“Thirty seconds?” said Stuart Lake, screenwriter, journalist, former boxing promoter and all-round dubious character, “that’s too brief. The fight needs to be longer.”
The old man sitting opposite stared at him with cold lizard eyes. “Then do what you do best, Lake,” he replied in his low, growling voice, “lie. Fabricate. Exaggerate. Make shit up.”
Stuart coughed to hide his discomfort and stared down at his writing pad.
“Item,” he said, stabbing at the pad with his pencil, “one gunfight between outlaws and lawmen. That’s a good start. That’s great. The public lick this shit up.”
“Always have,” remarked the other, “ever since the dimestore novel days.”
Stuart nodded. “Okay. Next item. The fight happens in Tombstone, Arizona.”
He glanced up at the old man. “It really happened there?” Continue reading
The 900 Club 