Production personnel for the upcoming nightly TV talk show Anthracite Tonite are in a festive mood on this dreary, windswept and snowy evening, proving how much we need the company of each other – particularly in the uncertain times brought about by the sporadic solar flare outbursts. Morris Crimpanfortis looks on happily as valued members of the production staff order freely off the menu. The tab for this evening will accumulate on the running total of the reciprocal trade agreement that Morris already worked out with the restaurant for airtime once the TV show is up and running (it has already missed its launch date twice). Amid all the decision Morris is being forced to make, including a heated search for a cohost, tonight he must choose a suitable substitute for desert, as the restaurant just announced it was out of peach pie – or “out of the peach” as they put it. Morris decides that “out of the peach” has a nice ring to it, and wonders how difficult it will be to trademark the saying for his exclusive use later on . . .

“Out of the Peach”

Free Dinner Attracts Wannabe Exec Producers

Other people show up for the weekly production meeting in the “Boca Grande Room” in back of the legendary Five-Points Diner: Wendy Taveras, Honus Kryburn, Wilmer Growens, Tink Herksely, Gandy Frommenkin, Fordham Oaknauer and Inez Unkley. Each has their own job title for the production of Anthracite Tonite accentuating their respective areas of expertise and spheres of influence.

The mood turns festive on this depressing winter eve, filled with the good cheer of friends and co-laborers. People start ordering off the menu, putting it on my tab. Since I’m broke, this will be a part of the preexisting restaurant trade with the TV station–I hope. Nothing is written in stone yet. I decide to splurge and go for a slice of coconut cream pie, since they’re out of the peach this evening.

Honus Kryburn Lets It Rip

Honus Kryburn, the chief automobile prognosticator and rant specialist for Anthracite Tonite, offers an unsolicited proclamation: “Can I have your attention? Everybody listen up” The radio guy’s grating voice echoes off the windowless wallpapered walls. “It’s time for another one of my copyrighted glimpses into the future.”

“I changed my mind,” shouts Fordham Oaknauer. “Can I have the rabbit stew instead of the pickled pike?”

Honus Kryburn rolls his eyes at the gauche interruption, forging ahead with another one of his patented visions. “You know, one day every road in America will be a toll road. And of all those toll roads, some will be designated unlimited speeds, like Germany’s mythical Autobahn.”

All about Self-hydration

Honus is heated up, talking about the future for drivers across the nation.

He goes on to explain how Americans will take the concept of the Autobahn and put their own spin on it. Being a market-driven economy, entrepreneurs and early adopters will sell knockoff Indy-style cars. If you are going to drive in the US, which in this case means “Unlimited Speeds,” you will be required to pilot one of the vintage racecar knockoffs.

You will also be required to dress appropriately. That means a Nomex head sock, Nomex leather-palm gloves, fire-resistant one-piece underwear, polyurethane-soled shoes, a three-layer fire suit, spherical safety helmet made of carbon fiber with a three millimeter sun-tinted visor, proper ear protectors and proof that you’ve properly hydrated yourself.

First Dibs on a Vapid Trademark

“Great Honus,” Fordham Oaknauer says. “But what’s that got to do with the price of vegetable oil?”

People start talking again, yammering about their children and their day jobs, trips to the teeming megalopolis of The Very B-I-G Allentown, anything but the business at hand. Wilmer Growens even goes so far to announce that he took the wife and kids moose hunting last weekend way out in Lank Holler.

I wonder if I should ask if they saw Bigfoot while they were holed up in the middle of nowhere like that.

“Now get this,” Honus says, oblivious to all the chatter at the big table around him. “Someday soon, even your rank-and-file motorist will be required to wear similar forms of safety equipment, just to go to the supermarket.” He nods ominously, letting it all sink in. “Mark my words.”

A Correlation with No Context

“Hey everybody,” I chime in. “I just thought of a new catchphrase I’m going to copyright: ‘Out of the peach.’ I don’t know exactly what it means, but I’ll think of something before filing the application with the Copyright Office.”

Everyone stops talking.

They don’t know how to respond to this.

When does something cross the line from being groundbreaking to gimmicky? That is the question that Morris Crimpanfortis must grapple with at this evening’s production meeting for Anthracite Tonite. Members of the crew meet in the “Boca Grande Room” at the legendary Five-Points Highway Diner to find out just what Morris means when he talks about a venomous snake on set. Morris pontificates about the halcyon days of television talk shows, dominated by the likes of Johnny Carson, whose intuitiveness for unscripted entertainment led to hours of watershed brilliance. Vick Banzler, the Graphite County DA and, an expert herpetologist, contends that Morris will really need to be at the top of his game if he plans on outwitting a rattlesnake for the entirety of a sixty-minute production. When it becomes apparent that the snake’s sole purpose will be to intimidate guests while they perform live commercial reads on the air, people wonder if Morris’ sister Noreen can talk some sense into him, before he makes a fool of himself and runs the whole production into the ground?

