"I, um, LIBERATED it from the Fourth Doctor's coat!" Fitzgerald whispered back.
"Oh, great, you're a pickpocket?"
Fitzgerald didn't answer. He aimed the sonic screwdriver at the cage lock. . . .
ZAP! The cage door popped open. Fitzgerald began running--toward a blank wall! Adama whirled around, preparing to blast Fitzgerald, but he lowered his weapon when he saw Fitzgerald was running toward a blank wall. "He's not going anywhere," rationalized Adama.
But just as Fitzgerald seemed about to run headlong into the wall, a passage opened, with the edges seeming to waver slightly. Fitzgerald ran through at top speed, and made it through just as the opening sealed off again.
"DAMN!" Adama swore. He spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Joe!" Adama was speaking to Joe Lugubrious, the bartender. "Find me the structural plans for the Backstage! I want to know what's behind that wall! . . ."
Apparently Adama's walkie-talkies had a wire crossed somewhere, because from the speaker came: *BY YOUR COMMAND, IMPERIOUS LEADER*
"Oh, shut up!" shouted Adama.
[Actually, this is not a bad idea. I'd like to see somebody draw up a map of Backstage so I can picture where everything is. I've probably made continuity errors here.] --FCF
Meanwhile, on the other side of the wall. . . .
Fitzgerald found himself running up a sandy beach, still in his three-piece dark suit. He stopped and looked around. In the distance, several people were playing beach volleyball. Several more were playing in the surf, which was a bright greenish-blue. Behind Fitzgerald, some distance from the water, was a large, regal-looking resort hotel, painted neon pink. Near the vegetation line was a small, open-air bar with a roof of palm fronds. Several people in swimwear paused to gape at Fitzgerald's now inappropriate attire.
Fitzgerald walked to the bar. "Where is this place?' he asked the bartender.
"This place?" The bartender waved a hand in the direction of the hotel. "This is Dick's Last Resort!"
"I might have known," mumbled Fitzgerald. "And who are you?"
"I'm Dick," grinned the barman. "No, just kidding, I'm Isaac."
Fitz shook hands with the barman, and ordered a gin-and-tonic. Isaac the bartender served it up, ice-cold, topped off with a splash of fresh lime juice.
A loudspeaker on a nearby pole blared into life: "MR. FLAGG, MR. RANDALL FLAGG, COME TO THE WHITE COURTESY PHONE PLEASE, MR. RANDALL FLAGG!"
Fitz looked around. Not too far away, Carol Grow and Art Mann from "Search Party" were playing some sort of beach game involving shaving cream. This was a recurring dream for Fitzgerald, at least the part about Carol Grow and the shaving cream. (Grow, incidentally, for non-viewers, has long, straight blonde-hair, large blue eyes, full sensuous lips, and a massive rack, currently covered by a flimsy red t-shirt. This should prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Fitzgerald likes really well-built blondes.)
"WOULD MR. LESTER MAINWAIRING AND EVERY MEMBER OF HIS PARTY PLEASE REPORT TO THE SECURITY STATION! LESTER WAINWAIRING AND EVERY MEMBER OF HIS PARTY!"
Fitzgerald looked again. Hmm, Marilyn Lange and Stacey Sanches on adjoining barstools! . . .
"MR. STRONG, TO ROOM 213, PLEASE! MR. STRONG TO ROOM 213!"
A figure walked up: it was a man in a loud sport coat, with a pencil-thin black moustache and slicked-back, shiny black hair. He was smoking a thin cigarette and exhaling puffs of aromatic smoke. "Good day, Mr. Fitzgerald," the man said, shaking Fitzgerald's hand. "This is my establishment!"
"I guess you're 'Dick,'" Fitzgerald said.
"At your service, sir. Always glad to have an Author visit!"
"F-CUP FITZGERALD, COME TO THE WHITE COURTESY PHONE, PLEASE. F-CUP FITZGERALD, COME TO THE WHITE COURTESY PHONE!"
"Looks like you've been tracked down," Dick grinned, exhaling smoke. Fitzgerald hadn't noticed before, but the smoke seemed to reek slightly of sulphur. . . .
Mon Apr 16 12:41:41 2001