by T. C. Clover
count begins. I don’t care if you have to skip a few steps!” She concluded this short rant by grabbing at her tight ponytail and clicking a pair of orange high heels on the smooth marble.
Stoney felt a queasy sickness rolling up from his esophagus. There was a building pressure that had engulfed his heart, causing him to sweat.
“The living victims are always the hardest to deal with,” Stoney announced to the small, empty bathroom.
He reached out with his right hand and flicked the light switch off, causing the bathroom vanity and toilet to disappear from view. Stoney’s breathing became heavier as he recalled a boy that ran toward him earlier in the day with a sixteen-penny nail sticking out from the right side of his head. The large nail was a punishment from his angry Taiwanese father, who was redoing the kitchen in their apartment. Apparently, the toddler didn’t understand why he couldn’t get a snack from the fridge. And instead of talking to the little boy, his father shot him in the right side of the head with a nail gun. Fortunately, the air compressor was low on pressure at the time, and the nail didn’t penetrate far into the boy’s skull.
Although Stoney was able to rescue the toddler from his psychotic father, he had no outlet to release his anger. Further, he had to be professional when arresting the perpetrator since the man surrendered. It was one of many times when he wished that a ‘perp’ would resist. Stoney closed his eyes to explore a portfolio of memories where innocent people had survived horrific events. He squeezed his hands into fists and exhaled with a mighty calm, allowing the visions to fall away in the blackness of his mind. After a few seconds of total silence, the police officer assimilated joy that came with predictable peace.
The Japanese man kept himself in this state of silence for a while, unaware of how much time had passed. In his mind, the world needed to go away for a few minutes, and he imagined it like a yo-yo on a string in the darkness. Stoney could expertly spin it away from his center, and leave it suspended, but could never let it hit the floor. The pensive man took in one last breath of loving relaxation and then flipped on the bathroom light.
Stoney opened his eyes to see himself in a police uniform and a mocking reflection of his vulnerability in the mirror. He closed his eyes again, knowing that he was unprepared to be on television. With a few heaves of his chest, the officer allowed his anxiety to come back. Stoney thought of his lover watching at home, and the good that this second income would do for their lives. The optimistic television star reopened his eyes to see a dashing Japanese person with short black hair in the mirror. He smiled like a proud convict, mimicking the empty confidence demonstrated by almost every person who entered a jail cell with other criminals.
With his confidence restored, Stoney turned about-face and used his right hand to twist the cheap bronze door handle. He pulled the door open to see Jennifer blocking his path. The German-American woman had her arms folded, and she was giving him a typical Hollywood stare from her dark blue eyes.
“Makeup!” Jennifer shouted to her crew, clapping her hands in the air. “Get his hair and face prepped,” she ordered a youthful, African-American stylist who approached from a few feet away. “You have ninety seconds to get him on the set!”
The makeup technician’s eyes widened after hearing this command, but then she became calmer, darting into the bathroom with eagerness and determination. Jennifer looked back at Stoney and shook her head in disgust, knowing that the logistics of their opening sequence might need alterations.
“Come on, people, we have a configuration change,” Jennifer barked to the crew as she stomped to the far end of the penthouse. “Let’s start with the other five and bring up Stoney in the final shot. Make it look like he’s always been there.”
“Go ahead and walk toward the set.” The makeup artist instructed Stoney in a sweet voice. “I’m just going to rub some water through your hair and put some base on you. Come forward; don’t worry about me.” She urged him as her hands rubbed water over his dark hair.
Stoney walked toward the set slowly, but the tenacious woman prompted him to move faster by flapping her right hand in the air. To his surprise, she was able to brush his hair and apply a layer of makeup on his face while walking backward. She looked back every few steps to navigate obstacles on the set and moved her body in the direction of Stoney’s assigned chair.
The Japanese police officer sensed the marble flooring turning to soft shag carpeting as he stepped forward. He was disappointed to see that Jennifer had placed him between Litz Rack and Richard Orton.
“Please smile,” the makeup artist requested with a grimace, “you need to look happy and confident. My makeup can only do so much!” She added with a charming wink.