Sweating on the Set

What the Guests Don’t Know Just Might Hurt Them

Hadley Codfaldt grimaces. In his deepest radio voice, he tries to make sense of it all. “You’re telling me you’re having a poisonous snake on the set…as your co-host?” He makes an anguished, perplexed face. “Say it ain’t so.”

“Not my co-host per se,” I correct him. The snake’s primary role is motivational.” I glance across the table at Vick Banzler, the angular Graphite County DA.”I think that’s why we need to name it, don’t you, Vick? A member of the cast so integral to our success and with such raging star power demands to be called something more endearing than just ‘The Snake’.”

Vick Banzler does not respond, lost in the reverie of his freshly delivered root beer float.

“Will it be a union member?” Hadley inquires. “If so, I would imagine that they would want you to name it. Give it more star power and the ability to license merchandise.”

“Heavens yes,” I say. “I forgot all about the multiple merch angles.”

“What’s a snake gonna sell?” Tony asks, bringing us all new beverages.

A Forked Flicking Tongue is a Great Motivator

“Picture this,” I say, making a classic movie frame of my thumbs and forefingers. “My big-time celebrity guests laboring under the demands of doing a live read…and then I move the snake in two inches from their sweating faces. The audience will go bonkers. Based on the spiking applause meter we will determine if my guest aces the spot or not. And if they fail, the payback begins for real.”

Hadley is deep in thought. “I don’t know, Morris. Don’t you need a steady hand to hold a venomous snake two inches from someone’s face?” He shifts weight in his chair. “What you’re describing sounds a bit twisted. It doesn’t sound like you’ve left yourselves much margin for error in the event of an accident. Besides, what are the animal rights people going to say? Cruel and unusual punishment from being forced to perform under the lights all that time? Hah! They’ll come out of the woodwork. And the insurance companies for your celebrity guests–don’t forget about them.”

Totally ignoring Hadley’s concerns, I envision the snake’s tongue darting across the fevered cheeks of my laboring guests as I hold the reptile beside their sweating faces.

“At the end of the day what’s the point of it?” Hadley asks.

A Nod to the Past, a Writhe toward the Future

“It all comes down to this,” I say. “I’m ushering in a whole new era of television where the old rules are admired, respected and leveraged. But then I peal a lot of that back, modify it, and create a whole new way of looking at television that gives a nod to the past with a totally fresh take on things. I’m honoring what’s been done in the bygone days, then carefully stripping the superfluous away, leaving us with a complete and comprehensive new way of doing things.”

Feeling Pain at the Game Show Podium

One of those relics from the past includes the way we look at game shows. Throughout history, people on game shows did not feel any pain if they lost. “But my question to you is this: why should television be any different from the Vegas casinos? Don’t you have to make a commitment at a casino? Sure you do, you have to pony up the cash you have to spend money to make money as it were. Even if you’re playing the nickel slots, you’re anteing up the coin to make it possible to win.” I shake my head. “Why should game show contestants be any different? Why not let them sweat, knowing a piece of their hide will be lost if they don’t advance to the next round?”

I point out that the same theory applies on the backend. For losing contestants, instead of sending them home to Dubuque with a consolation prize, make them take part in a dangerous pursuit until they pay off their debt to the producers.

Nobody, including the snake, seems overly impressed with this scenario.

The assembled production crew of Anthracite Tonight, meeting in the storied “Boca Grande Room” in the rear of the Five-Points Highway Diner, has hit somewhat of an impasse. Hadley Codfaldt, world-famous radio guy (when all the satellites are working properly) asks for clarification regarding the need to have a full-time rattlesnake on set. Vick Banzler, the Graphite County DA and renowned regional herpetologist, explains the perilous nature of having a slithering time bomb like this on set.  Morris boasts that as TV talk show host, he has no qualms about letting a rattlesnake potentially upstage him. Morris asks the production team if they should name the snake, as it will have such a prominent role in the show’s branding. Vick Banzler rattles the rafters when he ask what a person has to do to get a root beer float around this place. Morris wonders if “Root Beer Float” isn’t a fitting name for their newest on-camera celebrity. And whatever you do, don’t call him a mascot . . .

