Bury Your Gays E-Book

Chuck Tingle

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 452

Beschreibung

From the USA Today bestselling author of Camp Damascus, comes a new heart-pounding story about what it takes to succeed in a world that wants you dead. Misha is a jaded scriptwriter working in Hollywood, and he's seen it all. All the toxic personalities and coverups, the structural obstructions to reform, even dead actors brought back to screen by CGI – and finally, maybe, the hint of change. But having just been nominated for his first Oscar, Misha is pressured by his producers to kill off a gay character in the upcoming season finale—"for the algorithm"—on the same day he witnesses to gruesome death-by-piano of treasured animator (and notorious creep) Raymond Nelson. Success, it seems, isn't the answer to everything. With the help of his best friend and paranoid database queen, Tara, and his boyfriend, Zeke, Misha has face down his traumatic childhood and past mistakes. But in a paranoid industry that thinks nothing of killing off talent, it's not so simple to find a way to do what's right.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by Chuck Tingle and available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Memento Mori

Inspiration 1996

To See and Be Seen

The Smoker

Lamb

Nice Drive

A Ghost Story

Mrs. Why

Inspiration 2001

Punch Ups

Blood Money

Sledgehammer

Inspiration 1999

The Great Meadow Prison Break-In

Gallows Humor

Genre Roulette

In Memoriam

Killjoy

Buried

Season Finale

About the Author

Also by Chuck Tingle and available from Titan Books

CAMP DAMASCUS

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Bury Your Gays

Print edition ISBN: 9781803365183

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803365190

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: July 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Chuck Tingle 2024

Chuck Tingle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Memento Mori

The backlot is humming with energy today, and I’m not thrilled about it. Rolling up to the east security gate is typically a surefire way to cruise right in and get any tedious studio afternoon over with, but I’ve discovered a line of five or six cars waiting for me.

It’s always something with this place, and today that something is poor traffic management.

I settle in, watching April at the security booth as she flashes her welcoming smile at each producer, actor, writer, and director making their way through the checkpoint.

I can’t quite see who she’s talking to, the rising California sun washing my eyes in its golden glow. Even through these dark sunglasses it’s hard to get a read on the driver of the McLaren with the scissor doors and obnoxious paint job, but a shock of stark white hair hints at Raymond Nelson, head of the animation department and real-deal Hollywood legend. This would make sense, as he rarely keeps the same car for more than a month and I’ve yet to notice this vehicle on the lot.

Ray is old-school. I used to be terrified of the guy, but have since come to appreciate his no-bullshit approach to this business after two decades of weathering it myself. Regardless of your opinion on Raymond Nelson’s studio battles and legendary tantrums, there’s a lot to be said for sticking around as long as he has.

A few years back I worked for him on a pitch, a cartoon concept that never really got off the ground and eventually became a live-action TV pilot, and while his ideas about certain social issues are alarmingly dated, he maintains the spark that once propelled him to the top. The guy isn’t just some suit. Raymond put in the hours, hand-drawing every cell of his first animated short before I was even born. He’s part of the rare handful still with us who built this studio from the ground up.

On the other hand, he’s also a blowhard asshole.

Ray eventually pulls onward in his six-figure sportscar, this lime-green vehicle acting as yet another billboard for his decades-deep midlife crisis. The absurd sight of Ray’s new luxury vehicles usually triggers a smile of bemusement, but as Ray leaves the checkpoint I notice a look of exaggerated distaste on April’s face.

This expression quickly shifts back to her usual warmth as the next car pulls up, and the process begins anew.

I move forward in turn, the whole line shifting one space, then put my car in park again. For the life of me, I can’t remember it ever taking this long.

It’s also possible my nerves are just stretching my perception of time like taffy. I’m rarely tense over a meeting—I just show up, tell them to fuck off, and leave—but this one feels different.

Everything in this town feels different lately.

I lean back in my seat and turn down the car stereo, which has been blasting the snarling howl of British punk band IDLES into my eardrums at an admittedly dangerous volume, and check in on myself. Deep breaths fill my lungs—in and out, in and out—and I facilitate this moment of peace even more by cracking the windows a bit.

To my right lies the Harold Brothers backlot, a sprawling mass of offices and breathtakingly large soundstages. To my left is an empty field of tall yellow grass that leads right up to the backside of Griffith Park. The studio owns these unused swaths of land, and one day they, too, will be covered in monstrous, rectangular soundstages. For now, however, these rare natural spaces peeking through the vast Los Angeles sprawl are treating my ears to a soft, brittle rustle, the gentle wind shifting millions of dry grass blades against their neighbors.

My eyes close as the sun warms my skin.

Honk! Honk!

The sounds are unexpected, but too far away to prompt much of a reaction. This invasion of my auditory space consists of two staccato blurts from a horn, an instrument that could just as easily belong to a circus clown as it could a passing bicycle.

I slowly open my eyes and turn my head toward the open field.

A cardboard cutout stands awkwardly within this vast plain of golden grass, frozen in place as the blades rattle gently against its cartoon knees. It’s a human-sized rendering of Chucky the Woodchuck, his two massive front teeth framed by the maniacal grin that launched an animation empire. Weekday mornings I’d watch this ball of hand-drawn energy face off against Wiley Wolf, the two-dimensional forest their own personal Home Alone house stuffed full of anvils, mallets, and comically oversized dynamite sticks.

It’s always thrilling to see prey outsmart predator, even if that means strapping an anthropomorphic wolf to rocket skates and sending him to the moon.

