Back home, I suddenly felt very dizzy and grabbed my emergency stock of Grey Goose out of the freezer. I cracked it open and drank straight from the bottle. The chilled vodka was just what I needed. I took another pull, swallowed, and caught myself smiling. My smile turned into giggling and then uncontrollable laughter. I began laughing so hard, the vodka splashed out of the bottle, dribbled down my shirt, and onto my hands.
I began to entertain the thought that maybe I was a natural at this. It had been a no-brainer for me to kill Petra, even if it was by accident. I mean, who will miss him? I justified. His family would miss his paycheck, but there was no love lost there. Although I was nervous, the rest of the process had kind of fallen into place, like using my wool blanket to pull him into the trunk of the car without being seen (thanks, Jenna W.!). It hadn’t been as difficult as I thought it would be to throw Petra over the Claremont Bridge and into the water. It was almost peaceful as I watched him bob up and down, eventually floating away.
All I could fathom was the possibility of being looked at like an unsung hero and how Sandy Stronge would be better off in the long run without her slimy, cheating husband. In fact, she might’ve even hit the jackpot on his life insurance policy! And poor Kyle Milk would now be a free man due to Petra’s no-show at court. Better yet, when everyone finally realized Petra was missing, life would be better for a whole slew of people.
What gave me the greatest satisfaction of all was that with Petra Stronge gone, his reality show would soon disappear with him. The more I rationalized, the more I daydreamed that I had just done everyone a huge favor. In the end, the whole country would be better off with one less reality TV show. With that crazy conclusion, I shook my head and sighed. What a night!
Grabbing the remote, I clicked on the TV and lo and behold, my favorite movie happened to be on: Goodfellas. I thought that was kind of fitting.
3 Botox Babe
I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t nervous as I sat deliberating my next move. What would happen when word got out that Petra Stronge was dead, or at the very least, gone missing? This was a huge deal, and I wasn’t sure if the public would realize I’d done them a big favor by dumping Petra’s ass into the lake of oblivion.
Unfortunately, the momentary delusion I had of myself as a public guardian quickly dissipated under the weight of reality, as I hibernated for days, hardly leaving the couch, causing a permanent dent in the already sagging cushions. Although it was clearly self-defense, I couldn’t help but wonder how the trail of Petra’s murder might trace back to me.
I kept replaying that night from every possible angle in my head to see if there was anything that could point the police in my direction, but I couldn’t find a thing. After days of racking my brain trying to find any uncovered tracks, I exhaled, believing I was in the clear.
But then, a detail popped into my head: Petra had someone driving the getaway car that night, and that “someone” knew Petra was going to kill me, or at the very least, render me unconscious for a few years. It wasn’t just a tiny afterthought; it was a huge detail that could determine my fate. As quickly as I began to relax, I slunk right back into despair and desperation, convinced it was only a matter of time before the mysterious co-conspirator came calling for me.
My rampant thoughts were interrupted by a notification on my cell phone. The LA Times banner popped up with the tagline, “Brutally Murdered Body of Reality Show Star Found.” Pain twisted in my chest. I immediately clicked the link to the article, which stated that the reality star’s body had conveniently washed ashore in the Long Beach area, in the vicinity of Kyle Milk’s bungalow. Holy Shit! My eyes were glued to the screen. It was being reported that Kyle, who had been expected to lose a major lawsuit to Petra, was considered a “person of interest” in the reality TV star’s death and had been taken into police headquarters for questioning. The article went on to say that Kyle’s “unfaithful” wife, Andrea, was the one who implicated Kyle as the potential suspect.
In all the wild scenarios I’d imagined while laying low in my apartment, this one hadn’t crossed my mind once. Suddenly, my guilt lifted, and I felt my muscles releasing all that pent-up tension. In theory, this new scenario was perfect, except for one glaring fact: an innocent person could be sent to jail for a murder he didn’t commit. I was the only person who knew who really killed Petra Stronge. Unless, of course, the mysterious ‘someone’ who was driving the getaway car for Petra that night came forward and fingered me as the real killer.
