Mike had woken up feeling like he’d ODed on crystal meth and started hitting on Ryan Seacrest or something — and if the state of full-body soreness was any indication, he must have been hitting on somebody who hit back. It was a 7 a.m. Monday morning call, and so he didn’t feel that out of place stumbling into the lot with enormous Elizabeth Taylor sunglasses on clutching a bottle of Naked Pomegranate punch — fur-lined hood pulled tight around his face in an effort to keep out the rest of the world.

“Morning,” one of the ever-changing cast of PAs — Mike hoped it wasn’t one of his, that would just be embarrassing — said, sounding too bright and smug. “Have a good weekend?”

He waved feebly and headed toward craft services, wondering how what magnitude of disgusting combining pomegranate smoothie and coffee would achieve — and if he wasn’t hung over enough to try it anyway.

He was debating whether or not his stomach could handle a slice of honeydew melon or if he should just curl up underneath the table and moan until they called him to set when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Mike turned around to see Kristen beaming at him, way too fucking awake for 6:40 a.m. — as shiny as she looked in her God awful Neutrogena ads. Schooling his look of misery, he said, “Hey.”

“Hey you,” she cooed, and gave him a quick squeeze — the sudden shift in gravity nearly ruining him — before she pulled back and smiled at him even more brightly. “I just wanted to say: congratulations. I’m so glad for you.”

Mike stared at her. “Okay,” he agreed, wary.

“Don’t be shy, Mike,” she laughed and stroked her hand down to his elbow, giving him yet another Meaningful Squeeze. “This is good news,” she added, and disappeared in a puff of khaki and too-shiny hair. Mike remembered being attracted to girls like that in high school before he realized that they were usually too busy dating people they weren’t putting out with and being psyched about stuff to smoke with him under the bleachers — and they almost never knew what a gravity bong was.

“I don’t even want to know,” Mike said to himself, and headed off toward the make up trailer, where Janie sighed that at least he’d bathed this time before scowling at him and making unsavory comments about sex in vans with shag carpeting and drinking paint thinner. “Honestly,” she muttered, slathering on approximately 80 tons of concealer under his eyes, “how you two will work out the lifestyle disparity is beyond me — but I guess love finds a way.”

Mike stared at her. “What the fuck?”

Janie shoved him out of her trailer. “Go away,” she told him, and as Mike went off toward costume, she yelled, “And no conspicuous hickies! What are you guys, 12?”

“You had hickies at 12?” Betty asked, handing steaming what might be the most metrosexual sweater Mike had ever seen: it was literally mauve.

“I have no idea what anybody is talking about today,” Mike admitted.

Betty murmured something at the sweater and held it out to him, asking, “You know where you are? Your lines?”

“Smallville set,” Mike reported, “Lex Luthor, spiraling toward evil. Mostly just misunderstood. God, Clark, how could you. Lana, you’re amazing. Marry me. Have my babies. As in, have my babies and marry me.”

Shrugging, Betty went to look for some pants. “Eh, close enough.”

Kristen was wearing something that looked equal parts uncomfortable, impractical, and stupid, in repose on the slick leather divan in the Luthor manor office set.

“This thing is so slippery,” she sighed. “I don’t know why they keep trying to make us cuddle on it.”

“Don’t lie, Kristen, I know you beg them to write it in,” he leered, settling next to her and reaching for a stray copy of the script.

“Don’t make those jokes when Tom get here!” she laughed, and before Mike could say, “Oh my God, the divorce made him crazy. He’s sleeping with you, isn’t he?” one of the producers wandered onto the set waving new pages and apologizing for the last minute line changes. “Oops,” Kristen said, and pushed herself to her feet, adding, “Wait here — I’ll grab you a copy.”

By 10 a.m., some hot girl scripted to die by the end of the episode was on set, and Mike had gotten over the hangover enough to arrange himself in a comfortable lean over her, giving her his very best “You’ve seen me on MTV Cribs” smile.

“That’s so cool,” she told him, eyes huge. “Do you have like, a chair with your name on it and stuff, too?”

“In fact,” Mike started, and then felt a sharp pain in his shoulder when John Glover walked over and grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt, saying, “Excuse me — I have words to exchange with my young, shaved protege,” while Mike yelped, “Dude, what the fuck!”

He spent the next three minutes getting a disapproving stare with Glover’s standard, “You can be better than this, Michael,” lecture — with additional “Being gay is hard,” action — to which Michael’s standard response, as always was, “I’m not gay and I also have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Tony Award Winner.”

“Well,” Glover said finally, “gay or not, chasing extra tail is no longer an option.”

Mike was saying, “And why the hell not?” when Tom showed up, blushing Clark Kent flannel red all over and so pleased with himself he fairly exploded with All-American Eagle Scout goodness. Mike wondered how he hadn’t actually given himself alcohol poisoning yet, being surrounded by these jackasses.

“Hi,” Tom said. He actually waggled his fingers.

“Hey,” he muttered, and shoving away from both of them, he stomped toward the craft table — and realizing as he was putting together a sandwich that Tom was standing at his heels, an enormous, slightly demented puppy. “Oh, God: what?”