This cardboard depiction of Chucky the Woodchuck is from his early days, stark black and white with a distinctly vintage design. He doesn’t have his gloves yet, and his divergent eyes are much wilder than the modern version.

Back in the day, there was a large portion of potential viewers who found his zany, buck-toothed expression . . . well, frightening. Adjustments were made.

Chucky is holding a bicycle horn in one hand.

I stare at this cardboard cutout in silence, first a little surprised I hadn’t noticed it until now, then wondering how it got all the way out there. The field is enormous, and while we’re close enough to the back gate for Chucky the Woodchuck’s arrival to have a dozen or so logical explanations, there’s something about his placement that feels odd. Someone had to trudge deep into that tall grass and prop him up.

Chucky the Woodchuck’s rolling, multidirectional eyes feel as though they’ve somehow met mine, angled to both the left and the right, yet drawing me in. I get the same eerie feeling I did all those years ago, plopped in front of the television set.

The original design really was creepy.

Honk!

The squeak blasts again, only this time it’s much louder. I jolt abruptly, eyes flickering up to the rearview mirror and discovering the driver behind me is serving a gesture of frustration.

The cars ahead have already pulled forward two full spaces, leaving a gaping hole.

“Get off your phone!” the driver shouts.

“I’m not on my phone!” I yell back, awkwardly pointing at the palm of my hand.

He just shakes his head with seething irritation. He flicks his hand toward me, shooing me onward.

“Fuck you, too!” I shout in parting.

By the time I get my car in drive it’s a straight shot to the security booth.

“Crazy day, huh?” I start, pulling up next to April’s little white security hut.

“Misha!” she cries, excited to see me or doing an excellent job of pretending. “It’s been a while.”

I nod. “You know a script’s bad when they can’t just schedule a Zoom about it.”

“I’m sure it’s great. Congratulations, by the way.”

I force a nod of acceptance, feeling awkward about the praise. I never quite learned how to take a compliment, and at this age I don’t think I ever will. “Sure. Yeah.”

April hands over a small blue box. “Thumb,” she instructs.

“You’re asking for prints now?”

April shrugs. “They’re updating everything around here. New security stuff. That’s why it’s taking so long.”

I press my thumb against the tiny device a few times until, eventually, it emits a soft digital beep.

“All done,” April announces with a grin. She takes back the glowing blue cube. “Good luck with the meeting.”

I continue on, glancing in my rearview mirror to discover the cardboard woodchuck has disappeared, probably knocked over by the wind and laid out somewhere in the tall grass.

Giant beige walls rise around me, a gridded labyrinth of passages between every soundstage on the lot. These towering buildings block out the sun, creating a web of shady alleyways where various production teams avoid the heat and go about their daily routines. As with the gate, a strange disarray permeates this scene, the hustle and bustle of an already active backlot taken to unexpected heights.

A single building, the Harold Brothers water tower, looms above the rest, and as this iconic structure bathes me in its shade, I remove my sunglasses.

This particular section of Harold Brothers Studios is arranged around a central hub, a portion of the lot where important office bungalows are situated and a coffee shop routinely attracts tired crew members on lunch breaks. A well-manicured grass field sits at the center, complete with a lush, palm-filled garden and a constantly flowing fountain of crystalline water.

I park in a spot near the promenade, climbing from my vehicle and heading up the winding sandstone path. People are everywhere, some of them wandering past me in the middle of impassioned conversations on their AirPods, others talking loudly over coffee as they perch on various benches. I pick up the pace.

My meeting awaits just beyond this chaotic little oasis.

“Misha, you fuck!” someone calls out, prompting an unexpected halt in my stride.

Fortunately, I’d know this voice anywhere, and a smile has already bloomed across my face before I even turn around.

Tara Ito is rushing across the lawn to greet me, my best friend’s arms wide open as she prepares her warm embrace. She’s wearing a bright orange suit with a glittering, silver-sequined button-up and a bolo tie underneath, three very distinct choices that might like look downright comical on anyone else.

My friend somehow pulls it off, though. She always pulls it off.

Tara is small, but her energy is twice the size of an average human. Her hair is naturally black, but she’s managed to lift it all the way to a stark white that works in playful contrast with her youthful appearance.

The only thing that gives her away as someone currently in the midst of a grueling workday is the leather satchel cast haphazardly over her shoulder, an assortment of black and yellow computer cables bubbling forth.

The fact that Tara spends most of her time alone, poring over server bays and strolling down dark industrial corridors, is hilarious to me. We’re surrounded by executives prepping for a day’s worth of face-to-face meetings, yet none of them have half the confidence and swagger Tara does.

We hug. “How’s my beautiful baby boy?” Tara questions, pulling back to look me in the eyes. I’m three years older than Tara, but her predilection for calling me “baby” remains unfettered.

“I’m ready to get this meeting over with,” I admit.

“Oh, your super difficult meeting where the VP of television gives you two notes and then sucks you off for an hour?” she counters. “I’m implementing the revised IP security protocol across fifty-seven buildings today.”

“Wanna trade?” I quip.

“You know I don’t swing that way,” Tara replies, then winks. “I don’t swing any way, baby.”

“Still on to watch those screeners later?”

“God, yes,” Tara confirms with a sigh. She’s straightening out the collar of my jacket now, picking off some lint and flattening the crease.

Suddenly, Tara riffles through the inside pocket of my blazer and yanks out my cell phone. Before I get the chance to protest she holds it up to my face and unlocks the screen.

“Put your phone on airplane mode whenever you’re on the lot,” she states, scrolling through my settings and taking care of it herself.

Once finished, Tara opens my jacket and returns the phone to its rightful position.

