To Kill the Duke by Sam Moffie, Vicki Contavespi

paper, I can see why he has the diet that he does,” Powell said.
    “What a practical joke it would be to slip him some stool relaxer,” Oscar said. “Maybe even replace the sandpaper with a real toilet paper roll.”
    “That’s why you’re the writer,” Powell said.

    Dick Powell opened the bathroom door to the cabin of the plane and realized that if he returned to the swivel chair, he would start the entire process of puking all over again.
    Why me?
He pleaded as he thought about sitting somewhere else that wouldn’t rock while the plane rolled. He walked to Blackbeard’s chest and opened it. Then it hit him.
    “The trays!” he said out loud. “I’ll sit on the tray and if the plane should lurch, I’ll slide and it will be all right,” he said in a louder voice.
    He took out a tray and walked to the back of the plane near the doorway of the bathroom. The plane was moving steadily with no turbulence whatsoever. He sat on the tray and leveraged himself against the wall with his back; his feet anchored on the floor. He nodded with approval at his ingenuity and closed his eyes.
    He must have dozed off into a deep sleep because suddenly he was moving very quickly to the front of the plane, as if the tray he was on was some new kiddie ride at the amusement park.
And Strabala doesn’t think Hughes is into games,
he mused.
    As the plane moved in what Dick Powell thought was either rough turbulence or his boss in ecstasy, his tray went from the front of the plane to the back of the plane and from one side to the other. Powell was amazed that he wasn’t getting sick. He was overjoyed that he was having fun…until the plane leveled off and the front door of the soon-to-be cock-less pit opened up and his boss stared at him.
    Dick stared back, because Hughes had forgotten to zip up his pants and his penis was in full view.
    “Having fun, Mr. Powell?” Hughes asked his number-one executive producer.
    Given the situation that he found himself in, Dick Powell wished he was either a comedian or a gag writer. For if he was either, he would have knocked Hughes’ question out of the park with a snappy reply. Discretion being the better part of valor (and Hughes being his boss and already okaying a $6 million budget), told Dick to play it cool.
    “Just enjoying the future, boss,” Powell replied.
    “Those trays were made for eating… not sliding,” Hughes said as he walked to the area where the swivel chairs were located. “Better put the tray back and sit down. We’re flying low over South Utah. You’ll be able to see the vintage red soil soon.”
    Should I tell him?
Dick thought. He decided to.

    “I mean Oscar, if I had a piece of food on the side of my face while I was eating; you would tell me, wouldn’t you?” Powell pleaded with his script writer when they talked about their mutual experiences.
    “Of course, Dick,” said Oscar as he pointed to Dick’s face where indeed a piece of pasta
had stuck
.
    Dick Powell wiped his face with his napkin and looked to see if Oscar Millard was busting his chops. He wasn’t. A piece of food had found its way to Dick Powell’s cheek.
    “That was a test Oscar. I had someone in special effects rig it up,” Powell lied.
    “Dick. You’re not funny and you’re a terrible liar. How did you become so successful?” asked Oscar.

    “Howard. Speaking about ‘flying low,’ I would like to point out something,” Powell said to Hughes.
    “What’s that, kid?” Hughes said as he motioned to Powell to sit down and strap into the swivel seat.
    “You’re flying low, too,” Powell said.
    “No kidding. If you’re flying low of course I’m flying low. The plane is flying low and so are the women on the plane with us. Boy, I’m glad I put you in charge of a $6 million budget,” Hughes said sarcastically.
    Dick Powell let out a long sigh.
    “Come on kid, I wasn’t being serious. That was a little humor on my part. I always like to crack jokes after sex. Hope you