Hollywood Horrible
All that glitters is not gone!
by D. K. N. Yuko
THIS IS THE SMASHWORDS EDITION
Available in print at Amazon.com and other retailers.
The moral right of the author has been asserted. ©2006, (NoShell Hedges) as DK Rimmer, DKN Yuko of Dragonfish Entertainment. All rights reserved. No portion of this book or the website may be reproduced or transmitted in any way, form, or fashion without written permission from the author/creator. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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contact: dknyuko@dragonfishent.com
*******
To someone and everyone, to all and none, to those held dearest and those pushed away—we are one, regardless.
*******
CHAPTER ONE: THE DEATH OF A DREAM
CHAPTER TWO: THE FLIGHT OF THE FORLORN
CHAPTER THREE: RIGID REALITY
CHAPTER FOUR: UNFORTUNATELY FUNNY
CHAPTER FIVE: STUNNING SIGHTS AND SOUNDS
CHAPTER SIX: FRIENDS AND FANCY
CHAPTER SEVEN: JOVIAL JEALOUSY
CHAPTER EIGHT: DIVING DOWNWARD
CHAPTER NINE: UNKNOWN UPSHOTS
CHAPTER TEN: THE PECULIAR PATH
CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE RIGHTEOUS RAIN
CHAPTER TWELVE: THE CHEERLESS CONSEQUENCES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
*******
THE DEATH OF A DREAM
“Ba-ba-da-da-da-ta-ta-ta…”
In a cute café, a peculiar man in trendy shades and a sweet, black beret tapped a sparkly drum set at the back of a small, sophisticated stage. He nodded cockily to a hip pianist across from him, who caressed a breezy Jazz melody in accompaniment.
A slender, sultry siren stepped up to the phallus shaped microphone center stage, and clasped it in a most sexual style. The anxious crowd held their breath as the luscious lady licked her plump, polished lips, preparing to spit her well-rehearsed verse.
“Fading Polaroid movie dust memories
Invade what once was radiantly sparkling.
Now he squanders his days
Guzzling down liquid gore,
And chasing empty silhouettes of sound.
A rancid, bloody halo
Is sweeping in circles above his head.
With a parade of deceased dreams
And butchered, revulsion riddled aftershocks
Feasting on reminiscences of his era…”
“Maybe that could be your epitaph,” Maggie mumbled blankly to Tony. She rolled her eyes seductively, and stood to leave the smoky corner table.
Interrupted, the poetess paused and squinted crossly through the shadowed crowd. She noticed Maggie’s statuesque, scantily clad frame, rudely ready for departure, right in the middle of her performance.
Tony, inebriated, reached up and tugged Maggie’s arm. “Uh, I don’t even get it.”
She glanced down at him, his muscular face distorted from the influence of alcohol, tapping a half smoked cigarette in a cheap glass ashtray on the table. On either side of a small, romantically glowing oil lamp, two half-empty glasses of liquor sat, napkins strategically placed underneath them. A bushy bouquet of white roses gripped the table’s edge. “You wouldn’t…,” she sighed deeply, and flicked his brawny hand away.
He leapt up from the table, knocking it over, and with a ferocity that would frighten even the largest of lions he boomed, “Where are you going? Why do you bother always asking me out if you don’t wanna spend time together?”
Her gray eyes darted around the room, heartbroken and embarrassed. The crowd focused on his violent, yet entertaining, outburst like a classroom full of curious children. She scuttled toward the beaming neon red exit sign for sweet release, only saying three blunt words. “Home! Bath! Bed!” She made a break for it, and left him there with his head tilted to the side.
Like a bored toddler, he whined, “What about your drink? And I got you these nice flowers. I thought we were gonna do something I wanna do next?”
The crowd was appalled. Who were those impolite people? How dare they cause such a distracting scene during such a soothing show? As the house lights came up, Security made their way slowly through the maze of tiny tables and stunned patrons to the back of the cafe.
Maggie glanced back at the overturned table, the terrible disarray of glass shards, the damaged rose petals, and the wet cigarette debris. She flung the door open hastily and gave Tony a flinty glare that could carve cold steel. “You handled the drink situation with ease, I see. So, I’m sure you’ll manage the rest!”
The crowd was in awe as they finally recognized Maggie and Tony’s familiar faces. Maggie, realizing the notoriety, cringed. With a sugary performance that could secure her three Emmy nominations, she tried to retrieve the situation. “You are a very talented young woman. I fully enjoyed your poetry tonight. Please, send me a copy of your book.”
The crowd applauded. The poetess bowed blissfully, swelling with pride because THE Magdalene Parker actually heard and liked her performance. As the assorted words of admiration sprang up quietly in the audience, she turned to Tony and scowled, “I’ll see YOU on set tomorrow!”
Maggie slammed the door and galloped through the dank, spring night. Her stiletto heels clicked against the damp asphalt with each step, as she raised her right arm to hail a dirty city cab.
Meanwhile, THE Antonio Stellard was in the café amongst his excited fans, eagerly signing autographs on cocktail napkins and feeding off the fuel of fame as instant flunkies cleaned up yet another one of his public temperamental tantrums.
And silently, but surely, a sneaky reporter with a cliché hat, pen, pad, and camera snapped quick pics and jotted down every single detail about their impromptu wrecking of the poetry performance.
Who were those people?
The graceful and mysterious Magdalene Parker, or as her few friends affectionately dubbed her Maggie, had to be the decade’s hottest hero, despite her shaky film reviews. Known for her strong yet feminine roles, she won several awards and reaped the rewards of being a dedicated philanthropist as well as actor.
