the Hitters by Austin Charles Chapter 1

BEFORE YOU READ- (If you like this story and want to check out more of my work, you can visit my blog site http://austincharlesauthor.wordpress.com/. I will post more of the Hitters there along with other works. If you like my writing and would like to purchase my new novel Sheeple, you can buy it as an ebook and paperback here http://www.damnationbooks.com/book.php?isbn=9781629290416. Note, all material, characters, and story are copywritten by Austin Charles (me the author), you know, in case anyone gets any wise ideas. Hope you enjoy).


The Hitters
A! true Hollywood story

Austin Charles



“What is happening in Hollywood? Nobody Knows. The worst thing to call somebody is crazy. It’s dismissive. I don’t understand this person, so they’re crazy. That’s bullshit. These people are not crazy. They’re strong people. Maybe the environment is a little sick.” –Dave Chappelle

“Most people think she just went mad. But Arizona Wilder showed us that when Britney broke free of the mothers of darkness the very first thing she did was dye her hair brown. But they don’t want their priestesses to have brunette hair. They’re infatuated with the blonde haired blue eyed people.” –The Freeman Perspective

“The minute I had the all time best selling album, overnight they called me a freak, a homosexual, a child molester, they said I bleached my skin. They did everything they could to turn the public against me. This is all a complete conspiracy.” –Michael Jackson

“Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. I think we’re being run by maniacs for maniacal ends and I think I’m liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That’s what’s insane about it.” –John Lennon

“Never watch the television. Never watch the television. It’s the greatest scientific indoctrination tool ever devised. Haven’t you figured that out? It’s changed the whole culture of nations. Not just one nation. Why do you think it was mandatory for everyone in Britain to have access to televisions by the government? Why do you think China is under the same program to get everyone to the TV right now? Because they loved to be entertained? Do you really think that? And India is on the same route as well right now too. Most of your ideas and opinions and how you emulate are because you mimic what you see, it becomes you, you become it, and it’s been very very successful. Never watch the television.” –Alan Watt

“The album cover, which is half me half motorcycle, is about the fusion of skin and metal, the fusion of reality and fantasy, the fusion of the real woman with the magic that’s inside of me, my metaphor of saying the real you and the magic that’s inside of you. The fans are what keeps that alive in me.” –Lady Gaga

“Roman is a crazy boy, who lives in me. And he says the things that I don’t want to say. He was born just a few months ago. I think he was born out of rage. So he bashes everyone. And he threatens to beat people, and he’s violent. I ask him to leave, but he can’t. He’s here for a reason. People conjured him up. Now he won’t leave.” –Niki Minaj

“I sold my soul to the Devil.” –Kanye West, Kesha, Eminem, DMX, Katty Perry

“Killuminati.” –Tupac Shakur

“They’re trying to kill me.” – Michael Jackson, Martin Lawrence, Randy Quaid, Joss Stone, Mercy Johnson

“Got milk?” –Goodby Silverstein and Partners

“If TV is the devil, then God’s got nothing but reruns.” –?....



The Hitters
A! true Hollywood story

Austin Charles


























On this addition of A! True Hollywood Story…

Phillen Blank

Punch Back Moniker- Pukey Percy

Punch Back Badge- Orange Eel










The Punch Back Kids

NARRATOR (to the audience)

Welcome home kids, you haven’t
missed a Beat.

TITLE CARD- PERCY’S ARRIVAL

INT. THE MAGIC JUNIPER TREE #1-DAY- All our kids are in the shot. MAXIMILLIAN MAX comes into the command center with an African American boy, PUKEY PERCY. Our main cast SUMMER SKY, HAPPY HUGHIE, SILENT SAM, BUCKY BETH, PEEPING PETER, and our favorite little despicable future-arrest warrant FRYING PAN FRAN.

MAXIMILLIAN MAX

I found the burglar who’s been
in our trash spying on us you
guys.

PEEPING PETER

That’s what those girls tell
me at their sleep overs.

(audience laughs).

ALL THE KIDS IN UNISON

Peter!

				PETER (Shrugs)

It was either that or
homework.

(audience laugh track). Isn’t that stinkball adorable?

MAX

He mistook some of our trash
For candy and ate it.

FRYING PAN FRAN

Gross.

SUMMER SKY

Well what’s his name?

PERCY

My m-ma-ma-ma name is
P-Percy.

