Buck Starstream: Renaissance Man
Title: Buck Starstream: Renaissance Man
Rating: PG for some violence
Length: 1598 words
Summary: Grace Hawthorne is sent by her publishing house to visit a new author they are interested in, but soon realizes she should have done a bit of homework on the man first.
Buck Starstream, ace fighter pilot, famed archeologist, prized tennis player and all around ladies’ man was having a fantastic day. The morning had burst particularly brightly on his multi-million dollar home on the coast, his daily swim in his Olympic-sized salt-water pool had been particularly refreshing, and his usual breakfast of eggs sunny-side up, hash browns, burnt bacon and a chilled martini had been particularly satisfying. His manservant, a gentleman by the name of James, had not said much, but that was usual for him. James always made sure he was within hearing distance of Buck and dressed with a bitter scowl upon his face. The scowl only deepened on days when Buck Starstream (ace fighter pilot, famed archeologist, prized tennis player and all around ladies’ man) seemed to have everything in the world going for him. Buck, being Buck, experienced these kinds of days quite often.
"You have an appointment this morning," James told him as Buck practiced his calisthenics poolside. He had had mirrors installed along the wall of the pool house so that he could appreciate the way his muscles rippled during each carefully composed movement. "A young lady is coming to discuss the matter of your book deal." James paused for a response and took the time to practice his scowling.
"Ah, yes!" Buck exclaimed, stretching. "Hand me that oil! I’d like to be shiny when she gets here."
A half an hour later, the young Miss Hawthorne was let in by James, who looked her over as she stood on the threshold before sighing dismally and turning. Grace glanced down at her outfit, a slightly wrinkled pant suit with a stain on the shirt, and suddenly felt very self-conscious. Pushing back loose hair from her face and adjusting her glasses, she followed James to the pool, where Buck Starstream (ace fighter pilot, et cetera) was jogging while allowing himself occasional glances in the mirror. When he noticed the woman, he shot her a hundred-watt smile, but continued jogging, blazing past her like a tanned beacon of shiny muscled manliness.
Not knowing what else to do, Grace began to jog alongside him, struggling in her heels. "Er, excuse me, Mr. Starstream-"
"Buck!" he said brightly, clapping her on the back. She dropped her pen.
"Right, er, Buck. Do you suppose we could stop jogging for a moment? I’ve asthma, you see."
" 'Course!" he said, stopping and putting a finger to his neck to check his heart rate. The woman leaned forward, breathing heavily. He gave her a moment while James rolled his eyes and began to practice his scowling again. Buck decided he was improving.
"I’m Grace," the woman told him. "I’m from the publishing house. We spoke on the phone? I came to discuss the details of your book deal."
Buck took her gently by the arm and began to lead her into the house. He had no shirt or shoes on, and his white linen pants billowed like sails in the breeze. “Yes, yes, Miss Hawthorne! Do you have a pen? Let’s get started with the dictation!" Before she could say anything, he paused at the sliding doors to the living room and posed majestically, hands on hips, barrel chest jutting forward. "I was born on a stormy, wind swept field moments after my father had safely landed the plane he and my mother were piloting to Antigua, which had experienced engine failure after being struck by lightening. You don’t appear to be writing any of this down."
"Mr. Starst-Er, Buck, I’m not actually writing the book. When we spoke on the phone, you indicated that you would be writing the book yourself-"
"Books! More than one! My life has had too many eventful episodes to put into only one book! I’m thinking a three-part series split into my early life as a fighter pilot when I had to help the good people of Bora Bora-"
"Er, sir, that’s all very well, but you would actually be the one doing the writing," Grace tried.
"Impossible," Buck decided. They had reached the living room, and he waved a massive hand at one of the couches to indicate that she should sit down. There was a tray on the coffee table with orange juice, coffee, and milk. Noticing how clean and white the couches were, Grace sat down and silently hoped she would not spill anything. "I am much too busy to sit down and write a book. I have things to do! Places to go!"
Grace sat down and began to pour herself a cup of coffee. "With all due respect, sir, perhaps you should take some time off to write. If this is what you want to do."
