STEPHEN COLBERT'S
AMERICONE NIGHTMARE

by Paul D. Marks

I hardly knew the girl – and if you believe that I'll sell you a used war in Iraq on the cheap. The truth is it was a dark and stormy night, uh morning, when some nefarious goings on were nefariously going on right here in our studio. It was the start of my noir nightmare.

I was interviewing Tommy O'Malley, lead character and lead detective in Bill O'Reilly's novel Those Who Trespass I introduced O'Malley with my usual flourish.

"Thank you, Stephen. It's a pleasure to be here," he said, flashing his lopsided grin. O'Malley was big and brawny. He could take me in a fight with all my fingers tied behind my back, his too. His reddish-brown hair was going gray at the temples, though he didn't look Jewish, even though some of my best friends are.

"Well then, let's get right to it. You're the detective who solved the Global News Network murders," said I, with a wink. I mean, after all, Global News Network, who the hell do they think they are, Comedy Central? Does it even exist or is it just a fabrication of someone's fevered imagination?

"I have that distinction."

We talked a bit more about the big case he solved, about how O'Malley is looking out for the folks. About Bill O'Reilly – what he's really like.

"I see the ol' clock is running down; I just have a couple more questions for you: Are you really Bill O'Reilly in detective drag?"

"That's too ridiculous to dignify with a response."

"One more question, Detective O'Malley: Are you now or have you ever been a fictional character?"

O'Malley shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Tick-tock-tick-tock," Colbert said. Oh, that's me .

"That would make a good candidate for the Most Ridiculous Item of the Day," O'Malley grinned.

"Dissembling, aren't we? And wasn't that our word of the day on May 5th? But isn't it true that you are just a figment of Bill O'Reilly's imagination?"

"I invoke the Fifth Amendment against my right of self incrimination."

"Come now, Detective O'Malley. This isn't a witch hunt, this is not Salem. I am not Cotton Mather, I am not the Grand Inquisitor...am I? Do I look like Torquemada – I don't even think I can spell it; I went to American public schools after all. There will be no burning of the steaks here – we like 'em red, though not Commie Red . Oh, I get it, you're like the characters in Blade Runner who don't know they're cyborgs."

O'Malley's face reddened, not Commie Red.

A bell rang. Where'd that come from?

"Saved by the bell. Detective Tommy O'Malley, ladies and gentleman."

Sweating bullets, O'Malley got up to leave. I handed him a parting gift: "Have a pint of Americone Dream , my very own Ben and Jerry flavor. Cool you down." I turned to the camera, "Moving on..."

INT. BILL O'REILLY'S STUDIO – FOX NEWS – DAY

O'Reilly stares into the camera.

O'REILLY

...And now for the Most Ridiculous Item of the Day. Stephen Colbert – you remember him – we had a nice, convivial interview some time ago – interviewed my friend NYPD Detective Tommy O'Malley on his show. Here's a clip:

INT. COLBERT'S STUDIO – COLBERT ON O'REILLY'S MONITOR – DAY

That most handsome devil Stephen Colbert smiles cordially.

COLBERT

The fact is, Detective O'Malley, sometimes it's hard to tell where you start and Bill O'Reilly ends. Or is it the other way around? I mean, we aren't really in Roger Rabbit territory here, are we?

INT. O'REILLY'S STUDIO – DAY

O'Reilly glares into the camera.

O'REILLY

...Colbert-O'Reilly. O'Reilly-Colbert. I cleaned his clock. Colbert-O'Malley: ridiculous? You decide. --Almost as ridiculous as Ben and Jerry not having an O'Reilly flavor – something like Levittown Lush, well, not that kind of lush; you know what I mean. Now to letters...

INT. COLBERT'S STUDIO – DAY

Affable, pleasant, amiable, friendly, gracious, welcoming, doesn't-interrupt, host Stephen Colbert smiles congenially for the camera. Hey, I might have gone to American schools, but at least I learned how to use a thesaurus. And can you tell who's narrating this story?

Shaniqua-Ho-( not that kind of ho you with the nasty minds )-Sakimoto-Ali-Selassi-Lassie-Deutschlander-Garcia-Schwartz-Windsor, our female one-legged, one-eyed stagehand – this way we kill a baker's dozen affirmative action jobs with one person – we here at The Colbert Report are doing our part, are you doing yours? – comes up to me and whispers in my ear: "Psst. Stephen."

"Uh, Geri." I always call her Geri since all those other names are too much to remember . "I don't know if you noticed but I'm doing a show here. S-H-O-W! Tee-vee. Tele-vision. The telly as they say in the Mother Country."