FRYING PAN FRAN (crosses arms)

P-pa-pa Percy? More like
P-pa-pa pussycat.

MAX

Fran! That’s mean. You
shouldn’t treat our new
member like that.

FRAN (always spitting with her lisp and ugly horned rimmed glasses)

New member?! That’s stupid!
he can’t join!

HAPPY HUGHIE

Why not? I think he’s cool.

BUCKY BETH

And cute…

BETH kisses Percy on the cheek.(infatuation oooooohhh audience track). Percy proceeds to lose his shit and vomits all over FRYING PAN FRAN. The kids all gasp. But something weird happens. FRYING PAN FRAN’s hair changes color and she begins to levitate off the ground.

FRAN (freaks out, begins floating and bouncing off the walls)

Guys! Get me down! What is happening?!

MAX

Oh no! Who forgot to put away the
anti-gravity bubble solution?

FRYING PAN FRAN is flying around bouncing off of stuff and screaming (audience laughter). Someone should probably help her but no one gives a shit right now. Not even SILENT SAM who has never uttered a word.

SKY

Peter! I told you to
incinerate it! As in burn
and destroy it!

PETER

Oh. Is that what that
word means? You should have
just told me to do what I
do to all of those
magazines.

(ALL THE KIDS IN UNISON)

Peter!

PETER

Yea, but it’s better than
homework.

(audience laughter)Jesus why do they like this little no gooder?

FRAN (screaming like crazy)

Someone get me down so I
can scream at you all!

MAX

Welcome to the Punch Back
Kids… Uh,Pukey Percy. Here’s your
badge.

MAX hands PERCY his Punch Back badge. The insignia with an orange eel on it. They all leave and turn the lights off on FRYING PAN FRAN.

EXT. THE MAGIC JUNIPER TREE #1-DAY- (roll audience clapping) credits. Over it FRYING PAN FRAN is still screaming.

FRAN

Come on guys! Get me down!
This isn’t fair! Macy’s day
balloons get treated better
than this! Guys?! Guys?!








Episode 1: Big Trouble in Little Today Show


“What if I told you I could kill someone without leaving this room?”

That was the question that transformed former child actor Phillen Blank’s battle of drug addiction into a war with a new enemy; Hollywood.

“Phillen was never a trouble maker. He was an astute young boy in my social studies class. He often had trouble with his studies, not because he couldn’t handle it, but because it was so boring to him. I would catch him doodling characters from cartoon shows in his text books all the time. I think it was Powder Puff Girls or Dragon Man Z or something like that.” (Laughs) “Phillen was so bright he already had a grasp on things before the tests were even handed out. I can’t imagine him going to war against Hollywood, and killing celebrities? No. That isn’t the Phillen I know. Although Phillen never liked our studies about American slavery. He said it made all the white students stare at him.” –Mrs. Stout, 4th grade teacher.

What could make a young promising young actor, known most famously as Pukey Pursey of the hit television show the Punchback Kids, go from lovable preteen to the most wanted killer in America?

“He’s cost hundreds of lives. He’s killed many people. It might not look like it on the surface, but depending on who you talk to, Phillen is either the best thing since the cinnabun or the worst thing since the cinnabun.” –Anonymous paparazzi.


The day that Phillen would be wanted dead by all of his former cast mates started one rainy Monday morning on the Today Show, as all tragic stories do…

