Selleck's 'Stache Is Missing!

By Charles Chadwick

Celebrated Hollywood star Tom Selleck has it all: talent, good looks, a winning personality, and a track record of television and movie hits, enjoyed by millions around the world. Until one day, while filming his latest project, an old rival attacks him and steals his mustache. Now, lost and adrift, Tom struggles with his new life. Along with a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Planet Bizarro
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781915546036

Book preview

Chapter 1

Good morning, the driver said to the passenger as he slid into the limousine. Back to the Warner Brothers lot?

Yes. I feel today will be a great day. The passenger checked his safety belt thrice to ensure it was snug and settled into the plush leather seat. The car pulled out of the driveway and onto the sunlit Pacific Palisades streets.

The passenger breathed deep and ran his hand through his hair. One hand lingered on his upper lip, savoring the bristling sensation. He pulled a movie script out of a messenger bag and laid it on his lap. He closed his eyes and flipped to a random page. His fingers ran methodically over the paper. His mouth moved silently in time to every line, every action, every scene heading. Even the superimposed titles. When his fingers reached the end of the page, he opened his eyes and read everything back. He smiled.

Perfect as always, the driver said, and eased the limo onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Lush palm trees swayed in the breeze.

Thank you. The passenger blushed a little. He put the script back into the messenger bag and watched the fronds flop back and forth. I just need to make sure I’m ready.

Aren’t you always? The driver chuckled. I can’t think of a single production where you haven’t already memorized every last word in the script.

Now it was the passenger’s turn to chuckle.

Well, I like to be prepared. The star of every production sets the mood for the day, you know. If I show up unprepared or out of sorts, that ruins everyone’s day. And then…

"God help us all," the driver interrupted. They both broke up laughing. I do love that bit. They pulled onto La Brea Avenue.

You certainly do, the passenger said. And it never gets old.

Good to hear. Now are you up for something from your regular playlist, or would you like something new?

You know, it’s your choice today.

Very good. The speakers clicked on. John Denver’s sweet voice wafted through the car. Poetics about country roads taking him home filled the passenger’s senses with hope and glee and a faint whisper of Appalachia. Yes, today was going to be great, and nothing was going to interrupt it. Nothing at all.

Mommy, Mommy! A little girl, no older than seven, with pigtails and an oversized lollipop in one hand, tugged at her mother’s oversized Who Farted? shirt.

Stop that, Betsy! the mother said, swatting her hand away. I’m gonna get my picture with Renegade! She eased her bulk up to an uncomfortable-looking man dressed like B-movie and television actor Lorenzo Lamas.

Oh, Lorenzo! the mother cooed, stroking his fake tan and Botox. She hugged him hard, like an anaconda after a hunger strike.

Uh, I’m not really Lorenzo Lamas, the man lied. Now, if you want a picture, that will cost…

Mommy! Betsy cried out, tugging her mother’s shirt again. It’s Squiggles! It’s Squiggles!

Across the sidewalk in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, amongst a throng of cosplayers dressed like Harry Potter, Harley Quinn, and a dozen or so Darth Whatevers, was a person in an oversized cartoon dinosaur costume. They danced and sang while small children threw trash and howled like banshees.

Mommy, I want to meet Squiggles! Betsy was on the verge of tears. Her mother pushed her away again and grabbed Lorenzo Lamas’ butt.

Uh, that will cost extra, the man desperately pretending not to actually be Lorenzo Lamas said.

Oh, I got extra! The mother cooed and licked Lorenzo’s ear.

Betsy broke free of her mother, which probably was for the best, and ran towards the dinosaur.

Off to the left of the theater, in a dark alcove, a man wearing a fedora, sunglasses, trench coat, and nothing else, shuffled a deck of cards. Half a cigarette smoldered in his mouth. Cards flew back and forth in a long arc. Expert eyes scanned the crowd behind dark-tinted shades, tracking each tourist for the telltale signs of a rube. Three Card

Monte, fake Rolexes, maybe crushed up drywall passed off for a bag of cocaine? This bunch was ripe for all of it. Hundreds of marks stood before him; a con artist charcuterie board laid down by God. The man shivered with pleasure, that is, until the little girl with the pigtails and lollipop ran away from her mother, screaming for that infernal dinosaur. Then his pleasure meter went haywire.

