Like everyone else on the planet I've got my stupid shit. My little weaknesses.
So many times when I'm here at the farm, my life wasn't so good. Times I cried, times I ranted, raved and drank myself through the loneliness surrounded by only God knows how many people. This is a healing place. So seldom am I here, especially alone, when I'm not suffering some trauma or another. This is new for me, mates. I'm feeling strong. Together. No need or interest in a beer. Just working the stock and the land. Riding Honey alone. Breathing in all the good things. Finally. All the good things.

So, what the fuck am I doing? Ten PM. Every good farmer is fast asleep, right? And any actor with that built-in clock, the three AM make-up wake-up inner alarm, is usually dead to the world by ten. But here, all alone, just me and my computer, I always seem to fall into this little trap.

I'm not a bloody masochist, I don't check out all the rag sheet sites. Never did and never will give a flying fuck what they have to say. I look for my fans. My strange connection with the real. Odd isn't it? But for someone like me, what's more real? The people who enjoy my work, who find a bond with something about me and cling to it. Do they have any clue how much that kinda thing reinforces me? Today, I know they, the fans, are one of the reasons I'm feeling so secure. It takes more than a smile the camera likes to get anywhere in my world. Maybe, just maybe I have that.

So I swim into the deep water of the web and look for the familiar. Dive through the muck and mud, slip and slide past the spam and pop ups. Avoid all that crap advertising the best, fastest way to de-bug my computer. Gotta keep the thing safe, right? Righto. Never mind the fact that until two weeks ago, I hadn't touched the bugger since working on My Hand, My Heart.

I check the time, ten-twenty. Can't get caught up in these stupid processes. Fuck safety. I'm going for pay dirt. A bit of a zig, a zag. Check my faves. And there we go. Nirvana. See, I know where you are. I know how to find you. I know you are always there for me.

Hell, everyone I know jokes about it. I mean, I'm just me. How could I spawn so many crazy web sites? The secret is that my real ego is nearly nonexistent. What this kind of boost does for me, is gives me courage; gives me enough to say, 'fuck yeah, I can keep doing this'. It sets the boundaries. Helps identify who you think I am, helps me adjust the messages I send out there into the universe.

So, if I really wanted to cover up my little obsession, I could call it marketing research, couldn't I? You buy it? I don't. Truth is, my fans are part of my reality. And I need them. Once in a while, I just have to go out and find them. Let them talk to me. Even if they don't realize that they are.

By midnight I've skimmed all the boards, checked out who loves me and who hates me this month and why. Figured out what issues are on your minds at the moment. But it's time to dig in to the main course, isn't it now?

Like minds. Christ, I bloody love creative minds. Creative people who have little fear of trying out their craft, seeing if it'll fly off those bizarre high dunes in North Carolina like the Wright brothers. Some of it should be tossed into the wind, never to be heard of again. But most of it, mates, most of it is fantastic.

FanFic is like living in an ongoing comic book, at least for me. See, I do my damn best to make what I do feel and seem real, but the truth is . . . it's not. For me, it's still a performance and once I'm done, I can move on to the next. It's the surprising writers on these creative web sites that keep those blokes alive. Take him way beyond where I had gone. Sometimes it's like looking at a caricature of the man. More Maximus than Maximus. Super White instead of just Bud. It's like planted seeds gone wild I guess. And wild they are. Beautiful, magnificent, sparkling examples of fantastic possibilities neither I nor the director ever had the time or creativity to develop.

Spectacular adventures and practical inventive ideas for bringing these characters into the real world. There are apparently a few original games. Some fans created it in a fit of emotional desire and brought all these blokes into existence, mixed them in with twenty-first century reality. Explored issues such as culture shock, language barriers, fear and confusion. Loss, devastation and finally acceptance. That desire to move on, ahead, only this time in the arms of not one but several magnificent specimens of perfect beauty. What a world. Sharing, and it's not only allowed, it's encouraged. It's what made the whole thing work. They all kept the secret and each other safe. Well as safe as possible considering you're mixing a contemporary K&R man, an ancient Roman General, a World War II flyer, a nineteen-fifties detective and a quiet poofter who miraculously turned bi-sexual at the hands of these more then lovely caretakers.

