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PART ONE: JORDAN
By Saara "Mama D" Dutton
Jordan Angora had the best ass in Hollywood. It was high and luscious and round and resembled a ripe peach. Except without
the fuzz that peaches have, because she got her legendary ass waxed every two weeks by the famous ass waxer to the stars,
Orgasmo. He also waxed her arms, legs, cooch, tits and face. It was a tightly kept Tinseltown secret that Hollywood’s
reigning sex goddess was in fact a waxed Sasquatch.
The medical term was Hypertrichosis. But to Orgasmo, she was just “one hairy bitch.” And after the third time
she’d sauntered into his Rodeo Drive salon for an appointment and conveniently left all her money at home, Orgasmo wasn’t
feeling so secretive. As soon as her Louboutin heels clacked out the front door, he’d picked up his sapphire studded
Nokia and whispered to gossip maven Jose Hyatt that if he saved up all the hair he’d removed from her body over the
past year, it could make a very nice wig for some lice-ridden Eastern Block orphan.
But with her hairiness kept in check, Jordan was the hottest piece of masturbatory material since Britney Spears donned a
Catholic schoolgirl uniform. And everyone in Hollywood, from powerful blockbuster directors like Guy Head to the lowliest
hack writers like Chad Lint wanted to tap that peach ass and tap it hard. Her publicist often claimed that Jordan Angora had
the kind of ass that could make an entire Guatemalan monastery think twice about celibacy.
Jordan was currently snorting her mid morning line of cocaine off of her mirrored bed table. She was naked; her fine (currently
hairless) ass caressed by leopard print satin sheets. The smell of her lover’s Dolce & Gabbana cologne lingered on the
pillow next to her.
The previous night’s lovemaking had left her unsatisfied. Maybe it was his choice of music. Who could cum with Celine
Dion blaring from the stereo? Maybe it was the fact that he liked to wear her La Perla lingerie, and looked better than her
in it. Or maybe she was just bored with Chance Hardbone. Sure, he was a matinee idol to millions of screaming fans, his chiseled
face peering out from newsstands across the nation. But to Jordan, Chance Hardbone was just a dull guy who liked nothing better
than to play Connect 4 for hours on end. Worse, when he won he’d pump his fist in the air, shouting,
“Connect THAT, Beeeyotch!”
If only Chance knew how many times she’d let him win.
Just then she heard her little chi-weenie dog barking. She leaned over the bed and grabbed his half Chihuahua/half wiener
dog body. “Good morning Tinkle. How’s my boy? How’s my little Tinkle doggie? Huh? Ooh! Good boy. Good Tinkle.”
Jordan looked out the bay window while kissing Tinkle’s Versace-collared neck and saw a new pool boy. He was lean and
sexy, his skin glistened with sweat. His six-pack abs were harder than Detroit steel.
But best of all, this boy seemed to be doing a great job cleaning the algae, leaves, condoms and other shit out of the pool.
Jackpot! It was so tough to find hired help in Beverly Hills who took such a menial job seriously, and weren’t just
half-assing it between auditions. But with a body like that…he had to be an aspiring star.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said. It was her maid, Concepcion.
“Buenos Dias Miss Angora,” she said politely, offering Jordan a silver tray that contained her mail, a cup of
green tea and a diet pill called Sexidrine.
“You know I don’t understand Spanish,” she said. “Speak English.”
Puta barata, thought Concepcion. “Good morning, Miss Angora.”
She popped her pill and took a sip of tea, burning her tongue. “Damn it CUN-SEP-SHUN, I told you not to make the tea
so hot.”
Besa mi culo, thought Concepcion. “I’m so sorry Miss Angora.”
Jordan rolled her eyes. “Who’s the new pool guy?”
Concepcion looked out the window. “His name is Mitch. Mitch Pumper.”
“Well, maybe I’ll introduce myself today,” she said, with a sigh. “I’m sure that’s why
he took the job in the first place.”
Chinga tu madre, thought Concepcion. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said as she left the room.
Jordan sorted through the mail—bill, invite to a red carpet event, postcard from the Grand Canyon, Bed Bath and Beyond
coupon-and…what was this large manila envelope? Careful not to chip her red nails, recently painted by famous nail polisher
to the stars Gina Torrid, she opened it. Out slid a grainy photo of herself from many years ago.
“Holy shit!” she shrieked, scaring her little chi-weenie, who leaped off the bed and began dragging his ass on
the white fur rug.
It wasn’t possible! Jordan stared at the photo like a Paris model inspecting a fat Midwestern housewife’s ass.
