Sam Gerard awoke to the sound of a running shower. He opened his eyes and scanned the room, but didn't recognize his surroundings.

"Aw damnit, not again."

He threw off the satin sheets (pink, with lace edges) and swung his legs out of the bed in one fluid motion, finding his jeans and shirt lying beside the nightstand on the floor in a tangled heap. He quickly disengaged one from the other and slid them on, his eyes never leaving the door to the bathroom, which was cracked slightly open. The shower ran happily on, and if he listened closely enough he thought he could hear wordless singing from the occupant.

There wasn't much time. He knew that his schedule had to be packed.

The walls were painted a powder pink, the carpet underneath his feet fluffy and white. He slipped into his boots as, to his horror, the water abruptly stopped pounding in the shower, and he heard the vinyl curtain being drawn back.

He bolted out through the bedroom door, barely remembering his keys, and through the modernly decorated living room (stainless steel, glass, black leather). From the bedroom, he distantly registered a female voice calling his name.

"Sammy...? Sammy, are you going to the kitchen for coffee? Sam?"

Sam never hesitated. He exited out the front door and shut it securely. He sagged against the door and checked his watch.

Ten-thirty. Time to go to work.

His suburban was parked at the curb. He slid behind the steering wheel and found his cellphone resting on the passenger seat, waiting obediently for him. Within moments he had dialed a familiar number and was listening to the ringing on the line.

"Renfro."

"Gerard. Cosmo... what ya got for me?"

"Ahhh, Sammy, you're not gonna like today, I tell ya. Four locations for ya. I expect you survived the first one...?"

He ran a hand through his hair and took a quick look back to the house, a two story monster overlooking the ocean, very modern. He saw no sign of anyone following him out to the truck, to his relief. He didn't want to be a part of this one. He was tired as hell, and he'd just woke up.

"Yeah. Woke up and got the hell out of there. You should have heard her in the shower... yowling as if the water was burning her to death."

"Don't they all? Hell, Sammy, I tell ya still, I'd love to have your job. You're the luckiest man..."

"Fuck you, Renfro. You don't want it. I'd give it to you if I could. I'm worn out all the time, and the perps are ugly as hell, and creative as a slice of stale toast."

"Well, good for you, because your popularity seems to be on the downslide. You used ta have fifteen spots a day, now look at ya. You're gettin' old, Mr. Great Sam Gerard."

"Yeah, yeah. Just gimme the list."

Sam scrawled down names and numbers, all familiar to him, and hung up the phone, sighing. He missed the good old days when all anyone ever wanted was a man who chased people like a dog, hunted them until they were caught. Now they want a fucking hero.

"I'm a fighter, not a lover," he muttered to himself. If he hadn't been so tired, he'd have laughed.

He parked in a nondescript parking lot outside of a bland, three story apartment building. The buildings always ended up looking the same, like they were out of some 60's housing development, and were painted a boring tan color. The only thing that distinguished it from the other buildings was the number above the door, which here was '4340.' Sam absently wondered how many of these same kind of structures littered the country.

Slowly he ascended the stairs to the second floor, studying the piece of paper he'd written the numbers upon.

"What the hell?"

The first number was smudged. He'd folded the paper up and shoved it into his pocket before the ink was dry. He squinted. It was either 3C or 3O.

"Damnit."

Either way, he felt like he was screwed, so he decided on 3C. He opened the door upon a dark, rainy city street. It was a bad part of whatever neighborhood he had ended up in, if the storefronts and the people on the street had anything to do with it. Strip clubs, XXX-rated movie theatres, and less-than-reputable people lined the streets, trying to keep out of the rain or doing 'business.' A figure appeared in front of him.

"I've been waiting for you, big boy. For you, I'll make this one free."

He looked down into the face of One Scary Woman. Before he could run for his life, she smacked him.

"Hey, you're not Callaghan! Get the fuck out of my story, you motherfucking shithead bastard!"

"Yes, ma'am," he managed as he turned and lunged out of the room, into the featureless corridor. He hustled, on a mission to locate room 3O. He had promises to keep and miles to go before he would sleep.

He briefly addressed the bare walls.

"You can can the literary allusions. I don't read anything to girls to seduce them."

"Who're you talking to, pal?"

Sam skidded to a quick stop. He was being addressed by Rowdy Yates himself, Clint Eastwood. The man wore a soft chambray shirt and faded jeans. He too, was consulting a list, and seemed to have found what he was looking for. He approached the door Sam had bolted out of.

