Dick Andrews and Shirley Kelly, Miami police detectives, laid sleeping in bed when their cellphones rang. Both stirred and Shirley sat up in bed, pulling up the covers to cover naked body. A glance out the window told her it was still too early for their alarm. She began to frantically search for her cellphone.

Dick rolled over. “Don’t answer that!”

Shirley shook her head. “We have to. We’re on call.”

Dick sat up on his side of the bed. “I thought you said you put your phone on vibrate.”

Shirley gave him a dirty look. “That’s how much you listen. I said I have to turn off my vibrator so I can charge it. Get up and answer your phone – we both have calls.”

Dick rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Make sure you have your own phone. We don’t want the Captain to know we are dating. What the hell time is it anyway?”

Shirley picked up a cellphone from the nightstand and handed it to Dick. “Here’s yours.” She looked on the floor and found her phone.

Both answered their phones, listened and said, “I’ll be right there.”

Dick quickly dressed as Shirley headed for the shower. “I told you not to answer it.”

Dick and Shirley drove to the location given by their Captain, a large house in an upscale residential suburb of Miami and arrived just as the sun was dawning. On the walk up the long driveway, Shirley spotted a garage door opener and bent over to pick it up.  Dick couldn’t resist from admiring her butt. “Stop looking at my ass!” She pointed the remote at the large double car garage and pushed the button; nothing happened.

Captain Tim Barnaby met them in the spacious hallway as they entered the house. He motioned for them to follow him into the living room. A very distraught couple sat on the couch wearing robes. Tim said, “This is Mr. William Smith and his wife Mary. Their daughter was kidnapped last night or early this morning. Her abductors left a note saying they would call later. I want you two to take point on this case. Dickhead, you handle the ransom demand and pay off from here. Stacy, you try to find the kidnappers.”

“Dick or Richard,” Dick said.

“What?” the Captain asked.

“You called me ‘Dickhead.’ My name is Richard or you can call me Dick for short.”

“Sorry. Freudian slip.”

Shirley interjected, “And my name is Shirley, not Stacy.”

“Since when?” the Captain asked.

“Since I was born.”
​
“Whatever. Let’s get to work.” Tim turned back toward the couple. “Okay, Mr. Smith, the kidnapers should call any minute with their ransom demands.”
 
Bill said, “Smyth. The name is Smyth, not Smith. Smyth and please call me Bill.”
 
“Whatever. Anyway, Jones here is our computer tech.” Tim pointed to a young man seated at the dining room table in front of a computer. “He’s a Greek.”
 
“James,” the tech said. “You always call me Jones, but my name is Ralph James. And it’s ‘geek’, not ‘Greek.’”
 
“Whatever. As I was saying before I was interrupted, ...James here will trace the call, but you need to keep the kidnappers talking for at least one minute. Are we clear?”
 
“I think so,” Bill replied.
 
“Good. Mr. Smyth, I promise we will get Kathleen back.”
 
“Kaitlin. her name is Kaitlin,” Mary Smyth said.
 
Tim raised his eyebrows. “That’s what I said.”
 
Bill tilted his head. “No, you said Kathleen.”
 
“Give me a break.” Tim turned toward Dick and Shirley. “Any questions?”
 
Dick took out his smart phone and clicked on the recorder.  “How did the kidnappers get Kaitlin out of the house without making any noise?”
 
Tim held up a washcloth. “Chloroform.”
 
Shirley stepped closer for a better look. “Are you sure it’s chloroform?”.
 
Tim held out the washcloth. “Here, take a sniff and you tell me.”
 
Shirley held up her hands in surrender and took a step back. “Oh, no. I’m not falling for that trick… again.”
 
Tim raised his eyebrows but decided not to pursue Shirley’s remark. “I have to get ready for a press conference. Keep me informed.” He turned on his heel and marched out the door.
 
Shirley looked the Smyths over. Bill Smyth was a short, slender man with glasses. He reminded Shirley of an accountant. Mary reminded her of a trophy wife. Her perfume permeated the air. She wondered how she found the time to put on make-up and do her hair when her daughter was kidnapped. She turned toward a small group of police officers standing in the dining room. “Canvas the neighborhood and see if anyone saw anything. Also, check all the security tapes within a 100-mile radius and see what comes up. Check the ATMs while you’re at it and get me a cup of coffee.” The police officers mocked her by slapping their foreheads as if they had never thought of that.
 

