Blueprint
Marcus Ventura removed his tuxedo jacket, loosened his tie and walked to the bar of his posh Manhattan high-rise apartment to fix himself a drink. As he stirred his martini—the hell with what James Bond said!—his eyes wandered to the glass-enclosed case beside his fireplace. Prominently displayed on the top shelf were his three Golden Globes. Beneath them were various other awards representing achievement in filmmaking. Thus far, he had been honored by the Writers Guild of America, National Society of Film Critics, Directors Guild of America, Cannes Film Festival and American Film Institute as well as many foreign film foundations. What was glaringly absent in his "trophy" case was an Oscar. Having never won an Academy Award was a sore spot to Marcus. Although his was one of the most illustrious careers in Hollywood, he would not feel equal to the likes of Spielberg, Coppola and Scorsese until he was awarded the coveted gold-plated statuette.
As he was finishing up his third martini, his cell phone rang. He groaned when he saw the caller's identity and considered not answering. However, he knew if he didn't, his ex-wife—the first of three former spouses—would keep calling until he did.
"Yeah?" he answered, not wasting time with civility.
"It's your daughter's birthday next week."
"Funny that whenever it's a question of money, Cheyenne becomes my daughter."
Ignoring his sarcasm, Britt continued, "She wants to go skiing in Innsbruck."
"Jesus Christ, Britt! Didn't I spend enough on her at Christmas? I'm not made of money, you know. I have to pay alimony to three ex-wives and child support for five kids."
"Whose fault is that? Are you going to make Cheyenne suffer for your mistakes?"
"Can't she go to Aspen instead?"
"No. Her friends from school are going to Austria, and she wants to go with them."
"All right! I'll call my business manager and have him cut you a check."
There was no thank you. No goodbye. Just a dull click to indicate the call was at an end.
"Greedy bitch!" the filmmaker grumbled to the dead line. "To think that I was once madly in love with her and wanted to kill myself when she left me."
It was foolish for Marcus to berate himself over his first marriage. In her day, Britt Holdridge had been one of the most beautiful women to grace the silver screen. Unfortunately, her good looks were all she had going for her. She had been shortchanged in the talent department. Once she began to age, the starring roles disappeared, and the Ventura-Holdridge marriage fell apart, leaving Marcus with exorbitant alimony and child support payments, not to mention a broken heart and fractured ego.
Remembering that the Oscar nominations would be announced at the end of the week, the filmmaker's mood softened and he finished his drink. He was certain this would be his year. What Titanic did for James Cameron in 1997, Faithless was about to do for him. Both a commercial and critical success, the three-hour Victorian-era drama was believed to be a shoe-in for the best picture award. Betting people were also putting money on Ventura being nominated for his direction and/or for writing the original screenplay. Since he also produced the film, he was bound to acquire an Oscar one way or another.
When I do, he thought optimistically, maybe I'll send all my children to Europe!
* * *
Feeling an overabundance of self-confidence, Marcus picked up his iPad and went to oscars.org to read the Academy's list of nominations. He not only wanted to see how many he received and in what categories he was nominated, but he also wanted to assess his competition. He was greatly disappointed that the brilliance of his screenplay was not being acknowledged, flabbergasted that his directorial skills were not being acclaimed and downright dumbstruck that Faithless was not being lauded as one of the best films of the year.
"I can't believe it!" he cried. "It's impossible! Not a single damned nomination."
That was not exactly true. Oona Paquin was nominated for best costume design.
"Faithless was a masterpiece, and the only thing the members of the Academy liked about it were the goddamned clothes the actors wore!"
To say that Marcus was disappointed would be the mother of all understatements. There had been no doubt in his mind that not only would he be nominated but that he would win, as well. He was devastated by the industry's failure, once again, to appreciate his genius. Even the excruciatingly painful breakup of his first marriage paled in comparison to the agony he felt at not getting the long-awaited Oscar.
After going on one of his increasingly frequent two-day-long binges, the filmmaker sobered up and went to his office.
"It's time to move on," he told himself. "If Faithless isn't my Titanic, then I'll just have to go on to my next project. Maybe that will be the one. Hell, look at how long it took Scorsese to win his Oscar. We all can't be a thirty-two-year-old prodigy."
Besides, Faithless was destined to be a classic. It was a movie that he was sure would stand the test of time and be ranked up there with Citizen Kane, Casablanca, The Godfather and Gone with the Wind. He had certainly come a long way from his first movie, Bloodbath.
