[Loyal Lady Dee]

Hey Veritas! Had a quick moment to get on before work-this story is looking good! "Who the hell is Criss Angel?" Nice! I'm sure in the real world, the only people saying that are the ones who still don't know! Can't wait to see what happens during the Aldrin's visit! Keep up the great writing!

[Veritas]

"Well, dinner's not until five," Janice said as she unpacked Buzz's suitcase, "so you've got some free time until then."

Buzz rose from the bed. "Yeah," he said, "might as well look around, get the feel of the place, check on the display while I'm at it."

"And no gambling," Janice reminded him.

"I know, I know, no gambling," Buzz said, waving his hand dismissively. It used to be "no drinking" until he quit completely in 'ninety-eight. Now there was a moratorium on gambling, what with finances, not to mention his schedule, being so tight. He didn't have the luxury of blowing a wad of cash on the blackjack tables or the slots; every penny spent was meticulously recorded. Despite his fame as an astronaut back in the Sixties, fortune did not follow it. All he had was his pension, his lecture fees, and the royalties from his books. That did not exactly make him a millionaire by anyone's standards. Still, it beat trying to sell cars.

Buzz grabbed his keycard and left the suite. It felt good to just walk around and see the sights without being yanked from this event to the next. As much as he wanted to share his passion for space exploration, the traveling was exhausting to say the least, especially at his age. He cherished the few free hours his itinerary allowed. It wasn't as much fun as, say, floating in zero gravity, but it was a pleasure all the same.

He entered one of the sliding inclinators, fascinated at how they worked. Never in his life did he ever ride in an elevator that went diagonally. He tried to get a feel of the movement by sensing the g-forces upon his body, but without success: it was too smooth a ride to feel anything at all. Still, the concept was a novel one--an inclining elevator that traveled on an angle. He stored the experience away in his memory--who knew when it might prove valuable in the future?

The doors slid open, and Buzz found himself in the lobby. Oh, well, might as well check on the display while he was there. He walked to the display area and looked around: the posters were in the proper sequential order, the seating was arranged for maximum viewing, even the NASA logo was hung at the right height. Great, he thought, nothing to worry about.

A loud, bellowing voice ordering somebody to keep the exits clear but secure startled him. He looked around and saw a huge bruiser of a guy in a navy jacket standing by one of the exit doors. Around him, other navy jacketed men scurried like mice to do his bidding. Buzz decided to steer clear of this character; God knew what this guy was capable of.

The bruiser, however, had spotted Buzz the moment he had stepped in the ballroom. Indeed, he did a double take, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Buzz froze in his tracks as the blue jacketed prizefighter type strode toward him. The bruiser's tough demeanor, however, melted into surprise and some sort of hero-worship as he approached. "Say," he said, his voice lowering a few notches in volume, "you're Buzz Aldrin, ain't ya?"

Saved by fame. "Why, yes," Buzz replied genially, "I am."

"Lucas Macaffey, Chief of Security," the bruiser said proudly.

Buzz made a tenative move for a handshake. Macaffey siezed his hand and pumped it eagerly, a huge smile spread across his beefy face. "Sir!" he said, "it's an honor to meet you here! We're very proud to have you come and stay at our hotel! Yessirree, Bob! Mighty proud!"

"Oh, uh, thank you," Buzz said, rattled. "Um, I'm gonna need that hand back, if you don't mind."

Macaffey realized he still had Buzz's hand in his grip and released him. "Oh, sorry," he said, laughing with uncharacteristic embarrassment.

Buzz thanked him and rubbed his aching hand. "So," he said, "everything ready for this evening?"

Macaffey reverted to form. "Ready as it will ever be," he replied, his chest swelling with pride. "Everything's been checked and rechecked to perfection."

"Okay," Buzz said, "good. Then I'll be here for the press conference at six-thirty."

"Will do, sir!" Macaffey said, standing ramrod straight; Buzz was surprised he didn't salute. He quickly took his leave before Macaffey could crush his hand again in another handshake. He decided to seek the sanctity of the hotel lounge. It would be quieter there, he hoped.