Geri persists.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, it seems there's a pressing matter that can't wait till the show's over."

Geri and I huddle. "Stephen, Marti's dead," she whispers.

I turn to the camera: "April Fool's joke – in September."

"It's not a joke, Marti's been murdered," Geri says.

"Marti – murdered!?" I shout out loud. "O'Reilly put you up to this for me interviewing O'Malley." I wipe my brow. "I never knew the girl, I swear."

* * *

The big clock on the wall strikes twelve, high noon. We shot the show early today because I had a dentist appointment in the afternoon. Now O'Malley is running around yelling "Lock down. Lock the damn building down. Nobody gets out."

Jimmy Coffin, the show's producer, wrangles me to a corner. "Stephen, I want you to take charge of this case. Leave no stone unturned."

But dammit, Jim, I'm a TV commentator not a PI. And I haven't seen a Bogart movie in some time.

"Find the man who killed Marti, Stephen."

"Chief," says I, "how do we know it's a man – isn't that being just the tinsiest bit sexist?"

"Sexist schmexist. Marti didn't play in her own sandbox."

"But she wore a lot of lipstick."

"The building's locked down. No one can get out. And only the police can come in. I'm counting on you."

I look up at the clock. Twelve-fourteen. Time's a wastin'.

* * *

Marti was a good girl, if I'm allowed to use the word girl for someone over the age of seven. And a good associate producer. She'd only been with the show a few months and I didn't know her well. I'd driven her home from an office party the night before – it was on my way . She hadn't really had too much to drink, well, maybe just enough to make me the designated driver.

Flashback time:

"Are you sure you can make it okay? I can walk you in."

"I'm okay," she smiles. "Thanks for the ride."

Marti gets out of the car, walking toward her renovated brownstone on shaky stiletto heels. I watch, trying not to be too much of a voyeur. Shadows from a street light linger on every curve. I'm just about to drive away when a man in a trenchcoat creeps out of the shadows and approaches. He helps her up the steps. I crane to see his face – can't. She unlocks the front door and they both enter. Another apartment dweller? A gentleman caller?

Marti's at work this morning without looking any the worse for wear. I figure the guy was okay. Marti's okay. I'm okay – you're okay. All God's chillun's okay. I don't give it much more thought.

Until now. And now I have to wonder, who was that man?

The clock strikes one. An hour's passed. O'Malley's running around, questioning everyone in sight. Everything in sight. I'm surprised he hasn't questioned the clock. I run into him in the hall.

"Colbert, I need to talk to you. Let's get down to the truth of the situation."

"Don't you mean the truthiness of the situation?"

"Whatever. It appears that Marti Farrow was murdered between the hours of 8am and 11am."

"I thought they couldn't determine such things with that kind of firm accuracy, except on CSI , of course."

"I don't care what they can determine. I'm telling you what I've determined. Where were you?"

"Getting ready for the show. We don't usually tape so early in the day, but I have a dentist appointment today."

"I wouldn't count your teeth before they're hatched."

What's he talking about?

"Was anyone there with you while you were getting ready for the show ?"

"Not most of the time. I was going over my notes. Right before the taping I was in costume and makeup."

"Aha. But most of the time you were alone."

I feel the noose tightening around my neck. "B'but Jimmy Coffin asked me to ferret out the killer. I'm innocent!" It sounds pathetic – thou dost protest too much.

O'Malley smiles, "Last time you were interviewing me, now the Irish brogue's on the other foot."

What the hell is he talking about?

O'Malley finally lets me go, with those famous last words: "Don't leave the building."

I want to approach my job of finding Marti's killer with more deliberation. I go to my office. To the Big Board where I plot out bits for the show. I rip them down in one fell swoop – whatever that is. Where do you find a fell swoop, besides in the dictionary, of course? Or maybe in Shakespeare. Isn't that the first recorded use of the phrase? Macbeth , I believe. And he, Shakespeare, not Macbeth, because Macbeth is, after all, a fictional character, I think, but I thought that of O'Malley too, but who can ever be sure? Anyway, did Shakespeare make that expression up out of whole cloth – and where did the expression whole cloth come from? And if Shakespeare invented that too, which Shakespeare, the peon from Stratford, Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, Francis Bacon, Queen Elizabeth, Gwyneth Paltrow or any one of the hundreds of other pretenders to Shake's legacy? And can you get two fell swoops, like two desserts? But I digress.

What do I know about Marti's death? According to O'Malley she was killed between 8 and 11am. In this building. Who was in the building at those hours? I start to list the names on the Big Board:

Jimmy Coffin: producer.