"Huuuhnnnnn." Trench Coat groaned. A thick runner of drool ran down his lips. Cards sprayed from his hands, and the cigarette followed in their wake. His whole body seized with ecstasy. He wiped his brow and adjusted his fedora. Yes, this was better than all the Three Card Monte or fake Rolexes money could buy. This was the golden idol, ripe for the plucking. Right there, with no one around to stop him. Pervert Valhalla. He rubbed his hands together and stepped into the sunlight.

"You see, I think when Denver sang ′Aye, Calypso, the places you’ve been to. The things that you’ve taught us, the stories you tell,′ he wasn’t just singing about the ocean. It was really a testament to us, the storytellers who… hey! Stop the car!"

The limo came to a screeching halt outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater.

 What is it? the driver asked. This is most unusual.

The passenger rolled the window down and fixed his eyes on a young girl with pigtails, dancing in front of a costumed dinosaur.

That girl.

What about her? Is she right for the part of your daughter in your next television feature?

No. She’s unattended. And look over there!

Trench Coat closed in on the girl. His hands reached out like a reject from some long-forgotten Dracula movie. His fingers flexed and fisted, twisted tongue licking liver lips.

I think that man is up to no good.

What do you mean, ‘no good’?

I mean he has his sights set on that young girl. And I think he means nefarious business!

Nefarious… But the passenger was out the door before he could finish.

Hey, aren’t you… a young midwestern woman said as the passenger ran through the crowd.

I’m sorry, miss! he called back. Normally I would stop and talk, but someone needs my help! He whipped and weaved through the crowd, doing his best not to run into anyone.

Sorry, Colonel Picard! he shouted as he nearly toppled a Patrick Stewart look-alike. Live long and proper, and may the force be with you!

Trench Coat was a mere foot from the girl when he saw the passenger barreling toward him. His eyebrows went up over his sunglasses, mouth dropped into a large O.

No way! the man said, It’s you! It’s…

Hooo-rahhh! the passenger shouted and dove over several onlookers. He landed on Trench Coat with a tackle so perfect it belonged in the NFL Hall of Fame. They crashed to the ground, right onto Donald Duck’s star.

Show’s over, pervert! the passenger said. Trench Coat shuddered.

No, I surrender!

Betsy! the little girl’s mother said, rushing over. The man pretending not to be Lorenzo Lamas pocketed her cash, wiped his brow, and took off in the other direction.

Ma’am. the passenger said, hauling Trench Coat to his feet and tossing him into the indifferent arms of the LAPD. I don’t mean to tell you how to raise your child, but I suggest you keep a better eye on your daughter in the future. Again, that’s just a suggestion. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. But please.

Thank you! the woman said, and looked up. Her eyes spun wild. One hand went to her crotch. Oh Em Gee! Are you…

He winked and smiled and touched his upper lip.

Yes, ma’am, I am.

Golly gee! Can I have your autograph? Wait, let me make sure I got enough cash! How much are you charging? I think I got another twenty in here. She rifled through her purse, but the passenger stopped her.

Ma’am, I never charge a fan for an autograph. That’s a rule I’ll never break.

Hey, eat my ass! Lorenzo Lamas shouted from the background. I got six alimonies to feed!

The mother sighed and pulled the neck of her shirt down to reveal a Grand Canyon of cleavage. She held out a Sharpie. He smiled and signed his name over her left breast.

Thank you so much! she cooed.

Anything for a fan, he said and rustled Betsy’s hair.  She giggled. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to be late to my production.

And with that, Tom Selleck ran back to the limousine and disappeared into the Southern California morning.

Chapter 2

Tom! Manager said as Selleck exited the limo outside Stage 14. "Great to see