"Ha! Ha ha ha!" Buck laughed, the sound roaring through the room. "A man like me can’t take time off! Why," he paused here, frowning, "Miss Hawthorne, don’t you know who I am?"
"I’m afraid I don’t, sir. The publishing house told me you’re on the news quite often, but I haven’t a television."
Buck began to yell for James but before he could get out the first syllable, the manservant appeared with a business card in his hand. "Ah, yes, thank you, James. Here you are, Miss Hawthorne."
Grace put down the jug of milk she was just about to add to her coffee and plucked the card from his hand. " 'Buck Starstream,' " she read, " 'ace fighter pilot, famed archeologist, prized tennis player and all around ladies’ man.' That’s quite a card."
"I’m looking to add 'best-selling author' to that card, Miss Hawthorne!"
Raising an eyebrow, Grace looked up at Buck. He was very muscled, very tan, and had very white teeth, which he was flashing graciously. His sun bleached hair, though he had been running, was combed back neatly. Grace decided that he looked like a Ken doll.
Grace sighed, putting the card down on the tray and picking up the jug of milk. She was about to pour some into her coffee when she sniffed delicately. "I think this milk has gone off."
If, in the tiny apartment Grace shared with her sister, it was discovered that the milk had gone sour, then the carton would be thrown out. Unless, of course, it was Grace’s sister who found the milk spoiled, in which case she’d put the carton right back in the fridge for someone else to deal with. But Buck and James had a curious way of dealing with spoiled milk because James shrieked like a girl and dropped onto the floor, and Buck dashed forward, knocking the milk out of Grace’s hand and pulling the young woman down onto the floor with him.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Grace screamed. Before anyone could answer, however, something exploded outside.
It was a spectacular explosion, involving a great deal of fire and noise. It would have made the hardest special effects engineer weep with proud joy. It stunned Grace so greatly that Buck had no trouble lifting her up and striding to the nearest closet. She had time to see James crawling on his belly toward the back of the house before Buck shut the door of the closet and started to rummage through the pockets of the coats hanging between them.
"Wh-What’s going on?" she asked weakly.
"Nothing to worry about, Miss Hawthorne," Buck said, too busy looking through the pockets to spare a moment to smile at her.
"Nothing to worry about?! Something just blew up!" she said and, as though to emphasize her statement, something else gave up its contents to the universe in a fiery blast of noise. Grace felt sick.
"They poisoned the milk, you see," Buck said casually, finding a remote control in one of the coats. He pressed a button and Grace heard a noise like metal gates closing. Buck opened the closet door confidently. Where there had been wide, clear windows were now sheets of reinforced metal. "They were spying on us, which is one of the disadvantages of having such large windows. Can’t bring myself to give them up through. Anyway, once they saw that we had learned about the milk, they attacked! Real ballsy of ‘em, but we’ll get ‘em but good. James!"
In a moment, the manservant entered the living room. Much to Grace’s surprise, he was carrying a massive bazooka over his shoulder. Buck handed James the remote before taking the bazooka and slinging it over his own tanned shoulder. Pressing a button on the little device, the manservant watched a small section of the metal sheet slide open. Buck winked at Grace before walking to the opening. He aimed the bazooka out the window and fired.
The back flash lit the couch on fire. James, ever ready, put the fire out with an extinguisher he had seemingly produced from thin air.
Grace stared at the charred remains of the couch, and then up at Buck, who was watching a boat about a half-mile out to sea burning, with several darkly-clad men jumping overboard. "Ha ha! Got the wily bastards!" Buck said proudly. He turned to look at Grace, who was as pale as the couch had been before incineration, and smiled that extraordinary hundred-watt grin. "They wouldn’t let me put 'international spy' on the business card," he said. "But I'm pretty sure it's on the internet somewhere."
"I…" Grace sat down on the couch and quickly got up as she realized it was still scalding hot. "I suppose three books would be more appropriate," she said.
James scowled. "I hate this job." Buck laughed brightly and clapped James on the back as the sound of bullets began to ping against the metal sheets. "I’ll go get the sniper rifles, Mr. Starstream."
