Tonight with Roy Turgid
Robert Neilson

From the moment his agent called, Nick felt the trip to Ireland was a bad idea.

"They want Lucky, too," Manny said, turning the screw. "They'll even pay full rate for him. They never do that for sidekicks."

That, at least, was true. Lucky always got the short end of the stick. TV news never wanted to speak to him, magazines never wanted to feature him in a spread in their lifestyle section, he was never offered his own spin-off series; he couldn't even pick up chicks based on his celebrity. Though that last one was understandable. Lucky, the Wonder Dog-Faced-Boy, was not exactly anyone's idea of handsome. Not even so-ugly-he's-handsome.

"Tell me about it again, Manny."

"You listening this time?"

"I'm taking notes, okay?"

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Nick. I'll go over it again. Like I always do." Manny gave a long and heartfelt sigh, to let Nick know how long suffering he was. Nick wasn't his worst client by a long way, but it was hard to make an honest dollar off comics these days. Now that movies had taken up so many of the major franchises, it was tough getting publicity for medium-popular characters. And Europe was especially hard. Ireland was only a small market but it was English-speaking and he could hawk the tape around the smaller syndicates.

"So, the show is Tonight with Roy Turgid. It airs on Saturday primetime and it's recorded live. They want to make you the centrepiece of the show. You and Lucky. Up to a full hour of airtime."

"Up to?"

"It's live. One of the other items might overrun. But they're guaranteeing no less than forty minutes actual on-screen time."

"Forty minutes?"

"Forty minutes is good, Nick. You ever got a forty minute slot before?"

Apart from a faint hum and the odd crackle, the phone line remained silent.

"Exactly. So, we gonna accept? Can I make the call?"

"Roy Turgid?"

"He's kinda like Roy Rogers."

The phone hummed faintly again.

"Except he's got no horse." Manny forced a laugh.

"He's a cowboy?" Nick asked.

"No."

"Has he got a horse?"

"No."

"He sings?"

"Nope."

"So his name is Roy, then."

"That's about it."

This time Nick laughed. This time the laugh was genuine. Affectionate even. "Manny, you're a tonic. I don't know what I'd do without you," a short pause, then he said, "manipulating me."

"You'll thank me for it. You always do. Lucky will thank me. Just don't let him get too enthusiastic."

* * *

Ireland still has State-sponsored TV, a little like the BBC in Britain. Unlike the BBC, the Irish state broadcaster, RTE, still dominates the ratings and Tonight With Roy Turgid was one of their flagship programmes. Turgid was an ex-disc jockey who had come up quickly through the ranks and burst onto television screens like a meteorite flaring in the upper atmosphere. But he was still burning bright after a year and a half in primetime and he still confounded the demographics experts by appealing to the 'youth' market, and their mothers. Dads would put up with him, but few males over twenty would admit to actually liking him. In truth, he was a bit of a pretty boy with enough energy to light a small provincial town, a ready grin and a staccato line in chatter. Nobody was ever sure exactly what he was talking about, but they loved to hear him talk. Of course, Roy loved to hear himself talk, too.

Nick and Lucky had spoken with him briefly in the green room before the show. "I don't like to get too intimate with my guests beforehand. I like to see if we can make magic on air."

Nick wasn't sure he liked Turgid, nor was he feeling terribly secure about his off-the-cuff attitude. "I don't have prepared questions," Roy had said when Nick asked. "I start a conversation and we see where it goes." He flashed the pair a huge grin. "It usually works." Roy held up crossed fingers. "See you on air."

Nick flashed Lucky a wolf-like grin. "This is working out better than I hoped."

Lucky was ugly. His face really did look like a dog's. Flattened, foreshortened and covered with a long thin blond hair, he resembled nothing more than a Pekingese, and like that breed, he always snuffled like he'd got a bad cold. He didn't speak so well, either. His voice came over like a modulated growl, and on first hearing was difficult to understand. But his face was expressive. Now it wordlessly asked Nick what was going on.

"I didn't want to say anything to anyone else, but I've spoken to the scriptwriter and I'm going to retire from the comic."

"You can't, Nick. No Newt, no comic."

