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“I smell a Bobby Provost script,” says Maureen, expertly twirling a silver pen from one finger to the next on her right hand.
Collin plays a drum solo with his pens. “I’ve got odds he wants to take it on since he gave Deidre the penultimate, but the bugger’s a slave to editing.
As I head down the hallway, I wonder how they determine who writes which episode. I have a sense that Bobby runs a creative dictatorship with Danna as his majordomo.
Apart from the writer’s room, it looks like Friday/Valentine’s Day quitting time is in place. The scene shop is dead, the horse arena empty. I cut over to the design hub and work my way down the corridor where costumes, props, set dec, and specifically, the armory are located.
I make the mistake of poking my nose into a dark room near props and almost scream. A dozen stiff animals and animal heads peer at me. It smells musty and dead. I make a note on the map.
“Taxidermy.”
This is one department I’ll avoid in the future. Apparently, Bobby’s animal-friendly policy doesn’t apply to the ones that are already dead.
At the end of the hallway, two crossed swords hang over a doorway. Close up, I see they are wood carvings covered in metallic paint.
“This must be the place.” I swing open the door to face racks of swords, shields, maces, and knives. If we’re ever under attack, I know where to come. The room is lit by the scant glow of a single overhead light.
“Hello?”
I don’t know a specific Donal Cam sword from a food processor. On one rolling rack, character names are written on strips of tape above the weapons.
“Bowstring. Rory. O’Connor Clansman.” No Donal Cam.
Off to the side, there’s a deserted, glassed-in office lit only by the glow of a bouncing glass of Guinness screen saver on a single computer. I’ll have to scan the racks until I find a Donal Cam sword. From my research, I got the gist of what it looks like. Hopefully, any gnarly weapon capable of lopping off a head will do tonight for Collin and Danna.
Moving down the center aisle, I catch sight of a rack of swords that look as tall as I am. Those Celtic chieftains didn’t mess around. Warding off other clans or Viking invaders wasn’t a friendly game of badminton.
I find a sword most like the ones I put in the collage for the writers and close my fingers around the hilt. When I try to lift it, I nearly lose my balance the blasted thing is so heavy. It drops back into its berth with a clank.
“There’s never a burly Celt around when you need one.”
When the clang dies away, a muffled sound of metal on metal replaces it. My first thought isepic ghost battle, two dead warriors using props to settle ancient feuds. Not so. The clanks are of this world and seem to be coming from behind a line of racks along the back wall of the armory.
“Grand,” I say, embracing Irish verbiage and heading toward the sound. Hopefully, someone is here to point me toward a Donal Cam steel special.
As I near a door in the far corner of the armory, the sounds of battle increase. Grunts and curses join the heavy metal harmony. I open the door a crack to peek and not disturb.
The room is a massive gym with mats covering most of the floor. There are treadmills and fitness machines along one wall next to a collection of free weights and kettlebells. The space looks like an Olympic training center. An epic battle does rage in the center of the room. Based on the intensity of the interplay and the combatants, I could be watching Hercules and Zeus duking it out with swords for domination of the universe. Except I know Hercules. The warrior with hair of spun gold dancing wildly above broad shoulders strong enough to lift a mastodon is Jack. The layer of sweat coating his bare upper body catches the overhead lights, setting him aglow. Muscles in his forearms flex like cords of thick vines as he flows through his moves.
“Stop locking your elbow,” barks the other collection of muscle in the room. The scene is almost comical. The top of Jack’s costume is draped over his belt, leaving him bare-chested. It flaps and billows as he pivots and lunges. His opponent wears ordinary gray sweats.
Jack repeats the same series of movements. He pants and gasps for breath but doesn’t let up.
“Better, better,” says the guy I assume is either Jack’s trainer or the fight coordinator.
Jack downs a bottle of water. “Let’s go again. Ten times in a row and then I’ll own it.”
My chest clenches as Jack speaks the same words I said to him that first day we met when I de-glitched his backswing and again last night at the driving range.
The trainer points his sword at Jack. “Once more will do for tonight. I’ll not have you straining muscles. You’ve got a taxing week coming with the clan battle scene.”
“Twice.”
The trainer shakes his head. “Everything’s a bargain with you.”
So, I’m not the only one to be on the receiving end of pressure from Jack O’Leary.
Jack grins and takes his opening position. The choreography is beautiful. These two magnificent specimens of the human form spin and collide only to counter one another like reflections in a mirror. After a final series of brutal blows that creates a deafening shriek of steel, they fade into stillness.
