Fundraising

We’re Back--

It’s the fifth, and final, ‘STAR for Brian’ fund-raising zine--

Mr. Hardcastle Goes to Hollywood

Sixteen stories and nine epilogues, and it’s all yours for a donation of fifteen dollars to the STAR for Brian Fund. Help us reach the top and get Brian Keith his star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame, and you’ll receive 330 pages of all-new fic.

But wait, there’s more—new screen caps, beautiful photo manips, and a very special portrait of Mr. Keith as well, all from Suzanne.

And here are just a few excerpts:

From 'A Still, Small Voice', by Owlcroft

“You're being nice to me,” said McCormick flatly. “Cut it out.”

“I am not being nice to you!” Hardcastle thought about that statement for a moment, then shook his head. “Anybody else would think we're goofy, arguing about something like that.”

Mark scrubbed his face with his hands, then threw them out in surrender. “Yeah, you're right. Go ahead, be nice to me, you big bully.”

The judge smiled at that, too, but quickly wiped it away, passing his hand roughly over his chin. “So, listen.” He leaned forward in the arm chair and fixed Mark with an earnest gaze. “I know you don't wanna talk about what happened yet, but maybe we could talk about your plans for the money. You said something about fixing up the Coyote and getting back into racing and I think that was a good idea.”

“You do not,” said McCormick despondently. “All you ever say about racing is it's just turning left until you hit a wall.”

From 'I’m With You', by Cheride

They didn’t talk about it much, but they both knew it was different now. Though sometimes he thought that he was the only one who truly remembered. It didn’t make any sense, but Hardcastle still acted like there wasn’t a thing in the world wrong with sending an innocent guy to prison, and then blackmailing him into a partnership. But there was no denying it was working.

If he hadn’t felt like he was breaths away from death, he might’ve smiled; rationalizing his relationship with Hardcastle hadn’t been one of his strong points under the best of circumstances. And he thought maybe only a crazy person would categorize any situation that resulted in being shot and thrown down a ravine as ‘working’.

But somewhere through the miasma of memories and the numbing pain, he was sure there was a connection between Hardcastle and the fact that he was still alive, even if it was only the vaguely tickling notion that if he died, the judge would kill him.

From 'Book of Fire', by L.M. Lewis

Hardcastle’s grimace had become a frown, but he had both eyes open further and was giving him a searching look. “How bad are you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” Mark said with a small smile and a shake of his head. “Really. I don’t know about you though.”

He reached across and picked up the judge’s right wrist. The manacle was something almost medieval looking and wouldn’t be susceptible to the handcuff key, maybe not even to a pick. He sighed. The five minutes would be up soon.

“Listen,” he said, not making any attempt to keep his voice down, “they won’t let me stay in here much longer.”

“Why’d they let you in at all?”

“Because I told ’em. Otherwise it was no dice.” There, he’d said it.

The storm was gathering, visible even among the bruises on Hardcastle’s face. “Dammit, if you’re thinking you can make a deal with these guys—”

“I can’t not make a deal. You got that?” Mark said sharply. “And you don’t even know what I’m trading with, so how the hell do you know I shouldn’t?”

“I know if you give up your leverage, you’ve got nothing . . . and they’ll have you, me, and the damn bird, too.”

Mark had already thought that one through—how hard it would be to set things up in any way that would give them even half a chance of coming out of this alive.

“I know that,” he said quietly, “but I gotta try.”

These complete stories and many others can be found in our digital 'zine. And the Society is absorbing all production costs, so rest assured that every penny of your donation will go toward the star.

Also, because we understand that computer systems vary, we've put together several different versions of the 'zine to accommodate as many users as possible. There are versions in both Microsoft Word and PDF for Adobe Reader, and both include a version free of graphics (a smattering of screencaps). The NG versions will contain only the cover/end photo and the BK portrait.

And, for those of you who haven't yet had the chance to sample our first few volumes, and would like to see what they're all about, they are still available, as well. Here's a peek at volume four, Trio for Three Wind Instruments:

From 'Brownie Points', by Owlcroft:

The ride to the emergency room was accomplished in silence, except for an occasional moan from the passenger seat.

The ride back was even quieter. As the truck passed under the archway reading "Gulls' Way", McCormick finally broke the silence. "Okay, look. I didn't mean I was really going easy on you. It was just something to say while I bled all over the place."

"Don't try to make it better," said the judge harshly. "I just want to know one thing. How long?"

From 'Rehabilitation', by L.M.Lewis:

Mark's expression had gone flat, too. "He . . . Beiber . . . he said take us to the desert. Kill us. That's where we went. They gave me a shovel. Hah."

There was a touch of wry bitterness to that memory. Hardcastle strongly suspected the kid had told them where to put their shovel.

"She kept on tryingtrying to get them to let her go. Then she started screaming. They shot her. . . and then . . . " Mark's gaze was directed down, as though he were inspecting his own grave, whoever the hell had dug it. He looked up, obviously bewildered. Memory had apparently finally failed. "How come . . .?"

There might be things worse than not knowing, Hardcastle thought. This was possibly one of them, but it was a question and the missing moments couldn't be much more frightening than the part that had led up to them.

"I think you gave 'em a hard time," he said. "And I got there, but not quite soon enough."

"Oh," Mark looked around, looked down at himself, then smiled gently, "the thing that comes after the nick of time . . . can't think of words sometimes."

"It's called 'a day late and a dollar short," Hardcastle said grimly.

From 'The Road Not Taken', by Cheride:

A few tools from the box behind the seat of the truck and a quick examination by headlight had allowed him to disarm the inevitable alarm on the gate. Who knew whether the old guy used the system or not, but always better safe than sorry. Then the gate had opened without incident.