"Yes I can. I'm sixty-one years of age and I'm getting too old for jumping around in tights. You're going to be top dog from now on. I might guest now and again but the comic's going to be yours."

"The publisher will never sit still for that."

"He'll have no choice. I'm going to announce it live on TV tonight and the writer's got a storyline with you as lead lined up starting from the next issue. I'm out."

Tears leaked down Lucky's hairy little face and lodged wetly in his straggly beard. He barked a couple of times and nuzzled Nick's hand fondly.

* * *

Nick and Lucky were second up behind a minor home-grown celebrity. From what Nick could make out watching on the monitor, she had represented Ireland in a singing contest a couple of decades ago, and now she did pantomime around the Christmas season and spent the rest of the year telling anyone who would listen how famous she was. It was obvious that Roy didn't like her, but she seemed the type to have powerful media contacts and no compunction about using them. She was plugging some sort of reality show that specialised in faded stars needing a career boost, or a kick-start. She got the minimum Roy could give her then sang a song. By the time the music finished Nick and Lucky had been hustled onto the stage and taken their seats.

"Tonight ladies and gentlemen, viewers, we are extremely fortunate to have with us Nick Abendandon, star of the best-selling American comic The Newt, and of course, his sidekick, Lucky the Wonder Dog-Faced-Boy."

The studio audience gave them a healthy round of applause when the boards demanded it, but there was nothing extra. No real recognition, no real fans.

"So, for those of us not into comics, tell us about The Newt, Nick."

Nick had dealt with the likes of Turgid before, many times. He was distancing himself from Nick as quickly as possible, then at the first opportunity he'd begin sending them up. Nick didn't really mind; it was all part of the publicity game. But Lucky didn't like it and took it personally. In the early days he had even bitten a presenter.

"Well, Roy," Nick said in the easy, familiar, friendly manner he had developed for TV interviews decades before, "as you know, but maybe some of your viewers don't, when danger threatens or when crime needs fighting, I have a secret potion and with one swig I become impervious to harm."

"You can't be hurt. That's it?"

Nick nodded. "That's it."

"How does that help fighting crime?"

"I don't feel any pain so I can hit the bad guys as hard as possible and I don't hurt my fists. Or any other part of me I might use in a fight."

"And where did the name come from? It doesn't seem terribly heroic."

"I wasn't always a hero, Roy. I started off in British children's comics in the sixties as a minor character in a humour title. Some of your older viewers might remember Skule Daze. And 'The Professor' invented this serum that made you impervious to harm. Unfortunately it made you a bit aggressive and a little uncoordinated. So one of the first times I took it some wag said it made me look drunk - 'pissed as a newt'. And The Newt stuck as my name."

"That was unlucky."

"Not really, Roy. The name caught the public imagination and lots of people wrote in looking to see more of The Newt. Quite quickly I got my own strip. Then the rights were bought by a US comics house and I moved to America."

"You must be one of the few English characters to make it in the States."

"My nationality was never mentioned. The fans just assumed I was American."

"And what about you, Lucky? Are you English, as well?"

"Nick's the talker," Lucky growled.

"Lucky's more of an action type."

"I see," said Roy in a tone that made it clear he considered Lucky a waste of space. "And what exactly does Lucky do?"

"Like all of us heroes he fights for truth, justice, and the American way."

"The question I was asking was how does he fight? What are his… powers."

"I'm lucky," the wonder-boy-faced dog said.

"Of course you are," Turgid said, reaching out a hand to pat Lucky's head.

A show of teeth and a serious growl convinced him that was a poor move. He withdrew the hand, brushing instead at invisible lint on his sleeve.

Nick laughed. "What he means is that his…" Nick made the sign for inverted commas in the air, "power… is that he projects a local field close to his person which affects everyone within a radius of about ten yards and… well, I guess, things happen to them, not necessarily unlucky for them but always lucky for Lucky."

"Yeah," Lucky panted, tongue lolling slightly. "I'm lucky."

"He may not be the strongest or the quickest or the smartest but somehow if he's in a fight he ends up winning."

"So if I was to attack Lucky?" Turgid asked.

Nick shrugged, then smiled. "Your trousers might fall off causing you to trip up."