I can’t help laughing. “Why?”

My friend’s expression flickers with a rare moment of solemn gravity. “Data packets.”

“I have no idea what those are,” I admit. “What if I need to take a call?”

“Do what I do,” she replies, pulling two separate phones from her pocket and fanning them out in one hand. “Work and play. Congratulations, by the way.”

For the second time today I find myself immediately dismissing a compliment. I grimace before Tara can even finish her sentence. “It’s an empty category. I don’t even think it’s televised.”

“You fucking asshole,” she scolds, putting her phones away. “It is televised. It’s a big deal. People don’t just accidentally get nominated for an Oscar.”

“Best Live Action Short Film. There’s no dialogue and it stars a mouse.”

“It’s a big deal,” she counters sternly, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Thank you,” I finally relent, accepting her words of appreciation. I glance around the park. “Is that why it’s so crazy today? Nominee announcements?”

Tara laughs, then nods her head toward the soundstage looming to my right. “You could say that.”

I follow my friend’s gesture, gazing up at a colossal display emblazoned across the building. I was so focused on getting in and out of the backlot that I didn’t even take a moment to look up. Now that I have, I’m overwhelmed by the presence of an enormous mural.

The entire side of this soundstage has been covered by an image of superstar actor Chris Oak. He’s sitting at a glass table and looking exhausted, the lighting orange and dramatic as it shows off his notoriously expressive face. The guy is breathtakingly handsome, his brown hair slicked back but disheveled. He’s wearing a white suit, a ghost of the 1980s woven through its tailoring. A hint of brilliant red is splattered across the stark cuff of Chris’s wrist.

Workers perched on hanging scaffolding are carefully pasting this image into place, rolling it onto the wall piece by piece. Still, there’s more than enough here to deliver the text.

Huge block letters stretch across the top:

THE YEAR WAS 1986. THE CITY WAS MIAMI. THE MAN WAS LEGENDARY. CHRIS OAK IS ENZO BASILE IN . . . BROKENDON.

The lower half of the image has additional copy, but it’s still too shocking to fully accept.

I force myself to read it aloud. “Making history. First Academy Award nomination for a posthumous performance.”

There’s plenty of folks who’ve been nominated for big awards after their death, and while this is typically a story of note, it’s nothing earth-shattering. The difference is that these previous nominations occurred posthumously, but the performance itself did not.

Chris Oak died three years before filming BrokenDon—the fictional crime epic that’s now poised to sweep awards season. His likeness was fabricated from whole cloth using mountains of previous footage and cutting-edge CGI technology.

Supposedly, the choices in digital Chris’s performance are precisely what the actor would’ve done, and now this uncanny AI creation has been nominated for best actor.

Thanks to the valiant strikes of hardworking actors and writers, humans are still being credited for some of this work, and Chris’s family will receive a portion of the residuals.

The pay is technically better than ever. Which is to say, still not enough.

“They’re having him do a video chat press tour,” Tara informs me, her eyes still glued to the enormous mural before us. “That’s why I’m updating security protocols. The studio doesn’t want anyone hacking the transmissions and getting a look at the HBS special sauce.”

These days, a studio’s private algorithm is just as valuable as their stable of talent and, to their credit, Harold Brothers is the best of the best. AI performances are hardly a new phenomenon, but HBS are the only ones whose creations are indistinguishable from a flesh-and-blood actor. The eerie CGI renditions of other studios often get a pass for sheer novelty, but the uncanny valley is still too wide for serious consideration.

That’s why Harold Brothers Studios is getting the nomination, and they’re not.

“What a nightmare,” I sigh.

“It’s horrifically ghoulish and probably the end of the world,” Tara states flatly, then pats her satchel of wires and cables. “I feel safer with my eye on the zombies, though, and looking after the graveyard pays pretty well.”

She’s not wrong. We still need to eat.

“Hey, don’t be late for your meeting,” Tara says.

I give her another hug before we part ways. “I’ll see you tonight.”

With that, I turn and forge deeper into the sun-soaked belly of this multibillion-dollar beast.

* * *

It’s not long before the winding sandstone path arrives at a towering office, constructed with the same breezy Southern California style as the bungalows but looming three stories high. This structure is surrounded by massive succulents, the drought-resistant plants jutting out toward me with enormous green spikes.

As I enter the lobby, a secretary greets me with a smile and a nod. I’ve never seen her before, but she knows my name.

“Misha Byrne,” the woman says, motioning toward the elevator. “Mr. Hays is ready for you.”

I step into the lift and push a button for the top floor. Soon enough, the metal doors are opening wide to reveal a stunning view of the studio backlot.

This room features massive floor-to-ceiling windows, and although we’re not high enough to see over the nearby soundstages, I’m now positioned to gaze directly down one of the shadowy aisles and straight to the hills beyond. To the right is that colossal mural of Chris Oak as Enzo Basile, its diligent crew nearly finished with their application.

The office of Jack Hays looks as though it were manifested from the pages of a mid-century modern coffee table book, perfectly staged to appear more like someone’s luxury beachside vacation rental than an office. The only thing that gives the charade away is a handful of movie and television posters lining the wall to my right, some of the most important media offerings in Harold Brothers history.

A poster for my first show at Harold Brothers, Devil’s Due, hangs at the far end of this row, partially tucked behind a wide-leafed indoor palm. On it, a demonic librarian sits behind a check-out counter, her head resting on one hand as she rolls her eyes in overblown disappointment. A stack of overdue library books rest next to her, and the top one is on fire.

A friendly demon is forced to work at a children’s library. Hilarity ensues. Everyone learns.