Chris Andrews could not believe his incredible luck. He went to the art show looking for an expensive addition to his extensive art collection and met Judy, an art dealer. They seemed to click right away and when he invited her to see his new luxury condominium, she said yes. She was appropriately impressed when the valet drove up in his Porsche 911. Chris had a couple of excellent years as a hedge fund manager and decided to enjoy the fruits of his labors. If his luck continued tonight, he would be in bed with her in twenty minutes – tops.
 
“Wow!” Judy exclaimed when she walked into Chris’s new condominium. “You go first class all the way.”
 
Chris smiled. “It suits my needs.”
 
Judy stood close to Chris and patted his chest. “I’ll bet you have a lot of needs. Oh my gosh! Is that suit handmade?”
 
“Yes. It is a William Fioravanti suit. I would be embarrassed to tell you the price.”
 
“I’ll bet. Very nice. I like it. It has to be at least $5,000.” Judy stepped back to admire the suit, but she noticed Chris’s passion being to show through his trousers. She laughed. “Are you happy to see me or is that a rabbit in your pocket?”
 
Chris laughed. “A cliché but cute!” He put his arm around her and started to kiss her.
 
Judy pulled her head back. “What is that cologne? I love it.”
 
“Clive Christian No. 1,” answered Chris as he tried to find the latch on the back of her dress.
 
“I thought so. Over $800 a bottle and worth every penny.” Judy reached back, unhooked the top of her dress, and turned around for Chris to unzip her.
 
Chris unzipped her dress halfway when, “Oh, oh! My watch snagged on your dress. Hold still.” He untangled his watchband and unzipped her dress the rest of the way.
 
Judy turned around and looked at his watch. “Nice watch. Rolex?”
 
“Of course not. It is a Carrera.”
 
Judy started to untie tie his tie. “Silk tie. Nice touch of class. Dyed, not printed – 100% silk. Italian?’
 
“Good guess. It is from Napoli Coast - only the best.”
 
Judy removed his tie and folded over it a chair. She then helped Chris out of his jacket and folded it over the chair. She removed the pen from his coat pocket. “Montblanc,” she said half to herself.
 
Chris removed his shirt and handed it to her. Judy rubbed her hand over the shirt. “Egyptian cotton, of course,” she said. “Are these real diamond studs?
 
“Yes,” answered Chris, as he kicked off his Tanino Crisci shoes. “They match the white diamonds on the cufflinks.”
 
Judy slipped out of her dress. “They match your rings too. You are one classy guy. How much did this condo set you back?”
 
Chris looked Judy in the eyes. “I am not sure if I’m comfortable with this conversation. Why do you ask that?”
 
Judy put her arms around Chris and rubbed noses with him. “Because I like you and I might just stay the night. Undo my bra, will you?”
 
Chris stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “Now I am really uncomfortable with this conversation. I don’t like where this is going.”
 
Judy laughed. “I thought it was going toward the bedroom.”
 
“Judy, I am sorry, but I don’t think this is such a good idea after all. Let me call you a cab.”
 
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re joking, right?”
 
“Are you attracted to me just because of my money?”
 
Judy laughed. “What makes you think that? I think you are very handsome, but I would still be attracted to you if you had only money.”
 
“On second thought, the doorman will call you a cab.” Chris handed Judy her dress. “Good night, Judy.”
 
THE END

“Goodnight, hon. Love you.” Judy went through her nightly routine that always ended by her saying goodnight to her husband of fifty-two years.

“Love you too, babe,” answered Bob, as usual before turning out the light. He fell asleep quickly. In mid-dream he was awakened by extreme pain. What the frick! He opened his eyes. Okay, that hurts. My left arm must have fallen asleep. Ow! Ow! That hurts. What time is it?

He tried to raise his head to see the clock. Ow! Ow! My neck. Can't raise my head. He lay still for a minute, but the pain only intensified. It must be around two in the morning.

Gotta wake Judy. Bob opened his mouth but could not draw a breath. Something's on my chest. Can't breathe. Ow! Ow! Ah! Ah! An elephant is sitting on me. He tried to raise his arms, but the effort only increased the pain. Shit! I'm having a heart attack. Damn that hurts. Need to wake Judy. He tried to kick off his covers but, again, the pain stopped him.

