by T. C. Clover
him. The muscular man was clad in a white muscle shirt and black jean shorts that showed off his toned legs.
“Who is this short drink of sangria?” Jazzy asked through her teeth, lamenting the woman next to CKB for being more attractive than she. “Did she find her way up here alone, or did you have to guide her with duck calls?”
“This is Petunia, y’all,” CBK announced in a bold way, sticking out his chest to silence Jazzy’s verbal assault.
“My guess would have been witch hazel,” Fassim teased with unusual determination, provoking a high five from Jazzy. “You’re so beautiful! I would take your picture, but then I’d have to smash my camera to delouse the memory card.”
“Well, I don’t know about them,” Richard began with a roll of his eyes, “but I’m pleased to meet you, Petunia.”
“That’s pretty offensive, Richard!” CKB mumbled in an aggressive manner, tightening the skin around his eyes. “Don’t you come up to my woman all commando.”
“What do you mean?” Richard inquired with an unbalanced expression. “What they said was ten times worse than-“
“Dude, just stop!” CKB ordered with the palm of his right hand held outward. “Jazzy and Fassim were just kidding. You came up to my girl like some dude with a plate of hot dogs, lookin’ at her like she’s your grill. Well, don’t do it again, or I’ll break your grill.”
Petunia turned her head to the side in confusion and then gazed back at the small group of strangers with unshakable confidence. While she was not as busty as Litz, the rest of her body was something to behold, and her sense of fashion accentuated every curve. The Hispanic New Yorker wore a formfitting purple dress with black stripes, and a pair of yellow high heels adorned her small feet.
Jazzy and Fassim stared the twenty-two-year-old Hispanic woman down, enjoying that she was vulnerable and on their turf.
“Well, I’ll be in my room reading with my hot dogs if anyone needs me,” Richard interrupted with dispassion. “It was great to meet you, Petunia.”
“Did anyone hear about the Mars mission?” Petunia suggested with inquisitive brown eyes. “They’re going to fly to the moon for a few days and live there to prepare for life on Mars.”
“This is New York, honey,” Jazzy chided with her right hand on her hip. “If we can make it here, we can make it on Mars.”
“Pretty lame, Jazzy,” CKB sneered as he wrapped his right arm around Petunia’s waist. “But I guess – just like your towel, you’re only ten percent original material. Y’all have a wonderful afternoon.”
“Oh yeah, well try not to bang her head into the wall; she doesn’t seem to have any brain cells to spare.” The comedian retorted with a winning smile, but conceded her position when Petunia issued her a fierce glare. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mouthed to the exotic woman in earnest, expressing a rare moment of guilt.
“How long are you guys going to be in there?” Fassim called out to the couple during their departure. “Should we plan on two minutes to cook a bag of compressed popcorn, or ten hours binge-watching a TV series?”
CKB didn’t respond at first, but held up his right middle finger to the group while keeping his back to them. He grabbed Petunia by the hand and gave her a passionate kiss on their way to his bedroom.
“Should we put on some music?” Fassim suggested to Jazzy with a wink and tiger lily smile. “I don’t want to hear animal kingdom all afternoon.”
“That’s for sure,” Jazzy agreed with a frown, nodding at her co-star on the way back to the bathroom. “By the way, I’m pissed at you, Fassim; stop trying to suck up to me!”
“Hey, a picture is worth five thousand dollars.” The paparazzo deadpanned without raising her eyes from the kitchen counter.
“When will I get a woman like that?” Richard obsessed aloud, biting his lower lip as he closed his eyes and waited for an inevitable response.
Jazzy sneaked close to the Republican with silent footsteps and put her face in front of his, staring at the man’s closed eyelids.
“When CKB breaks her heart!” She shouted the moment Richard opened his eyes, causing him to slip and almost fall on the floor.
Fassim began to laugh, but Jazzy gestured at the wily Muslim with her left hand in a rattlesnake fashion. The peaceful photographer simply blew a kiss to the comedian, and then pretended to take photos with her empty hands.
“If they let any more women into this loft,” Richard expressed with a guise of exhaustion, “then I’m going to jump.”