You’ve certainly come a long way, baby. Born in the summer of 1960 on a small farm in some backwater city in Oklahoma that no one knew existed, Maggie’s entire existence was a fight for survival. The youngest in a family of thirteen kids, androgynous hand-me-downs filled her life, suffering from the curse of poor white trash captivity. Due to her daily dealings with the assorted homestead animals, she had desperate dreams of becoming a veterinarian. Always proud of her brunette beauty, buxom brawn, and big brains, she wanted to make something more of her life.
Oftentimes, Maggie thought about her options, given her rural pedigree. She looked to the left and saw her five sisters: typically barefoot and pregnant, high school dropouts, happy to spend an entire night at a bar with a miscellaneous man, gushing cheap beer down their throats. She looked to the right and saw her seven brothers: laboring at the local factory, barely married with twenty-four kids collectively, boot scooting the night away at the neighborhood bar, right beside their sad, swill-swigging sisters. What a life to look forward to, it seemed.
One fateful autumn day, at the tender turn of her womanhood, she was performing in the Amateur Rodeo at the Annual County Fair. She wasn’t riding her usual gentle steed, and the wildly bucking Bronco ditched her into a stack of soot. However, it wasn’t the horse’s fault. The mare suffered from an acute case of rabies, administered by a mouse bite back in the stables. Maggie tried with all her might to subdue the animal peacefully. Alas, the double barrel of a ranch hand’s shotgun silenced the foaming, feverish horse. Maggie felt crushed and grief-stricken.
Meanwhile, a well-dressed acting agent, visiting some distant family in the boondocks pathetically, noticed Maggie’s firm frame and natural beauty. He slid his business card to her, thankful that the trip was not a total loss. After weeks of heart wrenching meditation, she decided to try it, and she became an insanely wealthy and well-known actor. The girl from the haystacks made good on her promises of a better life for herself.
Tony, on the other hand, was a different story.
Antonio ‘Tony’ Stellard, a short fused, arrogant, over tanned, slow bastard (and that was only what his many sycophants said!), never had to struggle or lift a finger in his entire life. Born into a politically affluent Boston family in the winter of 1974, he lived like a king.
As a child, he had the best toys money could buy. As a young adult, he received a degree from some Ivy League School, honorary, of course, and he still couldn’t correctly spell his enormous numerical bank balance. As an adult, he had the greatest of everything—wine, women, and wares.
Tony was a blonde haired, blue-eyed sex beast with a penchant for problems. He dated some of the most beautiful women in the world, supermodels, actors, and musicians. The term dated was loose for him. Once he harvested the fruits of their fervor, he discarded his lady friends like a week-old copy of the New York Times. He always drove the finest, top-of-the-line vehicles, only to wrap them around a telephone pole in a drunken stupor eventually. And of course, his father would come rushing in with his sweet speech and sizeable status to clean up the disaster.
Tony was a fitness instructor initially. What better a way to pick up delicious dames, huh? He had entrepreneurial dreams of owning a national chain of gyms, which he adamantly pursued, despite the long list of users and backstabbers that were in his way. He was a commercial spokesperson for assorted sneakers, fitness shakes, and sports coupes. So naturally, with his rugged good looks and shiny family surname, he fell into an acting career after he fell and fractured his spine in a horrible mountain climbing accident. Would the world be better off if Antonio Stellard splattered across the rocks that fateful day? According to movie critics, probably so.
For those two lucky fools, the death of a dream never smelled so sweet. However, back in the real world—
*******
A tawdry tart in cheesy makeup clung to a dingy street post with large tears in her illustrious gray eyes, kohl eyeliner streaming down her face. The sky slipped soothingly into a fading blue with indigo accents. The hooker reached out for a strapping man, walking away dramatically with the sunset. With a weak quiver in her voice, she screamed, “Dean! Dean! Don’t you want me? Don’t you even care for me at all?”
He turned to her forlornly, and with an unsmiling stare, he paused. “LINE?”
“Click-click-buuuuuuzzzzzzzzzz!”
The sounds of movie-making magic pierced the air, along with a gray groan, killing the theatrical ambiance. The whore (Maggie) fell frustratingly out of character. The fuming, Gap-model-wannabe director, with his eager, clipboard-clinching intern hot on his heels, rushed over to them. “Cut! Jesus Christ, Tony!” he yelled. “How many times do we have to do this scene? We are behind schedule already—just a few more scenes to go on this piece of shit, train wreck movie!”
Tony (Dean) dropped his head sadly. He noticed a hefty rock on the ground beside his over-priced suede shoes, and he kicked it. “Aw nuts! My bad, Dick! Let’s do it again.”
A Prop Master dipped by and grabbed the rock, tactically returning it to its rightful place. He snarled at Tony and vanished into the movie magic crowd.
The director poked Tony abusively in the shoulder, wringing a copy of the script in his manicured fist. The intern, holding a lit cigarette, mimed his every move with precision. “You’re supposed to turn around and say—with antipathy, ‘My God Grace, put some clothes on!’ Then you throw the coins we gave you at her—the pocketful of change, you muscle-headed monkey, at her and go, ‘Better yet, why don’t you go home—your kids need a hot meal and a warm mother!’ Then you walk off into the sunset. Is that so hard? Do you need a stunt double for intelligence?”
Tony smacked himself in the forehead, taken aback by his own incompetence. “Hot meal, warm mother, damn! Gotcha!”
Maggie shrugged and started stretching. She struck yoga-like poses while a short girl with a huge powder puff smacked her in the face repeatedly, kicking up tiny billows of dust. Other members of the film crew dashed about the set like cockroaches with the lights on.