It was canceled after one season—hardly up to the caliber of the other hits on this wall—but for some reason Jack still hangs it.

It’s hidden behind a plant, but still.

Jack claps his hands when he sees me, proudly showing off a display of alarmingly white teeth. “There he is!” the executive cheers, strolling across the room.

Jack’s work takes place entirely behind the scenes, yet his appearance suggests the end result of some grueling casting call for “charming asshole studio head.” His suit is perfectly tailored, fitting his toned chest and shoulders with surreal perfection. The man’s eyes are brilliant blue, and his youthful haircut would be marred by salt-and-pepper grays if not for consistent sandy blond dye jobs. A single white bud is stuffed into his right ear, Bluetooth connected and ready for anything.

I extend my hand for a shake, but Jack’s response is to offer me a pound with his closed fist.

“Thanks for coming in to see me, buddy,” Jack continues, motioning toward a chair next to his desk.

“What’s going on?”

A look of bemused surprise flickers across Jack’s face as he takes his place behind the table. He leans back in his chair, grinning. “Right down to business, huh?”

“Well, I hate being here,” I remind him.

Jack lets out a chuckle. “You don’t even wanna ask me how Braylin’s soccer tournament went?”

“I’m sorry. How did Braylin’s soccer tournament go?”

“Fucking terrible. Her team sucks,” Jack states flatly, “but she has fun out there. You should come next time.”

I nod along. “I mean, I’ve got a lot of work to do. Travelers starts filming in a few months.”

“I know when filming starts, Misha.”

There’s nothing sinister in the way he says these words, yet they immediately strike a chord. Jack doesn’t need to be angry to wield his power; the full might of a massive media conglomerate does that work for him.

Jack motions out the window toward Enzo’s captivating visage, changing the subject and setting the pace whether I like it or not. “Pretty cool . . . Technology, right?”

“I feel like the real Chris Oak would’ve turned down that role,” I say. “He didn’t really play villains.”

“Well, how exciting is that? Now he can,” Jack counters.

“Was he even Italian?”

Jack gets deathly serious for a moment. “The ethnicity of the Broken Don is left ambiguous in the script.”

I furrow my brow.

“Wasn’t there an episode of Travelers about the ghost of Elvis Presley?” Jack prods. “I don’t recall Misha Byrne having any problem using someone’s celebrity likeness in a script that he wrote.”

“Elvis Presslin,” I remind Jack. “Legal made me change his last name once they realized The King would be dismembering people.”

Jack stares past me and squints a little, the expression of someone searching their memory banks and coming up empty.

“Regardless, nobody thought it was actually Elvis,” I continue. “No shade to David Duchovny—he did a great job. I also had a good reason to include him. Elvis was a symbol of my relationship with fame and celebrity.”

“I still don’t see the difference.”

“One choice was for art and the other for commerce.”

Jack can’t help cracking a smile. “God bless you, Misha. You still think there’s a difference.”

The muralists have finished their Broken Don ad and a new crew has arrived. This second shift is preparing an enormous pully-and-lever system, lifting various speakers, classical instruments, and other equipment onto the soundstage roof.

“Don’t you wanna know what they’re doing over there?” Jack asks, changing the subject.

“No.”

“Music video shoot.” He barrels onward. “Incredible soundtrack. Also nominated. They’ve got an ‘Owner of a Lonely Heart’ cover that’ll make you cum.”

“Right,” I say dryly, nodding along.

“But you know how getting nominated feels. Congratu-fucking-lations, my man.”

“Thank you,” I reply. “Can we get to the part where you explain what I’m doing here?”

“You’re a very important member of this family, I hope you know that. I hope you know how much I personally love your writing,” the executive gushes. “That cliffhanger at the end of Travelers season two? Oh my God. Seriously, you floor me. You fucking floor me, buddy. I mean, you could do it ten times faster if you’d let a computer take the lead, but whatever. There’s still an audience for the organic stuff. Don’t forget that.”

“But there’s a problem,” I interject, hoping to cut to the chase for a second time.

Jack hesitates, his expression shifting a bit. “A very small problem,” he explains. “I got your season-three finale and I read it over on Friday . . . a few people read it over, actually . . . and we’ve got some notes.”

I settle in, trying not to react just yet. It’s not that I have a problem with getting notes, but this almost never happens. I’m a skilled enough writer that the work speaks for itself, and as long as ratings are good, the fine folks at Harold Brothers generally keep their opinions to themselves.

“Did you know my nephew is gay?” Jack asks.

“Congrats?” I reply awkwardly.

“I’m just letting you know that I’m not some right-wing nutjob, I understand gay culture. I’m plugged in.”

“I’ve known you for like a decade and a half,” I remind him. “You’re very homophobic.”

A flicker of panic surges across Jack’s face.

“I’m fucking with you,” I continue. “Or am I?”

“Wait, what?”

“Get to the point,” I snap.

“The point is, I’m not the bad guy here,” Jack continues. “It’s the suits, you know? It’s the whole damn system.”

I stare at him blankly, genuinely curious if Jack’s aware that he’s the system.

“We need you to change the kissing scene between Agent Lexa and Agent Naomi.”

I scoff. “Walk me through this. If they don’t kiss, then how are the viewers gonna confirm they’ve actually been falling in love the whole time? This episode starts with them sharing a one-bed hotel room!”

Jack winces a bit, shifting in his chair. “Yeah, we’re gonna need you to change that part, too.”

I can’t help the laughter that suddenly bubbles up within me and escapes my throat like a noxious cloud of anxiety.

