Brett: The Most Dangerous Blank
Rated: R (violence, language, brief references to sexuality, horror mayhem)
This is a work of fiction. Match Game 1973-1982 belongs to Fremantle Media. All characters belong to their respective estates.
"Charles?" Brett stood near the panelists' desks at the studio, but it didn't resemble the studio she knew. Everything was washed out, like a black-and-white movie on the late show. Long shadows obscured the contestants' booths and made the panelists' desks into mere wraiths. When she put her hand on Charles' desk, she found his glasses, his pipe, and his blue hat. Richard's purple and black plaid coat hung on his chair. "Gene? Fannie? Earl? Charles and Richard, if this is some kind of gag..."
"It's not a gag." Brett swung around as Ira Skulch, their producer, smoozed out of the door where Gene usually walked in. He wore that maroon coat of his, with the shirt open to the navel in his idea of a young stud. "You were expecting that lecherous fool Rayburn? Or your mincing Reilly? Or that maybe dashing Dawson, the Kissing Bandit, would swing in and give the perfect answer?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Ira, what's going on? What am I doing here? Where's the others?" Her hands felt for something, anything, that could keep that snake of a man away from her. His smile had more teeth than the shark in that big movie from last year...what was it? Jaws? Desperate fingers finally grasped something long and smooth. Gene's much-loved, extra-long, telescopic microphone.
He leaned over her with that feral grin and lifted her chin. "You're not an unattractive woman for your age, Somers. And you are sort of the queen among the panelists. You're one of our regulars. What you, Reilly, and especially Dawson do, the others do."
She shook his hand off her face. "So what's that to you?"
"Only that the queen needs a king." His fingers brushed her cheek in a way that made her stomach turn. "And if the queen plays her cards right, she may get what she wants - a showcase of her very own."
"Oh yeah?" Despite his hands roaming all over her in places she was sure even her ex-husbands never found, she tried her best to look coy and flirtatious. "You really think so?"
"I know so, my queen." Those roaming fingers were so focused on fondling her bosom, they hadn't gotten around to the hand that held the microphone behind her back. "What do you say?" His lips pursed in a grotesque imitation of Richard when he set up for a kiss from a contestant.
"I say, here's the definitive answer!" She raised her knee into his sensitive spot, then wailed him over the head with the microphone. It wasn't a heavy instrument and it didn't really hurt him, but it did stun him enough to shove him away. "I knew you were a sleaze and a lousy judge, but now I can add 'major creep' onto your resume, too. And you called Gene lecherous!"
"You're going...to regret that..." Ira was still getting his breath back. "I may not be nice...and tell you...where your idiot men are..."
Brett brandished the microphone as threateningly as she could. "What do you mean?"
"You'll find out." All those teeth reappeared, making her shudder. "Why don't we play a different kind of game? If you can use the clues I give you to lead you to Reilly, Dawson, and Rayburn, I'll release them. If not...well," those shark teeth spread wider, "I can think of worse things to do with you than not renewing your contracts."
She hated the cliche, but a chill really did go down her spine. "What did you do to them? Where are they? If you hurt any of them..."
"That's part of the game." Ira waggled a finger in her face. "I won't hurt them too badly, of course. I need them. Our bosses need them. But while you're using that fertile imagination of yours to conjure up all kinds of wonderful, awful ways for me play with them, here's your first clue. We're frightened of the things we can't see, but true courage means leaving the blanks of the past behind."
"Blanks of the past? What does that..." Ira was already retreating. By the time she'd gone after him to ask more questions, he'd vanished into the door. She tried her hardest to pry it open, but the damn thing was stuck. Pounding on the door only produced a hollow echo. "Ira, get your ass out here and explain yourself! Now! If you don't come out here, I'm going to do what Gene did and break through this door!"
"Brett?" A pixie-maned blond head emerged from behind the top risers. "Is he gone?" Two frightened blue eyes peered around the room.
She'd recognize that squeaky little voice anywhere, even if it was terrified. "Joyce?" That brought her down the steps. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm hiding. From Ira. He sounded a little crazy, didn't he?" Joyce Bullifant stepped cautiously out from behind the risers, dusting off her yellow and orange prairie dress. "I was here earlier. I left my purse on my seat. There was the worst racket, and I hid so I wouldn't get squished. All I saw was feet, and people falling. I don't think they ever saw me."
She gulped, her eyes watery. "But I did hear voices. I think they belonged to the guys. Ira was saying awful things. He talked about a game. I heard him hitting on you, and I wanted to help, but you took care of yourself pretty well."
"When you've dealt with as many men as I have, you get a good idea of where to put your knees if they get too fresh." Brett swung Richard's plaid jacket around her shoulders, then stuffed Charles' hat in her pocket. "I think we'd better bring the guys' stuff with us. It might be important, and they shouldn't be leaving their junk laying around anyway."
"I guess, when you're getting attacked, you aren't thinking of where you're putting your stuff." Joyce dropped Charles' pipe and glasses in her purse. "What are we going to do about the microphone? It has that long cord."
"Good question." Crawling around behind the risers revealed a plug. "I think we might be able to wrap it up and carry it that way." She managed to get to her feet, following the cord to the microphone. She wound it as well as she could, then stuck the microphone through to tie it together. "Let's move along, before Ira comes back and decides it's open night on our bodies."
