 |
| You can almost hear the theme song, can't you? |
NOTE: We lost someone very special this week. On Sunday, December 1, 2024, Greg Javer, aka Greg Dziawer, died unexpectedly of cancer. I'd known of his illness but not that he was terminal, so this news came as a great and horrible shock. Greg wrote many articles for this blog, and we also recorded numerous episodes of The Ed Wood Summit Podcast together. I considered Greg a good friend, and he was extremely generous with his research. A proper tribute to him will appear on this blog once I have all the facts assembled.This week, I'd simply like to share a story by author Colin Schmidt that appeared in, of all places, an Australian Dr. Who newsletter in 2013. It imagines Ed Wood as a Mission: Impossible-type secret agent, with Criswell, Tor Johnson, and Bela Lugosi as his teammates. This story was sent to my email account by someone who was looking for Greg! I dutifully forwarded it on to Greg, but he never rendered an opinion on it. I'm pretty sure he would have enjoyed it, though, and I'm pretty sure you will, too. J.B.
Ed Wood, Secret Agent
By Colin Schmidt
with thanks to Craig White
"Wood, I'd murder ya! If I didn't have a distributors meet in five hours in this very office, I'd just grab yer with one hand, and lay inta ya 'till you were DEAD!"
"Gee, C.J., that's pretty bad! I hope it's not anything I've done!"
"Done? Done! I'll tell ya what you've done!!!"
In contrast to our heated words, our body language was relaxed. Ced had crossed his right leg; I flicked ash in the ashtray on the near side of the table.
"Green light, Ced," I said.
"You took five thousand of Classic Production's money, and you made a turkey! And you brought it back to me like it was Shakespeare, and I can't even show this thing to my maid!"
I made eye contact this time, and pointed over his door. He looked up, and then sat back in his chair. "Sorry," he apologised in his Limey, toffee nosed, real accent. I waved dismissively, disturbing the smoke.
"It's OK, Ced." I said. Field agents are by nature observative, plus I was of course eager to stop his charade of anger directed at me. So I watched the light, and as soon as the electronic sweep confirmed that the room was free of bugs I wanted to get on with business.
"We've heard a ghost of a rumour," said Cedric, in his clipped Home Counties radio announcer's voice, "that one of our Russkie friends likes drinking in drag on Sunset Strip. Secretary at the Consulate, no name."
"Right," I said. "Any preferences?"
"Has been spotted in a blond wig. Probably about to make the next step."
***
Gathering information is one of the primary occupations of the Intelligence business. Why, if you look in our files, you'll find four fifths of it comes straight off the public record—newspapers, transcripts of Congress, kinescopes of interviews. When I was recruited into Intelligence in the Pacific, I was amazed at the stuff I could pick up at a watering hole. Loose Lips Sink Ships.
It was just a natural progression. One day I'm listening to a drunk sailor giving away his sailing orders under a canvass sheet in Bougainville, the next day I'm in a gay bar in Beverley Hills listening to a star of stage and screen tell all about who's in bed with the Soviets. It's all American.
Since this was to be informal, I felt comfortable mixing outfits. Baby blue silk, sheer stockings, white skirt and Angora sweater. Red Angora cap. I wore sensible pumps, can't run in high heels.
"Mistah Eddie?" I felt a baritone from Hell inquire.
Tor Johnson is a really great guy. Since the Hougan brought him back he's been just the same, only impervious to bullets. Hasn't harmed his appetite.
"Yes, Tor, we have dark work tonight. We're going to cruise the Strip!"
***
Criswell was waiting for us at Geronimo's.
"Good day?" he inquired.
"Fabulous!" I responded. I felt great.
"Ahhh... I predict, that by the end of the day, you'll have had an even better time!"
I felt flushed. Cris is such a great guy.
Of course he's not a predictor. That would be preposterous. He's an empath. He can read emotions. It's quite obvious really. Watch his act, if the audience is in a good mood he feeds them happy stuff, if not it's all doom and gloom. They eat it up.
And he's a lie detector with legs.
I looked around the room. Apart from the usual fags and queens, I saw several drags, a couple unfamiliar. I caught Cris' eye, and moved towards the nearer, quite frumpy in brown. Looked kind of Russian to me, like a potato sack, whatever it was.
I held up a cigarette as if I wanted a light. She looked at be blankly. Caked in make up. Cheap wig. Men's shoes. Potato sack.
Then she reached into a handbag, and pulled out a gun.