A wave of panic drowned me again, so I rushed to the fridge and took a hefty gulp of vodka. “What now?” I sighed into my hands. How could I live freely knowing that Kyle, who I had wanted to vindicate, was now in deeper shit than he was before? There was no way I was going to turn myself in and plead self-defense knowing that the cops had found those rocks in Petra’s pockets—the rocks that were supposed to have kept him cemented to the bottom!
I fell into a stupor of sorts. I couldn’t recall how many days had passed. But every day, all day, I was hunched in front of my laptop, unshaven, drinking coffee liberally laced with vodka, reading every news article I could find for more details about Kyle’s fate and if he would be formally charged. Most importantly, I was scouring for potential facts about where Petra had washed up and possible motives the police had attached to the killing. Then I saw it.
It was an article published by a knock-off TMZ tabloid reporter who did an in-depth “exposé” on the behind-the-scenes antics of the Stronge family, going into great detail about how their real behavior was a far cry from their TV personas. The story had been in the works well before Petra’s death, and the tabloid’s timing couldn’t have been better. It showed the egotistical family as they truly were: the epitome of everything wrong with society. I read the article twice, trying to find any positive angles in the exposé, but there wasn’t one good thing said about Petra or his dysfunctional brood. The public, at least for this brief moment in time, hated the Stronges. They had categorized them as a family corrupting America’s youth, devoid of any conscience or morals, and worse—they had absolutely no taste.
Soon after the article’s publication, Kyle Milk began receiving kudos from the public for killing the reality star that everyone loved to hate. It quoted industry insiders, TV viewers, and even some of Kyle’s so-called friends, stating that Petra was always playing with fire and that he deserved what he’d gotten. The media made it seem like Kyle was the valiant hero who saved humanity from the evil Petra.
While I didn’t want Kyle to go down for the murder of Petra, part of me also didn’t want him getting all the credit and glory for saving America from one more wretched season of Being Stronge. Yes, I realize I was being incredibly petty, not to mention more than a little irrational. After all, I was practically in a fetal position about the possibility of going to jail, and then, in the blink of an eye, I was bitching and moaning that I should be the one in the limelight. The irony does not escape me now, but at the time, my judgement was sketchy at best.
The article made Sandy Stronge’s blood boil, but not for long. Sandy being Sandy, quickly found a way to make the bad press work for her. By promoting herself as a blameless victim, Sandy turned herself into a hot new commodity, opening the door for numerous talk show features. TV wasn’t her only media salvation. She also appeared on radio and social media platforms sobbing into her tissues as she shared the anguish she was experiencing because of her loss. She seemed more distraught over the cancellation of Being Stronge than she did about her deceased husband. For Sandy, a terrible event had turned into self-promotion gold. In addition to all the interviews and having her picture plastered across every newspaper and magazine, Sandy was in talks to star in a new reality show.
Meanwhile, Andrea Milk continued to perpetuate her role as the lonely and sad soon-to-be divorcé as she waited for Kyle’s arraignment. She could go toe-to-toe with Sandy when it came to turning a bad situation into something very good for herself. The insane amount of press
coverage on the murder caused the ratings for Want $um to skyrocket. It was no surprise really, since both Sandy and Andrea were regulars on the show.
After my weeks of research, my unemployment ran out and I knew I had to get back to work, and fast. I decided to take whatever job I could get, at least until the heat cooled down. When the union finally called and gave me an opportunity on the show Primed Minister, I wasn’t in any position to turn it down.