Live and Direct from Blasting Cap

A Slithery Signature Element

Vick Banzler, the district attorney for Graphite County, explains why he chose a four-foot sidewinder from the family milking compound to figure prominently in the syndicated talk show Anthracite Tonite! “This fellow is going to be an integral part of the show. I would go so far as to say he’s going to be the signature element.” Vick Banzler embellishes his soliloquy with a bow as if he’s performing in front of a medieval jury.

I glance across the table at Hadley Codfaldt. “You realize, of course, how much self-esteem I have as a host to let a rattlesnake upstage me? You won’t see that from most hosts, they’re too insecure. I, on the other hand, have no problem with it.”

“So what’s the deal?” Hadley asks. “Are you going to sit behind the desk while you interview guests, letting the snake crawl on you?” He winces at Vick. “It sounds to me like you’ll have a tough time booking guests if that’s the tack you’re going to take.”

Pit Viper vs. Guinea Pig

“No Hadley, you’ve got it all wrong,” says Vick. “This is a pit viper you’re referring to, not some docile, domesticated guinea pig. You don’t just let a creature with this much malice in its DNA crawl all over you without reeling under the irreversible consequences.” He wraps up his line of torrid cross-examination, picking lint from the sleeve of his dark pinstripe suit coat. “It’s all the more reason why we need supervision on the set at all times and a ready supply of anti-venin.”

“Here’s the deal, Hadley,” I interject. “We have to make this talk show different than all the others on TV. It has to stand out, to rise above the competition. And the way we do it is with this snake.” I glance up at Vick Banzler. “Shall we name it?”

Vick shrugs as he takes a seat. “It’s your call, lad.” He turns his angular face to the crumbling ceiling and shouts, “Is there any way to get a root beer float around this establishment?”

“So what,” says Hadley, “are you going to keep it in a burlap sack on the set?”

A Cottonmouth Just Won’t Cut It

“Here’s the deal.” I pause to sip my water. That root beer float sounds awfully good. Maybe I’ll have dessert after all. “One of my bits is going to be a return to live commercial reads. Remember when Carson did live reads? You still do them on radio of course, all the time. They’re a staple of the industry–even when they’re prerecorded but still sound live.”

“Granted, I just did one today for free testosterone levels” Hadley nods. “But where does the rattlesnake factor in?”

Live Sponsor Reads under Intense Duress

“My celebrity guests will be required to deliver live sponsor reads during the time they’re on the set with me. They must execute the commercial announcement flawlessly, as judged by the applause meter for the studio audience. Added pressure will come from me holding the snake two inches from their faces. And if they buckle under the pressure, they will be subjected to an entirely new level of trauma after the spot has concluded.”

“What happens if you get bit instead of the guest?” Hadley asks.

I start twitching. “That won’t happen.” There’s a crack in my voice. “Will it, Vick?” I realize for the first time that hosting a live TV show can be very dangerous business.

Morris continues his conversation with the smooth-talking radio personality, Hadley Codfaldt, about new rules for the pro football league. Hadley wonders if they shouldn’t change the name from Pro Football League to PROfitable Football League. The Five-Points Highway Diner erupts when the dashing Vick Banzler, Graphite County DA, bursts into the room. Decked out in a black Western-cut suit and black cowboy hat with that mesmerizing Errol Flynn smile, he grips an undulating burlap sack in his gloved hand. Amid whistles and cheers, he introduces the star attraction, a four-plus-foot sidewinder. The room quickly grows hushed and anxious as the suave man pretends to have a problem containing the snake. He calls the unruly reptile a rising star, then quickly amends it to a “writhing” star. It is agreed that this one has been chosen for a very special and high-profile position. The only question is, can Morris Crimpanfortis make it through an entire taping without putting the hospital on alert?

A Very Debonair Rattlesnake

Rewriting the Playbook for Daring Roster Moves

Hadley Codfaldt and I discuss the pros and cons of providing roster spots for wild animals in the pro football league, including various positions where they could possibly start. It sounds a little sketchy to me. “If it’s a league rule, I’ll be curious to see how those franchises that notoriously bend the rules handle it,” I observe.

“Of course, we all know who you’re talking about,” Hadley chuckles. “And don’t forget about their lawyers.”

Out of the Burlap and into the Fluorescents

“Did someone say lawyers?” Vick Banzler, the district attorney for Graphite County, strides into the room to adoring applause. The debonair barrister tussles with a burlap sack, clenched in a black-gloved hand. “I’ll show you a lawyer,” he chortles. He jerks a hand inside the sack and cleanly pulls out a four-foot sidewinder, all hissing and squirming, rattling its tail to beat the band. “Well, what do you think? Not bad, right?”

“Whoa, Banzie!” Breathless, Hadley Codfaldt pushes from the table.