Now, don't think I'm cowardly for this, but she had the drop on me. It's not easy to hide a firearm when you're not dressed for it. As a matter of fact, my gun was concealed exactly where she had hers; in my handbag. You can't draw from a handbag when someone has the drop on you, like she had on me, so I did the only thing I could. I stepped up on the railing in front of the bar, and vaulted clear behind it. My right knee laddered.
Now I was angry!
As I drew my gun I heard a shot, and came up ready to fire. She was running down the far end of the bar. Cris was slumped over, smoke rising from a hole in his tuxedo.
I climbed over the bar, cursing. I mean it was bad news about Cris, but I was already angry about the ladder.
The drag sprinted out the front door, I ran right behind her. As she started across the car park, I yelled out "Tor!!!" then jumped back behind the door as she turned around and tried to draw a bead on me.
Tor had to wait in the car outside. He wouldn't have fitted in with the scene. To be quite frank, he smelt. He lumbered slowly out of the car, while she stood gaping at him. As he drew his arms up, she finally got her finger back on the trigger, and shot him twice, screaming all the while. They always look terrible when they realise.
"Don't kill her!" I yelled, but it was too late. With one mighty swing, I heard the transvestite's neck snap.
***
The house was dark, the exterior humble.
As always the front door eerily swung open on its own. My friend might be down on his luck, but he still has the hospitality of an Old World gentleman.
"Eddie... did you bring my stuff?" A dark figure seemed to gather from specks of dust. It became solid, blocking the moonlight.
"Sure, Bela," I held up the squirming bag, "but first I need your help."
There was a huge sigh. The figure rose slowly into the air. A ceiling beam groaned as his weight settled from it.
"Criswell got shot... why would anyone want to shoot a fake television fortune teller?" I asked.
"Someone who bet on his horse and lost?" The voice emanated from the lower end of the shape. He liked to hang upside down.
"No, Bela. Cris stays well away from gambling. Too hot."
"Then I'm sure I don't know... Eddie, can I have my stuff?"
"Help me first Bela! Then why else would someone try to kill him?"
"Why, why, why! It is always the same with you! Bela, mesmerise this ambassador! Bela, turn into mist and find out what is in that safe! Bela, fly past the bedroom window and see what is going on! Always the questions!"
"It's because you're good! You do our country good work, and I for one am proud!"
At mention of his obligations, he calmed right down. Who knows what went through his head when I reminded him of his origins?
"You think it is easy... you get that Karloff to try and do it... there is no skill... always the stomping and the arms out and the Raaagh! Raaaaagh!!!!"
He swung aggressively back and forth as he mimicked his old rival.
Then he said it.
"Karloff is a Limey cocksucker..." Bela trailed off.
It was like a light bulb had gone on over my head.
"Thanks, Bela! You've hit the nail right on the head!"
I dropped his sack as I ran back to the car. It whimpered.
***
"Ya BUM Wood!!! I screened ya piece of trash and ya know what? They laughed! They all laughed and walked out! There ain't no one who wants to show your piece of garbage—" Cedric stopped in mid-sentence. This time he was watching the lights over the door, and I was watching him.
"Well, we had a mixed evening," I told him. "We found a new T.V. at Geronimo's."
Ced's eyes were as big as dinner plates.
"She was armed. Drew on me, had me dead to rights. Ignored me, and shot poor Criswell. Bam."
"Well that's too bad, Ed." said Ced, in his real accent.
"The thing is, Cedric, she only wounded him. He's right outside, listening in over the speaker phone."
Cedric jumped up, and commenced drawing a gun from the desk.
"Drop it!" I commanded him, letting my cap fall and revealing I had been aiming my gun at him all along.
Cedric ignored me, and pointed his firearm right between my eyes. Suddenly I recognised it. My own gun.
"Too bad, Wood. Substituted guns, y'know, last meeting."
I looked down, to find I had indeed got some kind of prop with a powder charge clutched in my hand.
"Only you, Tor, and I knew Cris was going to be there. And who benefits from killing the human lie detector? Sooner or later he would have caught you, whatever your secret is..."
"Don't gloat too long, Wood," spat the Limey cocksucker. "It's short work rectifying the situation!"
Ced was backing up to the door. I couldn't tell if he was planning to shoot me first, or go shoot Cris. Not that it would do him much good, since I had told him one little lie. Cris wasn't the one outside, he was in the hospital.
I decided to call his bluff.
"Tor!!!"
The door burst in like a plywood prop. Cedric froze for an instant, then started screaming and firing.
Justice came to Cedric Judas in the form of a four hundred and twelve pound zombie.