Maybe it will pass.  He waited. That was his last thought.

Later that same day – the doorbell rang, and Judy answered the door. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying all morning.

“Oh Judy. I'm so sorry. I just heard about Bob.” It was Mary, the neighbor and best friend from next door. “How are you holding up?”

“I'm okay, I guess. I'm just... just numb.”

“I know, dear.” Mary hugged Judy. “What happened?”

“Heart attack said the doctor. He seemed fine yesterday. This morning when I went in to wake him, he was gone. Died in his sleep. He looked so peaceful.”

“Died in his sleep,” repeated Mary. “That's the way to go. Just close your eyes and don't wake up.”

“Thank God, he didn't suffer. He didn't feel any pain.”

​The End

Hackers Rule Television—A Short Short Story
​
Sometimes I get irritated at the TV programs that show how geeks can hack into anything in no time flat. It takes me forever to find anything on the internet and to download a program. Maybe hackers are that fast, but I think the screenwriters exaggerate. Here a little script to demonstrate what I mean.

SUPERCOP: Someone just tried to break into Fort Knox and steal all the gold.
SUPERGEEK: Any clues?
SUPERCOP: No, not really. He was stopped at the gate. He dropped this when he ran. Not sure what it is.
SUPERGEEK (Takes the item and examines it under a microscope): It appears to be a garage door opener. This is great. We can track him with this.
SUPERCOP: What? How?
SUPERGEEK: Well, all remote garage door openers operate on a radio frequency. All I need to do is reprogram the opener, and I can hack into his computer using his Wi-Fi freq.
SUPERCOP: But don’t you need to know the frequency of the remote?
SUPERGEEK: No problem. Remotes have a limited number of frequencies; ten or twelve. I’ll just try them all until I find the right one.
SUPERCOP: But if the remote is so common, there must be millions of them.
SUPERGEEK: 25 million of this brand and model, to be exact, but we know he just was at Fort Knox, so he must live in a 200-mile radius.
SUPERCOP: Even so, you’re going to hack into thousands of home computers. That will take hours.
SUPERGEEK: Not so. I just search for key words on all computers. Words like crime, Fort Knox, robbery, etc.
SUPERCOP: But won’t that take hours?
SUPERGEEK: No. There, I’m done. There’s your guy. (hands Supercop a printout.) He used map program to get directions. I just reversed the directions. Here you go. Go get him, Tiger. Oh, you may want to call the news. I may have opened all the overhead doors in a 250-mile radius.
​
The End

I have a story to tell. It burns inside my blood like acid trying to get out of every pour of my body. My brain boils when I think about it. It consumes me. It keeps me tossing and turning at night. It haunts my waking moments. However, I am a newbie, and I know it. I have a lot to learn about being a writer. Therefore, I decided to learn as much as I can about my new profession and to do so as quickly as I can. I don’t have the patience nor the time to take a writing class, so I decided to read magazines and explore the internet.

First, I subscribed to Writers’ Digest and The Writer magazines. I read every issue, cover to cover; even the article on poetry, which I don’t understand. In one issue, I read an article about the 101 best websites for writers. I checked out each one. If it had a newsletter, I signed up. If it had a blog, I subscribed to it. If it was on Twitter or Face Book, I followed it. I followed the treads of conversation and wrote witty and creative comments. Then I read an article about the 10 best blogs for writers. I registered for all of them and read every issue. Now, every day I get several newsletters, blogs, and prompts on writing and fill my day writing. I get absorbed at times and write late into the night.

The magazines recommended the Master of Fine Arts for writing program. It sounded good and I could even take the courses online, so I signed up for one. It was so much fun, that I started a second one. The magazines also recommended that I write everyday regardless of how much time I had. I needed prompts so I signed up for several websites that provide writing prompts every day. I write something daily on each prompt. I even started my own website where I can post my own stories once I write them. I also started a blog for my followers, if I ever get any. Meanwhile, I follow every author that I can on Twitter, Linked In, and Face Book.

I find that I no longer have time to write the story that was burning in my soul, but it doesn't matter, because I forgot what I wanted to write.

The End

​I post this story every year for #Valentine’s Day. I’m sorry if you have read it. I like it because it is 80% true, only the names have been changes to protect me, I mean the innocent.