Primed Minister was a typical reality show (what else?) that starred ex-pastor Justin Prime, who had turned in his collar and left the church to be with the woman he loved, a stripper named Better Luck. By all accounts, the Primes were a happy couple throughout the years and had three grown children. The oldest was Peter, age 34, who had been married for 7 years to his wife June. Next up was their daughter Mary, age 31. She was the first woman in the state of New Jersey to legally marry another woman. She and her partner Sophia had been together for about 5 years and Mary was now pregnant, but no one was talking about how or by whom. The youngest was Paul, age 29, who was married to the very buff Lync Sherman. Their union was getting even more press than Mary and Sophia’s Immaculate Conception. Paul and Lync were newlyweds, and it was their relationship that turned the heads of executive producers and had gotten the show on the air in the first place.
Paul had a very popular blog entitled: “Straight Talk from a Gay Man.” It had begun as a way to help the heterosexual community better understand the gay perspective. It had a so-so following until he started writing about his ups and downs in the gay dating world. When he met Lync, Paul would blog and post photos about their budding relationship on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis which clicked with the millennial crowd. It wasn’t long before it went viral and became a Sex in the City-type column for the gay man, turning Paul into a quasi-celebrity. When producers approached Paul with the idea for a reality show and learned the backstory of his family members as well, they knew they had a goldmine on their hands. And so, Primed Minister was born.
The show revolved around the family led by the former pastor and his hot former stripper wife (who had long ago ditched her professional name for the more demure Paige) and their children. It depicted the unique challenges facing same sex relationships, and the trials and tribulations that ensue. I wasn’t keen on taking the job, and I was quietly hoping the show wouldn’t last more than a season or two. But I consoled myself that the Primes couldn’t be any worse than the Stronges, plus my rent was past due. So I thought, Ready or not, Primed Minister, here I come.
4 Sucker Punch
Fortunately, I was settling in smoothly on the set of Primed Minister. I was glad to be working with Greg, my best friend and fellow grip. He had a wild demeanor that could comically help even my anxieties. Greg was the hurricane in our friendship, while I was the more conservative one. Together, we were a team.
It was my third week on the new job when the storm clouds started forming. I still couldn’t escape Petra, even if by association. Apparently, Greg had gotten word that Andrea Milk was looking for me and planned to stop by the set. I thought, Oh boy, what the hell does she want? Then it hit me—of course she wanted to see me! Andrea knew that I knew she and Petra had been doing the “nasty,” and she needed me to stay quiet.
My palms started to sweat and I panicked. I decided to beat her to the punch and picked up my cell. I had to call her before she had a chance to just show up and corner me without warning. There was no telling what the crazy bitch might do.
“Hello?” Andrea answered after a few rings.
“Hello...is this Andrea?” I asked as innocently as I could.
“Yes. Who is this?” Andrea asked.
I hesitated. “It’s Marc Henderson. I hear you wanted to speak with me.”
There was the briefest of pauses. Then Andrea’s voice came back, “Oh! Yes. Marc, I’m so glad you called. I have a few things I wanted to talk to you about, if that’s okay?” she said with a syrupy sweet voice. “You know, well, I just feel so lost and confused. I was hoping I could come by your place and talk to you about it. How would tonight be?” she paused, expecting a positive reply.
“Sure, but wouldn’t it be a lot easier if we just met on the set sometime?” I was stalling for time and was hoping to grab some details she might accidentally let loose.
“Oh, you know how fast rumors can start! With everything going on, I don’t need that kind of publicity right now.” Who’s she kidding? If Andrea had any kids, she’d sell ‘em in a heartbeat if it meant even five more minutes of publicity.
“I think it would be better to discuss this in private,” she continued.
“Well, sure Andrea, I guess that’d be okay. You can stop by my place around 7:30 tonight, if that works for you. You know where I live, right?” I asked.
“Yes—” she paused and caught herself short “—I mean, yes, 7:30 works for me. But no, I don’t know where you live.”
I tried to remain calm and played along, “I’m in the third apartment complex building in Canoga Park. Number 304. See you then,” I said as we hung up.