"Good man, James! Good man!"
Rating: PG for some violence
Length: 1598 words
Summary: Grace Hawthorne is sent by her publishing house to visit a new author they are interested in, but soon realizes she should have done a bit of homework on the man first.
Buck Starstream, ace fighter pilot, famed archeologist, prized tennis player and all around ladies’ man was having a fantastic day. The morning had burst particularly brightly on his multi-million dollar home on the coast, his daily swim in his Olympic-sized salt-water pool had been particularly refreshing, and his usual breakfast of eggs sunny-side up, hash browns, burnt bacon and a chilled martini had been particularly satisfying. His manservant, a gentleman by the name of James, had not said much, but that was usual for him. James always made sure he was within hearing distance of Buck and dressed with a bitter scowl upon his face. The scowl only deepened on days when Buck Starstream (ace fighter pilot, famed archeologist, prized tennis player and all around ladies’ man) seemed to have everything in the world going for him. Buck, being Buck, experienced these kinds of days quite often.
"You have an appointment this morning," James told him as Buck practiced his calisthenics poolside. He had had mirrors installed along the wall of the pool house so that he could appreciate the way his muscles rippled during each carefully composed movement. "A young lady is coming to discuss the matter of your book deal." James paused for a response and took the time to practice his scowling.
"Ah, yes!" Buck exclaimed, stretching. "Hand me that oil! I’d like to be shiny when she gets here."
A half an hour later, the young Miss Hawthorne was let in by James, who looked her over as she stood on the threshold before sighing dismally and turning. Grace glanced down at her outfit, a slightly wrinkled pant suit with a stain on the shirt, and suddenly felt very self-conscious. Pushing back loose hair from her face and adjusting her glasses, she followed James to the pool, where Buck Starstream (ace fighter pilot, et cetera) was jogging while allowing himself occasional glances in the mirror. When he noticed the woman, he shot her a hundred-watt smile, but continued jogging, blazing past her like a tanned beacon of shiny muscled manliness.
Not knowing what else to do, Grace began to jog alongside him, struggling in her heels. "Er, excuse me, Mr. Starstream-"
"Buck!" he said brightly, clapping her on the back. She dropped her pen.
"Right, er, Buck. Do you suppose we could stop jogging for a moment? I’ve asthma, you see."
" 'Course!" he said, stopping and putting a finger to his neck to check his heart rate. The woman leaned forward, breathing heavily. He gave her a moment while James rolled his eyes and began to practice his scowling again. Buck decided he was improving.
"I’m Grace," the woman told him. "I’m from the publishing house. We spoke on the phone? I came to discuss the details of your book deal."
Buck took her gently by the arm and began to lead her into the house. He had no shirt or shoes on, and his white linen pants billowed like sails in the breeze. “Yes, yes, Miss Hawthorne! Do you have a pen? Let’s get started with the dictation!" Before she could say anything, he paused at the sliding doors to the living room and posed majestically, hands on hips, barrel chest jutting forward. "I was born on a stormy, wind swept field moments after my father had safely landed the plane he and my mother were piloting to Antigua, which had experienced engine failure after being struck by lightening. You don’t appear to be writing any of this down."
"Mr. Starst-Er, Buck, I’m not actually writing the book. When we spoke on the phone, you indicated that you would be writing the book yourself-"
"Books! More than one! My life has had too many eventful episodes to put into only one book! I’m thinking a three-part series split into my early life as a fighter pilot when I had to help the good people of Bora Bora-"
"Er, sir, that’s all very well, but you would actually be the one doing the writing," Grace tried.
"Impossible," Buck decided. They had reached the living room, and he waved a massive hand at one of the couches to indicate that she should sit down. There was a tray on the coffee table with orange juice, coffee, and milk. Noticing how clean and white the couches were, Grace sat down and silently hoped she would not spill anything. "I am much too busy to sit down and write a book. I have things to do! Places to go!"
Grace sat down and began to pour herself a cup of coffee. "With all due respect, sir, perhaps you should take some time off to write. If this is what you want to do."
