the entrances for a male partner were on the other side, and could only be opened once she was inside. She showered and redressed in her pajamas, leaving her regular clothes in a locker. She turned her head as she emerged, to gape at an echidna clambering into a tube that it filled like a foot in a sock. She climbed into the tube and waited… and waited. She explored the now familiar space. It was padded on every side, with soft lighting from strips on the top, sides, and the frames of the door, plus a glow through the translucent glass if they weren’t set to opaque. Bins overhead held sheets and pillows, others could be used to hold the pajamas, and panels on the sides could hold small possessions. There were speakers that played music, but no monitors. She tested a set of handlebars overhead, which had already served her well.

She was about to call Shad when she heard a chime. She waited for a few moments, then opened the door. Shad gave a sheepish smile as he climbed in. “Sorry, it took a little longer to shower.”

“It’s only my money,” she said. She hauled him up. They quickly made the appropriate preparations.

“Listen,” he said, “have you ever, maybe, thought of talking for a while?”

“We talk when I’m done,” she said.

“How about… holding each other till we fall asleep?”

“Here?” Chelsea said, then laughed loud and deep.

“What about… falling in love?”

“That’s just the oxytocin kicking in,” she said. “Now, you're my husband, I paid for this capsule, and you climbed in here with me. So you can give me what I want, or I’ll pay for you to go home.”

Shad gave her another vaguely sheepish look. “Sorry, just… thinking.”

“Good thing I nipped that in the bud,” Chelsea said. She pushed him down and reached up, and for a while they said no more.

They settled into a rest position with Shad cradling her legs. By then, he was in his shorts, and Chelsea wore her pajama top like a smock. She was virtually the same height, with a stout build. Her only complaint would have been her knees, which looked like a tectonic collision between her muscular thighs and shapely calves, but he clearly admired them. He was still crying softly, which she took as a compliment. She showed more concern when he rolled on his side and hugged her tightly at the knees. “Hold on, gorgeous,” she said. “Remember, we’re head to tail here. Your feet are in my face.”

“I love you, Blue Bell,” he said abruptly. “Maybe you don’t love me, maybe you can’t, but I love you. Enough for both of us.”

She sighed, but smiled. “Of course I love you too,” she said. “We talked about this. I can feel in love with you, when we're like this.”

“And the rest of the time?” he said. There was an edge to his voice that made her consider reaching for a button. “When we’re at home? When we’re apart? When we’re old? When you’re gone?”

“Whoa, honey,” she said. “We’ve talked about this, too. I’m going to marry you, till death do us part. Then we’re going to move in, we’re going to have a baby, we’re going to get old.”

He shook his head. “You’ll still be gone, someday,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. It’s no good. It will never be any good!” And that was when he started punching the flexiglass.

Chelsea made no effort to calm him, let alone reason with him. She simply hauled him back about the time he actually cracked the glass, her arms wrapped tightly around him. He, in turn, made no effort  to fight or escape, but finding his fists restrained, he resumed with his feet. “No good,” he snarled. “No good, no good, no good!!!”

“Dammit, gorgeous, I didn’t think you were going to be high maintenance,” she said. “Enough!” She finally brought her legs to bear, pinning him. His thrashing finally subsided; however, one last kick struck home, against the frame rather than the glass. Somehow, Chelsea knew what would happen even before it did. “Aww, kaka,” she said, as the door came right off its hinges.

There was an alarm that came on, and a recorded message notifying the guests that their capsules would remain sealed until a temporary situation was resolved. It was mere moments before the footsteps approached. Somehow, she knew it would be him, too. Percy the police AI leaned into view, visibly cautious. “Why is it,” he said, “when I hear `breached therapy pod', I think blue?”

 * * *

They ended up fully clothed in the management office at 2 AM. Percy’s partner, a giant echidna, held up the door for examination. “Here’s the thing,” Percy said. “We’ve had to open pods before, more often than the management cares to be known. I’ve done it. Hector here can do it. For you to do it, I would have said you’d need a crowbar and a sledgehammer.”

The manager spoke up. “We are not pressing charges,” he said. “In fact, we are willing to offer both of you a significant credit. Clearly, this incident was caused by a preexisting engineering defect. For now, however, we must ask that you either leave or accept separate pods.”

The manager departed, and Percy led the pair to the check-in area, now cordoned off enough for privacy. “Look, my partner had a psychological episode,” Chelsea said. “I successfully restrained him. He never tried to harm me.”

“Yeah, there’s degrees of success,” Percy said. “Here’s the other thing, we have received a confidential statement that you were warned of Mr. Feaghan’s history. There could be questions why you brought him here.”

“Here’s your answer,” Chelsea said. “Press charges or let us go.”

“Fair enough,” Percy said. “Just keep us in the loop.” As they left, Percy held up the door as Hector swung at it with a 15 cm claw, trying without particular success to duplicate a very visible dent in the frame.

“Tilly,” Shad said as they left.

“Of course,” Chelsea said. “She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”

“Can you tell me something?” he asked. “If you knew that, why did you stay with me?”

“That’s fair enough,” Chelsea said. “Here’s what it really told me. You may have been ready to hurt yourself, but you didn’t try to hurt her. And if you wouldn’t hurt her, you won’t hurt me, and you wouldn’t try to hurt my baby. That’s something, if you think about it.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he said. “Still, I’m sorry. You… you did help me back there. You helped a lot. And it wasn’t your fault. It just happens sometimes.”

“Then tell me if it happens again,” she said. “I will get you help. Real help.”

“What do you want to do now?” Shad said.

Chelsea sighed. “We’ll go to my place. I’ll let you sleep over. I’ll make you your own bed… just so you do get some rest.”

“We can talk for a while,” Shad said.

Chelsea smiled. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

They woke up at noon.