|:HOME:|:PAGE 01:|:PAGE 02:|:PAGE 03:|:PAGE 04:|:PAGE 05:|:PAGE 06:|::

FIC: The Gratuitous Dwanollah 90210 Episodes

Part II


Scene: Peachy’s Gentlemen’s Club. Nighttime. Spotlights pan the sky, and a line of people – from uptight businessmen to fellows with US Servicemen haircuts to dudes in No Fear T-shirts – is jostling while a Big Black Stereotype of a doorman/bodyguard fills the steel-door doorway checking IDs.

A stretch limo pulls up, and when the door opens, out jumps Steve “ADD” Sanders in a tux with one of those retarded collarless totally past trendy dress shirts. Clenching his fists together over his hands and jumping up and down like Rocky Balboa watching us all with the eye of the tiger, Steve preens for the crowd. Close behind (no comment) him is Devon Dean, all in understated white, who puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder and steers him toward the entrance. Davy shuffles out next in a tux three sizes too big with a black shirt and way-cool earring. Turning, Devon beckons Davy to hurry, and the three gentlemen make their way into the club. Kelly and Brandon are last, Brando looking swave and de-boner in his stay-press suit and Kelly in an Itty Bitty (TM me) red dress with a long flowing scarf draped around her milk-white neck, and her rosebud lips outlined with matching lipstick. Holding hands, the Dream Couple follow the Fun Boy Three into Peachy’s.

Inside… well, if it was impressive by day, now… now it is truly dazzling. The walls are lined with those aqua-bubble floor-to-ceiling fountains (like Brinda’s UCLA Older Guy had in his bachelor pad), lit with colored lights. Potted palms are interspersed with a few modern-art sculptures. And the waitresses… there are dozens, all in their Donna Martin Original uniforms (dazzling neon-peach flubber boob slings with black leather hot pants, torn fishnets and funky boots), all serving martinis and cosmopolitans and other ker-nifty trendy cocktails in fancy glasses with little umbrellas. And the little round tables are packed with clients. Up in Davy’s Big Studly DJ Booth, an young/hip/black DJ (i.e. everything Davy wants to be) is spinnin’ tunes, and bikini-clad blonde whose life’s ambition was to be featured in a David Lee Roth video is strutting and high-kicking her way from pole to pole. Over in the “Naughty Naughty” corner, a tall dark dominatrix is applying the paddle to a leather-clad girlfriend while a crowd of OPBs cheer each spank, and in the big bubbling tank of water, a “mermaid” dives and swirls. “I hear she’s gonna dive for pearls later!” hollers Stevie as they jostle through. Once an OPB, always an OPB.

“Hey I gotta get my music ready for the fashion show” says Davy and splits. DD guides Steve, Brando and Kelly over to a front table conspicuously marked with a big “reserved” sign.

“Hey, have you guys seen Kara anywhere? She was supposed to meet me here,” Steve shouts over the blare of AC/DC, barely able to tear his eyes away from the “artistic dancer” on stage.

“No, man,” says Brando, and Kelly puts in “It shouldn’t be hard to miss her; she’d be one of the only other women in here not on stage,” before going back to looking around disapprovingly and sucking on her little pink frothy drink through a straw.

Brandon Furrows at her. “Hey, Kel, lay off, okay? The fashion show is about to start and you don’t want to miss Donna.”

The Potsie-cam pans over the crowd so that We the TV Audience have a clear shot of Poor Noah still slouched in front of the bar. And next to him, in an Itty Bitty (TM) black dress with a long flowing scarf is Kara/Tara, outlined lips pursed in her best Kelly Taylor pout, listening to him spill his sad story.

“… an’ so I los’ all my money… ALL my money… tha’ bish Valerie, she got everything. Hadda sell the club to finish payin’ her off…. An’ my lawyer, she’s another bish, she say I gotta keep payin’ Valerie monthly installm’s for the next fifteen yearsh! YEARSH! Got no money left. No money no more. And then my girlfrien’… you know my girlfrien’, Donna? Tha’s her up on stage righ’ now… yeah, she don’ care. Don’ care! Try’n tell her an’ she too busy with her damn show. Damn fash’n designin’.” Turning, he claps a hand on the shoulder of the gentleman next to him. “See tha’ girl up there? Tha’s my girlfrien’! My girlfrien’ Don-na Mar-tin. ‘Member the name, she’s gonna be big!” And the guy just looks at him and turns back to admire the Fashion Showgirls.