Macaffey returned to bellowing orders to his staff, secretly thrilled that he had finally met his boyhood idol, live and in person, and even shook his hand. True, it was forty years after the moon landing, but Buzz Aldrin was still an American hero and always would be. Thank God he had lived to see it.




The hotel lounge was sparsely populated when Buzz arrived. No one bothered to glance up to see him come in, a relief compared to the hearty welcome Macaffey had given him. They all sat at their tables in twos and threes, chatting quietly with each other or on their smartphones. A waitress walked by with a small round tray of cocktails in one hand. It reminded Buzz of his years as an alcoholic; back then, the bottle had been his only comfort during his bouts of depression after the hoopla over the Apollo 11 moon landing had faded and he had nowhere to go, no plans for the future, uncertain of what to do with his life. It had cost him two marriages and his career as an astronaut, almost. It took the love of his third wife, Lois, to get him back on his feet again and found ShareSpace, his foundation to teach kids about space exploration.

Buzz shook the memories out of his head. Those days were past, he reminded himself. He was sober and focused on his mission here at the Luxor: his lectures about his foundation. He was in his seventies, yes, but he was going to be as active as he had been before the Apollo mission. His remaining years were going to make up for the ones he had wasted on booze and depression. He may have been down, but he had never been out.

He spotted an elderly man sitting at the bar, nattily dressed in a tailored suit with a matching fedora--a fedora, for chrissakes! Who wore those these days? It made the guy look like a mobster or something. Curious, Buzz walked up to him and sat down on the stool beside him. The old man turned his head, looked at Buzz, raised his glass in greeting, and turned back again. The bartender approached Buzz. "Can I get you anything?" she asked.

"Strawberry daquiri," Buzz told her, "virgin."

The old man turned toward Buzz again. "You ain't much of a drinker, are ya?" he drawled in a New Yorker dilalect.

Buzz shook his head. "Uh, no," he replied. "I had to quit a few years ago."

The old man nodded. "Yeah, I went on the wagon a few times myself," he said, swirling his cocktail, "and fell off of it a few times as well."

Buzz smiled. "Well, I've managed to stay on it for fourteen years," he said. "Figured I got better things to do than drink myself to death, like I'd been doing."

"Well, good for you," the old man said. "Uh, say, you look familiar. Can't place the face, though."

"Well, it's where it's always been, right here," Buzz replied, pointing to his face.

That bought a smile to the old man's withered face. He extended a gnarled hand. "Name's Danny," he said, "Danny Springer. Everyone calls me Springs."

"Nice to meet you, Springs," Buzz said, shaking his hand, a much more comfortable one compared to Macaffey's vise-like grip. "Buzz Aldrin."

Springs was startled. "The astronaut?"

The bartender set a foamy red beverage in a stemmed wineglass on the bar in front of Buzz. "Former astronaut, actually," he replied with a shrug. "Now I'm just a spokesman for NASA."

"Hmph!" Springs grunted. "Well, I'll be damned! So, what brings you here to the Luxor?"

"Promoting my foundation, ShareSpace, for the weekend," Buzz informed him. "I'm here until Monday."

Something registered in Springs' aging brain. "Oh, yeah, that's right," he said, suddenly remembering. "I saw yer ads out in the lobby." Something else clicked inside his mind. "Y'know, there was this hippie type goin' around sayin' the moon landing was a hoax, and--"

Buzz held up his hand to silence him. "Yeah, I know, I know," he droned. "I get it all the time. Conspiracy theorists who think the moon landing was filmed on a Hollywood soundstage, the photos were faked, and all of that BS. No matter how many times I try to convince them it was real, they just go on and on and on. I mean, they just won't quit!"

"Well, I believe ya," Springs said. "I saw the whole thing on the boob tube back in the Sixties. And believe you me, that was no Hollywood soundstage, not by any description! That was the real deal, I can tell ya that!"

"So, what happened to that hippie guy?" Buzz asked.

