A Pass on the Tabouli

Errol Flynn reclined

in a lavender-scented bath and extended a tanned hero's arm to make a fist. He suspected the studio had kept him stuffed with hormones and cloned organs for the last seventy-five years all for this one last remake. How many Kims had it been? Damned Kipling. He heard dry gears grind down the corridors of time as the British Empire spun in its grave. Kipling―Flynn wondered if camels gave him hemorrhoids, too. Perfumed bubbles danced with tiny golden flecks as he tightened his triceps. “Look at that sucker bounce,” said Errol Flynn, lost in the poetry of the moment. His flexing fingers closed around a squeeze bottle of shampoo. He squeezed. Quarnk!

And now a musical version. He sank under the suds; a guy deserved a break, not an aria. “And Valentino! I never guessed that SOB had eyes for my script.” One last Kim. Flynn wished he had read the fine print on the resurrection form. “My life...” said Flynn. He throttled the shampoo in a strangler's grip. A miniature globe of refracted rainbows swelled and popped. “...then, arrivederci Errol.”

Quarnk! said the shampoo.

“Kato!”

A scramble from the adjacent guesthouse.

“Yes, Errol.”

“The loofa. My back.” Not having his option picked up would be tantamount to a death sentence. And if Valentino got the nod... Well, it was too late now. A musical. Well, desperate situations called for desperate measures. “Kato, do we have any of that home-brew tabouli of yours left in the fridge?”

Flynn's semi-permanent house guest crossed himself. “Cat ate it. I was saving it.”

“How long?”

“To long, boss; cat died.”

“Any left?” The doings of tabouli past its prime were legend.

“Some―for emergencies. I tossed most of it. Those dumpster pickers from the studio commissary made off with it. The tabouli, not the frozen cat.”

“What was the cat doing in the refrigerator anyway?”

“Curiosity. Whatever.”

“Pack it up. La-la-la-la-la-la-la,” Flynn vocalized. The faithful Kato dropped the loofa and, hands over his ears, fled to the shelter of his daytime dramas. There was that eye-catching secretary in Creative... a well-planned hustle could keep him from having to take voice lessons just to hang on to his puny life.

Quarnk! said the shampoo. Quarnk! Quarnk!