Ray Lanchester: makeup.

Charles Stroud: hair.

Rita York: director.

Steve Cordette: assistant and legal counsel to Jimmy Coffin. They are tight. Two peas in a pod. And when I say pod I'm talking Invasion of the Body Snatchers pod, not pea pod. Cordette does Coffin's bidding. He's the hatchet man. Henchman – I've always wanted to use that word for real. Coffin wants someone off the show, Cordette does the deed. But I digress.

Elaine Gold: production assistant.

Geri: stagehand.

Harold Klausemeyer: tech director.

Maria Orlin, Jose Cantinflas, Ismael Serrano, Chito Jose Gonzalez Bustamonte Rafferty, Josefina Prieto. Of course the last several are the illegal alien, uh, undocumented worker, cleaning crew, but you didn't hear me say that . And they do a damn good job! Cheap too!

The person I'd seen enter the apartment with Marti last night was a man. Unless it was a woman dressing like a man. You never know. A woman dressing like a man – a man dressing like a woman. A woman dressing like a man dressing like a woman. Not that there's anything wrong with that, as some distingue pundit once said .

So, going on the theory that it was a man, I start examining the list.

Jimmy Coffin: What do I really know about him? He's been producing the show for a while now. But where did he come from? The Daily Show – that makes him suspect right there.

Of course, I'm a man too – I spell man M-A-N. I add my name to the list. But I'm pretty sure I wasn't the one who killed Marti. But what can one really be sure of in an existential universe governed by chance, one in which existence precedes essence? And being and nothingness is part of the them , but in Marti's case she was no longer being, but was certainly moving toward nothingness.

I cross myself off the suspect list, but I still keep an eye on me from the corner of my eye, which isn't easy and tends to make one cross-eyed. But I do the best I can.

The clock now reads 1:43. My dentist appointment is fast approaching. I'd prefer not to miss it so clearly this must get wrapped up soon.

Jimmy Coffin sticks his head in the door. "What're you doing? I thought you were going to find the killer?"

"I'm on it, chief. The Big Board." I point.

"The Big Board isn't big enough. Where's Red Clupea? I think Red and Marti had a thing."

A thing!

Red Clupea, how could I have forgotten him? Floor manager on the show. Iraq War vet. PTSD. And he's seen Saw III twenty-three times. Of course, Red Clupea goes on the Big Board.

Ah, the Big Board:

Harold Klausemeyer: no guts.

Charles Stroud: too stupid.

Ray Lanchester: too gay – not that there's anything wrong with that, either.

Steve Cordette: hmm, hatchet man.

Red Clupea: too crazy, but maybe too crazy like a fox and crazy enough to kill her.

Rita York: too female.

Jimmy Coffin: with a name like that...

I hear footsteps. Echoing. Expensive leather slapping expensive fake wood floors. Several pairs of feet heading my way. I look up – around the hall corner comes O'Malley, flanked by Coffin and Cordette. They are a steamroller ready to run me over.

"Colbert!" Coffin shouts.

I stop dead in my tracks – well, not dead yet. Not like Marti. But I stop.

"We have a witness. Come to my office."

We march in lockstep down the hall to Coffin's office which, unlike his name, is spacious and very well appointed.

Sitting in a chair is a small woman. An artist by the looks of her – maybe it's the rainbow of paint on her artist's smock that gives it away.

"This is Elsa Sullivan. Mr. Colbert is heading up our internal investigation."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Colbert. I watch your show every night."

If anything reeks of truthiness, it is her statement.

"The pleasure is mine."

"Tell Mr. Colbert what you saw."

"Well, it was a dark and stormy night – aren't they all? I live in the same neighborhood as Ms. Farrow, Marti. She even bought one of my paintings. Anyway, I was sitting in my window and a man brought her home."

"Did he go in with her?"

"No. That was the strange part. Marti was no stranger to men. And this one, this man, he just sat in the car. Watching. Just watching."

The noose tightens. I loosen my collar.

"Hmm. How long did he watch?"

"Several minutes. Then whoosh, off he goes."

"Did you get a look at him?"

"Sadly, no."

Silence. Finally, I ask: "Did you see what kind of car he had?"

"Well, I'm not very good with cars you know, but I think it was a BMW 650i, two door convertible. You know, the one with the 6-Speed Steptronic automatic transmission. Monaco Blue Metallic."

Of course, being an artiste she knows nothing of cars.