Dick, the director, exhaled, “I think we’ll just kill it here for now. I can’t take much more of this. Besides, we’ve worked too long today, but not that much further to go now. Class dismissed! See you all next week for the wrap up on the love and murder scenes.” He sped off with the intern behind him, enthusiastically attempting to lift his sprits. “I think we’ve done well, sir,” he cheered. “Post-production will be a breeze.”
Dick stopped short and sneered, “Production would have been a breeze if we’d got Mike Rodgers as leading man instead of Tony the tired ass Tiger over there. I’m Dick Danner—I don’t have to deal with this shit! You! Go get me a brandy! I need a fucking foot rub, Dear God!”
“Yes, sir!” The intern saluted cheerfully and bolted off to retrieve his master’s beverage of choice. Dick rubbed his temples and squatted near the set exit, deep in thought.
Maggie slinked towards Tony, still sulking from his scolding. She looked him over thoroughly and smirked, “Way to go, cowboy! Really piss off the boss—that’s so attractive.”
Tony frowned.
A young, short actor with bushy red hair, long legs, and dressed in equally whorish gear, the radiant Sheridan Quinn, hopped over happily and rubbed Maggie’s shoulders. In her mangled Irish accent, she chuckled, “Okay! We’ve come this far, and we’re almost done. Go easy on ‘em, Mag. Pretty soon this’ll all be over an’ you’ll be right back in Tasmania, or some other God-forsaken part o’ the world, saving the animal kingdom as it were.”
Tony reached in his pocket and pulled out the handful of prop coins. He looked at them loathingly and moaned, “I just keep forgetting that one line. But after a few days rest I’ll be right.”
Maggie swatted Tony’s hand, knocking the coins to the ground. She snorted, “It’s not that hard to remember, Tone. Just think of things I’m sure you’ve said to your past sexual exploits. There’s your motivation!”
Sheridan bit her lip and covered her mouth, trying hard to contain her laughter. “Uh, what a razzer! Seriously, tha’ was brutal, Mag. Didn’t I say go easy on ‘em?”
Tony glanced at Sheridan, trying hard to ignore her fine physique in front of Maggie. Desperately hard, especially in that smutty costume. He stepped up to Maggie in a rather aggressive manner and barked, “I told you you’d have to talk to me sooner or later! What happened the other night? Why’d you leave me alone in that—weirdo bar?”
Sheridan flipped open a curious ring on her finger, and took a deep hit from the packed white powder. She prodded Maggie and laughed, “Oh, you went an’ did a runner on ‘em, eh Mag?”
Maggie folded her arms and stood firm. “After the surprise show you put on, I didn’t think it mattered much, Mister!”
Tony blinked at Sheridan, irritated, waiting for her to vacate so he could talk privately with Maggie. Sheridan either couldn’t or wouldn’t take the hint. Reluctantly, he continued, “I’m just saying, I think it’s kinda rude when your date bails, leaving you in a retarded joint that they picked out.”
“For the love of all that’s despicable; WE ARE NOT DATING, you goofball!”
“Whaddya call it, then?”
“We were coworkers that went out for drinks after a hard day’s work, which was a part of the hard day’s work.”
“What about the flowers?”
“What flowers!? You demolished the flowers during your obtuse, trivial temper tantrum!”
Tony squinted at her and frowned, “Why you gotta talk like that to me?”
Hungrily, Sheridan observed the odd couple, engaging in their verbal game of table tennis. Finally, she impolitely interrupted, “Are we still on for the bash this weekend, Mag?”
In protest, Tony waved his hands and head in unison.
Another actor, an African-American, well-built, attractive male with wild, wavy hair approached the pack. Tony ignored his entrance and exclaimed, “Maggie!? I thought we were spending the weekend together? On my yacht? You promised me!”
Maggie totally speed bumped Tony’s statement and greeted the new arrival, Max Miller, with warm camaraderie. “Max! You did well today, brother! Not bad for your first movie. You ready for the wrap up next week?”
Max shook his head full of hair in his trademark, awe-inspiring way. He rhythmically nodded, “Oh yeah, baby! I’m in there! Wired up, wired up!”
“Hey, mighty Max!” Sheridan taunted. “Are you going to the big party this weekend or wha’?”
Teasingly, he shoved her. “Oh, hell nah, freaks! Y’all white folks is crazy. I will be in the lab with my boy, as usual, busting out that new album. Danner said I still could have a song featured on the movie soundtrack—he’s still pushing it for me with Mina. Mina is my girl, man, that’s my heart! That’d be tight!” Max detected Tony’s anguish. He attempted to lighten the mood. “Wazzup, T, man? What’s going down on the yacht this weekend?”
Sheridan couldn’t resist the wide-open joke, and snickered, “He thought SHE was, mate.”
Max smirked and bit his lip.
Tony destroyed the lighthearted milieu by punching the nearby street post with powerful passion, evoking a small pool of blood. Sternly, he said, “Maggie!? Are you having fun leading me on like you do?”
She shot him a lame, lethargic look.
Sheridan stared in shock at Tony’s bloody fist. Max covered his mouth, mocking the moment. “Maybe I better dip! I done rolled up on some shit. Peace-out!”
Hastily, Sheridan tapped Maggie’s shoulder and kissed her square on the lips in a sisterly fashion. Maggie smiled. Sheridan said, “I’ll catch you this weekend, Mag. I’ll knock you up ‘round eight, okay?”
Maggie concurred with a nod.
Sheridan poked Max in the back. “You wanna go get a drink or something, mate?” She grimaced at her trampy attire. “But I need to change first, though.”
Max stepped back, admiring her outfit. “Why can’t you go like that? I mean, Daddy likes, really!”
Sheridan giggled, clad in a silly blush as they galloped away together, arm-in-arm. “I’m not one of your video whores.”