"You goin' in there?" Sam asked him.

Eastwood shrugged, lazy and graceful. "Next on my list... somebody pencilled it in. Why?"

"Trust me, man. You don't wanna go in there."

"What choice do I have?"

"Don't say I didn't warn ya.," Sam said. While Eastwood squared his shoulders and prepared his Dirty Harry Callahan persona, Sam took a minute to tuck in his shirt and knot his tie. Eastwood stepped inside as Sam was finishing up. He heard a horrified yelp, but there was no time to stay and see if Eastwood found a way to bail. He was late. He had to move. Door 3O waited for him.

This time, the other side of the door was much more pleasant. The grass was green and the breeze was cool. He found himself in a small yuppie-looking neighborhood/suburb type place. He'd been there before.

Sam knew that Jude Lancaster kept her back door unlocked, just for him. He'd warned her time and time again not to leave doors, windows, or anything else open because someone was going to get smart and walk in on her one time, and she'd be robbed or dead or whatever. Inwardly, he didn't give a shit, and hoped that rabid dogs beat down her door and ate her up, but that was neither here nor there at the moment.

The walk behind the house was a quaint little stone pathway which led around gardenia plants and lilac bushes, all the way up to the porch, which was made of hand-sanded and treated wood. It was all too damn cute for his taste, but it was not his to judge. He was not the creator here, she was, and it was up to him to follow along.

He opened the door and stepped inside. The fragrance of potpourri assaulted him from all sides, and before he could say 'Fuck me with a stolen dick', she was upon him, hugging him around the neck so that she seemed to hang there, suspended. She grinned at him, noses mere inches apart.

"Welcome home, Sam! I sent out for your favorite. Chinese! One of each kind they had... I thought we could... you know... eat it later.." She winked, and he shuddered inwardly.

Jude Lancaster was a thin, black-haired woman who smoked way too much and wanted to screw constantly. Her favorite things were Sam, fucking, Chinese food, and covering Sam in Chinese food and fucking his brains out. 'Kinky' might have been a good term for her, but 'strange' was a better one.

She was also his new Deputy Marshal, replacing the long-deceased and even longer-lamented Noah Newman.

She may have been a crack-shot with a gun, smart as a whip, and nearly as unstoppable as Sam when hunting a fugitive, but she was lousy in bed, which is where she wanted to spend most of her time when not on the job.

Being within smelling proximity of Jude always made him feel dirty. Being in contact with her made him want to scrape his skin raw and stand underneath a boiling hot shower for days.

He swallowed his disgust and opened his mouth and forced a smile, making her believe that he enjoyed the death-lock she'd put him in.

"And how are you... Jude?"

She smiled and finally released him, dropping her arms to her sides and turning to grab a pack of cigarettes and her trusty gold zippo from the breakfast table, which was covered in newspapers and dirty dishes. She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

Smoke engulfed him as she exhaled, and he itched for a cigar. At least it would have drowned out the smell of her cheap tobacco.

"Oh, I'm fine. Just another routine day of chasing bad guys. Did you know," she said, prodding the air with her cigarette, inches close to his nose, "I was kidnapped this morning by a serial killer. Cosmo rescued me, but he got clubbed in the face by the business end of a baseball bat." She laughed, sounding like an emphesemic trying to cough up a lung. "After that, we caught three fugitives, all of them looking like Harrison Ford, can you believe that?"

"No, I--"

"And I wanted them all, but I have the Great Sam Gerard, what more could I want, right honey bunches?"

He groaned, but she took it for an affirmative, winked at him seductively, and continued, her hand sliding over his chest.

"Then! Then, we went to Roy Willy's and had barbecue. All that before lunch, can you believe it?" More smoke billowed enthusiastically from her mouth, as she laughed. "After lunch, which was wonderful... which reminds me, I bought you this t-shirt that I'd love for you to wear tonight when we go to bed... what was I saying? Oh yes... after lunch, we went to... Sam, dear, what's wrong?" This she asked with her cigarette cocked between two fingers, a long stalk of ash dangling on the end.

"I... really have to go to the bathroom."