Now he sat, behind the wheel of a not-yet-stolen truck, ignition wires expertly in hand, staring at the open gate and the open road beyond, trying to choose a path. He hadn't truly crossed any lines yet; no irreversible damage had been done. He could turn around now, put everything back in place and return to the gatehouse, and Hardcastle would never be the wiser. And he had to admit that the idea held some attraction, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

But regardless of the tiny inkling of an idea that life here at Gulls' Way could be different than he first imagined, he was tortured by the much more imposing idea that the path to putting Martin Cody behind bars lay outside this gate. And with that thought in mind, he reached down and connected the wires to start the engine, then quickly pulled out onto the PCH.

He didn't allow himself to look back.

Here's a look at what you'll find in volume three, Something's Going on in This Zine:

From: 'Contingency Plan' by L. M. Lewis

"A damn set-up," Auggie sputtered.

Mark leaned forward, but his relaxed pose had put him off-balance and Auggie already had the revolver half out of the bag. It was only the heft of the thing that slowed him enough for McCormick to lunge forward, over the table to get a grip on the man's wrist.

Hardcastle was closing the space fast. He distantly heard Harper behind him, the radio on and back-up being summoned. His own weapon was drawn but there was nothing to aim at. McCormick's momentum had carried them both back onto the floor, on Auggie's side of the table, with Mark on top.

Auggie had weight, a surprising amount of muscle, and sheer terror on his side, not to mention the gun, still apparently in his grip, though lost from sight. It was a short but very intense struggle, and Hardcastle was only a few feet away when he heard the muffled report and saw the look of shock on McCormick's face as he pushed back from the other man.

From: 'Lord Mark' by Owlcroft

Mark took a deep breath and made a small speech. "Judge, you know how you're always preaching about respecting other cultures and learning from other heritages? Well, this is gonna be a real big opportunity for you to be a really good example of that. Okay? Now hang on, don't say anything right away." Mark took another deep breath and stepped out from behind the chair.

Hardcastle was frozen. Not a move, except the eyes up and down and back up, not a word said.

McCormick tried to open up a dialogue with "It's a kilt, Hardcastle. The tartan is the family pattern of the MacLaines, and the MacCormaigs are a sept under the MacLaines. See? And look, a sgian dubh in my sock."

"You got a what in your sock?"

"Skee-en du. It used to be for cutting up meat, but now it's decorative. Unless a cranky old judge decides to smart off too much. How 'bout it, Judge? Got anything you wanna say?" Mark looked at him defiantly.

"Yeah, I do. What are you wearing under there?"

McCormick nearly smiled, but held it down just enough to be able to answer proudly, "You'll never know."

From: 'Last Tuesday in October' by Cheride

"I don't have a problem, McCormick," Hardcastle snapped, "except that you're distracting me. Now gimme the ball."

The younger man shook his head. "Uh-uh. You never miss four in a row, and I'm usually trying to distract you. What gives?" Then he twisted slightly, and easily tossed the ball through the net. "But if you want to stick to your story that nothing's going on, we really could go for twenty." He grabbed the ball again as it rolled along the ground then turned back to face the judge. "So?"

Hardcastle glared for a moment, then huffed out a short sigh. "I dunno," he finally replied. "Dinner didn't exactly go like I'd expected."

"Really?" McCormick grinned as he gave the ball a couple of dribbles. "If it's any consolation, it went almost exactly like I'd expected."

"No, that's not a consolation, sport." Hardcastle closed the distance between them and grabbed the ball from the young man. He bounced it forcefully against the concrete, creating a harsh rhythm. "You expect my friends to treat you like . . . like . . ."

"Like a convicted felon?" McCormick supplied. He shrugged. "Yeah. I do."

Our first two volumes of fanfiction are also still available, though the period of exclusivity for these stories has passed. So, if you prefer the convenience of having them all together on one CD, or maybe just want to complete your collection, every donation is still going entirely to the STAR fund.

Volume one, Pastiche a Trois, contains ten original tales, plus nine season one epilogues, all by L.M. Lewis, Owlcroft, and Cheride; a total of 185 pages of Hardcastle & McCormick escapades.

Volume two, Really Neat Fic and Gals with a Sense of Humor, includes nine original stories--including one novella--and nine season two epilogues. All in all, 360 pages of fiction.

Use the links to the left to make a $15 donation and select your file type preference for either of these earlier volumes. If you prefer to mail your donation, the form is located above.

ALL FUNDRAISING HAS CEASED!

THANK YOU ALL!!

We want to be very clear: the fee for Brian's star has been raised, and we thank you all for your support.

However, something we discovered recently is that is's fairly traditional for a star recipient (or the person accepting on their behalf) to host a reception for family and friends. (After all, what do we know about Hollywood traditions?) Since it was never our intent for Mrs. Keith to have costs to absorb as a result of Brian's honor, we will be donating any contributions above the installation fee to help her defray those expenses.

Therefore, we are leaving these donation links active for anyone who wants to make a contribution toward that end, but, again, the fee for the star has been raised.

Make a donation quickly and easily through PayPal. And, even more important than quick and easy, it's safe and secure. Whether you're paying by credit card or directly from your checking account, your personal information is protected. And, if you don't have a PayPal account already, not to worry. Signing up is-- you guessed it-- quick and easy.

We would like to recognize you on our list of contributors, so please use the comment box in PayPal to let us know how you'd like to be listed.

If you prefer to mail your payment, please send check or money order (payable in US funds only, please) to:

Cheri deFonteny, Treasurer, S.T.A.R. for Brian Keith

P.O. Box 720901

Norman, OK 73070

Checks/money orders may be made out to Cheri deFonteny, Treasurer, S.T.A.R. for Brian Keith. If you are mailing your contribution, please print and include the Mail Donations form.