This type of queer erasure was common years ago, but times have changed. Gay characters are everywhere now, and the audience for this type of story is only growing. Pulling the plug on the lesbian relationship of your heroes—one that’s been simmering for years—is utterly absurd.

“You understand I’ve been laying the groundwork for this moment, right?” I snap, the anger finally surging through my veins in a potent wave. “This was always the plan for Travelers. I’m not going to straighten out two of the most obviously gay characters on television. Besides, the whole second half of their arc is based on this relationship being romantic.”

Jack nods along, wearing a face that already screams I-hear-your-concerns-but . . .

“You’ve put a lot of heart into these two,” Jack continues. “That’s why I called you in to discuss this face-to-face. There are a few options here, Misha.”

“Does one of them include a kiss between Carey Lexa and May Naomi?” I question.

“Yes,” my boss replies.

A hint of relief suddenly enters the caustic mix of anger and fear that’s swirling through me. Maybe this whole thing is just a huge misunderstanding.

“You’ve just gotta kill th—” Jack finally continues.

“Fuck you,” I exclaim, well before the final word has slipped through his lips.

I leap from my chair, struggling to find a way for my body to process this frustrated energy. I begin to pace, gazing out the window at an expansive view of the juggernaut I’ve been riding for decades, the machine finally turning around and rumbling back to crush me under its mighty wheels.

In the early days, I was protected by the fact that I had nothing to lose, and success provided an even stronger armor against studio meddling.

Until now.

“Listen, this isn’t my call, it’s all up to the board,” Jack explains. “I’m just the messenger.”

“Who the fuck is the board? There’s no board.”

“The people who sign our checks these days,” he reveals, exhibiting a bit of frustration himself. Jack glances at the door as if someone out there might be listening in. He lowers his voice a bit. “The merger changed everything, buddy. It used to be my job to make these calls, now I just get an email from the board. Everything is fucking data points and trends and graphs and targeted marketing. I’d say it’s all bullshit, but I’ve seen the results. The money doesn’t lie.”

“And the money says Lexa and Naomi aren’t lesbians?” I question.

“Well, no,” Jack counters. The executive opens an email, quickly reading it over to refresh himself on the facts. He clears his throat. “I’ll tell you exactly what the money says: you need a new cast member, aged eighteen to twenty-four, white, with a conservative disposition. The money says you need to make room for this new character by eliminating one of your old leads, who have been refusing to do press, by the way, and that doesn’t help. But the real money says you need to let your gay characters finally open up about who they are and then kill them off. That’s the story that brings drama, and drama brings subscribers, and subscribers bring me—and by extension, you—a boatload of fucking cash. So cheer up and kill off these two chicks who don’t even exist, buddy.”

“That’s not this story,” I firmly retort, “and these are creative decisions, not executive ones.”

Jack turns his computer to face me, the screen revealing an open email and a long stack of bullet points. “The algorithm says otherwise. The board has raw data on this, and they’re projecting a huge leap in viewership.”

I stop pacing. I had a feeling shit was gonna get weird, but not this weird.

“Remember, you’ve got a few options here. If you wanna make them straight you can, but the board is leaning hard toward killing Agent Lexa and Agent Naomi in a blaze of gay glory.” Jack leans back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. “I’m honestly kind of surprised. You’ve got a flair for drama, Misha. I thought you might get hard over some final sacrifice for love or whatever. I mean, you’re the writer, not me, but that’s got Emmy written all over it.”

“Bury your gays,” I reply, utterly deadpan.

Jack rolls his eyes.

“In film, in TV, in books . . . the queer characters never get a happy ending,” I press. “Sometimes they’re the first to go, other times they make some brave sacrifice in the finale, but it always ends in tragedy and death. That’s why it’s called bury your gays.”

“Okay . . . well . . . start digging,” Jack suggests bluntly.

“I’m guaranteed creative control on this project.” I laugh. “We have a contract.”

“Contracts break all the time.”

“You’d really end our deal over this?”

“There would be a very long, very arduous legal battle,” Jack explains, a distinctly threatening tone seeping into his voice. “If you did get a payout, I don’t know how much of that money you’d actually see. Studio lawyers are savage, and their pockets are endless. I’m not telling you this to fuck with you, I’m telling you this as a friend.”

“So that’s the big bet?” I question. “You’ll make more money killing off my gay leads than you’ll lose fighting the legal battle over it?”

“Or you could just come through for the studio that’s had your back since day one,” Jack counters. “I kill off characters every day in this office, Misha. You’re not the first showrunner I’ve had this conversation with, and you certainly won’t be the last. It’s not a big deal if you don’t make it one.”

“It’s a big deal to Carey Lexa and May Naomi.”

Jack laughs. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but they’re not real.”

A wave of emotion suddenly bubbles up within my chest and sticks in my throat. I feel sick, the reality of this situation finally starting to puncture my tough exterior.

“You have about four weeks to turn in your finale script, so there’s time to decide,” Jack reminds me. “After that, you’ll be in breach of contract and the characters will turn back over to Harold Brothers anyway. You can write them off on your own terms, or someone else will do it for you. I’m sorry, Misha. You know I love you, but this isn’t my call.”

Jack’s demeanor suddenly changes. He straightens up and taps the white plastic bud in his ear. “Yeah. Yep. I’ll be ready in five.” Jack presses the earbud again, returning his gaze to mine. “See? I’m about to kill off Pickles the Police Dog, and they think they’re coming up here for a full-season pickup. This is the job, Misha.”

Jack leads me back to his elevator. He presses the call button, prompting the doors to open with a soft chime.