The small blonde woman shuddered. "I don't think I ever want to see him again. Besides, it's kind of creepy in here. I wonder where the lights are."
"I'm wondering where the people are." Brett lead Joyce past the audience seats and cameras. The cameras were silent; no one manned them. The chairs were empty. "We're the only ones here. I don't see Johnny, Mark, or anyone else. Did the world end without us knowing it?"
The smaller woman shrugged. "Maybe it's between tapings."
"There should be somebody here, though. This place feels like a mausoleum." She stumbled past the last row before finally reaching the exit. "Thank god for exit signs. At least they still work."
Stepping out into the hall didn't make anything less scary. All they could see were the shadowy outlines of boxy walls. "I wish the guys left a flashlight behind," Brett grumbled. "It's dark as hell out here."
Joyce clung to her white and black blouse. "Do you think everyone was eaten by a monster?"
"Don't be silly. They're just fixing the lights, that's all." Privately, Brett was wondering something similiar. It was eerily quiet. The only sounds to be heard were their footsteps on the threadbare carpet.
"B...brett?" The smaller woman's voice trembled. "I think I hear noises behind us. There's something in the wall."
"Now that you mention it..." Feeling along the wall revealed a brass knob that shown dully in the dim light. Something was trying to jiggle it.
"Help!" A familiar feminine southern accent called from behind the door. "Could somebody let me out? I'm losin' air in here!"
"Oh, I know that voice. You've got plenty of your own air, darling." Brett pulled a hairpin from her wig and shook it in the lock. "We'll have you out of there in two shakes of a lamb's tail. And you can shake a lamb's tail. We did it on the farm."
"Thank god!" Fannie Flagg very nearly fell on Brett when she was finally let out. "I thought I was gonna die in there! Do you know how embarrassing it would have been to die among the brooms and cleaning supplies?"
"But Fannie," Joyce squeaked, "how did you get in there?"
"You know, it's the funniest thing." Fannie put a hand on her not-inconsiderable hip. "I was just heading down this hall, looking for everyone else, when I hear voices. Something about a game, and having to grab someone. Next thing I know, I'm being manhandled and shoved into that closet."
Brett made a face. "I can guess who did the manhandling. Ira hit on me in the studio. He thought he could offer me a proposition I couldn't refuse. I refused it, all right. He'll be able to use his man parts again in a week to ten days."
"She really did it." Joyce was beaming. "She kneed him, then called him a creep."
Fannie let loose with one of her warm laughs, patting Brett on the shoulder. "Good for you, darlin'. I knew you had it in you. You weren't lyin'. That man is a creep. The way he looks at me sometimes..."
"Is no different than the way any other guy on the show looks at you." Joyce gave her a cheeky grin. "Including the ones on the panel. I know I've seen Richard check you out when you're not looking."
"He's not a bad-looking man, and I'm glad he's happy doing Family Feud now. He's so good with the contestants, I knew he'd be a wonderful host." Fannie wrinkled her nose. "But let's just say, he's not how I swing."
Brett coughed. "Speaking of Richard, that brings us to why we're here. Have you seen him, Charles, or Gene?"
"No, and...is that Richard's jacket?" Fannie ran her fingers down the purple plaid sleeve hanging over Brett's shoulder. "How did you get it? Shouldn't he be in it?"
"Ira has him." Joyce whimpered. "They're playing some kind of game, and we have to find him and Charles and Gene. Or they're going to do...well, probably something not-nice to them!"
The redheaded southern belle's eyebrows nearly went to her hairline. "You're serious? What would Ira want with them?" They went even further when she saw the microphone under Brett's arm. "What's that doin' here?"
"I think it's a clue. Or part of one. Ira said he'd give us three clues that would help us figure out where the guys are." She rubbed her head, trying to remember what Ira said earlier. "Damn it to hell, where's Gene to read the question again when I need him? I don't remember what Ira said!"
"I do. I heard it, too." Joyce squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus on Ira's words. "We're frightened of the things we can't see, but true courage means leaving the blanks of the past behind."
"Blanks of the past?" Fannie leaned against the wall. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know. I've been trying to figure it out ever since he said it." Brett's temples were throbbing. "I knew I shouldn't have had that last glass of vodka before the taping."
"Wait." Fannie frowned. "Didn't Charles used to star in a show called The Ghost and Mrs. Muir? I think he was the ghost's descendant."
"Oh, I used to watch that show. It was cute!" Joyce giggled. "Charles was sort of whiny, but it was a fun show."
"Ghosts of the past. The ghost was from the past. And I know there are things in Charles' past that he won't talk about." Brett nodded. "The answer is 'ghosts.' I'm sure of it." She tugged at Joyce's purse. "Do you have anything in there to write on?"
"Oh, sure!" It took the blond five minutes of searching, but she finally turned up a pad and pen. "Here you go!"
"Thank you." Brett scribbled "ghosts" on the pad with her left-handed chicken scrawl, then showed it to the ceiling. "Ira, I don't know if you can hear us, but our definative answer is 'ghosts!'"
The moment she said it, there was a flash, a rumble, and suddenly, the dark hall and closet were gone.
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