Now I had a few more ideas twirling in my head. At the very least, Andrea needed to nip any talk of her and Petra’s relationship—if you could even call it a relationship, given her ex was a person of interest in a murder. Or maybe she knew of Petra’s little surprise visit to my house. Or, worse yet, maybe she was in on Petra’s plan to silence me. Whatever the reason, Andrea needed to distance herself from anything that could be related to Petra. The $64,000 question was: how far would she go? She was one cool customer—just ask poor Kyle. Thanks to her deceit, he was sitting in a cell, worried about getting measured for a nifty new orange jumpsuit.
I had to be careful and cautious. Andrea could turn out to be more of a monster than Petra ever was. As crazy as Andrea was, it wouldn’t be surprising if she gave Nancy Pelosi a run for her money.
The doorbell buzzed right at 7:30. I had spent the few hours leading up to her visit going through all the possibilities, hoping I was prepared for anything she might throw at me—literally and figuratively. I opened the door and there she was, looking very different off-screen than how I usually saw her on set. She was wearing faded, figure-hugging jeans and a hooded grey sweatshirt. She had on very little makeup, except for the mascara that was running down her cheeks. Nice touch, those tears. She may have been “crying,” but she still looked pretty damn good—which was not a good thing for me. Women like Andrea had always been my downfall. I was constantly blindsided by good-looking women. Even with her fake tears, enhanced chest, and Botoxed who-knows-what-else, I had to stay focused.
She quickly brushed past me and landed in a heap on my couch, sniffling and giving her all to the “woe is me” act. I pulled up a chair and sat across from her. “Are you alright?” I asked, trying my best to show concern.
While Andrea dabbed at the corners of her eyes, trying for some well-practiced composure, she was surreptitiously looking at the burns made by Petra’s cigarette on my coffee table. As she reached for another tissue, she fumbled and knocked her purse over, spilling its contents onto the floor: a compact, assorted lipsticks, a Bic lighter, a sticky note pad, and tons more “girl stuff.”
I bent down to grab whatever had rolled under the chair I was sitting on. And lo and behold, there—snuggled right up against my foot—was a freakin’ syringe! Andrea stopped mid-sniffle, her eyes becoming big as saucers. As I sat back up, gingerly holding the syringe, I shot her a “what the hell?” look. She rushed to snatch it from me, then quickly scooped everything back into her bag and clipped it shut.
“Oh, Marc. Please don’t tell anyone about my little secret,” Andrea said, in a hurry to explain. “You know what the papers would do with a story like this. Oh, and don’t get the wrong idea! That syringe is not filled with any of those horrible drugs. It’s just a little Botox, that’s all. Harmless, right? Women my age have it rough. I mean, you know how cruel the camera can be. And if this got out, I’d be the butt of even more j
okes on the set!”
The crew had regularly joked that you could never tell if Andrea was mad or happy, because her mouth couldn’t move very far in either direction. I had never paid much attention to their snide comments, chalking it up to the typical gossip you hear on any set. But now, as I took a really good, close look at her face, their comments seemed true—she really did use too much Botox. Inwardly, I relaxed and realized the pendulum had just swung a little in my direction.
While she slid across the couch to get closer to my chair, she gave me one of those adorably sweet, cat-eyed innocent looks she’d perfected as a model. “I didn’t know what to do, Marc,” she said. “All this unbelievable mess—I’m under so much stress and pressure! I mean, who can I trust? Petra’s been killed, Kyle’s been identified as a possible suspect, and it’s been a constant battle with Kyle in divorce court. Every thought I have, every move I make—it’s all over the media! But then I thought, I’ll go to Marc—I can be myself with him, share my worries and concerns and not worry about it getting out. I mean, I came to you because, well...I know I can trust you since you kept the little secret about Petra and me hush-hush.”
She batted her eyelashes at me. I didn’t dare move a muscle. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “No worries, Andrea. So, what’s the news you had to come all this way back to my place to tell me?” I slipped in, figuring what the hell, it was time to cut to the chase and see if she took the bait.
“Back to your place?” she repeated back to me, doing that puzzled look pretty well.
Killing Reality Page 3