Get Me a New Writer--Dead or Alive!

"No, sir. He's still holding out for better terms on his contract."

"That SOB! He is the top paid writer in the sitcom business! He gets his own penthouse office with a view of Malibu Beach, for crying out loud! How can he turn down terms that double his salary?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Higgins, I have a good mind to replace him!"

"But sir! We have a show to tape this week and we need a script!"

"What about the other staff writers? What are they good for besides playing extras off camera?"

"We can't use them, sir."

"Why the hell not?!"

"They have all thrown in with Coulter and want more money and benefits. They are tired of seeing Coulter get all the gravy while they work their butts off for peanuts."

"@*#&!!!!!!"

The name of the sitcom was "After Curfew." It was a hit show; it had everything: comedy, suspense, drama, a star-studded cast --and some big sponsors.

But no writers! All were on strike. Producer Rob Melville and his assistant Higgins were desperate! If they can't come up with a script for this week's show, the sponsors would pull out and the show will be canceled.

Melville slapped his desk. He knew the writers had him over a barrel and it infuriated him; he was at the end of his rope. With his hanky he wiped the nervous sweat off his balding head, adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and tie. He paused, took a deep breath then lit up a cigar. "OK, Higgins, here's what you are going to do today. You are going to get me a new writer as good or better than Coulter. If you fail, don't bother to come into work tomorrow because this show will be over. Is that clear?!"

Higgins stood there like a dear in headlights. "Uh...yes sir. I'll try my best, sir."

"Just get 'er done, Higgins or we're out of business! Now get going!"

Tall, gangly Higgins tripped on the door stop as he rushed out of Melville's office. He had the staff call every literary agent in LA and New York--even Cleveland! He and his staff even did the unthinkable: they read unsolicited scripts that were sent to the studio in brown manila envelopes by wannabe writers.

The clock was ticking fast like a race horse on steroids. They gleaned through hundreds of insipid, uninspired scripts; drank lots of coffee; scoured over lines of dragging, directionless dialog; drank lots more coffee...

"Hey Higgins, check this out!"

"What have you got there, Simmons?"

"The answer to our prayers! If I didn't know better, I'd say this script was written by Coulter himself!"

Higgins came out of his stupor and was energized by Simmons' discovery. "Well I'll be damned! This script is better than Coulter! It's f***ing brilliant!"

Higgins definitely intended to hire this new, exciting, brilliant writer named...(he looked at the cover letter)...John Casey Delmar. "Huh..." he paused, "where have I heard that name before?" He scratched the steel wool that passed for his hair. "Oh well, Simmons, fuel up the jet. We're gonna pay this guy a visit."

* * *

"Boss, I hired a new writer!"
"As good or better than Coulter?"

"Way better!"

"Good work, Higgins!"

"Thank you, sir...but...sir?"

"Yes, Higgins?"

"There is just one little teensy problem."

"Crap! Don't tell me he wants more money than we can afford!"

"No sir, that's not it. He--"

"He what, Higgins!"

"He's on death row."

"WTF?!"

"Yes, sir, but the good news is his execution isn't until next week, so he can work this week...and for free I might add!"

"Did you say he will work for free?"

"Yes, sir. He knows he is going to die so it's not like he needs the money."

The wheels in Melville's mind were turning, dollar signs lit up his eyes, and he put his feet on his desk and lit another cigar. "OK, Higgins, here's what you do: call my friend the Governator--he owes me a favor. Get him to pardon this...John Casey Delmar--or, better yet, have him commute his execution until we finish the season--that way Delmar will know he's gonna die and won't demand money. "

"I'll do my best, sir--but--"

"Higgins!--"

"Just get 'er done...uh...yes, sir...right away...sir."