Phillen was awake before the hotel morning call phoned his room. The room was dark and faint with bluish morning. His eyes strained from lack of sleep. He was so anxious about being in the spotlight for the first time in ten years that he had gotten at best two hours of sleep. He was already exhausted. His brain however, was buzzing with people’s voices. Those annoying little sentences you hear people say throughout the day that sometimes repeat like broken records in the late night early mornings when you just couldn’t shut your brain up and go to sleep. They were mostly all his mother. Phillen did you check in with the hotel? Did you make sure to tip Phillen honey? Well did you remember to call your father? Did Shirley make sure you have everything you ne—“Yes mom! Yes!” Phillen mumbled to himself.
He had been, for the last decade, called everything from an alcoholic train wreck to a washed up coke head lost in the fog of the post child actor fame. TMZ had run tabloids on him dating other troubled starlets like Lindsay Lohan and Amanda Bynes, even though he had only met both of them in passing on a red carpet showing of a movie he played no hand in. They said he was another former child actor ‘gone bad’ or another former child actor ‘strung out’, ala Macaulay Caulkin, or Haley Joel Osmond or Gary Coleman. He regularly received calls from a Punk’d prank show knock off called ‘Watch Out America! Here is your next celebrity fuck up!’. When Phillen realized it wasn’t a show at all but a group of hackers in their mother’s basement, he had to relocate out of Los Angeles to avoid constant harassment from the locals. His public image was attuned to only the sleaziest of the sleazy newsstands. These were the same rows dedicated to what sorts of aliens were crawling out of Shelly Duval’s cellar, or what sorts of trollish women were crawling into Arnold Schwarzenegger’s bed. He was right up there between Michelle Bachman’s retardation vaccine conspiracy and Tupac and Michael Jackson’s latest sighting in the Waffle House. It was all too apparent, at least from what he had seen channel flipping between Hoarders and Finding Bigfoot, that America had more tolerance for degenerates and dangerous mythic creatures, and degenerates looking for dangerous mythic creatures, than it did the people they grew up watching who had fallen on hard times. Somewhere beyond all cruelty, beyond the needlessly absurd hatred and shame thrown his way, was truth. That Phillen wasn’t a drunk, a fuck up, or an over privileged white youth. His drug of choice was Ambien. His club of choice was Xbox live. His drink of choice was pearl milk tea. He had no arrest record, no legal fees, nor public break ups. But he did something worse than rebel against authority. He decided to stop being a celebrity in order to start speaking against the lies. As a result, the powers that be, the tabloids, former casting agents, the producers, were now conspiring against him. He had committed the ultimate act of betrayal. He wrote a tell all memoir, and he was more ready than ever to tell the world in front of the American audience that his former director Quincy Taton (known amongst Hollywood as the other ‘QT’) was abusing child actors and profiting from their misery. He had to end it all. It’s the end of the world as we know it, Phillen thought, the voice in his brain singing to that song by R.E.M., still unsure as everybody as to just what the hell they were singing before the chorus. There were his facts, as Nietzsche put it, against all of their interpretations.
Phillen fumbled for his glasses and knocked them over blindly. He cursed and looked at the clock, trying to hit the snooze button before the alarm went off. At exactly 5:15 am, it did go off, braying that awful alarm clock noise that was the worst noise anything could ever make. He finally punched the off switch on the clock and stepped down from his bed. Crunch. Of course. Phillen decided it was God’s fault and gladly told him to fuck off. The phone rang. Phillen picked it up and angrily answered with politeness, “Yes?”
	“Mr. Blank? This is your five am morning check-up. Would you like our early bird breakfast special?” A lady who sounded unusually happy for five o’clock in the morning said over the phone.
“That’d be great. Send it up please. And thank you,” Phillen said. The last thing he felt like doing was eating, but when the smell of hash browns, once over easy eggs, French toast and sausage links hit his nose, he finished the plate off in less than seven minutes after. He sipped his orange juice and sang in his mind, oh Danny boy, Danny boy, Danny boy, I get knocked down. His brain was really rattled, remembering songs from the 90s? The song by Chumbawumba? Pissing the night away? By the sounds of it he was beginning to piss his sanity away. The food was so delicious he left a hundred dollar tip underneath his pillow. He might have been broke, but he was Disney broke. Phillen looked at the clock. It was 5:15am. His eyes widened. That wasn’t right was it? He had taken a call, waited for food, received his plate, devoured said food, and still? It was 