"Security gave 'im the bum's rush, is what," Springs replied. "He ain't gonna show his face around here no more, that's for sure--not with Macaffey around. He's chief of security, y'know."

Buzz rubbed his still aching hand. "We've met," he said.

Springs drained the last of his drink. "Well, I'd like to stay and chat," he said, "but if I don't get home soon, my housekeeper Sharon's gonna start callin' the morgue to see if I'm there. Nice meetin' ya, Buzz."

The two men shook hands, and Springs shuffled out of the lounge. Buzz turned to the bartender. "Quite a character, isn't he?" he commented casually.

The bartender looked up. "Springs?" she said. "Oh, yeah. He used to be a former mobster back in the Forties and Fifties, y'know. Part of a gang called the Guys of Glitter Gulch. He's the only one left, by the way."

Buzz pricked up his ears. A mobster? Well, that would explain the fedora and the suit. He wondered just what Danny "Springs" Springer did during the Forties and Fifties when he was in that gang of his? And how many bodies did he leave behind?

[RACHEL02189]

If he likes Danny wait to he meets Criss Angel

[Veritas]

While Buzz was pondering the controversial life of Danny Springer, Boone Morris was reconnoitering around the service entrance of the hotel. If he could just slip inside, unnoticed, he could still reach the exhibit area and confront Buzz face to face before the hired muscle kicked him out again. It was a huge risk, but it would be worth it if he could expose the truth about the Apollo 11 hoax.

The service entrance, like every other private entryway into the hotel, had no door handle on the outside and was accessable only with a keycard. Boone would have to wait until somebody came out, then slip inside before the door shut. The rest he could take care of himself. He just needed to be patient...

The dull, clunking sound of metal striking metal, and Boone was on his feet, ready to spring into action. He flattened himself against the wall on the hinged side of the metal door, waiting for it to swing open. Then he would grab the door, rush inside quickly and quietly, and hide again inside before whoever had gone through it would notice him. With luck and good timing, no one would be the wiser.

The heavy metal service door approached him from his right, coming straight at him. For a moment, Boone thought he'd be crushed against the wall. Quickly, he came back to his senses and grabbed the edge of the door, just as he had planned. He heard a scraping sound across the pavement. He peeked from behind the door and saw a pimply-faced kid in white kitchen garb dragging a load of broken down cardboard boxes to the dumpster a few yards from the entryway.

Boone whipped around from behind the door and through the service entrance in one fluid movement. From what he could see, he was in some sort of storage/receiving area next to the kitchen. He ducked behind a row of folded banquet tables standing upright by the door and waited for the kitchen helper to return, taking the moment to catch his breath. Another clunk of metal, the door opened, and the helper's acne-scarred visage came into view. Boone ducked behind the tables, but the helper didn't even glance in his direction, let alone spot him. Blessing his good luck, Boone emerged from his hiding place and began to look around for a way into the hotel proper.

There was another door on the opposite side of the storage area. It might be a a way in, or it might be just another closet. Since the only other way out was through the noisy, bustling kitchen, he dashed for the door, pulled it open, and ducked inside. Again, no one noticed, but he was trapped in total darkness. Fumbling around the wall, he located a light switch, turned it on, and found himself in the linen closet. Boone sighed in disappointment. Okay, he wondered, how the hell am I gonna get out of this one?

He looked around the shelves of freshly laundered table linen, neatly stacked and bound in shrink-wrap. There was a canvas hamper for soiled linen, but it was empty. Then he spotted a stack of white aprons, and, next to it, white cotton caps. A desperate plan hatched in Boone's mind. He grabbed an apron, put it on, tied it around his waist, then he pulled on one of the caps, stuffing his long brown hair underneath it. Suitably disguised, he emerged from the linen closet and began to stroll casually through the kitchen, keeping his head low and his pace steady so as not to draw attention to himself.

"Hey, you!" he heard a loud voice echo throughout the kitchen.

Boone froze in his tracks while a short, burly man in the same apron and cap approached him. I am so (bleeping) dead! Boone thought in his panicked state.