Cringing at the thought of the low-budget slasher he had made immediately after graduating film school, Marcus began looking through a pile of screenplays on his desk. After finding nothing of interest, he asked Nealie Hind, his long-time assistant, to bring in a file containing synopses of un-optioned books.
"If it's a new project you're looking for, I can save you quite a bit of time and effort," she announced.
Curious, Marcus raised his eyebrows. He was always willing to listen to his assistant's suggestions. She had an uncanny knack of knowing which stories would and which would not make a great movie.
"Remember an author by the name of Redmond Rhys?" she asked.
"Yeah. He wrote that historical novel about the Knights Templar. Universal turned it into a movie, and if I recall, it bombed at the box office."
"True. That's why no studio has approached him about his latest book, The Monarch."
"Have you read it?"
"Yes, and I loved it! It's a bit long—more than eight hundred pages—but a good screenwriter could easily adapt it to a film under three hours long."
"What's it about?" Ventura asked, his interest kindled.
"The life of Charles I of England."
"History was never my strong suit. Wasn't he the one who lost the war to Cromwell?"
"That's the one. He lost the war and his head. He was the only king of England ever to be convicted of treason and executed."
History-inspired films such as Darkest Hour, Dunkirk, Hacksaw Ridge, Bridge of Spies, Selma, Lincoln and 12 Years a Slave all garnered best picture nominations in recent years. Visions of Mel Gibson accepting his award for Braveheart danced across Marcus's brain, and he arrived at a quick decision.
"See if you can get Rhys on the phone. I'd like to talk to him."
Nealie smiled as she closed her employer's office door, pleased that once again she had succeeded in the role of muse.
* * *
Despite the box office failure of his previous book, Redmond Rhys drove a hard bargain for the rights of his novel about the life of Charles I. Not only did he ask for an exorbitant sum, but he also demanded to be consulted about the script. Reluctantly, Ventura agreed to paying him the money.
"As for the screenplay," the filmmaker told the author, "I'll give you the chance to add your input. However, as the producer, director and screenwriter, I have the final say."
Negotiations between the two men went on for over a month, but eventually they came to an agreement. Once the contracts were signed, Marcus packed up his laptop and a well-worn copy of Rhys's original manuscript that was marked with a red pen and three colors of highlighters and flew to his cottage in a small village in Wales. With his phone turned off and far from the distractions that normally plagued him, Ventura wrote the first draft of his screenplay in under six months' time. Once the closing line in the movie was written, and King Charles was as dead as Jacob Marley, he backed up his file and printed out a copy, which he sent by messenger to Redmond Rhys.
For the next four months, hundreds of emails went back and forth between the two men, sometimes several dozen in a single day. A stickler for historical accuracy, Rhys insisted the script stick to the known facts and that Marcus take no poetic license with history. The filmmaker, on the other hand, was less interested in the minor details concerning the Battle of Naseby and more engrossed with Charles's failed attempts to marry Maria Anna, daughter of Philip III of Spain, and his subsequent marriage to Henrietta Maria, daughter of Henry IV of France.
Rhys became exasperated by Marcus's refusal to focus on the political aspects of his book. The fact that the English fought a series of civil wars that culminated in the elimination of the monarchy and the establishment of a republic under Oliver Cromwell was the key point in the novel. The king's personal life was incidental.
"Why do you insist on turning my book into a soap opera?" he demanded to know when the two men met in the filmmaker's Los Angeles office.
"Because that's what sells in Hollywood," Ventura argued. "In Braveheart, Wallace's anger at the British was the result of his wife's death. And then after his execution, the audience is left to think that he was the father of Queen Isabella's unborn child."
"Which is patently ridiculous!" Rhys screamed. "William Wallace was executed in 1305, and Isabella didn't arrive in England until 1308, at which time she was only twelve years old. As entertaining as Braveheart was, it was one of the most historically inaccurate movies ever made."
"Who cares? It was nominated for ten Oscars and won five of them, including best picture."
"But this is history!"
"And I'm the producer. Look, according to our contract, I agreed to let you review the script and voice your opinion. I've heard you out and considered your arguments, but I'm going ahead with my screenplay as written."
It was good to be the producer and have the final say. Still, that privilege came at a great monetary cost.