A #Zombie’s Valentine’s Day—A Short Short Story
 
I hate holidays. Not the ones with a three-day weekend, just the ones invented by greeting card companies. One year I forgot Valentine’s Day until the day it arrived. Usually, I order flowers online for my wife. After all, she is the mother of two of our beautiful children, and a third not so beautiful child. In desperation, I drove to the nearest box store.
The scene at the flower department was a disaster; flowers flung everywhere; stems bent, leaves torn and flowers missing petals. I searched desperately for a gift: a small bouquet, a potted plant, or even a single rose. Nothing.
Several other men in my predicament also searched in vain like zombies from the Night of the Living Dead. At some point, I bumped into the department manager. Her hair was in disarray, her blouse wrinkled and stained, and she wore no shoes. I asked if I could get a corsage. She gave me an exasperated look and shook her head.
I decided to use my well-developed technique that seems to help in desperate situations; I began to cry. She took pity on me, put my head on her shoulder, and patted my back. “Perhaps,” she said. “They can make you one in the back.” As I shuffled in the direction she pointed, I heard her shout, “Dead man walking!”
When I arrived at the rear of the store, the scene wasn’t much better. I saw two women making corsages as fast as possible. Both had Band-Aids on every finger. The trash was full of flowers ruined by blood from pricked fingers. As fast as one was made, they put it into a petite white box. When I asked if I could buy one, both women immediately stopped working, and looked at me as though I was the person in the elevator who farted. I was in trouble. The bigger of the two leaned forward.
“Do you realize how many local high schools have Valentine’s Day dances tonight?” I did not. Pointing to the stacks of white cardboard boxes, “We still have to make 150 more corsages, and have them ready for pick up in one hour.” I fell back on my proven technique and began to cry; my lower lip quivered, and tears collected in the corners of my eyes. She softened. “Oh God, not another cry baby!” she shouted. “Okay! Okay! You can have one.”
I returned home carrying the corsage like a cat with a prize bird and presented it to my wife. She looked surprised and uttered those words that every man loves to hear. “You remembered!”
THE END

If you were waiting for my blog yesterday, I apologize. I had a medical appointment in NYC, an 8 hour round trip. So, here’s my blog a day late. Enjoy.

Subtle Signs That You May Have Screwed Up

Sometimes we need help to tell us when we screw up. As a public service, here's a list of some of the indicators that you may have screwed something up:

1. Your pet gives you the silent treatment.
2. Your mother unfriends you on Facebook.
3. You GPS tells you, “Get lost.”
4. Your boss starts calling you Mr. or Ms. plus your last name.
5. Your dad cuts you out of his will even though he doesn’t have anything.
6. Your kids send you an e-mail stating that they found a sibling that they never knew they had.
7. You wake up and you’re not sure what town you are in.
8. HR wants to talk to you about your secretary.
9. The sex video you made is no longer on your computer.
10. The IRS left a message on your voice mail.
11. Your lawyer won’t return your calls.
12. The CFO wants to talk with you about your business trip to Vegas.
13. Your boss now calls you “Stupid.”
14. Some guy named Slasher leaves a message that the Don wants to talk to you.
15. The FBI would like to talk to you.
16. When you come home, your house is covered with crime scene tape.
17. You find a group of reporters waiting for you when you arrive at work.
18. Your car explodes in the parking lot.
19. You realize that you are being followed by a drone.
20. All your credit cards are declined.
21. Your computer is no longer user friendly.
22. Key to the executive restroom no longer works.
232. Your significant other called and said they can’t find your secret stash.

These less than subtle signs should tell you that there is trouble brewing ahead.
 

 
 
 
 
 

Chris turned off his vibrating cellphone. He had allowed himself a couple of hours of sleep by putting his cellphone on vibrate and holding it in his hand. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. All his senses were alert now: listening, watching, smelling and feeling for the slightest indication that he was not alone. The house was silent. All the occupants were probably asleep by now. Chris sat up and adjusted his ski mask sand checked his trench knife. The first phase of his mission was completed without incident. Slowly, quietly, Chris stood and pressed his body up against the wall. The door to the hallway was only a few feet away. He reached the door and peeked around the door frame and down the hall. It was empty.
 