Roy Turgid's face impersonated a bright beetroot colour. Blushing had been a problem for him when he was a child but he had managed to control it as an adult. It had been several years since he had felt that flush of hot blood in his cheeks. There was another ten minutes worth of questions on his clipboard and an ad break coming up but he needed to deflect attention from his lack of control. The script was abandoned. He leapt to his feet. "Have you got your potion to hand, Nick?"

"Afraid not, Roy. In fact, I'd like to take this opportunity to make an announce…"

Turgid raised his voice, speaking over his guest. "Well, you're going to need it for our next guest." Now he was shouting. "You haven't seen him for exactly thirty years this week. From the Golden Age of The Newt, here he is, the one, the only, the indomitable, the unstoppable, The Fooorrccceeeee."

The band were caught on the back foot, but rallied to break into a ragged rendition of an old Disco hit called Can You Feel The Force.

Nick turned to Lucky. "Did he just say The Force?"

Lucky nodded his head vigorously then turned to face stage right where a bank of spotlights were focusing. A huge figure rumbled into the glare, at least eight feet tall and almost as wide, topped with a shock of wild, white hair like Santa Claus with his fingers in a light socket. But his arms and legs were no bigger than those of an average sized man. On a monster like The Force the limbs looked stunted.

"Oh Shit!" Nick said and sprinted off stage left.

"What the f… " Roy barely stopped himself from committing an unsurpassed act of un-professionalism. Then he executed a perfectly timed double-take, one that any comedian would have been proud of, looking from The Force to the retreating Newt, then back to The Force, his face registering finally the depth of his mistake in attempting to reunite two old foes. Finally realising that The Force was indeed the psychotic killing machine that his publicist boasted.

As The Force watched Nick exit stage left a huge grin consumed his face and he began to salivate. He emitted an unsettling, high-pitched giggle. "Thirty years you cost me, Newt. Now it's time for payback." The giggle turned to a cackle. "A lot of somebodies are going to pay." With difficulty, due to his extreme girth and the shortness of his arms, The Force rubbed his hands together like a pawnbroker reviewing a desperate pledge and began to descend the short flight of steps that led to the Tonight With Roy Turgid set.

Sensing it was his turn to act the hero, Lucky leapt forward bringing his propitious field into play. The Force's short legs had always caused him trouble descending stairs. Seeing Lucky jump to the attack caused him to hesitate slightly, uncertain of what his dog-faced opponent had up his sleeve. Lucky, of course, had not the slightest clue as to how he would tackle the rumbling behemoth before him, relying on good fortune to win the day for him as usual. The Force's hesitant foot caught its heel on the second step from the bottom of the stairs and stumbled forward. Anyone with normally proportioned legs would have recovered the stumble without trouble. The Force's short legs were beyond the feat of covering the distance of two steps in one stride. His toe caught the lip of the bottom step throwing him completely off balance. His little arms windmilled wildly. The audience held their breaths and stared open-mouthed at the primetime spectacle Roy had provided. With the inevitability of an ad break The Force toppled slowly forward. Lucky lost his footing on the highly polished stage and slid feet first into the bottom step. Fortunately he careened sideways off the step and clear of the glacial fall of The Force.

The floor of a soundstage is not meant to take a falling, unstoppable force. It gave way beneath the enormous weight of the aged super-villain. A huge cloud of dust burst from the hole his crashing body created. The Force disappeared. The dust rendered the first five rows of the studio audience momentarily blind. Roy Turgid and Lucky wiped at streaming eyes and blinked like baby owls toward the gaping hole. For a count of five the studio was in total silence, then people began to cough and splutter, babble senselessly to their neighbours. The floor manager signalled for the Applause signs to light. In the control booth a production assistant asked, "Do we cut to an ad break?". The producer shook his head. This was the sort of stuff that made careers. Or broke them. He hoped Lucky's field of good fortune would cover him.

Suddenly the floor erupted beneath the front row of the audience. Scattering seats and bodies like matchsticks in a gale The Force erupted back into play. Now the studio was in pandemonium. The injured screamed and moaned and whimpered in pain; the rest of the audience screamed in terror. Roy Turgid squealed like a little girl.

