Moments later, this plume had already crossed the top of the hills and was threatening both the Hollywood sign and Burbank itself. Dry timber and old wolf carcass was igniting faster than a wrapped seed backstage. Already, a thick, dank smell was enveloping the building. And as I look left to the Hollywood Mortuary, I'm reminded of a question asked of me just 2 hours earlier. "Has there ever been a fire there?"
It would seem strange to implicate a size zero in an arson scam, so I chalked it up to a coincidence and tried to continue my gold mining when an urgent call came through.
"Get your gear. We're going in."
Now, when someone calls and tells you that it could mean a lot of things. Bring the cups, the dippin' sauce truck overturned. Bring a straw, the party is beginning. Bring your headphones, I have a new record. But this time, I didn't even get a chance for a second thought. The Filthy Mutha immediately called back.
"You'd better get to NBC quick. I've got a bulldozer and the smoke is aiming this way. The Valley could go down at this minute. Get your camera."
I'm no photographer. I don't own a camera. But I had only 60 seconds to guess what he meant. Problem with this situation was that the whiskey had to stay home (we didn't need to help this thing). A few other dry weeds (used for evidence, naturally) and some brown shades were along with me when I arrived at the Peacock. And what I saw was not a bulldozer. It was a helicopter. It was about to take off. And there was Filthy Mutha, a Coleman cooler in one hand and a bullhorn in the other. "You got the supplies?" I had to set him straight.
"You dirty falk. If you think you're going to put out this fire with a 12 pack of Coors, you're dead wrong." I guess I was being too patriotic because that wasn't the mission at all.
"Put it out? That ain't our job. We gotta get shots of this now. We're going live right after Days of Our Lives." Of course, can't keep the large sows away from their stories. And of course, I really should have been in the job's chopper, but it wasn't considered a news story there. If you're going to die, you're going to die watching General Hospital. So, up we went. Going off of instruction, we took off north and circled back around.
"Trip, I'm going to have him drop us off at Mount Lee. We're going to save our sign. In the honor of all those who view it. For those who changed it to read "Hollyweed" for the filming of Hollywood Hot Tubs. For Dealville."
We touched down and before a word otherwise the copter was gone. Armed with the bullhorn, Coors beer, and a handheld extinguisher stolen from the copter, we stood. And we waited. And saw the fire move downhill, toward Burbank. More and more helicopters landed to get water and continue the fight. Just as it seemed the sign would never see fire and the blaze controlled, I saw Filthy Mutha eating a plant.
"Check it out, Blood. Raspberries."
They weren't Raspberries. He's not actually a bird. That's not an apostrophe on the Hollywood sign. That's a man who lacked a mission, and still won. The hills are saved thanks to the brave and the insane.
