FIC: The Gratuitous Dwanollah 90210 Episodes

Part II


The Gratuitous Dwanollah Episode, continued. Please forgive any seeming Plot Inconsistencies and keep in mind that, a la 90210, this is all about Me and My Fun. ME ME ME!

The Kelly Taylor Clinic.

Kelly, for some reason, is actually working, in a way-too-AllyMcBeal office outfit (a.k.a. “yeah, right, a professional would really wear that to work”) consisting of some hiddy lavender suit with a sheer baby-collared daffodil yellow blouse, and the requisite 90210 Woman Clunky Shoes. Her Razor’s Edge hair is shellacked into random spiky points with a couple girlish barrettes clipped strategically, despite the fact that there is no hair to hold back. Brenda, in a loose maternity shift, is being ushered into a waiting room by Office Girl Kelly.

“Now you just wait here and Dr. Martin will be in to see you,” coos Kelly in her sweet “take-your-medicine-little-Suzy” voice.

Alone in the examining room, Brenda sits rubbing her forehead. Within seconds (yeah, right), Dr. Martin comes bustling in. “Brenda! How good to see you again, honey! How are you feeling?” And he does the cursory doctor things, whipping out a blood-pressure cuff and making like he actually can Doctor instead of just playing one on TV.

“I’m okay,” says Brenda with false conviction.

Dr. Martin puts his hands on Brenda’s mammoth belly. “Mmm hmmm....mmm hmmm.... Well. I looked at your ultrasound results, and everything looks great. The baby is healthy and strong, and you’ve got about two weeks left until your due date.” (See, like an evangelical minister, Dr. Martin can tell these things just by the laying on of hands.)

“Great,” says Brenda with more false conviction.

Dr. Martin studies her. “Brenda, honey, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

Brenda bites her lip and turns away and, after a moment, shakes her head. “I just... I hope you don’t think I’m crazy, but I’ve been having these horrible nightmares and hallucinations ever since I got back to Beverly Hills.”

Dr. Martin studies her seriously for a moment, thus enabling him to come up with a diagnosis. “Have you ever suffered these kinds of anxiety attacks before?”

“Yes. After I was robbed at gunpoint at the Peach Pit, I had Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. But it wasn’t as bad as this.”

“Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to meet with a counselor, Brenda. We can make an appointment for you. All right?”

Brenda sniffles, wrapping her arms around herself. “Okay. Just... just don’t tell Kelly or Donna what I told you.”

“Don’t worry,” effuses the Good Doctor, with a fatherly Good Doctor pat on her arm.

Mexico. Marchette’s Villa

Marchette is ushering Dylan through the airy, tiled and stucco’d rooms, pointing out his collection of Oaxacan pottery, Aztec head-dresses, and, in particular, several carved busts on a shelf. “These are likenesses of the dead-”

But Dylan cuts him of with an offhand display of his own esoteric cultural knowledge. “Yeah, I know. They were carved by the ancient Miztec and Zapotec Indians. They placed those busts over the entryways to their tombs to watch over them,” he rasps, doing wonky things with his eyebrows that are supposed to signify a humbly self-deprecating attitude toward his Giant (Yeah Right) Intellect.

“Well. A man who knows his ancient history,” says Marchette lightly, walking over to an enormous carved teakwood desk. He first opens a decanter on a nearby table, pouring himself and Dylan matching glasses of brandy or sherry or ouzo or tequila or whatever high-powered businessmen in Mexican villas drink.

Dylan downs his, and makes the Hard Liquor Grimace (TM).

Marchette sits down behind the desk, studying Dylan as he sips his drink. The he unlocks a drawer and removes several old documents that he places in front of Dylan.

Dylan picks them up and shuffles through them, reading them aloud in his Sexy Ultracool Raspy Mumble. (This is to let We the TV Audience in on the contents... neat, huh?) “’Jack McKay... to inform Mr. Anthony Marchette... no further contact with his son Dylan Michael McKay, neé Dylan Michael Marchette, nor Iris McKay neé Iris Marchette... if so, will award Jack McKay the sum of one hundred million dollars....’ I don’t get it, man... why’d Jack do this?”

Marchette nods at the papers in Dylan’s hand, and, obediently, Dylan shuffles through them. Included are old newspaper clippings, which Dylan (for the benefit of We the TV Audience) mumbles aloud. “McKay to run against Marchette for mayor.... Marchette buys out McKay-owned company... McKay v. Marchette in court.... Marchette found guilty of conspiracy, leaves country’... So Jack forced you to leave the country?” deduces Dylan, again showing off his Capacity for Brilliance.

“Yes. It was when you were still a baby. I went to Italy, to my hometown of San Gimignano. And there I met Elisabetta, Antonia’s mother. She was newly widowed and pregnant. We fell in love and married... the day Antonia was born was the happiest day of my new life... but I never forgot I had a son. Antonia was my joy... but Dylan, you... you are my blood.”

And Dylan unfolds a birth certificate for Dylan Michael Marchette.

“After Jack went to prison, I came back to America. My wife was dead. I had only Antonia. I wanted to rebuild our lives here. I had made many investments before I left. I still had my business contacts, and I had done well for myself, and for my family in Europe. Jack was no longer a threat to me. But I never forgave him for what he did... he took my wife. He took my son.” Marchette shakes his head. “You can’t forgive a man for doing that.... I always meant to find you, Dylan, but Jack made it impossible. He would have ruined me, Dylan. You understand, don’t you?”

Dylan does his emotive eyebrow/head tilt thing and rasps “Yeah” except he makes the word like, three syllables instead of one. “But answer me one question, Marchette... why’d you take out a hit on me if you’d wanted to find me so badly, huh?”

Marchette shakes his head. “I wasn’t myself then, Dylan. I had been driven insane with my hatred for Jack McKay, and I was afraid he had turned you against me. You can’t imagine how I felt when you showed up with my daughter... and then you were going to marry and go live with Iris McKay, after all she’d done.... It was like all the old nightmares happening again. Something inside me snapped. I just wanted it all to be over.” [This, of course, is a totally implausible explanation, but that is merely keeping with the 90210 vein.]

Dylan and Marchette stare at each other in Introspective Manly Man silence.

“Dylan, all I ever wanted was to have my son back. Antonia was taken from me because of my selfishness and hate. Now... now I have a chance to do something good with my life. We both have a chance to start over. I have a successful business, Dylan. I could use you.... I need you.”

Dylan shifts his eyebrows around his big fat creased forehead. He looks over to the carved busts, which, because they watched over the dead in ancient tombs, are somehow are now related in an abstract way to this situation, Toni, Jack, and the Haunted Past.

“If you work with me, there would be much for you to learn. It won’t be easy. But I believe you can meet the challenges.

“I know how to meet challenges,” rasps Dylan, proving it with a challenging look at Marchette.

“Join me and I will complete your training.”

 

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