“Well, I’m not gonna make your changes,” I announce, turning and stepping into the lift. “They’ll be even gayer now.”

“I guess we’ll see you in court!” Jack retorts with a smile.

“Go fuck yourself!”

“Good talk, buddy!” He’s still grinning as the metal doors slide closed between us.

The second I’m all alone in the mirrored lift I catch my gaze in the reflection, a late-thirties man with shaggy brown hair and angular features. My smug expression of artistic defiance immediately falters.

By the time the doors open again I’ve fully collected myself, despite the subtle wetness at the corners of my bright blue eyes.

I head out into the lobby, barely acknowledging Jack’s secretary as she offers a cordial goodbye.

A woman in a light gray pantsuit stands up from the nearby couch, gathering her things. She strolls past me and enters the elevator, completely unaware that she’s headed for an execution. The lift doors close, the shining blade of a guillotine.

Back in the courtyard I slow down a bit, struggling to rein in my emotions. I close my eyes and lean back, allowing the sun to cascade across my face and warm my skin.

Everything’s gonna be fine. If there’s one thing you’re good at doing, it’s writing yourself out of a corner.

Still, I can’t help the feeling that this is something no amount of storytelling talent can overcome.

Honk!

I freeze in response to this unexpected sound drifting down from somewhere above. I open my eyes and scan the crisscrossed pattern of breezy palms hanging over my head, then beyond them to the soundstage rooftops.

There are no answers to be found, no clowns rolling by on unicycles or cardboard cutouts of a black-and-white woodchuck.

This moment of honed senses gradually crumbles away as the chaotic backlot atmosphere returns. I didn’t like coming here when things were going well, and now I’m even more anxious to put some distance between me and this cursed landscape of tram tours and live studio audiences.

I’ve gotta get out of here.

I start walking again, making my way past the coffee shop and over the central green. I stop only long enough to grab a free souvenir matchbook from the eatery. I drop the matches into my pocket, the fresh cardboard rectangle settling next to the one that’s already there, then continue toward the parking lot.

Everything’s gonna be fine, I tell myself again, fully aware that it’s probably not but letting the words soothe my brain anyway.

A familiar McLaren is parked next to my car, and as I approach the vehicles I notice Raymond Nelson for the second time this morning. The ancient cartoonist is chatting up a young woman some twenty yards onward, standing under the watchful gaze of an enormous, computer-generated mob boss. The woman has several wardrobe choices draped over her shoulder, and she appears increasingly frustrated by her conversation with Raymond.

On a lot like this, there’s more than enough conflict to go around. This little interaction shouldn’t catch my attention as much as it does, but for some reason I resolve to keep an eye on things. Maybe it’s my frustration with the whole damn studio, the anger of my previous meeting spilling over into some righteous hero complex, but instead of climbing into my car I decide to step a little closer.

I listen in, my eyes trained on the interaction between Raymond and the young wardrobe assistant. Ray is laughing, but the woman grows more agitated by the second. As their conflict reaches a climax, Ray reaches out and puts his hand around the woman’s waist, a cheeky pinch inciting her to jump and struggle against him.

“Hey!” I shout, immediately prompting the animation legend to let go and meet my gaze.

He’s still laughing, a truly frightening response. The guy was caught red-handed being a creep, yet his legendary status renders anything I could possibly say utterly meaningless.

“I’m just messing around.” Raymond chuckles, then turns his attention back to the wardrobe assistant. “Right? I’m just messing around?”

The woman says nothing in return, simply throwing her hands up and walking away.

As I continue marching toward Raymond I quickly realize I have no idea what I’m going to do when I get there. I’m running on instinct now, a spring wound so tightly that some kind of release is inevitable. Fortunately, it’s times like this that my writer’s instinct kicks in. I’m not sure what path I’ll take, but I certainly know what one of my heroes would do in a situation like this. It might seem silly, but this mental exercise has consistently helped me when I needed it the most.

I stop directly before the cartoonist. “Listen, you old fuck, this isn’t nineteen twenty anymore. You can’t just grab people like that.”

Raymond continues to laugh, raising his gnarled hands in a stance of mock defensiveness. I couldn’t be any less of a threat to him. “Uh-oh, security is here!”

There are plenty of things I could verbally rip into, hoping to tear him down, but a man like Raymond doesn’t get into this position without thick skin. He’s hoping I’ll get wound up, waiting in a state of bemusement to see what I’ll say next.

“A lot of people look up to you around here,” I finally state with fiery clarity. “You’re a legend, and you’re better than—”

Before I have a chance to finish my sentence an unexpected yelp of panic rings out from above. The shout is so bewildering that I barely have time to look up, and at Raymond’s ripe old age he doesn’t even hear it.

One second I’m yelling at a smug asshole in an expensive suit, the next there’s nothing there. A mighty, splintering crunch rings out, accompanied by a dissonant musical stab like this moment was a horror movie jump scare. My ears are ringing and my face is wet, but I have no idea why.

Gradually, horrified screams cut through the ringing in my ears, cries spilling forth all around me. The wardrobe assistant is standing to the side, petrified and covered in blood. Her eyes are wide, her jaw trembling.

“Are you alright?” I struggle to ask, but the words come out awkward and stilted. I wonder if I even said them at all.

I follow the woman’s gaze, staring down at the mess that’s appeared before me. The wooden remains of a massive grand piano have shattered across the pavement, its jet-black finish and light interior meshing with the liquified crimson mess that was once Raymond Nelson.

This would explain the brief musical accompaniment.

Ray has popped like a water balloon, his body utterly annihilated by the weight of this enormous classical instrument.

