by T. C. Clover
Stoney. ‘If we were lobsters, she would parade us in front of the cameras before boiling us alive.’ The thirty-one-year-old Republican abandoned his scornful stare for a brilliant smile as the camera panned onto him for the final shot. He sensed that the exposure of this show could land him in a coveted seat as a United States Senator. Richard sat up straight and waved at the camera with his right hand as well, but put his arm down when he received a signal of disapproval from the director.
Mike Farr used his right thumb and middle fingers to touch the bridge of his nose. He shook his head at the awkward mess that was Richard, but decided to encompass warmth and maturity before signaling the Live Pod session to begin. The six participants raised their heads in affirmation; some of them with a bit of childish glee, pulling out their satellite phones to wage war.
Litz wrenched a large pink phone from her pocket and typed on the screen as if writing a distress call: ‘Stoney looks like my legs last week, unshaved and pale with a baby fat reduction.’
CKB sneered at Litz with nuanced insecurity, wiping his nose like a caveman and ‘podding’ with pensive energy: ‘My daddy told me that life is about… Oh, look, a dog rubbing his bum on the lawn. What was he sayin’?’
Richard pulled out his black reading glasses and listened to his fellow competitors tapping their screens with ravenous indulgence. Every second that his cursor flashed with nothing on the screen was a barnacle on his pride.
In a rare showing of her childish intensity, Fassim raised her shoulders and glanced hungrily from side to side while tapping with her thumbs: ‘I once took a picture of Justin Bieber that was worth $500, but by the time I got back to the studio, it was worth only $50.’
Jazzy locked eyes with Fassim for a few seconds, then smiled and showed a softer demeanor: ‘Watching Richard struggle to form a thought is like waiting for a gorilla to pick his nose at the zoo.’
Stoney seemed oblivious to the whole experience, branding it as high school drama, but he elected to engage for the money: ‘Who wants to bet that Litz will shake her fists at some point tonight?’
Richard sensed that time was running out for him to put an iron in the fire and began tapping his phone with urgency: ‘I don’t believe in evolution, but when CKB walks in the room, he seems like the missing link.’
The Republican showed off a proud grin, feeling like a composer who finished a brilliant symphony just in time for the royal ball. One by one, each of his co-stars stopped typing and gazed at him with horrified eyes. Richard detected the brazen hand of disapproval emerging to smite him.
“Do you realize how f’ing racist that is?” CKB demanded with a deadly stare, standing up from his barstool with an impulse of fury to confront Richard. “Are you calling me an ape, son?”
The other performers and members of the cast all froze; not knowing how to handle this bold insult.
“That’s not racist!” Richard responded with uncertainty, shifting in his chair as he adjusted his reading glasses. “I was just saying that you’re like a-“
“Gorilla!” CKB interrupted, moving closer to the smaller man until Richard was sitting in his shadow. “Do gorillas wear clothes?” The career criminal asked as he gripped his black shirt by the collar and pulled it upward.
Mike Farr had no idea that his television show was turning into a war zone. He had locked himself in a small storage room with a courier who arrived moments ago. The redheaded bike messenger had a sizable afro of curly locks. His body was pale and lanky, except for a pair of muscular legs that protruded from his expensive blue biking shorts. The man wore a white muscle shirt but had no bicep muscles to display.
Mike’s hands began to tremble as he gazed at the courier’s threatening blue eyes, which were behind a pair of gold-framed eyeglasses. He plunged the fingers of his right hand delicately between his short strands of dark brown hair. Mike's left hand rested on a jade-colored box, and he tapped the lengths of twine that held it together. The box was nearly two feet tall and a foot thick. It seemed to have expensive contents based on its vibrant colors and golden foil corners.
“This is only enough for a month,” Mike protested with peaceful gestures, tightening the muscles of his abs under his suit to speak with more authority. “I paid you for six months,” he said with a deliberate smile, taking a moment to straighten his red and white spotted tie.
The courier sneered at the television executive and made a point of looking up and down his Armani suit with moral abandon.
