Chapter 2: Have Martini, Will Travel

written by: Erik Deckers (appearing courtesy of Laughing Stalk)

Jane McCaffrey and Julia LastNameYetToBeDisclosed, still drunk from their first-class flight to Bermuda, stumbled into the hotel room they were sharing, giggling like a couple of drunk 20-somethings on their first trip out of the country. By an amazing coincidence, this was actually exactly what they were.

The bellhop quietly carried their bags into the room, and hefted them on the luggage racks at the foot of the two queen beds.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, Miz McCaffrey or Miz LastNameYetToBeDisclosed?"

"No thanks," giggled Jane, slipping him a ten dollar bill.

"I hate my last name," whined Julia. "I mean, who in the hell gets named 'LastNameYetToBeDisclosed'?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's a typo or a lack of creativity on the part of the writer."

"That's probably it," muttered Julia. However, since she was so sloshed, it came out 'Dass probly it.'

She threw her arms in the air, as if commanding the heavens to send down lightning, "I hereby rename myself Julia Whatchamacallit."

"That's stupid."

"Yeah, you're right. How about Julia Whatshername?"

"Stupider."

The two women collapsed on a bed, laughing hysterically.

"Alright, Julia Falderall," shouted Julia.

"That's better," said Jane. "Hoo-boy, I am sooo drunk."

"Me too," whispered Julia.

The two women gazed into each other's eyes, realizing that at this moment, they were in their own world. They were free to explore hidden desires and new loves. Jane closed her eyes and leaned toward Julia, until the editor tapped the writer on the shoulder and reminded him that this story was rated PG, and not one of the filthy smut stories they usually co-wrote for FilthySmutStories.com.

Just then, a knock at the door interrupted what would have otherwise been a really hot moment.

The two women leaped up, vowing never to speak of this moment again (ever!), and opened the door.

A man, bearing a striking resemblance to Anthony Edwards, leaned against the doorframe. He stood there for a few seconds, his mouth moving as if he was trying to speak, but no sound came out.

A sound DID come out of Julia and Jane -- a sort of panicked shrieking sound -- when the ersatz Anthony Edwards collapsed into the room.

"Omigod, omigod, omigod," shrieked Jane.

Julia, emboldened by her new last name of Falderall (which really IS much better than LastNameYetToBeDisclosed if you think about it) grabbed the mystery man's shirt collar, dragged him into the room, and slammed the door. She kneeled down beside the man.

"Who are you?"

"There's no time for that." His breath came in short gasps. "Take this package. You must protect it with your life. Whatever you do, don't let it fall into the wrong hands. Keep it away from the Man in Blue. He's a large man who wears powder blue suits and white Panama hats. He's accompanied by a small weasely man named Ernest -- Ernest has an eye patch -- and a large muscle-bound woman named Ernestine. They're siblings, although everyone says there's no resemblance. Personally I think the whole brother-sister thing is just an act, and they're actually secret lovers. I mean, how many times do--"

"Wait a minute!" Julia interrupted. "You mean you don't have enough time to tell me your name, but you can give me the entire freakin' rundown on the supposed love life of a weasel and an Amazon?"

"Hey, this stuff is important. You'll need to know these things," the man rasped.

"Maybe so, but I don't see why we can't know what your name is."

"Alright, alright. It's...Andrew Edmonds."

Jane spoke up, "Wow, that's an amazing coincidence. You look just like Anthony Edwards."

The man rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. "I told you we didn't have time for this. Anyway, take this package, and deliver it to Elliot Bonnaroo at Palm Fronds. He'll have further instructions."

Julia stood up. "Why do WE have to take it? I mean, we just get here and you fall into our room, mumbling about whether two hench-people are sexually involved or not, and you expect us to take this package to some guy we've never heard of? Does he have more salacious details about Ernest and Ernestine's sex life?"

"No, he's an expert on the sexual proclivities of public television political commentators." And with that, Andrew Edmonds expired right on the floor.

"Ewww, what are we going to do, Julia?" whined Jane. "I mean, he's lying here on our floor, all icky and stuff."

"Well, what can we do? Call Housekeeping. In the meantime, let's go look for Elliot Bonnaroo at Palm Fronds."

Continue on to the next chapter...