Slipping down to all fours, Chris used the alligator crawl technique to move down the hallway. It was a moonless night, so he didn’t need to worry about illumination coming from outside. From the kitchen door, he peered inside. No one was there. Using the Alabama high-stepper technique to avoid trip wires and obstacles, he entered the kitchen. He held his breath for nearly a minute as he listened for any unusual noise. There was none. The target was there on the counter top. In one smooth motion, he removed his trench knife and slid over to his target.
 
Suddenly, the kitchen light came on and a voice from the doorway asked, “Chris, what the hell are you doing?”
 
Chris froze. “I, I, I just wanted a piece of cake.”
 
His wife put her hands on her hips. “You’re a diabetic. Cake will raise your blood sugar. Besides, the doctor said you have to lose weight. Now put that knife down before you hurt yourself and take off that ski mask. You look ridiculous. Come back to bed.
 
Rats, ambushed. Abort mission, Chris thought. Tomorrow is another night.

THE END
​

Judy was impressed by the restaurant Chris choose for their date. He has good taste, she thought. His belt and shoes matched which was a plus. He opened her car door for her – another plus. The fact that he could still drive was a major plus. So far, Judy like everything about him. She wasn’t sure if he was ready for what she was going to tell him, but she had made up her mind. Chris asked for a table in a more secluded part of the restaurant; a little more private. Judy smiled in agreement.

The server arrived, explained the evening’s specials and asked if they would like drinks. Chris asked, “Shall I order the wine for us?”

Judy smiled. “I think I would like some Champagne. I feel like celebrating.”

Chris raised his eyebrows. “And what are we celebrating?”

“I’ll get to that. Go ahead and order.”

Chris ordered Champagne and the appetizer special. They both started reading the menu. “Would you like me to order for both of us?” he asked. “I hear the prime rib is to die for.”

“Make mine petit. I probably won’t be able to finish it.”

Judy nervously fiddled with her napkin while Chris busied himself with rearranging the cutlery. The server returned with their Champagne and took their orders.

Chris raised his glass. “Here’s to us then.” They clicked glasses. “Now what are we celebrating?”

Judy smiled and touched her hair, tucking an imagery strand behind her ear. “We’re celebrating us. Your toast was spot on. This’s our third date. You know what they say.”

Chris shook his head. “No, what do they say?”

Judy lowered her voice and leaned forward. “They say if you like someone you should sleep with them by the third date. I want to sleep with you.”

Chris sat up straighter. “Sleep?”

Judy waved her hand at him. “Don’t tease. You know what I mean.”

Chris leaned back in his chair. “Oh, wow. I didn’t see that coming. I mean, yes, I thought about it, but… I didn’t want to push it. Yes, I really like you too, and I’d like that... I mean raising our relationship to the next level.”

Judy chuckled. “Well, we’re not exactly like a couple of twenty-year olds who can just jump into the sack anytime. Things changes as we get older. I think we should discuss the logistics.” She paused as the waiter brought their appetizer.

Chris waited until the waiter was out of hearing range. “Oh… logistics.” Chris looked around the dining room. “You mean right here? Now?”

Judy laughed. “No one can hear us.” She moved to the seat next to Chris. She placed her hand on top of his hand and lowered her voice. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I think we should do it tonight after diner. I’d like you sleep over at my place. It would be easier for me. I’ve all my meds, make up and clothes there. I’ll feel more comfortable there.”

Chris nodded in agreement. “Yes, of course. That’s fine with me. If fact, for breakfast I’ll make my famous pancakes. We’ll have breakfast in bed.”

Judy chuckled. “I haven’t had breakfast in bed in years. That sounds promising, but I’m a diabetic. Pancakes raise my blood sugar.”

“Okay. Then I’ll make an omelet with bacon and toast.”

Judy shook her head. “Skip the bacon. If I eat the prime rib, that’ll be enough red meat for me to last a week.”
 
“An omelet with toast it is.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to a great night and breakfast in bed.” They clicked glasses again. “We’ll drive over to my place after this to pick up my meds and clothes. Then we’ll stop to buy eggs and bread.”

“Do you have condoms?”

Chris sat back in his chair. “Well, no… I guess we’ll have to buy some.”

Judy smiled. “No, that’s okay. I have some.”

Chris raised one eyebrow this time. “You do?”