"Go on, " she said, laughing, as the ash dropped off the end of the cigarette. He took off down the hall before he could find out if she'd started a fire on the carpet. He made it to the bathroom and shut the door, locking it. He didn't stop to examine the Oil of Olay replenishing cream, the "Yes, You Can" miracle wrinkle remover, or the seventeen boxes of Topol nicotine toothpaste stuffed underneath the sink, nor did he notice the photos of Tommy Lee Jones from the bathroom scene in Black Moon Rising taped to the tile above the bathtub. Instead, he climbed onto the lip of the bathtub and took hold of the bottom of the window pane.

The window was fairly small, but he'd squeezed through tighter places before. He lifted upward with a grunt, but the window seemed to be stuck. He looked closer, and someone had painted the trim with white paint, and inadvertently sealed the window closed. He swore under his breath.

"Sammy-love, are you still in there? You okay? You have hemorrhoids? I know men your age get them rather nasty. I have some Preparation H in the cabinet... You'll be okay to make love, won't you?"

"I'm fine, Jude. I'll be out in a moment."

Sam rolled his eyes and waited for her to depart. When he finally heard her shuffle away, he pushed upward again, and the window broke free. He slid it open and stuck his head out the window. There was only a three and a half foot drop out to the lawn.

When he made it to the other side, he heard Jude again, calling to him.

"Sam? Sammy? You don't have diarrhea, do you? I don't smell anything..."

He shook his head and straightened his shirt and jacket.

"Crazy woman."

The next one made him vaguely uneasy, she was so young. She should have been gazing at Leonardo DiCaprio and Ricky Martin and the Backstreet boys--and as if that wasn't bad enough, he also had to tend to some woman who he suspected knew this girl somehow.

He did not care. He did not bargain. The opera isn't over 'til the fat lady sings, and there would be no singing until the Big Dawg was finished.

Returning to the quiet halls of the building, he charged past a figure, quietly lounging near blank elevators.

"I wouldn't stand for it," Tommy Lee Jones asserted, calmly and firmly.

"Shut the hell up, they're scared of you," Sam yelled as he barreled by.

The house was dark when he arrived, and he didn't find that at all strange. He normally found Molly Stravinsky in the bedroom of her house, all the shades drawn. It was always quiet, the occasional strange creak or groan from the house as it settled on its foundation, or the clock on the wall above the sacred and holy living room television ticking away were the only things he heard. He tried to remember the last time there were any lights lit in any other room than the bedroom, but he couldn't remember any.

He stopped right outside the bedroom door, not wanting to go in. But he had to, it was his job.

With one hand, he pushed the door open. The room was lit by a huge, three wicked candle on the bureau. There were boxes of some sort stacked in the corner, and smaller boxes littered the floor. He stepped through the mess, and as he approached the bed, he saw that the boxes had contained some sort of bakery good or confection. An empty candy box in the shape of a heart rested on the floor at the foot of the bed, emptied of its contents, only little crumpled brown papers left behind.

"Molly?"

The deep, female voice answered him from the head of the bed.

"Samuel... you've come back. Get comfortable and join me."

'Getting comfortable' to Molly meant taking off all your clothes and lying down beside her on the bed. Again, he shuddered inwardly. He knew what Molly looked like, and every time he came to her house, she wanted him to do this. He always wondered if he would make it back out alive.

He didn't answer, merely started to undress, slowly. When he was naked and shivering from the cold of the room (Molly always kept it cold. To her, 50 degrees farenheit was steamy. It would be for you, too, if you were 400 pounds) and slipped into the bed beside her. He felt a sweaty, sticky hand on his abdomen and her lips next to his ear.

"How are you feeling, big boy?" she whispered. "Something bothering you?"

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on what he was supposed to say, while he also tried to focus on not feeling her hand slide down to his groin.

"Ah... um... yeah... something's ah... tearing me up. Yeah."

If she noticed that he was reaching for his answer, she didn't say anything. Sam guessed that she just didn't know.

She kept questioning him in a singsong, babying voice, one a mother might use if her five year old fell down and skinned his knee.

"Did Sammy have a bad day? Does Sammy feel sick? Does--oh no, are you still thinking of losing your bambino?"

The 'bambino' was Noah. It had happened so long ago. Sam had gotten over the kid's death years back, but people still believed that he would be in turmoil over it. He struggled to find the words he knew she wanted to hear.

"Ah... yeah, I am. He was so damn young. Why? Why?? Why???"

He even managed to stir up some tears.