I stare transfixed at the writhing creature. “Is this the one we’re gonna go with?”

“Well, he’s got a couple brothers and sisters back at the pump station. I like this one best because his pattern is so well defined, you can really see the diamonds.” He holds the snake up to the glare of the fluorescent lights, pointing to its body like a game show model pointing to the features of a washing machine. “As you can see, the dorsal scales are quite pronounced.”

“That’s great Vick. You think you could put it back in the bag now,” says Hadley, settling back in his seat. “Maybe stow him outside…way, way outside?”

Make Way for the Director of Talent

Vick Banzler laughs to himself, talking gibberish to the snake as he stuffs it into the bag, guffawing when the head pops back out. Vick supplements his income as DA by milking poisonous snakes for their venom. His family has a menagerie of over five hundred lethal reptiles at their marble estate in the neighboring town of Blasting Cap.

He then pretends to drop the bag atop the table, which he really didn’t have to do. Hadley Codfaldt is about to have a cow, and I’m laughing up a storm.

“You’d better get used to handling this rising star,” says Vick to me. “Or maybe I should say “writhing” star, If you want him on the set with you at all times, you’re taking a big chance. You’re going to have to be on top of your game. This bad boy will strike numerous times without provocation if it feels in the least way cornered.”

“Yeah right,” I say, losing a bit of my luster. “I suppose it’s never too early to rehearse.”

“I don’t get it,” says Hadley Codfaldt. “What’s with the snake?”

“I can explain,” I say. “This is the reason Vick Banzler is my Director of Talent.”

In this installment, Morris Crimpanfortis addresses some rather provocative and sensitive issues involving Belinda Bessemer, co-anchor for the local Silt Ridge Midnight News. We are treated to a rather vague and unsettling description of the Grilled Canary Gentlemen’s Club, where Belinda performs nightly, apparently to the howling adoration of a good portion of the local male population. Like everyone else in this crumbling coal region, Belinda supplements her income in order to pursue her on-camera dreams. Morris goes way overboard in proving to the world – and in particular his gazillionaire father, Morris Crimpanfortis IV – that he doesn’t have a clue what a gentlemen’s club is, much less having ever frequented one. Later, Morris is hounded by Jonas Cider at the Five-Points Highway Diner to name him co-host of Anthracite Tonite. Feeling the heat, Morris is ready to grant Jonas his wish, when none other than Hadley Codfaldt, world famous radio personality extraordinaire, enters the room to great fanfare . . .

Peach Pie and Patchouli Oil

Are You Still Here?

I finish my meatloaf. Tony asks if I want dessert. They don’t have any peach pie tonight. I remember I still have Verona Kendermants’ homemade soap in my suit pocket. I pull out the bar and hold it to my nostrils, taking a deep whiff.  Now that’s dessert!

Jonas Cider makes a face as he glances across the table at me. “What gives, Hoss?” He gestures to the cube of iridescent soap. “Have you started huffing now? Is the stress that bad? I can make it better you know, just let me be your co-host.”

I jolt from my reverie and pocket the scented soap. “Aren’t you playing your rockabilly tunes at the Grilled Canary tonight?” I refer to the local gentlemen’s club.

Not that I know the first thing about what goes on in such an establishment. Let’s be clear on that from the get-go. I KNOW NOTHING, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ABOUT WHAT GOES ON IN A GENTLEMEN’S CLUB!

I have heard through the grapevine that women are a part of the tableau. If you say so, I am in no position to refute it. Thank goodness. If my father, Morris Crimpanfortis, IV, ever catches wind that I’m even thinking about patronizing such a purportedly unscrupulous enterprise, he’ll hit the roof. No thanks, I’ll never hear the end of it. AND CERTAINLY NOT IF IT INVOLVES ONE OF OUR ON-CAMERA PERSONALITIES!

Leering Hooligans Need to Get a Life

I’m teetering on the brink as it is because my co-anchor for the Silt Ridge Midnight News is supposedly a topliner at the Grilled Canary. I realize that people need other jobs in order to make ends meet, but I wish Belinda Bessemer would stop bragging about doing what she does in front of a bunch of leering hooligans!

“Morris, I thought I’d find you back here.” The unmistakable deep-throated voice of Hadley Codfaldt catches my ear. Hadley does afternoon drive on the local AM radio station. He specializes in political commentary, but doesn’t take sides one way or another. Neither too far right nor too far left, he basically opposes all politicians.

“Hi Hadley,” I say. “Pull up a chair.”

“I’m not disturbing anything?” He looks at Jonas then at me.