“Our six-month price is now the one-month price.” The shifty redhead replied without explanation, unmoved by Mike’s plea. “You already know how things are, Mike; I shouldn’t have to coddle you all the time. Jennifer didn’t give me any grief. I can take it back if you want.” He offered with a shrug, pulling out a white satellite phone with callous indifference and looking at a series of text messages.
“The six-month price will be fine,” Mike agreed with reluctance, rubbing his upper incisor against his lower lip. “Wait a second,” he said with another thought, placing his hand on the courier’s shoulder. “What if I didn’t like the six-month price? Could we meet and get things back on track?”
“These prices,” the Courier began with a prideful smirk, tapping the box on the side with his free hand, “will continue to rise. If you don’t like it, then you and Jennifer can learn to swim.” He ended his statement with a rehearsed stare, demonstrating for Mike the blackness of his deeper self.
“Okay, well-“ Mike began with an outstretched hand, but the courier shook his head with irritation, stepping toward the door.
The militant bike messenger opened the door and departed the area with almost silent footsteps, leaving Mike to hear the statements of outrage coming from his set.
“Look, I’m sure he didn’t mean it!” Jazzy exclaimed with a bit of piety, keeping her body between CKB and Richard. “We all know you’re not a gorilla-“
“Yeah, I was talking about cavemen!” Richard interrupted with his arms extended, standing upright to back away from the raging criminal.
“Why don’t you just calm down, Mighty Joe Young?” Stoney prodded with a smile as he stood up and glared at CKB from less than two feet away. “We’re not afraid of you.”
CKB turned toward Stoney with simmering rage, recognizing that the man was trying to own him with a blatant insult. He let his posture relax to a casual coolness that would be welcome at a jazz nightclub. The devious criminal then summoned a smile for his antagonist and approached Stoney with elitist confidence.
Stoney snarled at the lack of a reaction from the man, unwilling to buy what his adversary’s smile was selling. To his revulsion, the career criminal held out his right hand in a staged offering of peace. The police officer felt agitated at this gesture, knowing that it would make him look like a power-crazed public servant. He decided to play the game as structured and reached out to take CKB’s hand.
The criminal latched onto to Stoney’s hand with a grip like a rat trap, jerking his right arm backward to unbalance the police officer. When the Japanese man’s body tilted forward, CKB used the index and middle finger of his left hand to dig into his armpit.
Stoney winced in pain, and his fair brown eyes expressed a feeling of shock and betrayal. The officer scowled at his attacker and produced a 45 caliber, semi-automatic pistol from the waistband of his pants.
“Whoa, God! Doug, pull the camera away!” Mike commanded his camera crew, knowing that the ten-second delay might save them from embarrassment. “Jennifer, make sure we cut that out of the live feed. Go to commercial now!”
The director took less than a second to gather his wits, pausing to glare at the cast as he would a group of misbehaving children. He then advanced toward Stoney with his palms facing outward, indicating a need for cooler heads and warmer hearts.
CKB released Stoney’s arm and raised his hands in the air out of instinct, seeming uncertain and aler
t. He stepped backward on the shag carpet, moving only a few inches at a time and refusing to make eye contact with the gunman.
“Stoney, I need you to put that gun away!” Mike ordered with an authoritative voice as he navigated the furniture on the living room set. “We can’t have any actual shots fired on this show. And let me remind you – that you’ve all signed contracts preventing you from pressing charges on one another. That means no jail time. It specifies no lawsuits. Our power of attorney even prevents you from going after the show or the network. So put the damn gun away right now!” The director shouted in a startling expression of his aggressive nature.
Stoney stared at the terrified faces of his fellow cast members for a moment, seeming to snap out of his frenzy. He put the pistol back into the concealed holster of his waistband and looked upon the set as if a bomb had almost detonated.
“Don’t you ever bring a gun on my set again!” Mike lamented with a sober tone, pointing his right index finger at Stoney and shaking it somewhat. “Why don’t you all grab some dinner? We’re going to wrap up the shoot for tonight, and we’ll start fresh after you get off work tomorrow.”
CKB and Stoney looked at one another with distilled pride, each wanting the other to recognize that this dispute wasn’t over. Jazzy grabbed CKB