The burly man, however, thrust a grey plastic dishpan into Boone's hands. "Get over to Conference Room A!" he ordered him. "We need it cleaned up and cleared out in twenty minutes!"

He thinks I work here! "Uh, yes, sir!" Boone replied with fake enthusiam, half-saluting as he spoke. "I'll get right on it, sir!"

The burly man simply turned and left. Boone took the dishpan and left the kitchen. Well, at least he had a cover to get into the hotel, though he didn't have a clue as to where Conference Room A was.

(Uh, oh, gonna have to cut this short again! Will return later. V)

[RACHEL02189]

oh boy someone call the guys upstairs

[Veritas]

We interrupt this story to bring you the following news bulletin: Former Apollo 11 astronaut, Neil Armstrong, passed away at the age of 82. We have lost a great American hero. He will be missed.

[Veritas]

Boone walked out of the kitchen and into a service corridor, looking around carefully for any sign of security. The hallway was empty. So far, so good. He strolled casually down the corridor, not looking up at the black bubbled security cameras overhead--to do so would be to invite suspicion and the certanity of arrest. But no one accosted him as he went. It had been a smart move to stuff his hair under his cap, or he would have been dead in the water if someone, especially that big goon of a security chief, recognized him.

He found the entrance into the lobby right at the end of the corridor. He pushed open the heavy metal door and stepped into the plush interior of the lobby. All around him, people walked about, some slowly, taking in the ambience of the luxurious surroundings, while others moved briskly, hurrying to their destinations. Among them, hotel staff hauled luggage of varying shapes and sizes on gleaming brass carts to and from the main entrance to be loaded or unloaded into or out of the waiting cars and taxis outside. No one, however, took notice of Boone in his apron and cap, carrying his dishpan. As far as they were concerned, he was just another lowly hotel employee doing his job.

Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, Boone made his way to the exhibit in the main ballroom. Once there, he looked around for any sign of Buzz. No one was there. The ballroom was dark and empty--even the audio technicians had gone. Disappointed but not discouraged, Boone turned around and walked away. Maybe Aldrin was in the casino or something.

He went back into the lobby. Dozens of faces passed him by, but not one of them belonged to Buzz Aldrin. Boone decided to check the casino level, so he stepped onto the escalator leading up to it. Again, no one paid him any mind; everyone totally ignored him. Boone congratulated himself on the brilliance of his makeshift disguise. His stolen apron and cap seemed to give him full access to the whole hotel. So long as he kept his head down and his movements casual, he could avoid detection from the eyes in the sky.

The casino level loomed into view. He could hear the chiming of the slots and the murmurs of the gamblers--and it was swarming with blue jacketed security guards. Any one of them could recognize him and bust him on the spot. Boone thought of concealing his face with the dishpan, but that would have been too obvious. No, the sensible thing to do was to keep acting casual, like he had been working in the hotel his whole life. If asked, he would simply state that he was sent to pick up any dirty dishes and glasses to take to the dishroom. That seemed plausible enough.

Boone walked into the casino, picking up an empty cocktail glass here, a small buffet plate there, and placing them in his dishpan, all the while keeping an eye out for Buzz Aldrin. He knew what he looked like from the dozens of photos he had stashed in his files: round head, white hair, blue eyes. He wouldn't be difficult to spot, even in a crowded casino.

There! Over by the snack table stood his quarry. Buzz Aldrin, the biggest charlatan in American history, was helping himself to shrimp cocktail. Boone fought the urge to rush forward and denounce him loudly to the public--that would get him tossed in jail for sure, or at least punched in the face like that other guy he had heard about on YouTube. No, he had to be discreet, subtle, cunning. He had to be--

A sharp jab on his shoulder blade and a curt "Hey, you!" startled him. Instinctively, he turned around and saw a security guard (a young black guy he hadn't seen before, luckily) standing before him. Boone looked at him in surprise, fighing back his initial panic. "Ain't you supposed to be in the dish room, buddy?" the guard asked.

