CHAPTER ONE
Sniveling little sycophantic shits , thought William Shatner looking from the limo’s back seat.
The limo pulled past the front entrance of the hotel and headed for the back.
Thank God, I don’t have to deal with them. Yet.
A crowd of several hundred people milled about the colossal arched doorway. Some were dressed in Starfleet uniforms, some dressed as police officers, some in lawyerish suits. Most were simply dressed in jeans and t-shirts. Many of the shirts had Shatner’s face plastered on the front.
Shatner looked at the people and he stared back from dozens of different chests.
They were mostly young men but a few women peppered the crowd.
At least I might get some tail out of this.
Shatner arched his neck to get a better look at the hotel. The Cathode-La was the largest, most advanced convention center in the world, featuring four full-sized theaters, a cafeteria and six restaurants, twenty-three bars, more large empty rooms than one could even count, and enough lodging to hold a medium-sized army.
The building was a squat, white cube the size of one-hundred city blocks. A mostly ugly piece of architecture, except for the front entrance. A large glass pane, at least a hundred feet wide, sat in the concrete. It almost reached the roof but the top of the glass rounded off to a point before it got there. Its shape felt more appropriate in a church behind the alter than on a multi-billion dollar corporate structure.
At the glass’ base were dozens of revolving doors leading into the Cathode-La’s main lobby. The doors were flanked by two massive white columns that stood as high as the building. In between them hung a huge white banner. “Welcome to ShatnerCon!” was printed on it in black scripted letters.
As the limo pulled around the corner of the building a lone man sitting on the ground caught Shatner’s eye. He wore a t-shirt with Bruce Campbell in the “Army of Darkness” movie-poster pose on the front. He held a cardboard sign with the crude, hand-written message: “Alright you Primitive Screwheads , listen up! Don’t follow the False Messiah!”
The man raised his right arm and waved a stump wrapped in white fabric at the passing limo. Shatner felt a shiver go down his spine even though he was sure the limo’s tinted windows prevented the man from seeing inside.
Fucking Campbellians. They’re even here.
William Shatner had no personal problem with Bruce Campbell. He understood that Bruce was just another actor trying to squeak out a living in the dog-eat-dog world of entertainment. Shatner just wished that he would stop encouraging his followers to destroy all those who competed for the straight-to-video dollars. The constant death threats and assassination attempts were getting annoying.
The limo went down the side of the building. Things were much less active over here. The parking lot stretched away from the building as far as one could see and every space was filled. Throughout the maze of vehicles, scattered people were heading in the direction of the front entrance.
After a few minutes the limo rounded another corner of the building and pulled to a smooth stop.
Here we go. Put on that pretty public face.
Shatner got out of the limo and found himself standing at a non-descript maintenance door with a woman in her late thirties next to it. She was dressed in a black skirt, a black suit jacket with black shirt underneath, and black pumps. She was holding a clipboard with one hand and a half-smoked cigarette with the other.
“Mr. Shatner,” she said nodding. She brought the cigarette to her mouth and breathed in deep. The rest of the cigarette was immediately reduced to long gray ash. She breathed out a cloud.
“That’s…me,” Shatner said smiling broadly and
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