5:15am. Numbers don’t lie. He looked at his iphone to see if the clock was broken. it was 5:15am. He turned on the television to see if the phone was broken. It was 5:15am. Phillen rubbed his eyes and sighed, too tired to care about Trekian time anomalies. He took a shower, brushed his teeth, combed out the pillow flattened side of his hair with a comb, and dressed. His mother and Shirley, his agent, had left him several voice messages the night before on what he should wear. Phillen was now considering a Louis vutton suit, a Dolce and Gabanna sweater vest and slacks, or a vintage red and black He-man t-shirt with blue skinny jeans. There was never a question in Phillen’s mind, it was I Have the Power, any day of the week. It was red and blue, primary colors, Superman colors, Spider-man colors. A bit gimmicky, but if it would persuade the public masses to respect him again, he’d settle for a little Saturday morning cartoon nostalgia. If he Had the Power, he sure as hell was going to need it. And suppose my interviewer is a Thundercats fan? Phillen thought with a smile emerging on his face. The smile was lost when Phillen noted what time it was. It was ten minutes to six. Phillen’s mouth dropped. Impossible. Had a Time Lord visited him in-between brushing his teeth and washing his ass? Phillen began to panic. This was his big day, and already he was running late. He put his headphones around his neck and began patting himself for his bike lock keys. Telling Shirley he didn’t want a limo only to suggest biking it and losing the keys, how unironically shitty. Worse still, he specifically remembered to put them in the pants he’d be wearing so as not to forget. Wouldn’t that be ironic if I left the keys in the limousine? He thought. He patted all of his pants but no they weren’t there either. He needed to be out the hotel about fifteen minutes ago. Shirley called him.
Phillen picked up, “Phillen where the heck are you?”
       “Still in the hotel, not finding my keys.”
       “Well we’re all waiting for you. Get your butt over here.”
He looked all around the room. His mind went blank.
	“If I send someone now we’re going to be too late.”
	“Not helping Shirley.”
	“Did you check your pants?”
	Phillen aggressively sighed, “Yes mommy dearest.”
	Now Shirley aggressively sighed, “Check the Dreamcast suit case I packed you. Again. And don’t you even sarcastically put that horrific horror movie woman in my head, bozo.”
Phillen did as he was told and retrieved his suit case with the Sega Dreamcast inside it, which for obsessive compulsive reasons that not even Dr. Drew could solve, was brought by Phillen and played only during hotel stays. Ever since being back in the spotlight, Phillen decided he needed at least three hours of preparatory video game playing, particularly the Dreamcast game Power Stone, in order to feel up to the challenge of taking down a ballsy interviewer. And there were the keys, sitting in-between his limited edition Sonic the Hedgehog controller and emergency Gogurts. Phillen grabbed them and slung them on the chain at his waist.
	“They were there weren’t they?” Shirley said.
	“No,” Phillen said.
	“Oh Phillen. What would you do without me?”
	“I’ll be there soon.”
He hung up and was out the door, his stomach gurgling like crazy. It was strong enough to make him aware, even as he was currently ruining what might be his last big moment to redeem his life, that he had just eaten. Really, how could he be hungry? He just ate. What would Shirley say if he walked in and said, ‘sorry I’m late guys. Hey, do I happen to have time to eat an entire box of Reeses Puffs while you set up?’ Yea, like that’d fly. And what if they are Thundercat fans? Phillen thought looking at his He-Man shirt. Hmm, didn’t he have that thought already? Strange. As he unlocked his bike in the pouring rain, the smell of wet New York filling his nose with exhaust fumes and Chinese food, Phillen was beginning to notice how peculiar this all was. For a moment that was perhaps shorter than a second and longer than an eternity, he became aware of a stillness that no New Yorker had heard since the first moment of silence for 9/11. For just a moment everything exhaled and left the world in a tranquil humming quietness. It was so loud he could hear it in his ears. Then lyrics emerged, you vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light, feeling pretty psyched. It’s the end of the world as we—Then, like the snap of a hypnotist, a homeless someone yelled “Get the fuck out of my way!” And nearly succeeded in running Phillen over with a broken shopping cart full of plastic kitchen utensils and Hello Kitty panties. A small group of people laughed at Phillen and the homeless man. Phillen was embarrassed and a little angry, but he chuckled for some reason. Here he was, late for the most important interview of his life, and here comes a dirty old man with Hello Kitty panties telling him to get the fuck out of the way. He laughed so hard his eyes watered. Why am I laughing? It’s not even really that funny, is it? Well was it? Surely there had to be something comical about such an awful day made more awful by God’s bizarre yet acute sense of comedic timing. But it wouldn’t have been funny to him, at least not in such a context, so what the frick? Why was it so funny now? He was angry, not so much of the homeless man, but the fact that he had for a moment knew the words to that damn catchy R.E.M. song and forgot them as soon as he decoded them. There was no more time for pontification. He had to move into this strange weird day. Phillen was unaware of the signs that his life was on the line. He had no clue he was actively being hunted by a Hitter.