As an editor for Feature Films for Families, Richard had a difficult time with the liberties taken by his fellow cast members. Their antics on the television show often caused him to cringe, and he yearned for more conservative company. However, Richard understood that the core concept of the show was to illustrate ideological differences between passionate people. In that regard, Litz was the perfect liberal adversary for him, providing the shock and awe desired by the producers of the show.
Richard gazed at the loft with fondness. He looked at the marble tiles leading to the rooms with bunk beds that were used by the crew. The living quarters on the south end of the complex were far less extravagant than those for the television stars. By comparison, there was gorgeous white oak hardwood flooring leading to the six bedrooms of the actors, and each of them had five times the space of any crew member. He recalled Mike saying that it took six weeks to refurbish the penthouse for the show. Richard scoffed at the fact that thirty crew members shared two unisex bathrooms while the stars and executives got deluxe accommodations. The conflicted man decided that if he won the grand prize at the end of the season, he would share it with the crew.
III. Waterboarding the Pit Bull
What is it inside of that covetous human gaze, causing everyone to tremble? Is it the preamble to a blood diamond; that rare gem perceived as sometimes more beloved than a child’s life? After all, what am I to you and you to me, but a collection of synapses firing at random in response to the events of the day? The kids of this generation say shots fired when there is social turbulence and controversy or mockery. It is fascinating how opinion can be honed like an elephant gun and used to destroy the lives or careers of others. How unprepared the older generations must have felt when the latest barrage of social commentary let loose on the landscape like demons fornicating at sunset; their long shadows superimposed on all things tangible. One must feel like a ghost in today’s world when the whole of humanity seems to abandon them for a single comment. It is such a perfectly flawed system of judgment, and yet so efficient and precise.
This crescendo is my weapon of choice, ladies and gentlemen. I am the pretentious Judas at the back of every room; the expert marksman who needs only a smartphone to destroy your reputation. Isn’t it beautiful; the name of the smartphone? We have created these tiny devices that capture life’s most uninspired moments. This data levels the playing field for those of us who know how to hunt, where to look, and when to strike. The battles of today are fought on the fronts of what you can capture. Because if I can get a photo, recording, or message from you at your worst; then your worst is all anyone will ever know. So I welcome you to my world; it is the palace of information capture and the battlefield of overexposure. We will engage one another as friends, but I will steal your most horrible moments and display them to the world – so that I may have my blood diamond.
Those who are powerless to say farewell to their innocence will always be victims. This precedent is as true in the new social landscape as it is the hunting grounds of the wild. I am unashamed to admit that my colleagues and I eagerly await your failure. I am also unafraid to tell you that I will dry your tears and give you comfort, only to capture you at your most vulnerable – for consumption by the other predators of the world. Welcome to the melting pot; I look forward to your trusting smile and the feeling of your fragile dreams in my powerful fingers. –A Mother’s Wrath.
The air felt cold to Stoney Akuda as he entered the cavernous penthouse apartment community reserved for the television show. He shook this chill off as an arbitrary sensation, knowing that nothing was wrong with the temperature outside of his body. The twenty-eight-year-old New Yorker sensed a recurring anxiety that had been with him in the elevator. It tugged at the back of his mind with unsettling precision. Stoney scurried across the glossy marble tiles of the production offices like a frightened forest creature, hoping to reach a quiet place amongst the chaos.
A few members of the television crew waved to the Japanese man as he crossed their paths, and Stoney appeased them with a forced smile. Panic was building inside of him as he neared the crew’s unisex bathroom, feeling thankful that it was unoccupied.
“Stoney, where are you going?” Jennifer Priest called out in a commanding voice over the second unit camera crew.
“I need the bathroom,” Stoney replied to the woman without turning to see her face. “Just give me a minute.”
“You’ve got five minutes.” The somewhat chubby blonde stated as Stoney closed the bathroom door to cut her off from his ritual. “Stoney, we’re going to be on the air in five minutes,” Jennifer confirmed with her right index finger pointed toward the door. “Make sure that you’re on the set when the