* * *
Although Marcus Ventura's adaptation of Redmond Rhys's novel would eventually become a box office success, the production was plagued by unforeseen problems from the start. Trouble first reared its ugly head three weeks into shooting.
Burton Toumey, the male lead who played the doomed monarch, was known to Hollywood insiders as a notorious ladies' man. A gifted actor and two-time Oscar nominee, he was Marcus's first choice to play Charles I. When Burton signed on for the part, amid much media fanfare, neither he nor the producer dreamed that the growing Me Too movement would point its accusatory finger in his direction. Over a six-week period, more than a dozen struggling young actresses claimed to have been the target of the actor's sexual harassment.
Initially, Toumey was not worried by the women's claims.
"I don't see what the fuss is all about," he said, trying on one of Oona Paquin's elaborate Stuart-era costumes. "Ever since Hollywood became the capital of the film industry, women—and sometimes men—have been willing and often eager to trade sex for a part in a movie. The legendary casting couch is not a figment of a screenwriter's imagination."
Like many of the important men to fall victim to Me Too, however, he had underestimated the power of social media. In the wake of reports of sexual scandals, many men lost their jobs. Politicians, CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, network newscasters, talk show hosts and actors alike came under the axe. When Marcus realized his film production was getting adverse publicity because of its male lead, he had little choice but to cut Burton Toumey loose. To save face, the actor claimed the break was his decision. Two days after returning to his Brentwood mansion, Toumey signed himself into a rehabilitation center to treat his alleged sex addiction.
Rather than bring the filming to a halt until he could find a new leading man, Marcus chose to shoot around Charles's scenes. Meanwhile, he instituted a hectic search for an actor.
"I have just the man for the job," the casting director boasted. "Pierce Bonham."
"Never heard of him."
"He had a part on a TV show on The CW, but it was cancelled midseason."
"And you think he would be good for the role of Charles?"
"Perfect. First, he's British, so he won't have to fake an accent. Second, he's an unknown; you can get him for less than a quarter of what you were paying Burton Toumey. And, third, he's a closeted gay man with a squeaky clean reputation."
Ventura did not waste the time and money on a screen test. After a simple reading, he offered Bonham the role. Even with a wig and make-up, however, he bore no resemblance to his predecessor. The switch in actors thus necessitated reshooting all of Burton Toumey's scenes.
As the producer dug deeper into his personal savings, he felt the level of stress put upon him escalate. The frequent demands for money from his ex-wives and children did not help matters.
"Christ! They're bleeding me dry," he exclaimed after instructing his business manager to cut a check for his oldest son's traffic fine.
* * *
After speaking to the second of his former wives, Marcus turned off his cell phone.
Braces! Why were all my children cursed with crooked teeth? he wondered with mounting frustration.
He was rescued from dwelling on his financial woes by the sound of a knock.
"Yes?" he called, thinking it strange that Nealie Hind did not just walk into his office as she usually did.
"You're here," his assistant said with surprise. "I haven't seen you since yesterday afternoon."
"I had some errands to run."
Nealie opened the door in a wider arc, and Marcus saw a strange man in a cheap suit—bought off the rack at Sears—standing behind her.
"There's a Detective Jake Shipton here to see you."
The filmmaker's thoughts immediately went to his oldest son.
"What's he done this time?" he asked.
"Excuse me?"
"You've come about my boy, Marcus Ventura, Jr., haven't you?"
"No. I'd like a word with you in private, if I may."
Marcus nodded to Nealie, who closed the door and returned to her outer office.
"What is it you wanted to see me about?"
"I'm trying to solve a homicide, three of them actually."
Most people would react to such a statement with shock or, at the very least, curiosity. However, the only murder Marcus was interested in at the moment was the decapitation of Charles I.
"I'd like you to take a look at some photographs," the detective announced, placing a manila folder on the filmmaker's desk.
"All right, but we have to make this quick. I'm directing a movie at the moment, and we're already behind schedule."
The look of consternation on Ventura's face deepened with each picture placed in front of him.
"Is this some kind of joke?" he asked.
"Do you see me laughing?" the detective countered.
"The setting ...."
"We refer to it as the crime scene."
"The abandoned gas station, the old cemetery and the closed amusement park ... And the methods the killer used ... Even the way the victims are dressed and displayed ... They're all ...."
"Taken from your first movie, Bloodbath," Jake said, finishing the sentence for the filmmaker who was suddenly at a loss for words. "I believe the killer is using your movie as a blueprint for his crimes."