	Phillen was rushed by Shirley the moment he stepped foot into the Today shows studio. Her white oval face was red and her eyes were like two newly snapped glow sticks in a rave party. “The first time I have you get yourself to an interview and it’s the last time. You’re already running twenty minutes late,” She said.
	“Have we been bumped?” Phillen asked.
	“No, but if you don’t get in that make up room we will be.”
	“Hey Shirley. I hate to sound like a diva, but do they happen to have any Reese’s Puffs?”
Shirley stopped cold in her tracks. She gave him that half angry half amused look that she might have if she wanted to strangle a puppy for piddling on the floor. It made Phillen smirk. She finally gave in, “Already put the milk next to the bowl. Bozo,” She smiled.
He hurried and ate his bowl of cereal, watching a Today Show broadcast of a segment already in progress. It was of a famous magician by the name of Castio, who America had decided was the next magician love child of people like Criss Angel and David Blaine. Apparently Phillen was late to the whole fad, but Castio appeared to be standing atop Times Square where the ball drops, inches away from what would be the most commercially and virally advertised death if something were to go wrong, with nothing but scared onlookers and McDonalds and Fox News advertisements there to witness his horrific end. To top it all off Kesha was slated to perform not far beneath him. If anything a coat of splattered magician might only give Kesha the performance of her life time. He had been standing there for a record breaking twenty five hours of being motionless, being giving nothing but water to sustain himself. He was no Saint Simeon Stylites, but if it was all true and not some elaborate hoax, as Phillen believed it was, then at best he was mildly impressed. He was never thrilled with these sorts of things. Phillen had his own survivalist act to endure.
After his preparatory bowl of Reese’s Puffs in the green room, Phillen had the last go over of makeup from the Today show crew and took the seat across from the show’s main man.
Phillen faced him, “Pleased to meet you Mr. L—”
	“Please, call me Matt,” He said.
The Today Show was only an eight minute interview, but because NBC booked exclusive rights as the first broadcaster of his memoir, Phillen decided it would be best to play ball. It was a starter, but a crucial starter nonetheless. There was Barbara Walters and Charlie Rose and the crown jewel Opera Winfrey, but he needed to gain traction here first. There was a lot to flub up on an opening book tour, and he was actively taking shots at the very people who made him who he was. This was not an isolated incident. This was First Cause, the chain reaction to end all chain reactions.
	The red recording light came on, Matt cued the scene, “I’m here today to talk with young former actor and child star Phillen Blank, who many across the country know as Pukey Percey from the hit children’s show the Punch Back Kids. Here to talk to us about his new memoir is Phillen himself. Phillen, how are you?”
	“Good,” Phillen said. Little did Matt know how wet his palms were.
	“It must be hard for any former child star to come out with a book that unearths such a painful period in their life, but tell us why did you decide to write the book?” Matt asked.
Phillen could see the live audience outside of the windows, screaming and raving every time the red light of a camera turned their direction. It didn’t make any sense to him, why did people always react that way during events? Didn’t they realize that there was rarely a time when they weren’t on camera nowadays?
	“I know this is a short segment, and that I’m very late in arriving. I just wanted to say that Quincy Taton, my former director, and other producers of the Punch Back Kids show pressured me to sign a lengthy contract and proceeded to abuse me off camera. I know my other cast mates have all gone on to lead good careers in their respective industries, but I just wanted to speak up for them, and all other child actors who have been badgered into contracts with men who seek only to profit from their naivety and weak support systems,” Phillen cleared his throat. Was that too much for people who were currently running late getting their children to school?
	“That must be hard on you Phillen,” Matt said. He sat back in his seat, legs crossed. There was a hard look in his eyes. Something was hostile about it. “Tell us about your life after the Punch Back Kids. The drug use, the constant run ins with the law, the alcoholism. Did that affect your relationship with your former cast mates?”