Max guffawed, “You don’t have to be, Sheri! Girl, you got ‘em all beat, hands down. And I just love that accent.” He grabbed her hand and leapt in front of her, imitating her accent. “You gonna knock me up, too?”
She squealed and smacked Max’s arm.
He turned on his B-Boy charm. “What!? I’m just sayin’ girl.” Max and Sheridan went on their merry way, with Maggie and Tony’s plight long forgotten.
Maggie pointed at them and turned to Tony. “See? Two coworkers going out to have a drink after a hard days work. What about that don’t you get?”
Sourly, Tony crooned, “I don’t get the fact that we’ve been working on this movie nearly a year, and you’re always giving me the cold shoulder!”
“I think you don’t get the fact that I’m not some dumb bimbo you can just shake your thing at,” she retorted, “and I come falling into your arms like disposable dominoes!”
Slowly, he processed the insult. He squinted, “Are you calling me a playboy?”
She twisted her face with contempt. “That’s the point—I’m not calling you at all!” She ran away.
He skimmed the empty studio lot and dashed to catch up to her. She glared back and closed her eyes irritably before he spun her around, seizing both her arms. “Don’t you realize you’re not like the rest?” he insisted. “You’re special! I’ve never felt like this before. I have dreams for us.”
Maggie scoffed. Suddenly, she felt a familiar, warm dampness overtaking her arm. She peeped down and saw Tony’s hand, profusely bleeding from punching the pole earlier. His blood coated her left arm. She stared at the sky, and with a deep-throated growl she murmured, “You’re still bleeding.”
In a panic, he started wrapping his hand with the tail of his blood-streaked shirt. She took a deep breath, and jogged away with a peculiar frenzy about her. He tried loosely to stop her, but was more concerned about his injury. She peered back and screamed, “You’re having dreams of us? I think it’s time to wake up now!”
He smiled as she quickly cleared the horizon, and whimpered, “I’ll have you, my lady—one way or the other! Tony always gets what he wants.” Nursing his painful gash, he left in the opposite direction. “FUCK!”
*******
THE FLIGHT OF THE FORLORN
“…RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR!”
An alarm clock belted out its blaring song of morning from a circular, silver-mirrored nightstand. Groggily, Tony’s bandaged hand reached up from between the pearly, silk sheets and whacked the clock over, silencing it forever. He scanned the room with drowsy eyes, and flung the bulky comforter aside, sitting up and swiveling to exit the bed.
He reached across to the other matching nightstand, and took a deep swig from a nearly empty bottle of gin. He stretched and glanced at the softly covered windows. The sun was saying so long to the sky. Er, uh, make that its blaring song of evening.
His washed up movie posters and pitiful promo pictures wallpapered his surprisingly immaculate master bedroom. Other than that, the California King-sized waterbed dominated the substantial room. He rose, wearing nothing but a leopard print thong. He yawned, scratched his scrotum in a conventionally masculine way, and headed for the master bath. On the way, he snatched up a small, framed, movie trailer shot from the dresser of Maggie and him in his upcoming movie A Hollywood Horror.
The phone started ringing off the hook, but he ignored it blankly. After a few unanswered attempts, an adorable voice on the answering machine finally said, “Antonio? It’s me, Judy. I hope you’re up, baby—in more ways than one. I’m missing you—call me.”
In his massive, Romanesque, master bath, complete with cream-colored palace pillars and armless statues in an ancient arena setting, Tony started the four-head shower suite. He stared at his reflection in the slowly steaming, majestic mirror.
The phone continued to ring. As the answering machine executed its habitual weekend duties once more, a sweltering woman said, “Mmmm, ah, oh Tony… I need you! I need you, right now! This is Angel. I’ve got a present for you, baby. Call me back; I’ll make it worth your while.”
He lost the thong, and appreciated his brawny body narcissistically. As the hot fog from the shower thickened the room, he watched his reflection fade away in the mirror. Clutching the photo of Maggie and him, he hung his head and slid open the shower’s glass doors. He stepped in and stood directly in the heavy water stream, beating away his misery.
After many years of dry denial, he had finally realized he was a worthless wash up. And despite his fabulous fame and fun fortune, his life had amounted to nothing.
Nada…
Zero…
Zilch…
A Hollywood Horror could quite possibly be his last movie if he didn’t get his act together. But what should he do? Antonio ‘Tony’ Stellard was just being true to himself. Maybe he could use the family name to pursue a political career. “Hell no!” he thought. Besides, he lived like a politician anyhow, with all the womanizing, scandals, and suspicious traumas in his life.
Maybe he could pull a Magdalene Parker, and devote his entire life to charity. “Maggie… It’d take a woman like Maggie to make you really look at your life. Sexy, softhearted Maggie…”
Maggie could stand next to the Pope and make him look idle. Local community service… Nonstop charity speeches… International philanthropy… And a huge advocate for animal rights and the prevention of senseless extinction… “What have I done,” he pondered, “but be a poster child for a few draft beers, and bang a few pinup girls?” The phone rang again. He disregarded it and continued his deliberations. “I’m getting too old for that shit, and I need to change, especially if I want a real woman like Maggie to pay me any attention at all.”
An enraged voice shattered the shower’s water stream. “Tony? Tony! This is Megan! I know you’re there, Tony! You probably ain’t even outta bed yet, with your sorry ass! I don’t appreciate you standing me up this weekend! I planned this for a long time! You better call me back, or else I’m coming over! Bye, you bastard!”
He glanced down at the soggy photograph of Maggie and him. Even as an inanimate image, she looked good wet. Unable to resist his carnal desire any longer, he seized his stiffened member in his right hand, flinching from the soreness of his wrapped wound. He pleasured himself at Maggie’s imaginary expense.