My gaze lifts skyward, eyes meeting the crew tasked with hoisting supplies onto the roof for today’s video shoot. They’re frozen, too, their expressions a single frame of abject horror.

A snapped cable flutters in the wind.

Inspiration 1996

I was nine years old, staring at the screen of a humming analog television set and absolutely certain that Agent Peters and Agent Martin were about to break out in a loving, passionate kiss. I couldn’t wait to see their lips meet as they feverishly tore away each other’s neatly pressed FBI suits.

Even then I was pretty good at knowing where stories were headed, not just when it comes to Dark Encounters, but with any show they trotted out on broadcast television in the midnineties. Those writers knew how to hit the beats. Eventually, I’d tell stories of my own—like I’m doing right now—but my young brain’s understanding of life’s grand mess was too visceral and intuitive to wrangle specific plot points. I hadn’t done the research yet, hadn’t devoured all the books I could find on constructing a screenplay (then ignored every piece of advice they doled out).

What I sensed was a series of quiet signals and tropes, little moments laid out in a specific way to guide this story to its target. Some of it was done through metaphor, other times through subtle acting cues between the two leads, but there’s no doubt the signs were there. In fact, as I stared up at those flickering images dancing across the cathode-ray screen, I was absolutely certain they had me in mind while writing it.

Well, not me, exactly, but people like me.

Morgan and Richie were wrestling on the couch nearby, and while this slight disturbance wasn’t quite enough to tear me away from my favorite show, it was still getting on my nerves. Every story thread over the last three seasons had led to this moment, and while I was initially excited to discover the season finale would land during my birthday sleepover, I hadn’t yet considered what that meant in terms of distractions.

I glanced back over my shoulder from my cross-legged position on the carpet, trying my best to stay cool and casual despite the fact that my frustration had reached a boiling point. “Hey! You should watch this part!” I awkwardly suggested.

My friends stopped punching each other, seemingly confused by my relatively straightforward request. They’d noticed the faintest tremble in my words, and this sign of weakness meant the boys could worm themselves into a new, elevated position within our hierarchy of friends, if only for a moment.

Kids can be cruel, that’s all there is to it. I know this now, and for some reason that makes it sting much less, but I can still remember the way it felt back then. The emotion that cut through me was not just anger or frustration, but fear.

“Why do you wanna watch this show so bad?” Richie questioned.

His tone was innocent enough, but I couldn’t help feeling an accusatory vise tighten.

“It’s really good,” I assured them, my voice cracking as crimson flooded the water. Even at my own birthday, no one was safe.

Richie rolled his eyes. “It’s boring. Nothing happens.”

He was dead wrong. The relationship between Agent Peters and Agent Martin had shifted and grown in a number of fascinating ways, and those monumental character changes had been expertly woven through the agents’ supernatural encounters with a subtle brilliance. It far surpassed any other television shows of the day.

Eventually, this kind of thoughtful writing that blended pulpy aesthetics with a deeper message would become more common on the small screen, elevating television to the level of cinema despite a few humorless arguments to the contrary. Regardless of its sometimes campy subject matter, Dark Encounters was a pioneer in the world of event TV.

It certainly had a personal effect, sending me on my path toward creative bliss—or a loop of endless artistic torture, depending on the way you look at it. Things could’ve happened differently if my friends had been a little more careful with their words, but then where would I be?

(I now know this was the kind of thing that sticks with you forever, pinned in the past but somehow bleeding through into the present. Every time I think about that moment, it still feels like I’m sitting right there in the basement of my parents’ suburban pre-divorce home, like I’m existing in two places at once.

Some events are timeless, I guess, stuck between past, present, and future. They’re a different color than the rest. A different scale. A different tense. When you turn them into a screenplay or a song or a novel or even a piece of erotic fanfiction, these are the moments that will outlive your body.)

“Just watch,” I insisted, my attention still glued to the screen.

“It’s Misha’s birthday,” my best friend, Lance, interjected forcefully.

I appreciated him reminding everyone why we were there, but at that point I’d already started feeling a suffocating blanket of embarrassment wrapping itself around me.

How could they not like Dark Encounters? Two FBI agents traipsed around the country solving uncanny cases of monsters and deeply rooted government conspiracies. What’s not to like?

I loved the episode where they found themselves trapped in an underground cave with a half man half mole, and the time they investigated a cult of cannibal chefs. Monster-of-the-week episodes were my favorite. Of course, everyone loved the ones dealing with alien abductions and the vast international scheme to cover them up.

What I enjoyed the most, however, was the way Agents Peters and Martin were forced to navigate their attraction to each other.

At just nine years old, I already knew I was gay, but I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. There weren’t many queer characters on TV to look up to for guidance.

Dark Encounters, however, offered me solace. With every passing episode the tension was ratchetted up just a little bit more between our leading agents, and a season finale was the perfect time to reveal all.

Truth be told, I was worried what my friends might say when this inevitable onscreen kiss occurred, but my love of Dark Encounters was worth the risk.

Besides, that wasn’t the only big shock of the evening. Previews for this episode also teased the revelation of Agent Y, a mysterious woman who lurked in the shadows and fed the agents clues when they needed them most. This character was always cloaked in darkness, strange and stoic but infinitely wise. She was portrayed as a fountain of knowledge, a supergenius who was always one step ahead of our heroes and might or might not be on their side.

At that point, the audience had never seen her face, but within the next fifteen minutes her exposure was a near certainty.

