Fairy Tale Blank, Prologue

This is a work of fiction. Match Game 1973-1982 and Password belong to Fremantle Media. All characters belong to their respective estates.

Set in 1975, after Charles returned from his hiatus directing a play in New York.

And they lived happily ever after. Charles Nelson Reilly sighed as he paged through the old book of fairy tales at his desk in the studio. It had been his mother's, and her mother's before her. He rather enjoyed the dark and romantic tales of courageous princesses, enchanted princes, and wicked trolls. Not that he'd ever tell anyone...

“What's that?” Brett Somers leaned over his shoulder, her stiff gray-black curls brushing against his neck. He absently pushed them away. “Fairy and Folk Tales From Around the World. Aren't you a little old for those?”

“You're never too old for fairy tales.” Charles shrugged. “I'm looking for stories my younger acting classes can tell by just using their bodies.”

“I remember doing something like that when I was in New York.” The clear liquid Charles strongly suspected was vodka slid down her pale throat. “Only we had to imagine we were dripping ice cream or something. I'd rather be Snow White or Sleeping Beauty. At least they get to rest between kisses.”

Charles chuckled. “Sure, you were snow white once, but you drifted.”

“Charles, that joke is older than creation.” She gave him a light punch on his shoulder. “Don't let Ira catch you with that. You know how he is about keeping the set in order and things running smoothly.”

He made a face. “I know, I know. And he always says 'it's not me, it's orders. It's from my bosses. They wanted me to ding this or buzz that.'”

“Speak of the devil,” Brett muttered as two familiar voices rattled the sparkling orange and yellow walls. “Ira must be getting on Dickie's nerves about the contestants always choosing him for the Head-to-Head round again. You can probably hear them on the Password set across town.”

Even as Brett spoke, two men stomped in, pushing past cameras and crew members. “Look, Ira,” Richard Dawson snapped, “I'd don't see what all the fuss is about. We're here to help the contestants win. Isn't that the point to all this?” Charles thought Richard was beautiful. Handsome and suave, with sleek salt and pepper hair, a stunning smile, and a laid-back urbanity that won him the heart of almost every female contestant, and many of the female panelists as well.

“Richard, Richard.” Ira Skutch was a skinny, pinch-faced blond in a tight maroon suit with a mauve shirt open to the navel and entirely too much jewelry. “I know it's important to help the contestants. That's what we all want. But this isn't your show. You need to let the others have a chance every once in a while.”

Richard put his hands on his hips. “I try to make it as suspenseful as I can. Why don't you go back to your buzzer and leave us alone? Let the contestants decide who they want and don't want. You act like I'm an outlaw for helping these people win money!”

“I'll buzz the answers I feel fit to buzz. Half of them are stupid as hell, anyway.” The scraggly producer looked down his nose at the angry Brit. “When you have your own show and your own kingdom to play in, you can call the shots. I'm just doing my job. I feel like the only sane person in this entire studio! Even Rayburn acts like he left his brain in Cape Cod sometimes. You want to complain? Talk to my bosses.”

“You know how I feel about the buzzer, Ira.” Brett gulped the last of her vodka. “I don't like it any more than Richard does. We understand that you're doing your job and you mean well...but Rich is our best player. People call on him because they trust him.”

Ira turned on his shark grin. “Brett, sweetheart, I'm only following the bosses' orders. Can't help the buzzing. I know you don't like it, but it's part of the show. I'm just trying to spread the love around and give everyone a chance to be Match Game royalty.” Charles didn't like the way he leaned over her, how he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “And I wouldn't mind spreading a little more love around, if you know what I mean. You are practically the queen of this show, just like Ludden and Betty White are the queen and king of Password.”

Brett put down her cup and gave Ira a death glare. “I'm not interested. I just separated from my husband. I need space.” She ducked away from his hand as he reached for hers. “A lot of space.”

Charles was still opening and closing his mouth when Richard stepped in. “Cut it out, Ira. She doesn't need you to be her king.”

“Oh, and she needs you to be her prince charming? The guy who kisses everything within a five mile radius?” Ira made a face and turned on Charles. “Reilly, close that trap of yours, before you catch flies. And unless the book is part of an onstage gag, lose it. We're on in fifteen minutes.”

“It is part of a gag,” Charles stammered. “I'll be so busy reading it when we're introduced, I won't hear Johnny Olson's cue. Something different.”

“Fine, Reilly.” Ira turned it over in his head. “Not a bad idea. At least you know how to cooperate.” He gave Richard a scathing look. “We'll discuss this after the show, Dawson, in Goodson's office.”

Brett stuck her tongue out at his retreating back as Richard threw a card in his direction. “Thanks for trying to save what little remains of my virtue, Dickie.”

He bowed before her with a flourish. “It's the Englishman in me,” he told her in his most posh accent. “I can't help it. I must get involved when a lady's virtue is at stake.”

“Even when that virtue is questionable at best?” Charles added with a small grin.

“Especially then.” Richard settled in the bottom center seat under Brett. “You know, Charles, you should stand up to Ira more. You're not half-bad at this game, and people do like you. You could probably get yourself a lot more than just a spot on a game show.”

“With everything else I do, I'm lucky I can fit this on my schedule.” Charles sighed. “I like it here, Rich. I like the people I work with. Ira doesn't really bother me. Maybe some of us aren't cut out to be a prince charming.” He waved a hand at his thick glasses, round face with its dimpled chin, and slightly pudgy body. “There's a reason most of the roles I play are milquetoast men who run from the first sign of danger or sniveling villains. Hello Dolly was the closest I ever got to being a hero.”

Brett gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You're the hero of your own story, Charles. Just because you're not a loudmouth like Dickie and me doesn't mean you're not brave. And,” she added with a grin, “I think you're kind of cute. You have a nice smile. Some guy is going to be very lucky when they nab you.”

He flashed that sweet smile of his. “Thanks, Brett. No matter how much we lay into each other on the air, I'm glad you're my friend.”

“Don't you start getting mushy on me.” Brett nudged him playfully. “I'm going to go get a quick bite before we start. Want something?”

“I had a big sandwich at lunch.” He patted the book. “Think I'll stay with this for now.”

Brett shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He made sure no one tried anything else when she walked off, then returned to the fairy tale he was reading. “Hero of your own story,” he muttered as he leaned on his hand. “Just for once, I'd like to be the hero. I'd like to take care of my friends once in a while. Maybe fight a troll...maybe save a prince...stand up to Ira...help Brett...save Rich...”

He barely even noticed it when he nodded off, his cheek sliding off his hand and onto the brittle paper.