The Case of Krazy Kooky Kastmate

Hollywood town hall was packed solid with people. The air was thick with tension, fear, and a subtle under-current of that fake tan spray that makes you look orange. Words flew through that thick air like bottles at a soccer riot. Angry words jostled with scared words, and both of them fought with the rather thin words coming from the publicists.

"We can handle this situation!" said the publicist. "It's all a matter of finding the right spin."

"How can you spin this?" asked Jodie Foster as she leaped to her feet, revealing all four feet nine inches of height. "Mel Gibson's starring in my movie, and he's going to sink it before we're even finished!"

"We can spin our way out of this," repeated the publicist. "We can keep things contained."

"How!" screamed a voice from the studio's marketing department. "Harvey Levin and TMZ are on this like stink on a Uwe Boll movie. They aren't going to let go, and the rest of the media is going to follow!"

"We are handling this," said the publicist, "Lindsay has done a lot to deflect attention!"

"Oh!" wailed Mel Gibson's first wife, "won't someone please think of the children!?! I mean we've got like twenty of them at last count. How are we going to feed, clothe, and shelter them if he goes from the A-List to the shit list?"

Now was my time to be the voice of reason. I went next to the chalkboard and ran my fingernails down it.

SCREEEEEEEEEEECH!!!!

"Ow," screamed everyone. Then the publicist turned to me and asked: "Who the hell are you?"

"Arr," I said, in my best Robert Shaw grumble, "the name is Quint, I mean Furious D. I hear you have a Mel Gibson problem."

"We do," said Jodie Foster, "what can you do about it?"

"I'm a private dick by profession," I said, leaving a pause for them to insert their own jokes about that, when they failed at improv, I went on, "but I'm also an expert hunter. I hunt wild celebrities."

"You think you can stop Mel from saying other crazy stuff?" asked the publicist.

I lit a match, went to light my cigarette, realized I didn't smoke, and had just burned my upper lip, so after a few minutes of howling, I got to the point.

"I'll stop Gibson," I said, "I'll even fillet him for free."

"We don't want him filleted," said Jodie Foster. "We want him under control."

"So it's the full neuter package then," I said, "okay, I'll do it. It won't be cheap, but I'll do it."

***

"Who the hell are you?" I asked as a bespectacled little man appeared at my door.

"The name's Eddy Eager," said the little man, "Gibson's agent sent me to assist you."

"Have you handled many crazy celebrities?" I asked.

"Not many," said Eddy, "but I did once had to drive Kate Hudson to the airport. Traffic was bad and she was slightly irritated by that."

"That's nothing," I spat, then I passed him a handkerchief to wipe off the spit, "you don't know true fear until you've looked into the eyes of a celebrity that's completely lost control. They're black eyes, like a doll's eyes... dead, soulless eyes."

"Are you ripping off Jaws?"

"Shut up," I ordered, "and grab some tools we got work to do."

***

After much work, it was ready.

"What is it?" asked Eddy, fulfilling his role as a cheap excuse for exposition.

"It's a man-sized lobster trap," I answered. "Mel Gibson will smell the bait, go inside, then he won't get out. Then I give him the medication--"

"You mean the baseball bat?"

"That's a specialized therapy and medication tool," I corrected. "Once we medicate some sense into him, we'll be able to return him to the wild."

"What will we use as bait?"

"First," I said, "we use this..." and I rolled out a keg of Foster's Australian beer. "But to sweeten the pot, we need a woman with high cheekbones, predatory eyes, and a willingness to sign a pre-nup without reading it."

"We might not be able to find someone that dumb," said Eddy.

"Big breasts will be a good substitute."

"That can be arranged."

***

After the trap was built, it was all a matter of waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

I felt like someone trying to make a movie version of The Hobbit with all the pointless waiting, and realized that I had just dropped another inside movie business reference as a joke in this bit.

Then I heard it.

A deep voice with a vaguely Australian-American accent was singing a rude ditty that somehow involved the Queen. It was him, he was on the scent of the bait.

"It's him!" said Eddy.

"I already said that in the narration," I said, damning that this story was getting all meta on me again.

Mel Gibson swayed and stumbled over the hill. He's already on the beer, and judging by his singing about Her Britannic Majesty's bloomers, in the mood for love. A beaver puppet was on his hand, and it was singing in harmony, and adding anti-Semitic additions to the ditty.

This was going to be weird.

"Is the woman ready?" I asked.

"She's inflated," answered Eddy.

"Inflated?"

"I had to improvise," said Eddy.

"It better work," I said. "Look he's approaching the trap."

"Hello gorgeous," slurred Gibson. "I see you have a keg of beer. Well I could tap that."

Gibson climbed inside the trap. I pulled a lever, and snap, he was trapped inside. I then leaped from my hiding place, and swinging my special 'medication' for Mr. Gibson.

"FREEDOM!" I screamed. Earning a puzzled look from Eddy, who was not only poor at exposition, but at getting movie references too.

***

"Okay," said the publicist, "we have in a cage, but what do we do with him now?"

The folks were circling the caged Mel Gibson, who sullenly sucked from the keg, and wiped the slobber from his mouth with now deflated companion, while the beaver puppet muttered something about 'dem joos.'

"He's made violent racist and misogynist statements," said Jodie Foster, "that will kill his career. If it were drugs, underage girls, or underage girls on drugs we could forgive it. But not this."

"Oh," said Gibson's first wife, "won't someone think of the children, I think we're up to thirty of the little bastards now."

"There is a place for him," I said, "but it's not here in Hollywood."

"Where can he go?" asked the publicist.

"Senator Robert Byrd a former Kleagle of the KKK, died over a week ago at 92," I said, "actually, he died about six months ago, but they only noticed it recently. That means there's an opening in Washington. As long as he delivers the voters a lot of goodies, they'll be more forgiving than Hollywood."

The crowd cheered, patted me on the back, and passed me a big fat check. I then signaled Eddie to fire up the hoist and load Mel onto the back of the truck. We're going to Washington.