Boone took a deep breath. His disguise had protected him again. "Uh, I was sent up here to clean up," he explained as calmly as he could.

"What the hell you mean, you were sent here to clean up?" the guard demanded. "That's the wait staff's job, not yours! You get back to the dishroom where you belong before I report you!"

"Okay, okay, fine," Boone said, beating a hasty retreat back to the escalator, but the guard stopped him again. "Where you going?" he asked again.

"Uh, back to the dishroom," Boone replied innocently, "just like you told me to."

"You're supposed to take the service elevator!" the guard snapped, pointing to the rear of the casino. "The escalator's for guests only! What is this, you're first day on the job or something?"

"Well, gee," Boone retorted, shrugging. "Sorreeeee!"

The guard left, shaking his head in bewilderment. Boone waited until he was out of sight and resumed stalking his prey. But it was too late--Aldrin had disappeared from the buffet table. In fact, he had disappeared from the casino altogether. Mentally dammning the security guard who had detained him, Boone stormed toward the service elevator, setting aside the dishpan on a nearby tray jack, and returned to the kitchen area. Once there, he strode to the exit at the other end of the service corridor, stripping off his disguise as he went. With one angry push of the door, he was outside of the hotel, right where he started. Unfortunately for Boone, the door he had opened was an emergency exit and had triggered an alarm in the surveillance room. His image, sansdisguise, had been caught on tape and stored into the hotel's computer records for future reference.

None of this mattered to Boone Morris, however. Infuriated over his thwarted attempt to confront Buzz Aldrin, he drove his battered Chevy van back home to reassess his situation. One way or another, he vowed, he would come face to face with that big phony Aldrin and make him confess once and for all his forty year long deceit of the American people. He may had lost the battle, but he was going to win the war. He just needed a better plan, that's all.

When he arrived home, however, it looked as if his mother had made plans for him. The minute he turned into the cracked concrete driveway, he spotted his belongings piled up on the weedy, dry front lawn: his clothing was bundled into two large cardboard cartons, his books were piled in an old trunk, and his computer monitor was sitting on top of it all.

At first shocked, then dejected, then furious, he stormed up to the front door and tried to open it, but found it locked. Boone began to pound furiously on the shabby wooden door, shouting, "Ma? Ma! Open up! Lemme in!"

The door did open, but only about eight inches, limited by the brass chain that secured it. His mother Melody's face peered out from inside the house. "Go away, Boone," she said evenly, "you don't live here anymore."

Boone was dumbfounded. "What the hell do you mean I don't live here anymore?" he demanded. "This is my home, too, you know!"

"I warned you, Boone," Melody said, still calm and cool. "I gave you a week to find a job and pay your share of the rent, but you didn't listen. You went on and on and on with your crazy ideas about NASA and the rest of your conspiracy theories, not even bothering to make something of yourself. So, now I'm evicting you. From now on, you're on your own."

Boone was about to make a protest of some sort, but the wooden door closed in his face. He heard the brass deadbolt sliding into place, confirmation of his exile from the family home. He slammed his fist on the siding of the house, causing the flimsy metal mailbox to fall from its moorings and clatter to the stoop. He was alone, with nowhere to go.

Then he turned around to see an even greater humiliation: some dirty-shirted bum had boosted his computer terminal and was at that moment shoving it into the rear of a battered yellow Chevette, along with the keyboard and the monitor. Furious at this latest outrage, Boone dashed toward the Chevette, shouting, "Hey! Gimme back my computer!", but it was too late--the bum had slammed the hatch door shut and was ducking into the driver's seat. Boone caught up with the guy just as he slammed the car door and started the engine. He hammered on the roof, demanding the son of a (bleep) return his precious PC, but all he got in reply was a smug grin and an extended middle finger as the bum drove away, leaving a cursing, raving Boone Morris in his wake.

[RACHEL02189]

Karma's a

[Veritas]

I think you mean "karma".

[RACHEL02189]

Originally Posted by Veritas

I think you mean "karma".

Thanks I really got to pay attention but thank god for editing