What? What? And what? None of that was true. Didn’t Matt talk to Shirley about what they were going to be talking about?
	“Excuse me Matt, but none of that is true. The tabloids made up all of that stuff. I’m just here to talk about why they did,” Phillen said.
Matt sat there not saying anything. He was just staring at him. Phillen’s eyes darted across the room. He felt a physical beat, a pulse in the air, he could feel it on his skin. Matt was no longer the friendly face of the Today Show, he was becoming uncomfortably aggressive.
	“Tell us about your failed career Phillen. Go on,” He said. He casually lifted his mug of coffee with the Today Show sun rays logo and sipped it. “Tell us about why you’re on our show and fucking up so badly.”
Phillen was no longer believing his ears. He knew something was wrong about this day. He couldn’t have just heard an anchor drop the f bomb on live television. But the cameras were rolling. Nothing stopped. All eyes were on Phillen. Even the people outside weren’t cheering anymore. When did he step into a Twilight Zone nightmare sequence?
Phillen felt like Pukey Percy all over again, stuttering, fighting to find the right words.
	“Tell us why you screwed over QT Phillen. Tell us why you broke the contract and forced us to ruin you because of your damned insubordination. Can you talk about that?”
	“I… I…” Phillen’s stomach sank. Quincy Taton. His former cast mates. It was all so clear to him now. They had set him up.
He tried to stand up in his seat, but found he didn’t have the strength to. What in the holy mother of Sinistar was going on?
Phillen looked outside. The people outside the window were motionless. Phillen blinked, not believing his eyes. They weren’t just motionless, they were frozen in time. Their mouths were open, some of them holding signs, some of them booing. A Seven Eleven big gulp was stuck against the glass. But it wasn’t stuck. It had been thrown, and was stuck, the way a moving video is stuck on pause, against the glass. Yet Phillen was animate and moving, so too was Matt. Phillen felt his body seize up.
	“Well Phillen? Are you going to talk? Well?”
Phillen couldn’t breathe. His eyes, the only thing that could move, looked at the cameras. The red light stared back at him, the same way Hal looked at Dave in 2001 A Space Odyssey. An assassin came bursting through the glass with a glowing sword turned at his neck. Phillen kicked back in his seat and tumbled backwards. The sword tore through the crouch of the seat cushion, inches away from Phillen’s junk. Too shocked to even scream, he looked on at what appeared to be a shimmering katana held by a short Italian American looking woman with a really bad tan. She was as shocked that Phillen avoided her as Phillen was of her trying to cut his freaking head off. What are you doing? Phillen thought, well, Run, Coward!
Phillen sprinted to his feet and ran out of the studio. He felt a pulse in the air again, and there the woman was in front of him. She shrieked and brought the blade towards his head. He ducked and tackled her. Then she disappeared again. Behind him, she came sprinting. He picked up a bowl of fruit from the green room and the sword went clean through it, as if it wasn’t even there. Distracted, he threw the bowl at her head and it went straight through her. It was as if he were being attacked by the hologram of Snooki from the Jersey Shore.
He continued to run, screaming for help, but everyone remained frozen. For a few seconds in-between the pulses, there was motion, movement from the outside world. He was convinced this was a dream. He was still dreaming inside the hotel, still rolling around half-sleep half-awake without Ambien on a bed with a mint he didn’t eat because he doesn’t like coconut in his chocolate. Just like the pulses, he was blinking in and out of a waking state. But he was not willing to test this theory out with a katana through the jugular.
When he found his way outside, two more assassins, these ones male, awaited him. Both of them looked like Jersey Shore rejects. Muscled, tattooed, wearing sunglasses, and grinning like wolves. They both came at Phillen. Phillen, who was an avid dancer when the rave party called for it, bobbed and weaved through their attacks. But these two were much faster. He ran and filed his way through the crowds that were sometimes alive and sometimes in stasis, going through them, bumping into them, being mobbed by them. Mothers holding children with signs that read ‘From Scranton Pennsylvania! I love you Al Roker!’ and signs that read ‘I heart Kesha! Gaga is a Nono!’. He pushed his way through them and jumped onto the tower where the spotlights of the stage were.
The three reality show assassins stood beneath him after he had climbed some distance, trash talking him and laughing amongst themselves. Phillen screamed bloody murder, that somebody, anybody, Kesha or Lady Gaga or somebody would help him and tell him to never go to sleep having binged eaten Wonka candy while watching Satoshi Kon movies ever again. One of the assassins did something even more unbelievable. He planted his feet, pushed off the ground and torpedoed into the air like Clark Kent. He readied his sword at the height of his jump, tongue dangling out of a grin, sword taking a hungry swing.