“That’s so sad,” sighs Kara/Tara, downing another cocktail and lining up the glass next to the small plethora of other empty glasses crowded on the bar in front of them. “Soooo sad. You need someone who really pays attention to you, Noah.” And she smiles dopily.

“Yeah…” rasps Poor Noah. “Someone to pay attenshun to me…. You so nice, Karrie… So, so nice….”

And up on the catwalk, oblivious, radiant with success and personal achievement, Donna is whirling around to even more applause than at the dress rehearsal, while flashbulbs pop and grown men dab their flushed cheeks and find themselves feeling faint at her lustrous and mind-boggling beauty, sexiness and talent.

Oh dear. There’s more.

So while Donna is making grown men cry with her astounding Beauty and Talent onstage at Peachy’s Gentleman’s Club, Poor Noah the Mistake-ist and Tara/Kara are slumped at the bar having intense conversation.

“Don’ feel so good,” mumbles Poor Noah, rubbing his head.

“Wassamatter?” asked Tara/Kara, trying to Kelly Taylor Pout, but having trouble holding her head up, so she props herself on her hand.

“Gotta headache....”

“You should take some aspirin,” Tara/Kara coos, smiling, while her elbow slides across the bar.

“Yeah... good idea.... got some here....” And Poor Noah reaches into his pocket to take out his aspirin, but it’s actually a prescription bottle, and the Potsie-cam zooms in so We the TV Viewers can see the prescription for Viagra made out to Steve Sanders typed on the label. And Poor Noah downs a couple capsules with his drink. “’Nuther chocolate apple martini, Karrie?” he offers, and Tara/Kara looks sorrowful and confused. “No... no... gotta find Stevie....”

But Poor Noah persists. “C’mon, jus’ one more.... Steve’s my buddy. He’ll unnerstand. Don’ wanna be all ‘lone....”

And Tara/Kara smiles and makes a noise that might’ve been a giggle, while Noah pushes her new drink across the counter to her.

And up on stage, while Davy “Hand Check!” Silver is pumpin’ LL Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out” from his Big Studly DJ Booth, Designer/Model Donna Martin is Tiger Lily-ing all over a pole in her white Spandex cut-out sheath with strategic buckles holding things up, in, out or under, as the case may be.

Scene: Casa Walsh. The Living Room of Horrors. Brinda is wrapped in an afghan on the sofa, the telly on, but not really watching. A copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting is splayed on the coffee table next to a stack of other books on parenting, baby care and the like. A stray tear courses down Brinda’s face and she wipes it away with determination before picking up her book and a pen again.

The phone rings, and, with a heavy groan, Brinda heaves herself up to answer the cordless. “Hello.... This is Brinda Warsh.... Yes, yes, Mr. Finch, that’s correct....” She listens for a long time, then, “Well, the bottom line is, I’m expecting a baby in a few weeks, and my brother and his girlfrien- fiancée just filed suit to try to take custody of my baby when it’s born. They claim that a single mother isn’t as ‘fit’ to raise a baby as a married couple.... That’s why I called you. A, um, friend of the family recommended you highly.... Stuart Carson. Well, Stuart’s father, but- .... No, Brandon and Kelly don’t know I know.... Yes.... Yes.... Yes I can. Tomorrow is fine. I’ll be there. Thank you so much, Mr. Finch.” And Brinda hangs up the phone, a few more tears tricking down, lip quivering. She puts one hand on her large belly, choking out “Don’t worry... I’ll do everything I can to protect you....”

The front door opens and in comes our gal Val, resplendent in one of her pleather bomber jackets and camel-toe pants, a briefcase in one hand, a stack of envelopes in the other. “Hey Brinda. I see you didn’t go to the big opening tonight.”

“No... no way,” says Brinda with a hint of Snippiness showing through the tears.

Val chuckles. “Can’t say I blame you. So how are you feeling...?”

“Oh, okay.” Brinda tries to smile, then, with a sigh, slumps back against the sofa, arms around her protruding stomach.