"That means he would have to have seen the movie, right? In that case, your list of suspects ought to be very short."
"I wish that were the case, but Bloodbath is now available for streaming on Netflix."
"Surely no one watches it!"
"I did. Last night I was home with my teenage son, and he put it on. When I saw that the first murder in your movie was a carbon copy of one of my open cases, I thought it was just a coincidence. But by the third one, I knew where the killer got his inspiration."
"You don't think I had anything to do with these murders!"
"No. But there is the possibility the guy is a fan of yours, or at least of that particular film. Tell me, do you have any followers, people that write to you or maybe show up at your home or at the studio?"
"I get fan mail all the time. Because of the graphic nature of Bloodbath, some of the letters are .... But I've learned not to take them seriously."
"What about fans who attend conventions and autograph signings?"
"In case you hadn't noticed, Detective, my work is in a different class from Star Trek and Game of Thrones. You won't find cheap horror movies at Comic-Con."
"That doesn't mean you don't have disturbed fans. Steven Spielberg had a stalker, and he's a two-time Oscar winner."
"I'd like to help you, but I can't," Marcus declared dismissively, rankled by mention of the rival director's Academy Awards. "Now, if you don't mind showing yourself out."
"Okay. I don't want to take up any more of your time, but will you promise to call me if you see any suspicious characters on your radar?"
"Certainly, Detective."
"Oh, and keep your eyes open. You never know if the killer will come after you next."
* * *
Ventura's next encounter with the police did not involve any unsolved murders. It was much worse—at least as far as The Monarch was concerned. Thirty-seven-year-old Troy Magnusson, the film's award-winning cinematographer was killed in a car accident in Santa Monica.
"I'm beginning to think I'm living under the curse of Charles I!" Marcus complained to Nealie when they returned to the office after attending Magnusson's funeral. "It's just one thing after another."
"Look at the bright side. It's a lot easier to replace a cinematographer than it is to replace a leading man."
As his luck would have it, though, all the cinematographers Ventura wanted were already committed to other projects. The best one he could get was one whose only claim to fame was a film by Quentin Tarantino.
"Seriously? Tarantino?" Marcus cried with exasperation.
"What's wrong with Tarantino? Did you forget he won two Oscars—so far."
"I don't know why I don't fire you."
"Because you know you won't get that gold-plated statuette without me," Nealie taunted him.
"Which one of my ex-wives pays you to put me through hell, hmm?"
With no better options available to him, Marcus hired the Tarantino alumnus. He immediately regretted his decision when the new cinematographer decided he would have to reshoot some of the previously completed scenes in order to maintain continuity.
Meanwhile, ten miles from the studio where shooting was taking place, Detective Jake Shipton was called to the scene of a fourth homicide. Although crime scene technicians swarmed over the place, the body was left virtually untouched where it had been discovered.
"Burned out warehouse," he dictated into a microcassette recorder. "Young red-haired woman wearing jeans and a black leather jacket. Garroted and left lying face down on the remains of the loading dock. Just like in Bloodbath. Not only is he continuing to follow the blueprint, but so far our killer is murdering his victims in the same order as the psychopath in the movie. What concerns me is that in Bloodbath twelve women die. Does that mean we have eight more victims ahead of us? And what about Marcus Ventura? Is he slated to be victim thirteen?"
* * *
Once his savings account balance hit zero, Marcus contacted his bank and mortgaged his Brentwood mansion. Frankly, he did not care if he lost it; he never really liked the place anyway. He had only bought it to please Britt, and then she turned around and took his Malibu beach house in the divorce.
Confident that he had more than enough money to finish The Monarch, he could forget worrying about finances and concentrate on making an Oscar-worthy movie. Despite the recent mishaps that had plagued the picture, one good thing did happen. Pierce Bonham proved to be a much better actor than Burton Toumey. He showed up on the set everyday on time, he always knew his lines and never disagreed with Marcus's direction. If the completed film went on to receive multiple nominations, Marcus hoped one of them would be the best actor nod for Pierce.
When the twisted finger of fate chose to point again, it was not at the film's leading man. Instead, it was at Katy McVay, the Tony-winning actress cast as Henrietta Maria, Charles's queen consort. Since moving to Hollywood, the classically trained young thespian led a hedonistic lifestyle of wild parties, drugs, booze and men. After overdosing on methamphetamines at an L.A. nightclub, she was rushed to a hospital where her stomach was pumped. Although she escaped death, the doctors insisted on hospitalizing her for observation and psychiatric tests.