"Awwww... poor widdle Sammy... let Molly make you feel better..."

She grabbed him, just as she always did, but this time he wasn't expecting it. He jumped and nearly screamed, falling out of bed.

"Sam, are you okay???"

The light clicked on and he crawled under the bed, stretching one arm out at the foot to grab his clothes. He pulled on his pants as the bed creaked and wailed dangerously above him as she shifted her immense weight. Candy wrappers and twinkie boxes hit the floor as he saw one foot, then the other, appear at her side of the bed. She grunted and slid off of the bed, and the box springs sprang upwards violently.

"Sammy? Where are you?"

He wriggled into his shirt and his boots as the feet slowly traversed their way to his side of the bed, then to the bathroom. As soon as the feet disappeared into the next room, (followed by Molly's voice calling "Sam, Sam" like she was calling a dog), he crawled out from underneath the bed and dashed through the house to the front door. Like a man freed from prison he ran full throttle to the door, nearly running into it, stopping himself with both hands to avoid crashing into it. He yanked it open and stumbled into the hall, slamming it behind him.

"Goddamn! I'm moving to Tortola and renaming myself Enrique! This is too much!"

Six hours, three car chases, a hostage situation, two fire-fights and four dramatic arrests, all interspersed with the moments of passion these things inevitably lead to, Sam was tired. He climbed wearily into a miraculously clean Suburban and turned it toward his lunch, a place where "writers" were not allowed.

Halfway there, at a stoplight, someone climbed into the passenger seat. It was a young man sporting a mop of curly hair. He was dressed in a conservative blue suit, and he was barefoot.

"Sam."

"Noah."

"Howzit hangin’, Sam?

"Shut up, Noah."

They rode in silence for a time. Sam was the first to speak, and then at length.

"How’s your afternoon lookin’, young man?"

"Funeral."

"What is it...sixth? seventh?"

"I don’t know, Sam, I lost count a long time ago," Noah sighed, passing a hand through the thick curls. "Christ, I mean, they come in, howlin’ like banshees, they slobber all over the suit, they say ‘oh, but he looks like he’s asleep...’ Surprise, sister. I am asleep. How ‘bout you?"

Sam groaned just thinking about it. "Well, got all the cops-and-robbers shit outa the way this morning. Now I’ll be spending the afternoon with all the ones who were shootin’ shit up yesterday. Gotta have a system, boy."

"You’ve got some life, Sammy," Noah said, enviously.

"Shit you know about it, son. Can’t take a piss half the time, so damn sick of Chinese I could puke..."

"What’s Renfro think?" Noah asked, remembering how outspoken Cosmo could be.

"Smartass, what else. You know Biggs’s gained forty pounds? It’s like all they really wanna do is feed him and fuck me!"

Noah was laughing hysterically as Sam piloted the Suburban into the parking lot of a nondescript building near the downtown area. He parked alongside an Aston-Martin, one of five, and across from an anonymous government sedan. Farther down the row Sam could see a ‘32 Packard coupe and, in the very back against the chain-link fencing, there were two distinctly different shuttlecraft which apparently belonged to the same ship.

Leading the way, Noah squeezed past a couple standing in the doorway and consulting a sheet of paper. The woman was a petite redhead and wearing an FBI badge, the man darker and preoccupied.

"So, what are we doing next?" the man asked..

"We make love. Again," the woman answered.

"Oh, shit," the man said in disgust, and they walked away.

Sam and Noah took seats at one of the few remaining tables near the middle of the room. Noah was bellyaching again, but Sam could hardly blame him.

"How often are they gonna kill me before they decide I’m dead enough. I’ve been buried so many times..."

Two of the three Jedi Knights at the next table nodded in sympathy. Qui-Gon Jinn and the elder Obi-Wan Kenobi had been brought back to life in so many different places it was hard for them to remember when and how they’d died. Liam Neeson seemed to be holding on, if confused, but things were really strange for Alec Guinness.

"We know how you feel, son," Obi-Wan the Elder said.

"And it gets no better over time," Qui-Gon added.

"You’re a lotta help." Noah wailed.

There were no less than five Bonds in five styles of dinner jacket prowling the room. Sam could never understand why George Lazenby and Timothy Dalton even bothered to show up, because it seemed they couldn’t draw flies, but he supposed if you wrote about one Bond you were ultimately writing about them all. Sean Connery was by far the most popular Bond. Lithe and graceful, he stalked about followed by panting squadrons of clumsily named women. As always he stopped at the corner table occupied by the Jones Boys - Henry Junior and Senior. He inclined his head to Senior.