“You sure?” asks Val sympathetically, joining Brinda on the couch and putting her hand on Brinda’s arm.

“Just tired... I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today.... I can’t stay here. I’ve got to find a place of my own, get my life in order, make some decisions....”

Val looks at Brinda steadily. “So you know about Brandon and Kelly...?”

“Yeah. I overheard them last night. How could they do this? I just don’t understand how people who say they’re your friends, who say they love you, can do things like this!”

“People suck,” says Val succinctly. “So what are you going to do?”

“Well, I’ve talked to a lawyer. That’s a start. And I’ve been circling ads in the paper for apartments. I’m going to go see a few after I meet with the lawyer tomorrow. And after the baby is born, I’ll start looking for work. Until then, I have my savings, and-“

“Maybe I can help you out a little bit,” interjects Val, setting the envelopes on the coffee table and reaching for her briefcase.

“What do you mean? Valerie, if you mean money, I won’t- ”

“No, no, just listen. You know about the settlement I just received from Noah Hunter a few weeks ago, don’t you?”

Brinda nods.

“Well, I’ve been working with my financial advisor on investing most of it into businesses and real estate. In fact, today I just signed the papers for a small complex of apartments in Santa Monica. They aren’t on the beach, but they’re within a few blocks walking distance, and you can see the ocean from the windows. It’s gated, plenty of security, two bedrooms so there’s more than enough room for you and the baby. And I can make you a good deal on the rent.” Valerie beams, genuinely. “So what do you say? We can go check it out tomorrow, any time you want.”

“Oh, Val.... Thank you so much....”

Brinda and Val hug each other tightly, neither looking furtively over the other’s shoulder as is 90210 tradition. “Hey, we’ve been friends since birth, right?” says Val. “And besides, I owe you.”

“You mean- ”

“Yeah. You were the only one I could talk to about that. You were the only one who didn’t blame me, like my mother did, or abandon me, like David did. You don’t know how much that meant to me... and still does.” Val clears her throat and shakes her head. “But that reminds me of another investment I made today... probably not as financially lucrative as some, but a lot more rewarding.”

“Tell me!” says Brinda eagerly.

“Okay!” grins Val, reaching for her briefcase and pulling out a folder.... “It’s all right here....”

Cut to commercial. Stay tuned....

Scene: Peachy’s Gentlemen’s Club, early in the morning. Davy “Mr. Hankey” Silver is still in the Big Studly DJ Booth, slumped wearily over the CD player and two-track mixer. An amazon “exotic dancer” who looks like she was rode hard and put away wet is flailing in a half-hearted way around one of the poles on stage. Waitresses are overburdened with trays of dirty glasses, and a few of the very last patrons are being encouraged to leave by the Stereotypical Bouncer. In fact, the only one who is still perky and doinging about is Stevie.

“We did it! We really did it!” he exclaims as bounces around the club, stopping once to whirl around a pole in clumsy exuberance, full of joy at his Big Success.

Davy switches off the music. “Yeah man, we did. Now can we all go home and get some sleep?”

Devon Dean sweeps down the stairs from his offices, the previous night’s tux coat replaced with a silk smoking jacket (Hugh, eat your heart out!). “Boys,” he says grandly. “We’ve just finished going over the receipts for opening night and....”

“And...?” echoes Stevie. “C’mon, Dev., don’t tease us.”

DD drifts into a momentary fantasy before continuing. “And. Peachy’s took in exactly *two and a half* times the amount that the Peach Pit After Dark made on its best night. And things are only expected to get better!”

“Did you hear that? DID YOU?” Stevie babbles to Davy, who laughs and twitches and laughs a little more. “This is AMAZING! I love it! I love this place!” And he throws his arms around Davy and Devon, planting big smooches on each of their faces. Davy twitches and laughs, but Devon... Devon Dean stares at Stevie REAL HARD.

But Stevie is out of control, running around the club screaming like Ruprecht the Monkey Boy.

In comes Nat with his pot of coffee. “Hey, hey!” he calls, squinchy features wide with amazement. “What’s all the noise about?”