Another costly delay in the shooting schedule! And what if she isn't able to come back to work? I can't afford to hire a new actress and reshoot all of Katy's scenes.
There was a less costly alternative, but it was a decision Marcus hoped he would not have to make. If Katy McVay could not finish the picture, Henrietta Maria would go the way of Chuck Cunningham on Happy Days, a character who disappeared without explanation during the second season of the popular sitcom.
"Hell," Marcus reasoned, exhausted from yet another sleepless night, "if they can finish House of Cards without Kevin Spacey, I can certainly complete The Monarch without Katy McVay."
Thankfully, the actress recovered from her ordeal and reported to the set, ready to work the following week.
On the same day that Katy resumed her portrayal of Queen Henrietta, Detective Jake Shipton was confronted with a fifth murder. The killer's modus operandi was the same. The crime scene and the appearance of the victim were right out of the movie Bloodbath. To the police department's dismay, however, the press had gotten wind that a serial killer was on the loose.
"How long will it be," Jake wondered, "until some eager beaver reporter learns the deaths are the work of a copycat as well?"
* * *
Hungry and tired after a long day of filming, Marcus headed for his favorite eatery. It was not one of those five-star restaurants that named their dishes after Hollywood icons and tossed around words like aperitif, confit, fusion, reduction, aioli and emulsion. There was nothing fancy in the décor, just Formica-topped tables and booths with paper napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers, bottles of Heinz ketchup and packets of sugar and artificial sweetener. He did not need to look at the grease-stained cardboard menu, for he always ordered the same thing.
"I'll have the cheeseburger deluxe," he told the middle-aged waitress who wore too much makeup and teased her over-bleached hair too high.
"With onion, tomato and pickle, as usual," she said unnecessarily.
There was no selection of cheeses. If he had wanted gorgonzola, Swiss, bleu cheese or cheddar, he would have to go to another restaurant. But Marcus, who could never be accused of being a gourmet, preferred good, old-fashioned American slices on his sandwiches.
"And I'll take a large Coke with that."
(He would also never be accused of eating light or healthy.)
As he waited for his food to be prepared, Marcus noticed a young man enter the diner and take a seat at a nearby table. Was it only his imagination or had the filmmaker seen the stranger before?
He seems to know me, he thought uncomfortably. Could he be the man Detective Shipton is after?
Unnerved by the stranger's piercing gaze, Ventura picked up a copy of the daily newspaper that a previous diner had left on the table. The headline proclaimed SERIAL KILLER STRIKES AGAIN. He quickly scanned the article, relieved to see no reference to Bloodbath.
Thank God! he thought. The last thing I need now is bad publicity when I'm so close to wrapping up shooting.
The filmmaker smelled the burger and fries before he saw them.
"Mmm! That's what I call comfort food!" he told the waitress who put the plate on the table in front of him.
"Can I get you anything else?"
"No. I have everything I need right here: salt and Heinz ketchup."
Holding the burger in his right hand, he turned the pages of the newspaper with his left, careful to avoid eye contact with the young man at the nearby table.
There was little of interest in the world news section. Unlike many in the Hollywood community, he held no strong political beliefs. Nor did he care whether the Democrats or Republicans were the dominant power in Washington.
He had just finished his burger and started on his fries when the title of an article in the entertainment section seemed to jump off the page: CHARLES I BIOPIC—HISTORY OR HOGWASH?
"What the ...?"
Marcus licked the salt and ketchup from his fingers and devoted his full attention to the columnist's interview with Redmond Rhys. Unhappy with the script, the author blasted The Monarch, pointing out dozens of specific historical inaccuracies. He concluded his interview with well-meant advice to moviegoers: Don't waste your money seeing this movie, which is bound to be a flop.
Why, that lousy bastard!
Enraged by the author's harsh words, Marcus lost his appetite. He even forgot about the young stranger—possibly a serial killer—who continued to watch the filmmaker's every move. Leaving behind two twenty-dollar bills to cover the check and a very generous tip, half his fries and a near-full glass of Coke, he hurried out of the restaurant and headed back to his office. Despite the lateness of the hour, he had to begin damage control.