It was too horrible. She thought she’d put all that behind her! Who found out? Who? How could this have happened? She’d
hidden her tracks so well…
“No! No! No!” she wailed, pounding her fists on the deluxe feather pillows, causing them to burst. White feathers
sailed into the air, falling around her like fake snow purchased by an L.A. mogul for his kid’s Christmas party. She
rolled around in the feathers, sobbing.
If anyone found out of this she’d be ruined. Sure, these days you could bounce back after a tax evasion scandal or drug
abuse or alien abduction accounts or unflattering crotch shots taken while exiting a limo. It usually just took a stint in
rehab or volunteering with some underprivileged kids. But this…this…
The phone rang.
“Hello?” she whispered, half convinced the person who mailed the incriminating photo was on the other end of the
line.
“Jordan, honey how are you?”
It was blockbuster director Guy Head.
“Oh…Hi Guy.” Damn. She’d totally forgotten about their conference call. She sneezed and wiped a feather
off her bare breast. In doing so, she had to admire the rosy sumptuousness of her nipples.
“Hey baby, we’re havin’ a three way-we got everybody’s favorite screen writer Chad Lint on the line
with us too. Say 'hi' Chad.”
“Uh…hi.” Chad mumbled. He hated these idiotic conference calls. Chad couldn’t understand why he even
had to be on the phone since no one in Hollywood gave a fuck about writers anyway. Why did he ever leave New York for this
shithole, this wasteland of talentless, soulless morons? He rubbed his tired eyes under his glasses. What was he saying? He
knew why. He was in this mess because of the Jersey mob, a bottle of tequila and a bootleg copy of Guns n’ Roses unreleased
album, “Chinese Democracy”. But if this movie was a hit, he’d be able to make his triumphant return to Brooklyn.
He just needed one big hit. Just one…
“Alright,” said Guy. “Now the studio execs see this movie as 'Steel Magnolias' meets 'Mission Impossible'.
You know, chick flick meets dick flick.”
Suddenly Jordan panicked. She felt claustrophobic. Frightened. Paranoid.
And she had to pee.
She just couldn’t do this right now.
“I just can’t do this right now!” she blurted out. “Why don’t we set up a meeting at the Polo
Lounge or something for next week?”
Guy pushed. “Listen, Jordan, this won’t take long. We just need to hammer out some details…”
Jordan glanced at the photo again and shouted “No! I fucking told you no! Just call up my assistant and we’ll
set up a meeting.”
She slammed the phone down.
Guy coughed and said, “She’s a real sweetheart huh?”
Chad laughed uncomfortably. He needed this movie. If he didn’t settle up with the Jersey mob, he was dead. Worse, his
writing career would be over before he’d won a Pulitzer.
“She’s lucky God gave her that sweet ass,” said Guy. “Otherwise she’d still be bagging groceries
in Pittsburgh.”
Of course, what neither man knew was that Jordan Angora’s sweet ass had nothing to do with God and everything to do
with Leo Plastique, famous plastic surgeon to the stars.
“Is that where she’s from?” asked Chad. “Pittsburgh?”
“Does it matter?”
Hanging up the phone, Guy pushed the girl under his desk away. There was a loud suction noise as her lips and tongue slipped
off his cock. She banged her head on the mahogany drawer.
“What’s wrong?” she whined, pushing her blonde hair out of her face and wiping her mouth. It had taken her
three months of working in the mailroom to get to this position.
She didn’t want to squander her opportunity.
“It’s no good,” he said, zipping up his Armani trousers. “I can only cum if I’m talking business
at the same time.” He pulled out a wad of twenties from his baby calf skin wallet. “Can you go get me a pastrami
sandwich? No mayo, extra horseradish. Thanks kid.”
Meanwhile, Jordan leapt out of her feather-strewn bed and ran to the bathroom, the photo and envelope still in hand. She stared
at the photo, tears streaming down her cheeks. Finally, she ripped it up into tiny little pieces, then looked at the postal
code on the envelope. Of course. The San Fernando Valley; land of Olive Garden restaurants and porn studios. The message
attached said,
“I’ll be contacting you.”
She held her freshly botoxed forehead in her hands, whispering, “But when you bastard? When?”
She stood up, admiring her smooth, sexy body in the mirror. Glancing out the bathroom window, she caught another glimpse of
pool boy Mitch Pumper. Damn he looked good. And best of all--the pool was sparkling. She ran her fingers over her stomach
and in between her thighs. Yes. A good fuck might take her mind off things. She took a quick shower, slathered on some sheep
placenta youth rejuvenating cream, threw on a silk bathrobe and went to the pool.
Jordan didn’t take long to get what she wanted.
Within ten minutes she was ripping off his sweaty jeans and they were behind the pool house, having hot, wild, body slappin’
sex.