The phone rang once more. Another lonely soul, unanswered.
*******
“Caw-caw-caw!” a shiny, charcoal-colored raven cackled, as Maggie tickled it under its right wing. She returned it to the huge, ornate cage with the collection of other bizarre birds.
“Quoth the raven—nevermore…,” she mumbled. She stretched out on the jumbo, soft, black, velvet sofa, hassled but happy to be at home. A rather tubby, ebony cat leapt into her lap from the plush, white carpeting. She reached down to the dark red coffee table and grabbed a remote control, clicking on a death metal tune that could peel the blood red paint from the walls. She stroked the cat gently as she sipped a bizarre, thick, red beverage from a silver chalice.
She sat up and put the cat on the floor lightly, plucking the stray dander from her blue-black jeans and rock star t-shirt. She sat her drink down and picked up an ominous notebook with a strange insignia from the coffee table. She thumbed through its pages. “Geez,” she thought, “I must remember to prepare that article for Green Week,” looking at her lengthy to-do list. She spotted item number two hundred seven, and groaned, “Grrr—I forgot all about that check for the Rainforest Fund. I hope they aren’t mad at me. Better late than never!”
Maggie leapt up as if the house was on fire, dropping the notebook. She rushed up the spiral stairs and down the hedonistic hallway into her Gothic boudoir. She rambled rampantly through a dresser drawer in search of her charity checkbook, but produced a big dildo instead. She sighed, “I am so pathetic. I NEED a man. I haven’t been banged, for real, since God knows when.” She twirled her hair and puckered her brow. “I could always let Tony touch me…” On second thought, she hooted, “Whoo! Nah!” She gazed at the dildo, rolling it around in her hands and feeling the weight of it.
“Gong-gong!” The doorbell announced the arrival of company with a creepy clang.
“‘Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door?” She backtracked to the grand, gloomy living room to answer the unwanted wail. She lobbed open the heavy dungeon door and no one was there. She stepped outside onto the porch and glanced around the front yard. Not a creature was stirring. She shrugged her shoulders and went back inside.
After she closed and locked the door, she turned around and saw Sheridan decked out in gold-tipped fangs, a metallic-mesh halter-top, vinyl painted-on pants, six-inch platform heels, and her crimson tresses pinned in a bed-tossed bun. Maggie nearly had a heart attack. “How the hell did you do that?”
Eyeballing the plastic penis in Maggie’s hand, Sheridan glinted, “Eh, it looks like a party to me!”
Embarrassed, Maggie tossed away the sex toy, breaking an anonymous ceramic trinket.
Sheridan snorted the white powder from the ring on her finger and wiped her nose. She noticed Maggie’s frigid fashion. “Never mind me an’ my creeping skills, why aren’t you dressed yet?”
Maggie held out her arms and donned a sinister smile. “Only this and nothing more.”
Sheridan smiled softly.
Another lonely soul met her match.
*******
Tony sat alone in his Castilian dining room, picking miserably over a plate of something he couldn’t even pronounce. Thoughts of Maggie wouldn’t leave his mind. What was she doing at that moment? Where was she? Oh, heaven forbid another man was putting his hands on her! Not his Maggie! Angrily, he stood up, marching for the door. He whipped out a small cell phone from his sleek trouser pocket, and dialed up the one person he knew could help him.
*******
Tony, in his red Corvette, arrived at an indistinct building in a relatively vacant vicinity. The muffled resonance of trip-hop banged in the distance. He strode right up to the industrial door and knocked roughly, forgetting about his hurt hand. “Shit!”
A slender slit slid open, and a ragamuffin man slurred in extreme patois, “Wot do yous dig?”
Max scampered to the door and peered out. He signaled for the man to unlock the door. “That’s my homeboy—the one from the movie, man! I told you he was on the way; let him in!”
The cumbersome door gaped, and Tony stepped inside the warehouse cautiously. Much to his astonishment, groupies and grass didn’t fill the room. There was only Max and his DJ, a tall, lanky, overly coordinated, light-skinned man with untamed dreadlocks called Rank, coupled with a heap of expensive musical equipment.
Max reached out, giving Tony a good old-fashioned ghetto hand greeting. “What’s up, man? Welcome to my world! How you rolling tonight?”
Tony sat down at the tinny table, nervously releasing his keys with a mighty clank. Rank and Max joined him. “I’m just catching the blues, man,” he answered. “This love situation’s got me stressed.” He looked around once more, as if he missed something. “Hey, where are all your women and junk?”
“Oh man, that’s just in the videos and shows, dawg!” Max grinned. “Up in here, it’s straight business, know what I’m speaking on? Never mix your booty and your duty!”
Tony beamed.
Max punched his fist into his palm. He smacked Rank on the back, preparing for introductions. “This is my dawg, Rank. Rank, this is Tony Stellard.”
Rank bobbed his head and pursed his lips, impressed. “I know who yous is, wussup, geeza?”
Tony dug into Rank’s uncanny lingo with no trouble. “Hey man—DJ Rankalicious, that’s all right! I really liked that one song you did with Da Amazon Queenz—uh—Break Me Down. That was a hot vid, bro.”
Rank smiled widely and gave Tony a hearty hand slap. “Thank yous, geeza! I loved yous in dat movie—the action one wiv da bitch wiv da massiv breasts, geeza—uh—!”
“Hell, that’s all of ‘em!” Tony chuckled.
They all shared a good laugh.
Max chimed in, “You understand what this nigga is saying?”
Tony nodded, gladly sharing his lyrical knowledge, but with a hackneyed, blueblood intonation. “Oh yeah, word on the street, him!”
Rank rose, and strolled over to the soundboards to adjust the music track. “Where'd yous pick up on da lingo, bruva?”