* * *
Jake Shipton had done his homework, sitting through Bloodbath a third time and taking notes on murders six through twelve.
"If he continues following the blueprint," the detective said, thinking aloud, "his next victim will be a young Asian woman. As much as I'd like to, I sure as hell can't go on television and warn our Asian community to be on the lookout for a vicious killer who will strike at them next. All I can do is warn all the women in the area to take extra precautions until we catch this guy."
What he did learn from re-watching the movie was where the next body would likely be found: hanging from a tree behind a church. Word went out to all patrol cars to pay close attention to places of worship. Given the fact that according to the 2010 census there were close to three thousand churches in Los Angeles alone, he did not believe this information would be of much use.
No one was more surprised than Detective Shipton then when a patrolman reported seeing a suspicious man running from the rear of St. George's Anglican Church. Unfortunately the officer did not follow the suspect. Rather, he left his vehicle and went to the churchyard to investigate. What he found was the Bloodbath Killer's latest victim: a young Asian woman hanging from a tree.
"I knew this was going to happen," Jake castigated himself. "But I couldn't do anything to prevent it."
"We might be able to stop him before he kills again, though," the medical examiner said.
"Oh, really? According to the blueprint, the next victim is found on a train track. That's a lot of space to cover."
"I don't think that will be necessary. Our killer must have been scared off when he saw the patrol car stop in front of the church. He ran off without cleaning up the crime scene."
Jake's eyes widened with surprise.
"You mean ...?"
"He left behind fingerprints and DNA."
* * *
"Cut and print!" Marcus shouted at the conclusion of shooting the final scene of The Monarch.
"Amen!" Katy McVay exclaimed. "I can't wait to get out of this straitjacket of a dress, not to mention this stifling wig."
"Me, too," Pierce Bonham agreed. "I swear my next movie is not going to be another costume drama."
"I hear you. I'm going to tell my agent to find me a film with a lot of nude scenes."
Ventura did not join in his actors' merriment. What he wanted more than anything was a good, stiff drink. This project had been the most stressful of his career. The disagreements with Redmond Rhys over the script, Burton Toumey's sex scandal, the death of his cinematographer, Katy McVay's overdose and the exorbitant production costs had taken a heavy toll on his mental state.
I only hope the finished product will be worth it.
To Marcus Ventura, that meant only one thing: an Oscar.
Upon entering his office, he opened the bottom desk drawer and took out a bottle of Chivas Regal. After removing the cap, he drank right from the bottle. He was at the point where the twelve-year-old Scotch was taking the edge off his anxiety, when his cell phone rang. It was Britt again.
What does she want now?
As usual, her request was preceded by a dollar sign.
"The engine went on my car," she announced.
"So? Call a mechanic."
"I did. He told me that given the age of the vehicle, it doesn't pay to fix it. In short, I need a new car, and I don't have the money for it."
"What about your alimony payments?"
"There's not enough left over to buy a car."
"Take out a loan."
"But I ...."
Marcus saw Detective Shipton standing in the doorway and abruptly ended the call in the middle of his ex-wife's protest.
"Can't you see I'm busy?" the filmmaker asked with annoyance. "You'll have to come back, and next time be sure to make an appointment through my assistant first."
Two uniformed police officers followed the detective into Ventura's inner office. One of them removed a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.
"I've got to hand it to you," Jake told Marcus. "You really had me fooled. I knew Bloodbath was the blueprint for these murders, but I never guessed that you were the architect."
* * *
Marcus Ventura never stood trial for the six murders he committed. After being examined by the state's psychiatric experts, it was determined he had been completely unaware of his involvement in the slayings. Furthermore, once he was taken into custody following his arrest, he suffered a psychotic break that left him incapable of aiding in his own defense. Thus, rather than being tried and sent to prison, he was committed to a hospital for the criminally insane.
Oddly enough, it proved to be a blessing in disguise. He no longer had to worry about budget overruns, shooting schedules, sex scandals and bad publicity. Nor did he have to take any more demands for money from his ex-wives and children. For the remainder of his life, Marcus Ventura kept busy at only one simple task: writing an acceptance speech for an Oscar he would never win.
OSCAR, OSCARS and ACADEMY AWARDS are copyrighted trademarks of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
Salem has always wanted to win an A'cat'emy Award, given by the Ohio Alleycat Resource & Spay/Neuter Clinic located in Cincinnati.
(Yes, this is an actual award!)