It's a bloody blast I tell you, reading this stuff. Well written fun on the computer screen. And the games have evolved into several variations, mutated into families, traveled into worlds of fantasy, and slid solidly into pure FanFic, where a character is smack in the center of his own film reality and revealing an adventure (most often erotic, mind you). These are things a creative viewer caught a clue about that even I hadn't suspected. Like I said . . . like minds. Catch my fucking imagination, and you caught me for life.

Yeah, I said erotic. Hot fucking shit. Some of it hot enough to blow your mind. And it's like an endless paradise of this stuff. I can spend entire nights moving from sight to sight, exploring just one character and how the fans see him, how they grow and mold him, expand him, make him more human. These are twisted, involved stories dusted with sex, love, passion and moving emotion. Splattered with laughter and the unveiling of levels within a character so damn cleverly obvious I wish I'd have seen it when I first started with the bloke. Were those things there in the script I read? Were they there inside me as I played the part? Are they revealed only to an onlooker with the eye to spot them? Curious.

It's all fun. Get a charge out of the perceived size of my cock. No fucking joke, these stories have more than once sent me for the tape measure just out of curiosity. Not revealing a damn thing here. Just enjoying the perceptions. The savvy inside your imaginations. If I had been half the lover, had half the confidence with women, the intensity or drive some of these blokes have, I'd have never spent a night alone in my life. Truth is, I can more easily count the lovers I've had on my fingers. Real lovers. Lovers who drew the kind of passion from me the writers pull from their character subjects.

It's four in the morning. About to hit the shut down button, but I catch the trail. I can always smell it; it's got this teasing sweet scent to it. See, somewhere on all these web sites, within all the various directions the story lines go, they occasionally twist into my face. That's right, fans. You writers all get such a charge out of putting me smack in the middle of your fantasy world and standing me face to face with one of my blokes. Russ vs. Biebe, or White or Max or Jack. Very, very curious situations.

So, what I would really like to know is why is it there, at the most challenging juncture of your plot, that you crash and burn? Every time? Do you get cold feet? There is a distinct weakness in the story at those points, almost as though you suddenly either tip toe or charge recklessly into it.

How you imagine I would react is ridiculous. Come on, mates. You all know me, some of you, better than I know myself. What's the big terror here? Do you truly think I'd be afraid? Angry? Ignorant to the existence of the characters? Can you imagine I'd avoid or blatantly go into denial? Come now, loves. You're all better than that.

Maybe I should gather you all together for a group chat, maybe these things need a more creative committee approach . . . and maybe I'm a bit tired. I'm fucking watching the sun creep up over the hill and a few birds are rousing. Gotta laugh at myself, but it was a fun night. Now, I need sleep. It's a working farm and I'm here to work.

w

"Mate! Mate, ya gotta get up. There's a fuckin' fire!"

Shit, I was so deep asleep I never thought to wonder who the fuck was inside my house, much less standing over my bed and telling me something no farmer wants to ever hear. Fire, Jesus fucking Christ! I watched the bloke leave, he was soaked to the bone, a crash of thunder outside the window explained why as I stumbled to get into my jeans and located a flannel shirt in the darkness. I watched his wide rimmed hat disappear down the hall before I called to him.

"Hey! Hey mate!" I tripped, slammed my bad shoulder against the wall and groaned while pulling on my boots. "Hey! How bad is it?"

I was running, out of breath. Never occurred to me to wonder why it was so dark. Wasn't the sun coming up when I fell asleep? None of that shit mattered. My fucking farm was on fire. Was it the barn? One of the other outbuildings? Jesus, thank fucking God my family wasn't there. Turning the bend into the lounge at breakneck speed, I was grateful to see no smoke in the house. That's when I hit a piece of furniture, did a pretty damn good flip and roll over the fucking chair too. What the fuck was a chair doing there?

I blinked, took a breath, had to get my head wrapped around this whole thing. Number one, it couldn't be night. Two, I didn't even own the damn chair I'd fallen over and finally, I know no one who'd just walk up to me when I'm asleep. Nobody's that fucking stupid. Somewhere in my room there's something I could hit the bloke with. Intruders are not within my tolerance zone, even if they're warning me of danger.