"Ha! Ha ha ha!" Buck laughed, the sound roaring through the room. "A man like me can’t take time off! Why," he paused here, frowning, "Miss Hawthorne, don’t you know who I am?"
"I’m afraid I don’t, sir. The publishing house told me you’re on the news quite often, but I haven’t a television."
Buck began to yell for James but before he could get out the first syllable, the manservant appeared with a business card in his hand. "Ah, yes, thank you, James. Here you are, Miss Hawthorne."
Grace put down the jug of milk she was just about to add to her coffee and plucked the card from his hand. " 'Buck Starstream,' " she read, " 'ace fighter pilot, famed archeologist, prized tennis player and all around ladies’ man.' That’s quite a card."
"I’m looking to add 'best-selling author' to that card, Miss Hawthorne!"
Raising an eyebrow, Grace looked up at Buck. He was very muscled, very tan, and had very white teeth, which he was flashing graciously. His sun bleached hair, though he had been running, was combed back neatly. Grace decided that he looked like a Ken doll.
Grace sighed, putting the card down on the tray and picking up the jug of milk. She was about to pour some into her coffee when she sniffed delicately. "I think this milk has gone off."
If, in the tiny apartment Grace shared with her sister, it was discovered that the milk had gone sour, then the carton would be thrown out. Unless, of course, it was Grace’s sister who found the milk spoiled, in which case she’d put the carton right back in the fridge for someone else to deal with. But Buck and James had a curious way of dealing with spoiled milk because James shrieked like a girl and dropped onto the floor, and Buck dashed forward, knocking the milk out of Grace’s hand and pulling the young woman down onto the floor with him.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Grace screamed. Before anyone could answer, however, something exploded outside.
It was a spectacular explosion, involving a great deal of fire and noise. It would have made the hardest special effects engineer weep with proud joy. It stunned Grace so greatly that Buck had no trouble lifting her up and striding to the nearest closet. She had time to see James crawling on his belly toward the back of the house before Buck shut the door of the closet and started to rummage through the pockets of the coats hanging between them.
"Wh-What’s going on?" she asked weakly.
"Nothing to worry about, Miss Hawthorne," Buck said, too busy looking through the pockets to spare a moment to smile at her.
"Nothing to worry about?! Something just blew up!" she said and, as though to emphasize her statement, something else gave up its contents to the universe in a fiery blast of noise. Grace felt sick.
"They poisoned the milk, you see," Buck said casually, finding a remote control in one of the coats. He pressed a button and Grace heard a noise like metal gates closing. Buck opened the closet door confidently. Where there had been wide, clear windows were now sheets of reinforced metal. "They were spying on us, which is one of the disadvantages of having such large windows. Can’t bring myself to give them up through. Anyway, once they saw that we had learned about the milk, they attacked! Real ballsy of ‘em, but we’ll get ‘em but good. James!"
In a moment, the manservant entered the living room. Much to Grace’s surprise, he was carrying a massive bazooka over his shoulder. Buck handed James the remote before taking the bazooka and slinging it over his own tanned shoulder. Pressing a button on the little device, the manservant watched a small section of the metal sheet slide open. Buck winked at Grace before walking to the opening. He aimed the bazooka out the window and fired.
The back flash lit the couch on fire. James, ever ready, put the fire out with an extinguisher he had seemingly produced from thin air.
Grace stared at the charred remains of the couch, and then up at Buck, who was watching a boat about a half-mile out to sea burning, with several darkly-clad men jumping overboard. "Ha ha! Got the wily bastards!" Buck said proudly. He turned to look at Grace, who was as pale as the couch had been before incineration, and smiled that extraordinary hundred-watt grin. "They wouldn’t let me put 'international spy' on the business card," he said. "But I'm pretty sure it's on the internet somewhere."
"I…" Grace sat down on the couch and quickly got up as she realized it was still scalding hot. "I suppose three books would be more appropriate," she said.
James scowled. "I hate this job." Buck laughed brightly and clapped James on the back as the sound of bullets began to ping against the metal sheets. "I’ll go get the sniper rifles, Mr. Starstream."
"Good man, James! Good man!"