Tony reared back in the chair and dreamily stared off into space. “I dated Jamaica Jay Brown-Brown for a while. Aaaahhh…”
Rank’s eyes widened with shock. “Dat fit, luscious model bitch wiv da massiv batty?”
Max laughed loudly, aping Rank. “Yous is a lucky geeza, Tone!”
Sadly, Tony sighed.
Max reached across the table, shoving Tony’s shoulder. “And now you have your sights set on our Magdalene Parker?”
Determinedly, Tony agreed.
Rank placed one of the thick-cupped headphones over his ear. He held it up with his shoulder as he scratched on the turntables. “Mag Parker? Oh, she's a for real fit bitch—kinda creepy, but wicked, aye?”
Max sauntered to Rank’s side, watching him master the mix. As he examined the adjacent vast vinyl record selection, he glanced at Tony with disinterest. “I don’t know if you want to go to that party though, man. I bet it’s a bunch of flamers and eerie bitches drinking poisoned punch, slitting their wrists to some tired ass suicide song. Not my scene.”
Tony was puzzled. “What? I gotta get in her circle to impress her, man. It can’t be that bad!”
Max cracked his knuckles and waved Tony off like a festering pest. “Maggie is one of those crazy ass rednecks that ain’t never had nothing, man. They ain’t never experienced life. So naturally, when they get a glimpse of the wild side—or any side for that matter, they fold the fuck up like a cheap blanket. She thinks it’s the chic thing to do! She’s more impressionable than a brainless baby, all that stupid Goth shit, and she don’t really know shit about it!”
Tony was insulted, but craved more information. “Whaddya mean?”
“I just think it’s fair to warn you,” Max expounded. “Most people get caught up in the game. She’s not half the woman you think she is. She’s a blank slate, a hot one, but it’s still pretty bad.” He made an abrupt objection to the music and pulled a record out of the crate. Rank nodded and changed the tune. “Now that she’s been exposed to the underbelly of Hollywood,” he resumed, “she’s all gothic and gloomy now. That shit is sexy sometimes, but just a few years ago, she was all into the pretty and pink scene. Either way, I know you know about all the embellishments of Whorely-wood! Embellishments… You liked that word, didn’t you!? You gotta be able to throw one out there like that every now and again. Get ya mind right!”
Rank chortled and rocked to the beat.
Tony stroked his chin, joining Rank and Max at the copious array of musical equipment. “Whoa! I never thought about it like that, Max. It doesn’t matter though; I still want her, man—bad! What can I do to get this woman to want me too? I never had this problem before.”
Max examined his shoes and checked his reflection in the shiny soundboard panel. “Are you sure you love her and not just the characters y’all playing? You do tend to date your co-stars a lot. After the celluloid appeal is long gone, will you still want her, man?”
Squeaking like a little old lady, Rank laughed, “It’s not just for Christmas, it’s for life.”
Tony frowned, “Celluloid? Well, I’m a personal trainer. I can help her with that. It’s not a problem.”
Max and Rank squinted at each other, not knowing whether to laugh, or cry.
“It’s different with Maggie. I’ve never had this problem before. I feel like I need her.”
“Well, you never had this problem before because you never been in love, then,” Max said. “I’ve been peeping yo’ ass all along—desperately seeking Susan and shit. She knows you exist, you just gotta reel her in.”
“I’m trying to reel her in,” Tony moped, “but she’s tougher than old leather, man!”
Good-humoredly, Max whacked Tony on the back. “But since I like you so much, ‘cuz you one chill-ass white boy, we’ll roll out for you. And I’m gonna be your personal guide to landing the woman of your dreams, brother!”
Rank paused the melody mid-mix. “Where is we goin? I thought yous wanted to finish dis song a bit lata on?”
Max put his arm around Rank in a brotherly fashion. “Man, we ‘bout to hit this party for this dude; see if we can make this love connection. In the meantime, we’ll take a chill pill and conjure up a few skirts. Or, you can conjure up some skirts, anyway. I can’t even get down like that, player.”
Rank brushed his hip-hop gear and twisted the blinding rings on his fingers. “Innit okay, I guess I could do a bita chill an’ chillin. Let's roll!”
Another lonely soul reached out.
*******
A fresh, modern rock melody rang through the night air, as Sheridan and Maggie pulled up to the well-underway, murky house party in a dazzling white BMW. The night was amazingly crisp, with not a star in sight. The full moon shined vibrantly. Assorted vile methods of madness flocked the front lawn. They were dazed, confused, and un-breathing with their decorated drinks and distant stares. Sheridan and Maggie made their way into the core of the rebel revelry like giggling adolescents.
Elatedly, Maggie exclaimed, “This is a heinous hoedown, Sheri! Who all is here?”
Sheridan danced a jovial jig to the ear-piercing piece of music and screamed, “Who isn’t ‘ere! This, my dear, is the place to be tonight—‘mmmmm, or not be.”
Maggie was baffled. She leaned in to hear Sheridan clearer. “Not be?”
“Well, we can’t stay ‘ere all night, can we!? This is the type of place where you waltz in, shake a few ‘ands, kick back a few shots, an’ waltz out. You can’t stick around, babe. Tha’s just pathetic.”
Gaily, Maggie gestured as several celebrities bopped by with assorted nudges and acknowledgements. She spotted a few couples in the corner, sucking blood from each other’s chests. “Who’s house is this, Sheri?”
Sheridan snatched two red drinks from a sexy server walking past in a devil costume. She passed one to Maggie, after downing the other and planting the empty goblet firmly in a nearby fern. “I dunno! Who cares! Let’s just ‘ang on tha’ wall over there, all stuck up an’ snooty, surveying the crowd. We’ll be instant ‘its, love!”