"Where are you, ya mother fucker?" I shouted. There were windows along the far wall, all glowing gold and orange in the darkness. There was most definitely a fire out there. But the facts were that out there wasn't my farm, and in here wasn't my lounge. Where the hell was I?

The wide rimmed hat leaned into the doorway, his scowl was deep and dangerous and he looked like he was gonna fucking deck me, even though I was already on the floor. "You gonna help me or not?"

I think instant emotional paralysis would best describe how I felt that moment. It wasn't that the guy talked to me like that or that he'd awaken me from a sound sleep. It wasn't that he had taken me by surprise in my own house, well at least in that version of my house, as I was surely dreaming. It was that I knew the man. Knew him well. He was me. Several years ago and playing a part I kinda enjoyed.

All righty then, it was a dream. And in this dream I and East were putting out a fire. I chuckled and stood, aware that my body was nowhere as strong or young as it was when I played the horseman. But it would be fun to see how this played out, now wouldn't it? Just wish my nocturnal imagination wasn't quite so adventurous. Fire, for fuck's sake. Nothing uglier than a fire. With a deep sigh I followed East outside and to the burning barn way too close to the house for comfort.

No two ways around it, East was saving the horses and not the house. My mind was still thinking about getting back into the bed in that house. At least until the first flying spark burned a painful mark the size of a coin on my forearm.

"Hey! Fucking ow!" I felt the huge drops of rain slap the injured skin and winced again. What the fuck kind of dream was this anyway?

East turned with a grin and nodded to the left and I went for the three stalls there.

RRRRIIINNNGGGG!!!

My eyes popped opened to the correct bedroom with the correct daylight floating in the window and focused on the abrasive telephone. Aimed the receiver to my ear.

"Yeah," I grunted.

No one. Dead. What the fuck? I turned to the alarm, seven-forty, well past time to get up anyway. As I watched the glowing digital, it blinked and went dark. I groaned to the window scratching my . . . never mind, and checked out the clouds. Dark to the west; might be a storm playing havoc with the electricity. I shrugged, dressed and headed for breakfast. Coffee in hand I idly rubbed my forearm through the flannel shirt, blinked and rolled up the sleeve.

"Mother fucker, I'm not fucking awake yet!" I scowled, eyeing the ugly blistered burn on my skin. Fingering it gingerly I started to wonder what had triggered the strange dream I couldn't seem to wake from. Before falling asleep, I'd read several stories but not one about East. Fuck, if I was gonna dream East, why couldn't it be that terrific scene in the barn with a lovely nude shiela settled on my naked lap and . . . whap! A tube of medicated salve plopped on the table right in front of me. Taking a deep breath, I looked up into Terry's eyes.

Terry.

Not my brother.

Thorne.

My heart lurched; the fucker was in combat fatigues. I just wasn't up to this fucking dream, no way, no how.

"Gonna whine like a pussy or fix that?" He set a bandage roll at my fingers.

I smeared salve, wrapped gauze and tape. "What the fuck are ya doing here?"

"You called me, mate."

I rubbed my eyes. "I'm goddamned dreaming. Got any clue how I can wake the fuck up?" I glared. Guess what, Thorne's got a worse glare. Almost made me piss myself. "Why are ya here?" Terror shot through me, thinking about my family far away in Sydney.

"You're trapped, mate. Hostage to your own fucking imagination. Seems you got some lessons to learn." Terry was talking to me, but his eyes were suspiciously scanning the kitchen.

"And you're gonna teach me?" I grunted, trying to look cool. I wasn't.

"Fuck no. I got no imagination. How ya feeling, mate? Facing me?"

"Fucking fine, now get the fuck out."

"Your call." And he strolled right outa my house.

So, I started to analyze. Yeah, I was pretty rough with those writers. I suppose the best they could do was guess, imagine what it would be like. Looks like they might not be so far off, then? I stood, figuring if I was going to dream being awake, I may as well make it productive. Chugged the last dregs of coffee and headed for the gym. At least I could get some frustration out there until I wake up.

I slowly walked into the big space, usually empty and quiet, but there was a distinctive repeated grunt and thud. Either someone was beating the living crap outta somebody or I was about to face Braddock. Okay, I could deal; after all, he was freshest in my mind, right?