From stage left Nick reappeared looking slightly unsteady on his feet. "Come on, Force, you *&^$er, give me your best shot," he shouted, slurring slightly. He stumbled rockily to the table behind which he had earlier sat and lifted a carafe of water smashing it against the back of a chair. Nick took a deep breath and stepped towards his mortal foe. Roy Turgid stood quaking between them, unable in his funk to even run away. Nick brushed him aside roughly, propelling him onto his backside centre stage. "You %^&king moron, Turgid. What did you think, he was just some four colour character brought to life by an actor? You think he spent thirty years in jail for jaywalking? Or spitting on the sidewalk? This $&*% killed at least twenty people that I know of. And now he's added some of your audience to his list. $%^k!"

He smacked the chair out of his way. It bounced end over end across the floor. The Force rumbled forward attempting to build momentum. In the enclosed space of the studio it would be difficult to get up to speed. Nick was counting on it. He never thought very clearly when under the influence of his serum, but he knew The Force well enough. Once he got rolling there was little chance of stopping him. But he had hardly got started thanks to Lucky. Where was the little guy, anyway, he wondered. But there was no time for thought. He flung himself bodily at his rotund foe, smashing a fist into The Force's enormous gut, grabbing his shirt front in almost the same movement and dragging his head down to regular height. Nick crashed his head into the killer's face, smearing his nose across one cheek and closing both his eyes. The impact of his attack threw him backwards. As he fell to the floor Nick kicked out with a well-practiced right boot and ploughed The Force's testicles back up into his body. The juggernaut staggered on for several steps then tripped over the prostrated Nick and tumbled to the ground.

Nick clambered unsteadily to his feet and stepped in close to The Force. Methodically he began to kick the fallen villain about the head and shoulders. His language was appalling. The director called cut and the station went directly to a break.

It took eight security men to drag Nick off the fallen Force. Three of them would later need to attend the accident and emergency room in St Vincent's Hospital. When his fighting rage subsided Nick slumped quietly to the floor and cried. Lucky the wonder-dog-faced-boy's luck had finally run out. He lay close to the bottom of the stairs, a fourteen inch long splinter of wood sticking from his chest. He had died instantly, feeling no pain. All the pain was saved up for Nick. Lucky was the only human being he had ever been really close to. People who knew them even said they had grown to look alike.

They had been together for twenty-eight years. Even when Batman dropped Robin, Nick had kept Lucky with him. In the eightie,s when the homoerotic nature of teenaged sidekicks had been highlighted by every hack with an axe to grind and every gay looking to out a new celebrity, The Newt and Lucky, the Wonder Dog-Faced Boy, had ignored the jibes and the innuendo; though Lucky had moved out of Nick's house. And Nick had never stopped missing him. Why did people always want to think the worst? Nick loved Lucky like a son, but because they weren't blood relatives everyone wanted to think the worst. The fact that Nick had never met Miss Right merely served to accentuate the problem.

But now Lucky was gone forever and Nick didn't care who knew how he felt. He stood in the centre of the Tonight With Roy Turgid set and cried his heart out. He stood with his head thrown back, his arms hanging limply at his sides and allowed the tears to fall as they might, his body visibly racked with hero-sized sobs. At sixty-one years of age, Nick Abendandon was all alone in the world. Now he needed to be really brave. Now he really needed his serum.

Roy Turgid also felt completely alone and abandoned. The floor staff seemed to be shunning him, as though he were to blame for all that had happened. Nobody had come to check if he was unhurt, not even his personal assistant or his hairdresser. Why did he bother making such an effort if nobody cared? What sort of empty sham was this show-business if people weren't the most important factor? Well he would show them what was important when they came back from the break. He patted away the dust embedded in his suit and finger combed his hair as best he could. You'd think someone would at least bring me a mirror, he thought. Remembering the exercises his vocal coach had taught him, Roy bent slightly at the waist and began to breathe in deeply through his nose and out through his mouth. He didn't have time for any elaborate yoga figures. He looked contemptuously at the sobbing figure of The Newt and smiled to himself. At least one of them was a professional.

"Back in five, Roy," the floor manager shouted. "And four and three and…"