"Henry."

"James."

Bond stalked on, leaving Henry Jones to gainsay, pester and generally make a monkey out of his son. Indiana Jones patiently answered his father and watched Han Solo buckle swash from one end of the room to the other.

A purple cat-like creature leaped onto the table. He was an anime cartoon with evilly slanted red eyes and an insane grin filled with huge, square white teeth.

"What’s your name, boy?" Sam asked it. "Damn if you don’t remind me of Strannix."

"Strannix?" Noah asked.

"Forgot. You never made it into that one," Sam said.

The purple ‘cat’ unleashed a torrent of shamefully stereotypical Japanese karate-babble in the middle of which was contained its name, Gengar. It never stopped grinning.

Before Sam could say any more to the purple curiosity, a flash of light at Gengar’s stubby tail startled it. The flash startled Sam no less.

"Yaaaaaaaaaaah!" Gengar screeched, leaping into the air.

"Peeeeeeekaaaaaaaaaachuuuuuuuuuuuu!"

"Whaaaa-tai!" Gengar yelled. It dived over the edge of the table, hissing and spitting, and the last Sam saw of it, it was rolling end over end across the floor.

Lunch had simply appeared on the table. It had a way of doing that - unasked, unordered.

Chinese.

"Damn," Sam said.

At a large table in the back, near the corner where all the pop stars hung out, sat the combined crews of the various USS Enterprises. Captain James Tiberius Kirk appeared to have been bleeding out of both corners of his mouth and his tunic had the discreet rip in it that meant he had been fighting. He was trying to shoot the Pokemon with his phaser. He had probably had the piss walloped out of him by Geordie LaForge again. Spock and Data were deep in conversation while Jean-Luc Picard was chatting up Lara Croft and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Suddenly, Sam couldn’t stand the noise any more. He shouldered his way through the cast of Dawson’s Creek and picked up Ally McBeal to move her aside so he could leave.

His first stop was an apartment, inhabited by one of them who liked it fast and furious. Sam was happy to oblige. He backed her into a corner, closed his eyes because he couldn’t put a bag over his head, and pretended to do it for America.

At long last the final door was closed behind him, the final female was left dazed, sweaty and sated in the wreckage of her bed. Sam could scarcely walk. There was vague pressure in his bladder, and he contemplated its meaning with terror.

He approached one final door. This was his last stop, and though he didn't know why things were as they were there, he was grateful for the respite. He could slip into bed and not have some goofy-eyed female beside him there. He could sleep. This was the one where they burned up his girlfriend and he didn't have to put up with a damn soul if he didn't want to. Strannix and Gaerity could deal with the clingy and dingy brigade. How in hell he had ever landed in something with Bill Strannix and Ryan Gaerity, not to mention Bully Hayes and Elmore Pratt, was beyond him, but in this thing the women were after their cracked asses and Mrs. Gerard's boy Sam was going to take advantage of the break.

"Hey, Sammy, come on, we'll deal ya in," Elmore said.

"No, thanks. I'm beat. I'm goin' to bed," Sam replied.

"Where've you been, man? You look like hell," Bully wondered.

"I know where he's been... interviewin' replacements for Noah Newman," Bill smirked.

"Go to hell, Strannix," Sam grumbled, not up to the fight.

"Women want 'im, innocent men run from 'im," Bill continued. The others contributed troll-like laughter.

Sam considered, and rejected giving them all the finger.

"Ah, we know, Samuel," Ryan said, voice loaded with false sympathy, "it's a hard life. Women to the left of ye, women to the right of ye..."

"You oughta see some of them," Sam said weakly.

"You noticed what I'm with lately?"

Bill glared at the ceiling. "The hell with that noise!"

Bill subsided, rumbling, now the butt of the evil laughter.

"You're damn lucky you're only in one of these things, boy," Sam said.

Bill shook his fist in the air.

Sam yawned. He would go upstairs to shower, trying not to yell as he cleaned his poor, stinging self. Then he would end up in his blessedly solitary bed and try to rest until the next time. Because there was always a next time. He left the room and Strannix, who was conducting a disagreement he would never win because his words were scripted, and he trudged to the last bed he would need to get into that day.