Tossing a towel aside, I rounded around the bend to see the biggest fucking me I ever played. Bloody hell! Had I actually created that? It wasn't Jimmy Braddock, the scant one-hundred-seventy-six pound fast on his feet boxer, it was fucking Bud White and he was sweating like a pig.

Thud!

"Uh, mate? What're ya doin in here?"

Thud!

"Mate, what do ya think you're doin? Get the fuck outa my dream!"

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Christ, he was brutal.

"Did ya hear me?" I slammed a fist into the bag and watched it sway away from him. His eyes swiveled to me and his head rose, the glare shooting down his nose almost knocked me out of the fucking gym. Two, three balled strides and his fist had my collar tight at my throat. Jesus Christ, he was huge! Easily six inches on me. I gulped and tried again.

"Ya know, mate. This is a fucking dream, ya can't kill me." I blinked. Blinked again.

"Yeah, shitbird?" And he tossed me. I must've flown the entire distance of the damn room, felt myself slam against the mirrored wall and dribble down like splattered shit.

"Damn!"

My head spun. Maybe I should just play dead, huh? No choice, I was out like a light.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Ah, now that was a sound I recognized. My alarm clock. I stretched, rubbed my eyes and grinned, the fucking nightmare was finally over. Before I opened my eyes I thought that just maybe I should put a post somewhere, make a nice apology to those writers for what I was thinking. Maybe I'd do that, now that the dream was over, I could even draft the thing over coffee and a few laughs. "Yeah," I groaned. "The dream is oooooverrrrr," I sang.

Or was it? I felt a leg abruptly drape over me. Oh oh. Another small leg soared as my eyes popped opened, the knee slammed right into the balls. "OOMMMPH!"

"Oh, sorry." A sweet voice giggled and I just knew that as soon as I could see straight, I'd be looking into the lovely face of Miss Selma Hayek. Now this was a lot better. At least I didn't have to face Steve, I could be him. Hey, it was a dream. Sex would be okay, right? After all, we were just gonna break up anyway.

"Who the fuck!" More fists, these were kinda pansy rabbit punches. Steve kicked and scratched like a fucking girl, but it took all my strength to scramble out of his apartment.

Now I was walking down a New York street. Jesus. Okay, I needed a cuppa and some place to think. This was getting way out of control. What time was it anyway? Why the hell doesn't someone come and wake my sorry ass? Oh right, they all now better than to come up to me when I'm sleeping. Shit. I'm fucked.

The ground rolled beneath my feet and I reached for a lamp post, looking carefully at it I scowled. It wasn't a lamp post at all, unless New York City lamp posts were suddenly wood.

"You there!"

I straightened, turned. "Ah fuck," I groaned.

"Take that man below and clap him in irons!"

I struggled against the hands grasping at me. "Jack! Fucking Jack, for Christ sake!"

Captain Jack Aubrey charged down from the quarterdeck and I just held my breath. Another monster of a bloke. I swallowed hard. "Hey, mate. My deepest apologies, I . . . just . . ." They were dragging me below and I squeezed my eyes shut. Having only recently on a New York City street been 'clapped in irons' I wasn't all too thrilled to experience it again. Especially not on the Surprise.

"So, ya come here often, mate?"

I opened my eyes. I was in a pub. Looked around. All men, some fondling each other, some dancing. I turned and looked into that young, hopeful smiling face.

"No, Jeff. I don't." I put down the beer I didn't even realize I had in my hand and walked out. At least I knew what was outside. It was close to home, close to Dani. Maybe she could make me wake up.

It was dark and I walked slowly along the street, kicking a can in front and wondering. Soft rain spattered on me and I rubbed my burned arm. Out of the blue, the sound of screeching tires. I leapt aside just as a car crashed into a mailbox, bounced and hit a fire hydrant. Holy shit! I climbed to my feet and rushed to the vehicle.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Cops rushed the car and I heard Martin shout, "I'm blind! I can't see!"

My eyes shot to the passenger. Andy grinned and winked at me. I just walked away.

Sitting on a curb some seven blocks away, I rubbed my eyes and thought, if I had to be having this dream, who did I really want to talk to? A chill ran through me and I was afraid to look up, knowing I was most likely sitting on a fucking snow bank.

"This is not a pond, ya know."