“I was just leaving.” Jonas drains the last of the water in his smeared glass. Standing up, he flexes the elbows of his scarred leather jacket. “Don’t forget what I said about Sasquatch. That project will make you forget about everything else.” He looks Hadley straight in the eye, nodding respectfully. “Hadley,” he says quietly, stepping around the radio personality.

“Have a good night, Jonas.” Hadley slides into s nearby chair and orders a sweet ice tea, extra lemon. “And let’s see if we can find a clean glass, Tony,” he calls after the aged waiter. Then he turns to me with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve finally figured out a theory that’s been driving me up the wall,” he chortles.

“What’s that?” I ask.

Hadley’s Wild Take on Fixing Pro Football

“One day, wild animals are going to be playing in the pro football league,” he says. “It can’t go any other way. The market share is just too viable for the league to ignore. I’ve always wondered how they’ll pull it off, and then it came to me this afternoon during a Sildenafil spot. Are you ready for this? Each team declares one starting position to be filled by a wild animal. It doesn’t matter if it’s a bear or a leopard. Take your best shot.”

“Bloody good. VERY bloody well played.” I nod at my old friend, wishing I could reach for the bar of handmade soap and take a deep, satisfying whiff. “Will they be required to wear a helmet and pads?”

You really can’t beat the meatloaf special with string beans at the Five-Points Highway Diner. Yum. Now that’s eating. But Morris Crimpanfortis V is not especially enjoying his meal this evening. The projected launch date for Anthracite Tonite is bearing down on him like a ton of sizzling ingots, and the all-important decision for a co-host hangs in the balance. Jonas Cider is trying to make a case for himself, but Morris knows he’s all wrong for the part. The erratic yokel can’t be trusted around celebrities. There is only one person in this entire burg that Morris deems worthy of the exalted co-host mantle: Twilz Grimsby, who handles the drive-thru at the Coal Miners Burger Shaft. She can trade celebrity gossip with the best of them, and won’t back down when a customer complains about cold fries. Will Morris get the stones to approach Twilz for the coveted co-host position? Or will be fall back on the old tried and true, with the prospect of Bigfoot lurking in the wings?

Coal Dust and Burgers

Holding out Co-Host Hopes for Twilz Grimsby

I order the meatloaf special with string beans, then glance at my watch. Where is everyone? It’s tough trying to keep the troops motivated when a project seems so far away. The problem is the launch date will be here before anyone knows it, and then what? People will be scrambling around like chickens with their heads cut off. It’s up to me as captain of the ship to keep everyone on point. I wonder if disciplinary measures are in order. It’s tough keeping people in the ballgame when they’re not being paid.

“I can handle both the music and co-host chores,” Jonas Cider offers. “Think about it, a twofer. You can’t beat it.” The scrawny man makes a mock toast before taking a self-congratulatory sip of tap water.

I pick at my salad, wondering if I should say anything about the wilted lettuce. I dump on more Russian dressing from the bottle on the dirty checkered tablecloth.

Where is everyone? Is the snow keeping them away? I sure hope so; I hope it’s not the fact the project is running out of steam.

I chew restlessly, thinking about my options for co-host. I’m still holding out hope for Twilz Grimsby over at the Coal Miners Burger Shaft. Twilz mans the drive-thru and seems to have a pretty good handle on celebrity gossip. She can dish the dirt with the best of them without coming off as being star-struck.

Keeping it real around Celebrities

I definitely need someone who won’t lose it around celebrities. I can’t trust Jonas any further than I can through his scrawny behind. The minute my back is turned there’s no telling what big name he’ll be riling up on the set. Don’t forget, those celebrities are my guests; they’re my bread and butter, my meal ticket. No one can be messing with them.

I finish my salad and slump back in my chair wishing Jonas Cider would just get up from the table and leave. The brooding artist has been bugging me to be co-host ever since I announced the inception of Anthracite Tonight! I remain noncommittal as the search unfolds.

Now, on top of everything else, melting snow starts trickling between my shoulder blades and down my back.

The Lengths to Which Some Will Go

Get this: Mayor Perry Quinnion, misguided intentions and all, came up with the perfect bribe for me to make him co-host: building a fifteen-foot-tall bronze statue of me to replace the beaver in the middle of town square.

“I have a confession to make,” Jonas Cider says, somberly drawing up at the table. “My ancestor, Clement Cider, did not originally discover coal as everyone thinks,” he says. “Instead, it was Sasquatch,” His eyes bore holes into me. “You know… Bigfoot.”

“Okay…” I say. “Bigfoot.” I feel a bout of indigestion coming on. “Charming.”

“Do you want to discuss film rights?” he asks.