Onscreen, an exhausted and beleaguered Agent Martin held his partner in his arms. The two of them had been struggling to escape the relentless pursuit of a man with frightening abilities thanks to partial alien DNA.

Our heroes had discovered a quiet place to hide in an unlit warehouse, but Agent Peters was wounded and labored to breathe. Of course, that wasn’t the real end for this duo, but back then I was on the edge of my seat.

“Just go! Leave me here,” Agent Peters demanded, coughing and sputtering as corn-syrup blood ran down his chin.

“Never,” Agent Martin said, shaking his head from side to side. “We’re gonna see this through . . . together.”

My eyes grew wide as the characters leaned in close. This was it, the moment when everything finally revealed itself to those who hadn’t been paying enough attention. I was glued to the television, so focused I barely noticed the awkward looks from my circle.

“Let’s play NBA Jam,” my friend Seth hollered from behind me, but I ignored him.

There was more wrestling on the couch, only this time I managed to block out their distraction completely. My focus was locked tight on the flickering television screen.

“There’s something I should probably tell you,” Agent Peters continued, reaching out and placing a hand on his partner’s cheek. It was a clear display of romantic affection.

“Don’t,” countered Agent Martin, a denial that could be interpreted in two distinct ways. He was either pushing back against the assumption of his colleague’s looming demise or protesting the way this romance might complicate their professional relationship.

Of course, I knew they were talking about the latter.

“Shut—shut up,” Agent Peters stammered in return. “I’ve gotta get this off my chest, and if I don’t do it now, I never will.”

They leaned even closer, voices lowered to whispers. Their stare hadn’t broken once over the course of this entire scene as they bared their souls to each other.

I was so fucking excited.

Agent Peters hesitated, then began his admission, the words slipping delicately from his lips. “I’m . . . inlove . . .” he began, causing my muscles to tense.

Trembling with anticipation, my young body could barely handle the cocktail of emotions that pulsed through its frame.

My friends had grown quiet, their eyes glued to the screen. They were fully invested, no longer fighting on the couch or wolfing down folded slices of greasy pepperoni pizza.

This was it.

“With Agent Y,” my hero finished.

It felt like I’d been punched in the gut, tricked into following a trail of breadcrumbs then smacked with the hard fist of reality once I reached the end.

As if sensing my thoughts, Agent Martin laughed casually. “For a second there, I thought you were gonna say you had a crush on me,” he joked, oozing machismo.

It was played for laughs, and it worked. My friends chuckled. The knife twisted a little more in the heart of a kid just dying to watch someone who felt the same way he did.

Onscreen, the two agents glanced up as the sound of hard shoes on a cement floor rang out through the warehouse. It was a familiar tone, one that’d been used to signal the arrival of Agent Y since this show began.

The characters turned their attention to a dimly lit corridor, fog rolling across the ground for no other reason than the fact it was a spooky warehouse on television. The back wall featured a huge swath of light upon which Agent Y’s shadow was cast, the woman walking closer and closer to her inevitable reveal.

Her silhouette stretched longer and longer, betraying the proportions of typical human anatomy, and although this was clearly nothing more than a trick of the light—some underappreciated TV cinematographer’s quick dabble into German expressionism—I no longer cared to find out how she really looked.

I was a year or so too young to casually throw around the word fuck just yet, but I can gladly say it now: fuck this show.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I sprang to my feet and rushed toward the screen, forcefully slamming the power button just seconds before Agent Y was revealed. I didn’t care anymore.

“Hey!” Richie cried out, frustrated.

“You don’t wanna see what happens?” another friend interjected.

After all that, they were finally interested.

“Who cares,” I fumbled, sniffing a little as I struggled to contain the emotions simmering through my veins and threatening to boil over.

My friends abruptly froze, recognizing that something peculiar was going on. A silence fell over the room, covering the pizza and popcorn and sleeping bags and scattered Magic: The Gathering cards with an unexpected emotional weight.

Of all the vicious little fuckers that surrounded me, none was more frightening than Richie. He was a tough kid, but also unusually perceptive of the world around him. Later on, I’d realize that Richie was a bully, among other things.

“You know why Misha likes that show so much?” Richie joked. “He’s got a big fat crush on that Agent Martin guy.”

A wave of heat washed over my skin, a force so powerful it nearly buckled me at the knees. I’d been struggling to hold it together, but this accusation was the thing that finally knocked me over the edge. I’d fortified the emotional dam as much as I could, but the cracks had grown well past the point of repair.

The next thing I knew the levee had broken, washing through me and provoking my body to spin away from my friends in a sobbing mess.

I put some distance between myself and the group, snot running down my face as I hurried for the stairs and began my ascent.

“Hey, come back!” Lance cried out. “He’s just kidding!”

But he wasn’t kidding, and he wasn’t wrong.

I did have a crush on Agent Martin.

After pleading with my mom to not send Richie home, I finally returned to my friends in the basement.

Nobody mentioned my outburst. In fact, they barely looked over from the game of NBA Jam on the television before them.

I tucked the final remnants of my outburst away, then walked over and flopped onto the couch.

“I’ve got next.”

To See and Be Seen

The stonework driveway is long and winding, snaking its way through a forest of overgrown palms and ferns that spring up on either side of us in the relative darkness. Upward-f acing lights give portions of this tropical flora a luminous green glow, painting shadows across the canopy above as distant music rumbles through the night.

This kind of lengthy walk to your destination is rare in the residential zones of a city where space is limited and real estate is impossibly pricey, yet here we are. A rare few of these sprawling Laurel Canyon lots still extend in large swaths across the hillside, but most were divided up for the cash ages ago.

The mansion looms before us.