I turned to Biebe. "Ya know, you're not who I'd pick to talk to, mate."

He shrugged. "Tough."

"And that fucking line, 'this is not a pond'? Who the fuck thought that was the perfect line to dub over my voice at that juncture of the argument with Donna?"

"Hell, I was always wanting to ask you that exact question. Made me feel pretty stupid, ya know. What I really wanted to say was . . ."

"This is not high school," we said together and laughed.

"I can't skate, mate," I said, rubbing my freezing arms.

"Like I don't know that. Talk about slow in the feet. With you doing me, I can't even fucking imagine how I survived thirteen years in the Saturday Game."

"Sorry."

"Yeah, yeah." He leaned back on the snow and looked out at the barren frozen wasteland. "I fucking love this place.

"I don't." I rubbed hands over my arms and shivered. "Got any idea how I can wake up?"

"Hey, man. I'm a sheriff, not a shrink."

A shrink. A shrink? A shrink! Oh . . . fucking . . . no! Still white all around, but I was sitting on a bed, strapped in a straight jacket and facing . . . me, strapped in a straight jacket.

"You have got to be kidding," I hissed, looking around the padded cell.

"It's a conspiracy," Nash whispered. "They are all trapping you here. All of them."

"All of who? They're all me!"

"So, maybe you belong here," Nash wriggled and strained against the straps. "But I don't!"

Shit. Maybe he was right, huh?

I dropped back onto the bed and let my eyes close. This fucking dream was going on way to long. I needed to escape.

"Juba, open all the cells."

His voice was so powerful it jolted me from my self pity. It was the man. Maximus himself. Someone I was pretty proud of, but not real sure I wanted to know quite this well. He turned a glare at me.

"You," he rumbled. "You will come with me."

"Yes sir," I stood and followed. Adrenalin pulsed through my heart and I watched his back as he led me through the tunnels. At one point, I stopped, took a breath, reminded myself it was just a dream then thought about building my body back up to that physique. Max looked good. So did Terry. Me? I've been starting to look like a forty-one year old man, withering at the edges and going a bit grey.

I shook my head and felt a sudden rush of air, heard the rumble of the engine, then turned back in my seat to see Lachlan Curry grinning ear to ear before he did a fucking loop de loop that turned my bloody stomach.

"Lucky, lucky, lucky," he shouted.

"Yeah, right. Hey Lach, I don't particularly wanna die in this dream, mate. Stop with the fucking . . . whoa!"

Slam, I landed flat on my face, Arizona grit in my mouth and a fucking bullet in my shoulder. "Jesus fucking Christ!" I rolled quickly and looked up into my own face, looking pretty nasty and bad. Really bad.

"Takin' the name of the Lord in vein?" The barrel of his pistol pressed against my forehead and I closed my eyes so tight I think the lids overlapped!

This fucking dream was like a kaleidoscope on steroids! With an abrupt jolt, I was sitting on the dance room floor, holding my blood gushing shoulder and watching fucking SID 6.7 on a huge television screen.

"If you think you're having a nightmare now, you haven't seen anything yet!"

Dark. Light. Rain. Snow. Hot. Cold.

"Gooks! Gooks! Monkeys!"

Bloody hell, I had to get away from that! No fucking way I'd survive Hando. Holding my shoulder I turned and ran like the South's, fast as I could. Legs pumping, heart racing. Straight into a shabby hotel room.

Saw and felt those fucking nails driven into Colin's hands. His eyes caught mine, begging for help. "Sorry mate. You're on your own."

Ran faster, further. Past the soup line, taking only a split second to nod at Braddock. I ran and I ran till I dropped with exhaustion.

w

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Was it over? Let one eye squint opened. I was covered with sweat, turned to the alarm clock. 5:55. Fuck, I just fell asleep a half hour ago!

The sound of a car pulling up outside my window. Did I dare to look? Shook my head, groaned to my feet and rubbed my shoulder. Hey, no blood. That was a good sign. Pushed the curtain aside just in time to see Dani climb out and reach into the back seat for Charlie. Gathering the baby in her arms, they looked right at me and smiled.

It was over. Finally.

I tugged on a pair of sweats, shot a glare at the silent computer screen and ran out to meet my family.

"Dani, you're not gonna believe the dream I just had!"