Something smashed into the assailant like a missile. Blood misted through the air and landed on Phillen’s face.
The assassin was planted against the wall by four ace of spade playing cards with razor studded edges. His limbs were impaled against the Today show studio block and he howled in terror.
The missile that had hit him was Castio, the magician. He held on to the spotlight tower above Phillen and held out his hand, his other handing holding a magician’s wand.
	“Care to join me?” He said leering.
Phillen grabbed it without question. The other two assassins came soaring up after them. The magician waved his wand.
They teleported on the stage. The crowds that had gathered around were now cheering. At what? This cocaine induced mayhem?
	“What the fuck is happening?” Phillen said.
	Castio smirked, “I could explain, but that would ruin our impromptu male bonding.”
The female assassin came at him with the sword. Castio barely made any effort and made her look plain silly with how easily he avoided her.
	“Want to tell me which part of Jersey you’re from before I kill you?” Castio said.
	“Eat shit,” She said.
	“Have it your way,” He replied.
With a twitch of his hand the wand became a blade that he then used to slice her head clean off. The head looped through the air and landed somewhere in the crowd as the audience cheered. A fountain of blood jettisoned into the air and her body fell limp on the stage. The dancers and musicians took the stage in front of it.
	“If you’re a bad Hitter and a bad conversationalist, then what good are you? I mean really?” Castio said smiling, coming towards Phillen.
	“Behind you!” Phillen screamed.
The other two assassins came leaping at him with their swords drawn. Castio merely walked out of their way. The two assassins, who to Phillen, seemed impossibly fast, were impossibly slow compared to Castio, who looked like he was enjoying this more than anything else. The assassins were not without their techniques. One went high, one went low. Like a Rattata Pokemon tackling a hundred level Charizard, their moves were highly ineffective.
Rather than use his sword-wand Castio pulled out another playing card, this one a three of clubs. The playing card looked like it had a lot more weight than it should. When the first assassin came running at Castio, he put up the card and put it right where the blade was coming. A spark flashed before his eyes. And then Phillen realized, Castio was parrying his sword with a freaking playing card, and he looked bored doing it. He finally took the card and threw it off the poor guy’s face, cracking him so hard with it he stumbled back with a geyser of blood gushing from his nose. He then threw a spade card and arched it in a way that sliced opened his neck and returned safely in his opposing hand. The assailant fell dead.
Castio sighed and walked back to Phillen.
The last assailant wasn’t done.
	“Behind you!” Phillen screamed.
Castio grimaced and turned around, “Really dude?”
Castio stepped out of the way, let the man fall on his face, tapped his shoulder, and when he turned around Castio smashed the man’s face in with the three of clubs. He fell in a toothless heap beside his feet.
	Castio approached Phillen, wiping the assailant’s blood off of his white tuxedo with a handkerchief, “How far are you from Kansas right now Dorothy?”
	“Pretty freaking far that’s how far,” Phillen said, his voice squeaking. Castio laughed, a hearty good natured laugh, “Sure, sure. I can dig it.” Castio was a young man, probably in his mid-thirties. He possessed a kind of rugged handsomeness that lead actors in Hollywood westerns often had, despite wearing nice all white clothing. His crow’s feet lengthened around his eyes every time he smiled, and judging by his demeanor and attitude, he smiled often, even in such situations as saving one’s life.
The people around them were all cheering to the warm up dancers, as if none of the horrific violence had happened on stage.
	“Who are you? W-what are you? What happened? Who am I?”
	 “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I would love to tell you, but then, of course, I'd have to kill you,” Castio said, holding in a grin.
	“Please tell me you’re joking. Please tell me that’s a joke. And if it is, why are you joking right now? That isn’t funny.”
	Castio belly laughed again, “I know I know. Listen I’m sorry, I can’t help myself sometimes. Humor isn’t my forte I suppose. Guess that’s why I’ve made a life being an optical liar.”
He turned around.
	“Now I guess I’m going to have to clean this mess up before everyone notices. Hmm… Let’s see,” He said, thinking out loud, putting his finger to his chin. “You, let’s say you died choking on a New York style pretzel. That one almost got Bush you know. And ooh, this one I’ll say slipped on the third rail while texting. We could always use a reminder to never text and be stupid at the same time. And for you, muscle head, the ole fork in the toaster oven. An oldie but a goodie,” Castio said.