“NAT!” yelps Stevie in a frenzy. He rushes over and throws his arms around him, coffee pot and all. “I love you, Nat! Do you hear me? I love ALL OF YOU!”

And Davy deedles and twitches, while Nat and DD exchange Significant Looks full of Underlying Meaning. Finally Nat says “I take it opening night was good...?”

“Good? Do you call four times the average take at the PPAD GOOD?” shrieks Steve.

“Four times...” sighs Nat. “Wow, Steve, that’s incredible.... You fellas have really turned this place around, haven’t you?” (NO COMMENT)

“We hope this is just the beginning, Mr. Bussichio,” says DD formally, taking a step closer to Stevie.

Nat doesn’t say anything at first. Finally, though, the inevitable comes: “Well! How about breakfast at the Peach Pit to celebrate, huh, fellas? It’s on me!”

DD allows himself a small smile. “That sounds lovely, Mr. Bussichio, thank you. Boys? Shall we?” And with hands on Stevie and Davy’s backs, DD propels them off toward the inevitable fried eggs, bacon, special hash browns and eternal coffee courtesy of Nat Bussichio....

But as they walk off, Davy says to Steve, “Did you ever find out what happened to Kara?”

“Kara? No, no I didn’t,” says Steve in a flash of sudden remembrance. “Maybe she didn’t feel well enough to come. I’ll call her later or something.” With visions of exotic dancers dancing in his head, Stevie forgets Tara/Kara and follows the boys into the Peach Pit.

Cut.

A table at the Pit. Empty breakfast plates and coffee cups testify to the fact that, meal complete, it is some time later, but only Devon and Stevie remain at the table.

“... so proud of the work you’ve done. And I told myself if you broke six thousand tonight, I’d give you a... bonus. I have the check up in my office. Why don’t you come with me?” DD is suggesting, leaning forward just the slightest bit, lips parted with barely-concealed lust.

Behind the counter, Nat is staring dejectedly.

Stevie, of course, is oblivious to both, still wriggling about like a hyperactive 6-yr-old on speed. “Sure! Sure!” he chortles in between talking to himself about all the money he’s making, and all the money he’s going to make, and what he’s going to do with all that money.

As they stand and exit the PP, Devon casts one last, triumphant look in Nat’s direction, quirking his lips in a decided smirk before following Stevie.

Crushed, Nat actually sets down his pot of coffee.

DD keeps up the Superficial Conversation as he follows Steve up the stairs to the offices, staring intently at Stevie’s tux-clad buttocks as Stevie keeps babbling.

“...don’t you think?” asks Steve.

“Wha- Oh, yes, yes,” hastens DD as Stevie opens the office door...

... and encounters the unclothed, slumped bodies of Poor Noah and Tara/Kara on the office floor.

“What the hell...?” says Steve reeeeeaally slowly.

Poor Noah reacts first, groaning, blinking, wiping at his face. “Wha...?” He struggles to his feet, revealing Tara/Kara’s bound hands tied to the sofa leg.

Tara/Kara slowly comes to life but panics immediately when she discovers that she had been tied up and is nearly naked. “Oh my God, what am I doing here? What did you do to me? What happened?” she screams at Noah, who, in a sudden burst, throws a couple garments over her while zipping up his pants and stammering “This never happened! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything! It was a mistake!”

Tara/Kara, thrashing, tries to sit up, then sees Steve and Devon in the doorway. “Steve! Help me! For God’s sake, HELP ME!”

“It was a mistake!” insists Noah, pushing past Steve and running away.

Stevie jumps into action, rushing to Tara/Kara and untying her. “My God, babe, what happened? What did he do to you?”

“I don’t know!” sobs Tara/Kara. “I don’t remember anything! I don’t know!”

And while Tara/Kara sobs hysterically and Stevie tries to comfort her, DD sighs with resignation at cruel fate, then picks up the phone on the desk to call the police.

 

PREVIOUS PAGE:|:

|:HOME:|:PAGE 01:|:PAGE 02:|:PAGE 03:|:PAGE 04:|:PAGE 05:|:PAGE 06:|:
HOME:|:BLATHER:|:FOOF:|:RANTS:|:FAQ:|:ARCHIVE
Copyright © 1998 - 2002 Dwanollah.com
Home Home Home