Stoney tried to smile and sucked in a deep breath as he and the makeup artist entered the massive living room for the opening shots. The officer was impressed with her spatial intelligence until she licked her right thumb and used it to straighten his bangs.
“All done,” the makeup artist whispered as she departed the vast living room set. “Good luck.”
“Stoney, take your seat for the Live Pod session,” Jennifer ordered from the back of the set. “Mike, they’re all yours.”
“Thank you, Jennifer.” The director muttered in an obligatory fashion, sounding distracted. “Everyone hold up your chins and smile for the narration shots. Okay, the narrator is ready to record; just hold it there until we get the green light.” Mike Farr looked at his watch with impatience, wondering why he ever agreed to shoot a live television show.
“Welcome, worldwide viewers, to another episode of Shots Fired in the Melting Pot,” the narrator opened with charisma in a baritone voice. “Tonight, you’ll see six rivals attempt to coexist in one New York City penthouse. We’ve found three men and three women whose backgrounds are fundamentally incompatible. Watch as they compete for gold and silver coins to see who will win three million dollars during our final episode. Since each of our stars is required to work at least six hours a day, we’ll be bringing you footage from their unique lifestyles. So grab your favorite cold drink, because the battle is about to heat up on the number one live show in America.”
Stoney sat up straight on the tall, white oak barstool with a confident smile. He found this posturing difficult with a criminal smirking at him from across the room. Cody K. Black, also known as CKB, was Stoney’s chosen nemesis for the show. The muscular African-American was tall and sported a smooth, clean-shaven head. He was wearing a black T-shirt and white cargo pants; both with no logos. A gold chain adorned his neck, and there was a tattoo on his right bicep that read: ‘only fools die poor.’
CKB sneered at the New York police officer that sat across from him. He immediately pulled up a satellite phone and lamented his adversary with a message on his Live Pod account: ‘Hotdog stand is here to play. Hope he twists his knee next time he needs to shakedown one of my boys.’ The thirty-five-year-old criminal then smirked and folded his bulky arms, concealing the phone behind his elbow.
Fassim shook her head as she watched the exchange between CKB and Stoney. At the age of thirty-three, the paparazzi photographer was having a difficult time believing that CKB was older than she. The light of the camera panned across the Muslim woman from the right and surprised her. Fassim instinctively tugged at the edges of her pink headscarf, hoping that her hair covering was proper for public viewing. The photographer’s beautiful face glowed with a charismatic smile as she waited for the narrator to finish introducing her.
Jazzy Auburn Michelle rolled her eyes as the predatory photographer was in the spotlight. She clenched her right hand into a fist beneath the oak barstool, hiding it from the camera. Although Jazzy had a flattering smile on her face, there was fresh tension from the memory of Fassim taking a picture of her naked bum in the bathroom. ‘I hope she pigs out and gets a muffin top,’ the twenty-five-year-old comedian thought. ‘One picture of my butt is enough to
feed her for a month - the little leech.’ Jazzy took a deep breath and exhaled with a peaceful demeanor, remembering her mother’s advice about not letting the public see anger.
“How does my chest look in this shirt?” Litz Eliza Rack asked her adversary with an exaggerated flutter of her eyelids.
“Three-dimensional,” Richard Theodore Orton replied to the poisonous beauty at his right, refusing to fall for her trickery again.
“Thank you!” Litz replied with a glorious smile as the light from the camera displayed her Swedish features.
‘Stop talking!’ Mike Farr mouthed from the director’s chair, his eyes locked on the mischievous Litz Rack. ‘If you ruin my intro again, I’m going to take away a gold coin.’ He finished in a pantomime of desperation, making a series of hand gestures with a reddened face.
Litz raised her right hand toward the camera and gave a seductive wave to the lens with the tips of her rough fingers. She smiled playfully and twisted her head to the side like a high school cheerleader. The twenty-seven-year-old plumber effortlessly displayed why so many fans of the show had become fans of her.
‘All hail the whore of Babylon,’ Richard thought as the camera panned from Litz over to