Yee and Haw

“I mean, I figured I’d see you again. But only, like your head, you know? On the end of a pike. Or Maybe just your face, worn as a mask over some mutant’s face.” Dakota Christmas cheerfully said upon my return to the Doomsday, CA studio.

While it had been a harrowing experience, escaping the aforementioned mutants, and while it was Ms. Christmas who had left me for dead with said mutants, I was glad to see the starlet again. There was something about her that lit up a room. 

Whether it was her unique fashion sense, 12 dexterous fingers, or homespun charm, this intrepid journalist could not say.

“Well, I am glad your here. I wanted to show you something.”

Colour me surprised, I thought. The last time our paths had crossed, it seemed the young beauty cum reality star wanted nothing to do with me. And now, she wanted to show me something. My excitement knew no bounds. 

We were in the back lot of Doomsday Studios, the backdrop of America’s number one reality show Doomsday, CA. As my faithful readers surly know, Doomsday, CA is about a bickering family of filmmakers and their hangers-on (like breakout star Dakota Christmas) as they try to revive Los Angeles’ movie industry despite the entire city and surrounding suburbs are a irradiated hellscape. 

Ms. Christmas lead me to her private trailer. “Come in, but don’t touch nothing.”

Pre Drop, I had visited many a movie stars trailer. I can say without hesitation that this was the unique. She’d painted the walls a hi-viz orange. Despite only ever seeing Ms. Christmas wearing her signature quad-kini, laundry was strewn about, drying on racks, or heaped in piles. A pair of jeans and a singlet hung from the ceiling fan. Its eternal spin created a dull whirring noise that caused a chill to run down my spine. The back wall was covered in not one, not two, but a parade of 90s sitcom posters (mostly Full House). 

The starlet began searching for something under a pile of Ladies Esquire magazine. 

“Ah ha! Found ‘em.”

With that Dakota Christmas pulled two of the largest firearms I had ever seen out, brandishing them with the pride of a mother. 

“This one here is called Yee, and this one is Haw.”

Show me a foil, or an epee and perhaps I would raise an eyebrow in interest, but the truth was firearms held little sway over my attention. Still, I forced enthusiasm, otherwise I risked fouling the mood of my mercurial host.

“These here were made inside LA itself. Special order. But there is a problem.”

I inquired what could possibly be bothering such a famous and successful person as herself. 

“It’s Yee’s scope. I’ve never been able to sight it in.” 

Tears filled her blue eyes. There was a quiver to her lip. “Everybody says they’re too busy to help me. I’m all alone.” A wail, not unlike the sound of an injured woodland creature emanated from her perfectly rouged lips. 

I tried my best to calm her, asking her if there was anything this lowly journalist could do to help.

“You mean that?” She sniffled. “You’d actually help me sight in my rifle?”

Certainly, I told her. Anything within my power.

She rewarded me with the most widest smile I’d ever seen in my life. 

Moments later, I was once again outside the protective gates of Doomsday studio, a walkie-talkie in my hand. 

“The filthy little mutie who made this rifle said it was good for a mile. You see that burnt-out van ‘bout a mile east? Over” Ms. Christmas’ voice crackled over the walkie-talkie. 

Squinting I could just make out the outline of what was once mini-van. Replying over the walkie-talkie, I informed the starlet that I could see it. 

“Jesus galloping Christ. Say roger, not, indubitably, you fraggin’ weirdo. And say OVER when you are done. OVER.” 

I corrected my mistake. 

“Okay, I’m taking the shot. Start walking that way.”

Dutifully I started heading that direction, wondering if A. O. Scott ever had such a privilege. My eyes darted this way and that. More than once I looked back at the security of Doomsdays studios walls, up to the water towner where I could still make out the Ms. Christmas’ distinct cowboy hat.

“What is the problem? Keep moving. Over.”

I did as she said. About half way to the derelict van, I heard the report of the rifle, a bone rattling boom. I thought I saw the van rock on its deflated tires.

“Okay, I was aiming for the passenger side door. Let me know if I bullseye it.” 

A few more minutes, after climbing over a barbed wire fence with only minimal bleeding, my hair on edge with every sound around me, I was at the van. Thankfully, this part of the wasteland was barren. If marauding mutants were out here, I could see them for some distance. Besides Ms. Christmas could provide covering fire from her perch atop the water tower, I was sure. 

Examining the passenger side of the door, I saw 2-inch hole punched square through the the entire car.

Good show, I radioed back, not forgetting to add the di rigore “over” at the end of my transmission.

There was no reply.

I leaned against the van and fiddled with the dials on my walkie-talkie. Perhaps I was out of range? 

Suddenly, inches from my head, the sound of tearing metal, followed a moment later by a great boom emanating from the direction of the studio. I jumped a good foot in the air, spinning to see another hole in the vehicle. 

Could she not see me? I waved back towards the studio, all the while frantically trying to transmit my predicament. I saw a flash, then an eruption of dust between my legs, as ratcheting dirt kicked into me, tearing new holes in my already patch work radiation suit. 

Surely, this was some kind of mistake. 

Another gunshot made me jump in the air, higher this time. 

I had to run, but to where? The weapon could clearly punch a hole through and through the van. And I was in the open, nothing for hundreds of feet in any direction. 

There was no way, of course, that Dakota Christmas would shoot at me, I thought, as I flinched away from another near hit. I began running back the way I had come. 

No. No way. She was a celebrity, and in all my years I’ve never heard of a cruel celebrity. 

Still, I ran like the dickens.