Judy cocked her head to one side. “We agreed not to mention our previous relationships, remember? Yes, I have condoms. I like to be prepared. You said you had a heart condition. Has your doctor cleared you for sex?”

Chris smiled. “Oh, yeah, my doctor cleared me after my heart attack as long as I don't raise my pulse past 110. In fact, he gave me Viagra.”

Judy leaned forward again. “Did you bring some?”
 
“I’ll take a pill when we get to my place. How about you? Is your doctor okay with this?”

“Well, I didn’t specially ask her about tonight, but yeah, I’m okay as long as I take my angina medication." Judy paused for a moment and lowered her eyes. Then she said, “I’ve a problem with dryness, but she gave me a cream for that.”

The server arrived with their prime rib. Chris took a bite. “Mmmmm. That’s good. While we’re talking about medical condition, I should tell you that I have sleep apnea. I’ll have to bring my breathing machine.”

Judy laughed nervously. “Then I guess I should tell you I snore. If it bothers you, just wake me and tell me to turn on my side.”

“It won’t bother me. Once I remove my hearing aids, I won’t hear a thing.”

Judy laughed. “We seem so compatible, don’t we? Chris, I don’t know what your expectations are, but I have arthritis. I’m not as flexible as I once was. I can’t do some things.”

“Judy, my expectations for our date tonight were to have a good meal with a beautiful woman and maybe go out for some ice cream afterwards. Besides, I have a bad back.” Chris instinctively put his hand on his back. “We won’t be doing anything too strenuous. In fact, I would prefer if you were on top.”

“Oh, I prefer the top. Thank you.”

As they continued to eat, Chris spoke up. “I should warn you that sometimes one of my ex-wives calls me.”

“One? How many ex-wives do you have?” Chris raised one eyebrow, and Judy backed down. “Sorry. It just slipped out. Why does she call?”

Chris sighed. “To answer your question, I’ve two ex-wives, but only the first one feels the need to call me at odd hours. She’s insecure. My second ex-wife hates my guts and never calls.”

Judy sat still for a moment and stopped smiling. She gazed into his eyes and then sighed.

Chris put down his fork. “What is it? What are you thinking?”

Judy shook her head. “Nothing really.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking. It’s okay. We’re in this together. Are you having second thoughts?”
Judy nodded her head. “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t realize sleeping together at our age required so much logistics.”

Chris smiled and placed his hand over Judy’s hand. “What do you say we go out for ice cream after diner, and then call it a night? I can come over tomorrow and make omelets.”

Judy laughed nervously and patted his hand. “That sounds like a good plan.”
​
THE END

I wrote this a couple of years ago. I like crime shows, but after a while they become predictable. You’ll see what I mean in the following short TV crime show script. Enjoy

A Detective TV Show Spoof

Typical hotel bedroom. A man and woman are in bed making love -- the woman is on top. Camera shots from six different angles. Close up on MARTHA ANDREW’S face.

Cut to front of hotel. CHRIS ANDREWS enters, walks through lobby, takes elevator to 44th floor, walks down hallway, stops at a room, takes out a set of burglary tools, picks the lock, opens the door and walks in.

CHRIS: (Surprised) Martha?

MARTHA: (Jumps up and out of bed.) Chris! Don’t you ever knock?

CHRIS: Martha! What is going on?

MARTHA: (Pulls a sheet around herself) Don’t be stupid. You can see what is going on. Or can’t you remember how?

CHRIS: Why, Martha? I love you. I’ll forgive you.

MARTHA: I love you too. I will always love you. I’m just not in love with you.

CHRIS: What the hell does that mean?

MARTHA: I don’t know. It’s in the script. I just read the lines. I don’t have to understand them.

CHRIS: Who’s this guy?

MARTHA: Who? I’ll tell you who. He’s a real man who loves me. He loves me for who I am, not who he expects me to be. He loves me for myself. He is concerned about my emotional and sexual needs. He treats me with respect, not like some trophy wife.

CHRIS: No, I mean what's his name?

MARTHA: If you must know, his name is John.

BILL: (BILL SMITH gets out of bed and starts to get dressed.) Actually, my name is Bill. Bill Smith

CHRIS: Yeah, right.

MARTHA: Shut up Bill! Keep out of this. This is between my husband and me.

BILL: (Gets out of bed) I didn’t realize you were married. Perhaps, I should go. (Finishes dressing.)
 