Sheridan and Maggie pushed through the packed room to their chosen post-up point. They settled in and established their territory. Maggie prepared her fake-friendly performance. Sheridan staggered back and forth dismally, an arrogant attempt at dancing. Maggie slipped a razor blade from her pocket, and showed it to Sheridan. She took the blade from her, pushed back Maggie’s sleeve, and cut her shoulder. She lapped up the flowing blood and passed the blade back to Maggie.
Maggie ran her finger along Sheridan’s arm for a good slicing spot. She chose her upper bicep. Maggie slit her arm with the razor, and wrapped her lips around the wound. Sheridan giggled, flipped open her ring and took a sniff. “Make sure you keep yer eyes open, Mag. You see the damnedest things at these get-togethers.”
Maggie stopped drinking her blood and stared at Sheridan, curious about her ring-sniffing habit. “What do you do there?”
“Wha’?”
“What’s that you’re always smelling on, on your finger?”
Sheridan flipped open the ring, and offered it to her. “Blow! Do you get down?”
“Drugs? Oh, hell no! I didn’t know you got high!”
“Wha’ did you think I was doing, mate? All this time?”
“I feel like I’m high by default, drinking your blood for almost a year,” Maggie sighed.
“Yeah, you really should be more selective. I could ‘ave AIDS for all you know.”
Derisively, Maggie shook her head.
Sheridan motioned to a short man in a bold hat across the room. He pumped his arms and grinned. “See tha’ guy over there?” she asked.
Maggie strained to see him. “Isn’t that Daryl Walker, the author? What is he doing here?”
Sheridan shuffled to the boisterous beat. “Did I ever tell you the yarn ‘bout ‘ow I got the A ‘ollywood ‘orror gig? Killer story, yer gonna smurf yer shorts, mate!”
Maggie listened eagerly as Sheridan explained, “I was at a club on Samhain, right? One-na those secret, meat warehouse packing plant parties. An’, I saw Dick Danner an’ Daryl Walker there.”
“Oh, that’s cool. You partied with him a little and he was interested in your resume, right?”
Sheridan snorted her ring with a whiny howl. “NNNOOOOO! Tha’s not ‘ow it works in the biz, darling! At this special, spectacular party, ‘e wasn’t Dick Danner.” Sheridan twirled and struck a pose. “‘e was Darlena Da Diva, ‘oney!”
That news traumatized Maggie. “What! Well, it was a Halloween party, right!”
“Yeah! But ‘e was all decked out, or shall I say dicked out—”
Maggie chuckled and put her head in her hands.
“—inna to die for leather evening gown with matching pumps, an’ a killer wig. I wanted to know where ‘e got it from—bastard looked better than me!”
“But Sheridan, what does that have to do with how you got the role?”
“I’m getting to tha’. Any-who, you know that clumsy little dork-wad tha’ follows ‘im ‘round all the time?”
Maggie stood up straight. “The little assistant or intern guy? Whatever he is.”
“Yeah! ‘e was with ‘im. An’, I use with in the biblical sense, know wha’ I mean?”
Maggie rubbed her throat and muttered, “No?”
Sheridan rolled her eyes in an aggravated fashion, and made a sexual humping gesture. “‘e was banging out tha’ booty—”
Excitedly, Maggie jumped up and down, pulling her hair.
“—‘e ‘ad the little guy ‘emmed up in the broom closet, going to work! An’, Lady Luck surely smiled on me, as I was the one to catch ‘em.”
“You blackmailed Dick Danner?” Maggie squealed.
Sheridan calmed her down. “Alright, mate! Keep it down! Blackmail is such a ‘arsh word. I happen to like Black men. Besides, the whole point of extortion is tha’ no one else knows ‘bout it.”
Attentively, Maggie awaited the rest of the story.
Sheridan rubbed her hands together like a mad scientist. “See, you ‘ave to know people—know ‘ow they think an’ wha’ makes ‘em tick. After a few weeks of working out an ideal trade—my silence for ‘is dignity, ‘e promised to put me in the movie.”
Maggie clasped her hands over her mouth.
Proudly, Sheridan declared, “‘ell, mate! I do wha’ it takes whenever it takes! If an opportunity rears its ‘ead, I go for it—take no prisoners.”
“That’s cold.”
“Wha’?” Sheridan smiled innocently.
Maggie chewed on the rim of her glass. “I don’t know. I need to think of something. I’m so scared.”
“Scared of wha’?” Sheridan chuckled.
Maggie mumbled into her glass, “I’m scared of fading away. I’m not all young and spry like you. I’m getting fewer and fewer roles playing the delectable dame, and more offers for the mean mother at the bottom of the cast list.”
Sheridan stroked her cheek and sneered, “Don’ say tha’. I think yer gorgeous.
“Botox, among other things,” Maggie laughed sadly.
Sheridan ignored her. “Good scripts ‘ave been scarce lately anyhow. It’s not just you.”
“I pray A Hollywood Horror isn’t my last strong female lead.”
“If you had to retire like tha’, what would you do?” Sheridan asked. “I thought about it. I’d start in the voiceover business.”
“Voiceovers?” Maggie choked. “That screams old, wash-up!”
“No, it’s fun work!” Sheridan squealed. “I would do tha’ shit. It’s still a check an’ recognition.”
“I would just dedicate my life to my charity work,” Maggie said. “Or, sit around all day and read Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Poe?” Sheridan scoffed. “You like tha’ bloke?”
Arrogantly, Maggie raised her head. “I feel like he understands me.”
“‘ow long you been into tha’, then?”
“Not long. I learned about him a few years back, working on the movie Doom Prep.”