There was a moment where Tom’s face froze, like that first time he’d been in a script reading and somebody had said the word “emote,” and then he seemed to collect himself and chirp, “Nothing. I just had a good weekend.” He looked at Mike meaningfully. “Did you have a good weekend?”

Mike rubbed at his head. “I don’t remember my weekend,” he said.

“At all?” Tom asked, forlorn. “Anything?”

“I remember waking up this morning feeling like I’d gone eight rounds with a hooker and lost.” Mike rubbed at his back. Seriously, that hooker had kicked his ass.

Flushing, Tom said, “Well — it wasn’t quite eight.”

Mike rolled his eyes and stuffed a handful of grapes in his mouth, looking for a seat in the muted chaos between scenes. “So what did you get up to this weekend?”

“Oh, little of this, a little of that,” Tom sighed.

“So you sat on your ass and ate Stouffer’s instant stuffing on your couch watching the DIY network then?”

Tom glared.

“Honeymoon later, people,” the director called. “Film now.”

“Everybody thinks they’re a comedian,” Mike sighed, and headed toward the cave set, Tom trailing behind.

By noon, it was getting ridiculous: he’d been fielding glares from every corner of the set all day and Glover was starting to look like he was trying to figure out if he could choke Mike with his hair. And in a fight between Mike and The Hair, Mike would bet his entire stash on The Hair. But the straw that broke the camel’s back was when Scripted To Die Girl wandered in while the lighting guys shouted at each other about the realism of shadows and Tom looked like he was torn between bursting into tears or having a menstrual cycle — whichever would make him a shitty 16-year-old girl more.

“This shit is getting ridiculous,” Mike sighed, dragging Tom away.

You’re ridiculous,” Tom sulked.

Mike shoved Tom into a fake wall. “Okay, you want to tell me what I did? You haven’t been this PMS-y since the Tom I mentioned on “Cribs” wasn’t you.”

“I want you to remember this weekend!” Tom yelled. “And stop talking about Cribs!”

Mike stared at him for a long time — trying to reconstruct Friday evening through Sunday morning. It all came back as a blur of dark hair and downing malt liquor. Editing out the part with the 40s, he said, “I went out. There was some partying — what the hell is your problem?”

Tom actually stuck out his lower lip at Mike, and in a low, horribly betrayed tone of voice he said, “I have to go. My powder is running.”

Half an hour later, during a shooting break, Jared called just long enough to say, “Dude,” and then Jensen called just long enough to say “Dude,” and start laughing hysterically into the phone line. Mike hung up on both of them. The text messages were harder to ignore, but no more enlightening, but by the time Jensen got around to keying in ANYWAY I JUST WANTED TO CONGRATULATE U WAY TO MAKE AN HONEST GIRL OF HER Mike figured he was in much deeper shit than originally anticipated. Jared followed up with WE DIDN’T EVEN THROW U A SHOWER and Mike decided that if he was only allowed to kill one of them, he’d kill Jared.

He found Tom again an hour after that, taking bites right off of a salami stick and reading April’s US Weekly.

“Did I marry your ex-wife?” Mike asked, part filled with dread and part hopeful. He really didn’t want to be that guy who married the waitress in Vegas and he couldn’t tell if it would be better or worse than having bagged Jaime.

Choking on salami, Tom managed, “No.

“Oh,” Mike said, odd, and feeling even more confused, he said, “Then why do you care that I married her?”

Tom’s eyes bulged at him. “Do you even know who you married?” he snarled.

“It’s not my fault!” Mike argued. “I woke up alone! I didn’t even know I’d gotten married until everybody started getting weird about me hitting on Hot Going To Die Chick!”

“How do you just get married and not remember it!” Tom shouted.

“It’s called substance abuse!” Mike shouted back. “Which I imagine is how I ended up married in the first place!”

The cow eyes Tom gave him would have stopped a hunter dead at forty paces. “You didn’t want to get married?”

Mike wished he had some hair to tear at. “I didn’t even know I was married!

Tom threw the salami at him and stomped away.

This time, Jared texted DUDE U R SO BAD AT THIS.

Mike texted back WTF IS GOING ON? and Jensen returned with THE BETTER ? IS WTF DID I MARRY. Mike scowled at his cell phone for a full five minutes before typing back FUCK TEXAS. Mike couldn’t decide what the worst part was, that he was getting a running commentary from the fucking Doublemint Retard Twins over there and oh my God, Mike realized in blank horror, I didn’t just marry any girl — I married Tom.


2 Responses to “[cw rps] no fault”

  1. 1 shoutingoutloud April 19, 2007 at 1:15 am

    I told myself no more CW RPS but the link was there and I clicked and I read and I laughed so hard and the last few lines had me choking on air and really very funny.

  2. 2 elucreh May 9, 2007 at 7:08 pm

    I am scarily, dizzily in love with this, have I mentioned that? Between the text message commentary, the shaved protegee, and Tommy’s menstruating I am getting REALLY STRANGE LOOKS from the people in B&N because I can’t stop laughing my ass off.

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East Coast Gazette has a terrible editorial focus and tends to use a lot of ALL CAPS but TOTALLY NOT BECAUSE OF HARRY POTTER. Stories in progress as well as snapshots will be listed in the "box full of snapshots" below, website archive for stories and assorted tomfoolery is glitterati.

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