There was a leisure about him that told Phillen all he needed to know about this bizarre magician who had saved his life. One thing was clear; whoever this Castio claimed to be, he was very very good at what he does.
	“What did you just do?” Phillen asked.
	“You’ll see. For now, you have a botched interview to get back to.”
	“Back to? Excuse me. They tried to kill me back there.”
	“Relax tiger. You’re in good hands.”
Castio produced his wand.
	“Besides, I’ve got a show to finish,” He said with a smirk.
He waved the wand.
	“No! Wait! Don’t send me b—
Before Phillen could even finish the sentence he was back in the green room. His unfinished bowl of Reese’s Puffs sat beside him. Phillen blinked, rubbed his eyes, patted himself for confirmation that he didn’t do what he thought he just did, which was a Harry Potter-esque Disapparition and Apparition back into the very place where all this crap started.
Castio was making his final stage dive off the top of Times Square. On television, he was dressed in his all white pants, tuxedo, and gloves. He leaped off the building and magically appeared on stage with Kesha. Everyone went wild. Castio smiled, raising his hands, producing a dove from his top hat. He even did a little tango with Kesha. He somehow saved Phillen’s life while suspended above New York. Before anyone could interview Castio, he was gone as soon as he arrived.
He must have dozed off in the green room then. It was all a vivid dream after all. That means the interview hadn’t started.
That theory was destroyed when he looked at the television screen. There he was in front of Matt, his eyes red, his speech slurring. Phillen was watching himself with a complete sense of unreality. He was watching himself cursing, yelling, and storming off the set to everyone’s shock. And to Phillen’s shock, he know knew. All of the craziness truly did happen.
Phillen, fearing for his life again, stormed out of the green room. Everyone stared at him in stunned silence. No one said a word to him. Shirley approached him.
	“Phillen… What happened? Are you okay? What got into you back there?” She asked, grabbing his hand.
	“I really can’t say. But I’ll tell you now. Don’t believe what they say about me. It isn’t true.”
	“How can you say that when you just ruined your career in front of my eyes, in front of everyone’s eyes.”
	“You’ll believe me Shirley. I don’t know how, but you will eventually.” He walked away, looking over his shoulder, his heart pounding. He tasted metal in his mouth.
	“Phillen where are you going?”
	“I don’t know, to figure all of this out,” He answered.
A man in a baseball cap bumped into him. He had a blonde beard and pair of cheap sunglasses you might find at a trucker’s rest stop in El Paso. It took Phillen a little while to recognize that it was Castio.
	“Remember the danger part? You might want to come with me to avoid any more of it,” Castio said in a hushed voice.
Phillen waited until they were well outside the studio and in the clear open street before he voice his opinion.
	“I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what the heck is going on right now,” Phillen said.
	Castio sighed, “Listen Phillen. This is all highly bizarre, I get that for a first time Alkaline.”
	“A first time what?”
	“Here’s the deal. I’ll tell you everything you need to know. I’ll tell you why people are trying to kill you, how they’re trying to kill you, I’ll even give you an info dump of Michael Crichton like proportions. I’ll let you grill me for as long as you like, if and only if, you come back with me to L.A., pronto.”
Phillen thought for a moment.
	“How can I trust you? How can I trust anybody?”
	Castio took off his sunglasses, “Because I booked this gig in New York to save your life. And because of what just happened back there, I’ve lost everything. They’re going to want me dead just as much as they’re going to want you dead. Now are you with me or what?” His green eyes spoke the truth.
Phillen nodded, “Alright. But what about Shirley?”
	“She’ll be fine. My people will get her to you in no time. Now we better get back to L.A.”
	“Fat chance. Traffic will be crazy at this hour.”
	Castio gave him one of those million dollar smirks, “Traffic? Where we’re going we don’t need roads.”
Phillen felt the pulse against his skin again. His mouth filled with the liquid taste of pennies. Castio blasted into the sky with Phillen in his grasp, before grabbing his wand and disappearing into thin air.

***												  ***

WE NOW INTERRUPT THIS BROADCAST FOR ANOTHER SELF PROMOTION- (If you like this story and want to check out more of my work, you can visit my blog site http://austincharlesauthor.wordpress.com/. I will post more of the Hitters there along with other works. If you like my writing and would like to purchase my new novel Sheeple, you can buy it as an ebook and paperback here http://www.damnationbooks.com/book.php?isbn=9781629290416. Note, all material, characters, and story are copywritten by Austin Charles (me the author), you know, in case anyone gets any wise ideas. Hope you enjoy).