“Oh, when you played the headmistress trying to rescue those kids from the cursed school?” Sheridan remembered. “Tha’ was right after tha’ vampire movie you did. I saw ‘em both’. You were good.”
Maggie turned up her nose. “Not my best work, but I learned lots of things and met people that influenced me greatly. Changed my life, much like most of my movies. I take a little away each time.”
Sheridan agreed, “I can relate. ‘onestly, I could ‘ave ‘ad your part in A ‘ollywood ‘orror, but I didn’t mind. I like working with people I’ve never worked with before. Besides, contracts were in place an’—” She spotted a familiar, slimy, sexy, grim goddess in the corner, amusingly oral-sexing a bottle of malt liquor like it was trying to escape her.
Maggie searched for the distraction. “What’s wrong? Another opportunity got your tongue?”
Sheridan hid behind Maggie like a shy preschooler. “Nah, the bitch queen from ‘ell that used to ‘ave my tongue is ‘ere. God, don’t come over ‘ere.”
The woman, Gail Glimmer, spotted the struggling Sheridan. Sneakily, she sneered and tussled through the half-dead horde. On the way, she borrowed a gnarled newspaper from a kissing couple.
Sheridan clutched Maggie’s arm and headed hastily for the door. “Blah! She must ‘ave lay-dar. It’s time to go. We’ll pick off some people in the park, or wha’ever you wanna do next, batty.”
Reluctantly, Maggie dragged behind her. “Isn’t that Gail Glimmer, the singer? I love her music. I must say hello!” Out of key, she sang, “Life is just another word for pain…”
Gail jumped in front of Sheridan, stroking the tabloid like a powerful weapon. “Leaving so soon, lover?”
“Oh, ‘i Gail,” Sheridan sighed. “I didn’t see you there. Wha’ are you doing ‘ere?”
“I think the real question is what are YOU doing here?” Gail grimaced. “And in such horrible company, I see.”
Uneasily, Maggie bit her lip and extended her cold hand. “Hi Gail, I’m a really big fan of yours! I’m—!”
Gail glanced at Maggie with her lip turned up. With an attitude, she interjected, “I know who you are.”
Sheridan stepped in, “Uh, we were just on the way out, G.”
Gail feather-stroked Sheridan’s exposed chest. “I bet you were. I see your replacements for me are growing less classy by the moment.”
Insulted, but nervous about it, Maggie gulped.
Gail smacked Maggie in the chest with the wretched rag. “Enjoy, ladies…” She strutted off like a pleased peacock. “By the way, don’t let her flip you that French Finger technique, Magdalene. I’m still healing from it.”
Sheridan held her chest and hyperventilated as Gail merged with the multitude. She extracted a small asthma inhaler from her bosom, and took two puffs.
Frightfully, Maggie perused the paper. She spotted the pointless picture of her and Tony from the previous night. She delivered the headline. “‘Super-Starlet and Cranky Co-star Paint the Town Red, Literally!’” She swallowed hard as Sheridan leaned over for a closer look. “What the hell!” Maggie shouted. She read, “‘Magdalene Parker, star of the upcoming frightful feature A Hollywood Horror was spotted two nights ago in a cozy café with her leading lad Tony Stellard. Parker left in haste after a typical Tony temper tantrum ensued. The cute couple, reportedly, was in conflict over the meaning of a prose piece being performed on stage.’”
Sheridan yanked the broadsheet from Maggie and cast it to the floor. She grasped Maggie’s hand, and led her through the mob, striving for the door.
Maggie quivered, “I don’t believe this shit! How could they have possibly found out about that? With pictures!? Couple? I don’t believe this! He’s drug me into his tabloid bullshit! We are not a couple—I’d rather chug razors and rat poison! It’s not even accurate!”
Sheridan shoved Maggie through the front door and staggered out into the yard. “Yes, I met your boyfriend earlier, tha’ King Kong Dong you were clutching.”
Sheridan tossed Maggie in the passenger’s seat of the car and rushed around to the driver’s side. Maggie scratched her head. “What was up with that? Why was Gail so mean to me? I’ve never even met her before.”
Sheridan cranked the car, plowed backwards recklessly, and peeled away. “Gail was my female. She probably thinks I’m with you now, and she’s just jealous. Tha’s all.”
Maggie’s jaw dropped as they faded away in the big city lights. With sour sarcasm, she sighed, “Oh, that’s all…”
Another lonely soul, bewildered.
*******
Max rolled up in his lavish, baby blue SUV, his thunderous trip-hop clashing terribly with the party’s progressive rock. He stopped the car and Rank vaulted out, having spotted a thick young lady on the front lawn he wanted to rap to—that quickly. Tony and Max stepped out of the vehicle and browsed the dreary area. The night’s ambiance switched from brisk to stale.
Rank gangster leaned against an old oak tree, flash chatting into the focused female’s ear. “Yous know, dem white main muns don't dig da females wiv da massiv batties. Dem don't ‘preciate da fit, thick batty and round ‘ips. Let me show yous ow a bruva would rock dat batty, lady.”
Max wiped his face, dropped his head, and chuckled, “Tony man, let’s go find your dream woman, up in here of all places.”
Tony and Max entered the event.
All attention turned to Tony as they ambled into the madcap house party. Varied voices whispered hush-hush remarks about his recent behavior.
“I do not believe my eyes!”
“That’s Tony Stellard, here?”
“What is he doing here?”
“Probably looking for his woman.”
“I hear he beats her.”
“Oh, he could beat me any day, honey! Hot brute!”
The gracious host, a trim and effeminate Latin chap in au courant clothing and a thick lisp, Teddie Berra, pranced over to Max and Tony.