MARTHA: No, stay. I’ll get rid of him.

BILL: I must get back to work anyway.

CHRIS: (Points at Bill) Why him?

MARTHA: (Starts to get dressed) He’s twice the man you are.

CHRIS: That’s because he must weigh 500 pounds.

BILL: Please! I weigh 450 pounds and not a pound more.

CHRIS: How could you, Martha?

MARTHA: Well, I have to stay on top.

CHRIS: No, I meant how could you do this to me?

(Martha gives Chris a quizzical look.)

CHRIS: I am talking about our marriage. How could you do this to our marriage?

MARTHA: Oh. Come on! We’ve been married for two weeks. How long did you expect me to be faithful?

CHRIS: Longer than two weeks.

MARTHA: You should’ve said something.

CHRIS: Do the words, forsaking all others mean anything to you?

MARTHA: No. Should they?

CHRIS: They were part of our marriage vows.

MARTHA: Again, if it’s in the script, I don’t have to know what it means.

BILL: (Pulls out his wallet and starts to remove money.) How much do I owe you?

MARTHA: Two hundred. Same as last week.

BILL: Will I see you again?

MARTHA: Of course, next week -- same time.

BILL: (Hands Martha two one-hundred-dollar bills. They kiss.) See you next week.
(Bill exits)

MARTHA: (Martha holds one of the bills up to the light.) Stop him! These bills are counterfeit!
Chris pulls out his gun and runs after Bill. He sees Bill get into an elevator, but the doors close before he can stop it. Chris runs down 45 flights of stairs and exits in the basement. He then runs up one flight of stairs to the first floor. He searches the lobby frantically. He sees Bill outside getting into a car. He runs outside just as Martha pulls up in a corvette.
 
MARTHA: Get in! (Chris gets into the car and Martha speeds off after Bill)

CHRIS: How did you get here so fast?

MARTHA: Special effects.

CHRIS: That’s a different outfit. What’s with the miniskirt? You usually wear pantsuits.

MARTHA: The director wants to show off my legs.

CHRIS: Well, you look fantastic. How come your hair is perfect, and now you have makeup on? Where did you find the time?

MARTHA: Look! Can we hold off on the interrogation until we catch this guy? You know damn well that we shot the hotel scene yesterday. Today is the car chase scene. Besides, my contract says I have to look good. The studio gives me six close-up headshots every episode.

CHRIS: Don’t lose him.

MARTHA: You always say that. I never lose them. Now go ahead and say the other word.

CHRIS: What other word?

MARTHA: You know damn well. Every car chase scene you say it.

CHRIS: Faster?

SERIES OF SHOT—TYPICAL CAR CHASE SCENES

Cars skid around corners and run other cars off the road. More police cars join the chase. Finally, Bill’s car crashes—flipping over a dozen times and exploding in flames. Bill emerges unhurt with his hands up. The police are so ticked they shoot him anyway.

CHRIS: (Removes Bill’s wallet) Let’s see who this guy really is. (opens wallet) His driver’s license says his name is… Bill Smith.

MARTHA: What the...? Wait a minute. (takes out the hundred dollar bills and holds them up to the light) I guess the joke’s on me. These bills aren’t phony after all. My bad. (Chris takes out his service pistol and points it at Martha)

MARTHA: What are you doing? What’s going on?

CHRIS: Come on Martha. You have been around long enough to know that when the studio doesn’t renew your contract, the writers write you out of the series. Your contract expires next week.

MARTHA: Don’t do it, Chris. If we stick together, we can both get better contracts.

CHRIS: Too late. I already signed my new contract. I get a bedroom scene and eight close up headshots in every episode. Goodbye, Martha. It’s been great working with you.
 
MARTHA: Wait! The studio will never find a replacement for my character by next episode.

CHRIS: They have already. You remember that young woman that we hired as an intern two episodes ago?

MARTHA: You mean that 20 something with the silicone breasts?

CHRIS: Uh, yeah, that one. In the next episode, she is promoted to detective first class and takes your place.

MARTHA: No! If you shoot me, I’ll never work with you again. Do you know what that means?

CHRIS: Sorry, Darling, but it’s in the script. I don’t have to know what it means.

Chris shoots Martha three times. He walks over to her body and shoots her in the head for good measure.

The End