"That's quite an expensive car," O'Malley says. "Who here can afford such a vehicle? Personally, I live on Long Island and drive a good ol' American car. It's in the shop a lot, but hey, it's American. Hell, even if I wanted to I couldn't afford a Beamer, not on my cop's salary. I'm just a working stiff from Levittown."

Coffin looks at me. No, he stares at me. No, he glares at me. "Let's start making a list of everybody's cars. Stephen, you can put it on your Big Board."

I feel myself hanging by a noose of the finest hemp.

I head off. Down the hall. But I don't go to my office. I scan the main exit. Blocked by cops. I hustle off. Rear exit. Blocked. All exits blocked. I need a place to hide. To think. The plot of my noir nightmare thickens, like bad roux. I'm in a dark corner, with tentacles reaching for me from out of the past, my indemnity doubles, the postman knocks – or is he ringing and was that the bell we heard earlier? – and the big clock ticks down. As long as I don't face the big sleep I'm okay. Still, the walls close in on me. And that's not the kind of diet I want to be on. If I was O'Malley I could just turn another page – maybe – and it would be over. But I'm not, I'm flesh and blood. If you prick me, do I not bleed? If you tickle me, do I not laugh? If you poison me, will I not – oh, mommy, I don't wanna die! Did Shakespeare say that last part? I'm not sure. But I digress again. And finally, if you wrong me, shall I not revenge?

* * *

Yes. Revenge! The dish best served cold, though I'm not sure why and you sure as hell don't want the health department after you. But I am innocent! And it appears the clues are leading to me. I own a Monaco Blue Metallic Beamer with 6-speed Steptronic.

I'm being framed!

The clock ticks down like an executioner's clock.

I know that I'm the only one on that list who owns that model Beamer. Yet only twenty-four hours ago, my life was normal. I was a happy man with a TV show, a wife and a nice car.

But I will not go gently into that good night. I am raging. No one's gonna put out my lights.

I leave my hiding place, standing tall. Though maybe not quite as tall as I was when the day began. Gravity? Or just the gravity of the situation? Gravitas – I've always wanted it. Now I have it. What the hell am I saying?

I remember something – something about the man I saw go in with Marti. He had a red MacGuffin with him. I make my way to the Big Office: Coffin's.

I'm only there a minute, maybe less. I peek my head out. The coast is clear and I'm off.

Cordette's office is just a few yards down the hall. I'm in there even less time than in the Big Office. I cut out. Hide.

I wait until I see Cordette come down the hall, go into his office. I'm right behind him. He stands there, smirking.

"We know whose car that is," he says.

"What does that prove?"

"It bring us one step closer to the killer."

"So does this." I pull out the red MacGuffin I took from Coffin's Big Office and which I had only moments ago placed in the top drawer of Cordette's desk. "Coffin did it. You know it. I know it – I assume he knows it. He left this here for you...just in case the frame on me doesn't work. I assume there are traces of it at Marti's that O'Malley's forensics people will match."

The grin slides off Cordette's face.

"Coffin doesn't care who he frames," I say, "as long as he can maintain the lifestyle to which he's become accustomed."

"But what about the show? Without you or me?" Cordette is crushed. He never expected someone in Show Biz to be so ruthless.

"Hell, he can always go back to The Daily Show ."

Cordette opens his middle desk drawer. Pulls out a semi-automatic pistol. A nickel-plated, pearl-handled .50 caliber Desert Eagle – man, that thing would give Dirty Harry's Magnum penis envy. I think he's going to blow me away. Instead he blows past me.

Two shots echo through the halls. O'Malley beats me to Coffin's office – I let him . I rush in. Coffin's as dead as the proverbial doornail. So is Cordette.

"They shot each other," O'Malley says. "Seems Coffin and Ms. Farrow were having an illicit affair. Not wanting to be caught Coffin tried to pin the blame on you, then on Cordette. He left this red MacGuffin in Cordette's desk."

How does he know these things, I ask.

"Because I'm The O'Malley," he says.

I examine the MacGuffin as though I'd never seen it before.

"What the heck is a MacGuffin anyway? A simple guy like me from Long Island wouldn't know; I bet it's something dirty. No matter, I guess that wraps it."

"Guess so," I say, relief washing over me.

He holds up his pint of Americone Dream . "Melted," he says. "Well, boyo, I better be on my way. My guys'll clean this mess up."

"Just one more question, Officer O'Malley."

"Shoot. Well, not literally, of course."

"Are you now or have you ever been a fictional character? Not that there's anything wrong with that. "

He grins slyly at me and exits. Time to hit the rest of my day. Maybe I can even make that dentist appointment after all.

Movin' on.