But both of their minds were elsewhere.
Mitch Pumper, born Mitch Pumpernelli, couldn’t wait to tell his uncle Sergio Pumpernelli, capo di capo of Jersey’s
most powerful mob, that the plan was already in motion. And it all happened even sooner than expected. This was going to be
a breeze…
As for Jordan, getting skillfully plowed from behind by Mitch Pumper offered the answer to the age old question,
“Just who do you have to fuck around here to get a clean pool?”
PART TWO: MITCH
By Kristyn "Clams Casino" Martin
Mitch Pumper threw his head back in ecstasy and roared as he climaxed. “Wow, that was great, baby,” Mitch said
into her ear as threw himself back onto the soft grass and lit a cigarette.
“Yea it was…,” Jordan mumbled as she drifted to sleep. Mitch lay beside this mysterious, beautiful, fantastically
coiffed woman. He studied her face, arms, body as she slept. Her round plastic mounds of breasts remained plump and balanced
atop her chest like two eggs, poached perfectly.
That’s weird, he thought. Is that a nipple hair?
He dismissed the thought as he thought back on their incredible liaison.
This guise as pool boy was working perfectly, Mitch thought. And Jordan Angora was playing right into his plan. He may look
hot and dumb – but Mitch Pumpernelli was a man of deep, unrelenting ambition.
He couldn’t wait to let his Uncle Sergio know that the plan was moving along perfectly. He was getting closer to that
little shit Chad Lint.
Chad had no idea what Mitch looked like. And with his name cleverly shortened from Pumpernelli to “Pumper” –
Mitch’s disguise was complete.
Chad Lint had been given plenty of opportunities to repay his debt to the Pumpernelli family. Instead, he chose to flee. In
the name of all that is sacred – from his mother’s grave to a well-prepared gnocci potad in a tomato cream pesto
sauce -- Mitch was going to make sure this was the last time Chad Lint ran.
And hell, maybe he could make it big in Hollywood too.
A smile played across his face as he thought about it. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sun on his face.
He felt something warm and soft on his balls and smiled. She was awake. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation.
“Tinkle no! no!!” The maid ran towards them, shooing the dog away, who was licking all the salty love from Mitch’s
hearty scrotum.
“Aghh!!” yelled Mitch as he shoved Tinkle away.
Jordan arose from her slumber and looked up at the maid, not even trying to cover her sumptuous nakedness. She stretched with
the limber laziness of a cat after a large can of tuna.
“What is it Concepcion? And in English this time, dammit.”
“Misses Angora, your assistant - on el telephono.”
Jordan grabbed the phone from her maid and said, mildly annoyed, “WHAT is it? Make it fast.”
“Um, yes haaa, hi Ms. Angora? It’s Kelly. Kelly Clitoro--”
“Yes Kelly. I know, I know.”
“That film director character-- Guy Head? He just called,” her assistant drawled into the phone.
“He set up a meetin’ for 2 o’clock tomorrow. Your day planner showed you were free so ahh just went ahead
and…”
“FINE. Fine. I’ll be there Kelly.” Jordan said and hung up.
Mitched layed next to her perfectly still and listened to her conversation. Guy Head was a big-time director - working on
some chick flick with that no good Chad Lint. It was time to set the wheels in motion.
“Everything OK Ms. Angora?” Mitch said in his most nonchalant voice.
“Fine, baby, just fine. Just an annoying little meeting with an annoying little director. And call me Jordan, will you?”
she gave a sexy smirk. “I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other,” she whispered
as she ran her hand down his rock hard stomach to his warm, throbbing epicenter.
Mitch’s mind started to go hazy with lust – but he couldn’t give in just yet.
“I really do envy your life. Your whole life is a dream. I’ve always wanted to be an actor.”
Jordan stopped caressing him and propped up on an elbow to take a good hard look at him.
My oh my he was a tall drink of water, she thought. Lean, muscular and sinewy, Mitch Pumper was nothing short of a thoroughbred.
His wavy curly hair, sensual lips, Romanesque nose and chiseled good looks would get women across America wetter than a spring
day in Tallahassee.
But she didn’t buy his innocent act. She knew why he was here. He wanted her to get him an audition. She was willing
to indulge him. Especially if there was going to be an act two in their afternoon delight.
“Why don’t you come with me to the meeting, Mitch. You never know, maybe you’ll score a small part in the
movie.”
Mitch exhaled. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath in anticipation. “Well thank you Ms. Ang –
I mean, Jordan. Thank you! How in the world can I make this up to you?”
Jordan took his hand and gave him a sultry, come hither look.
“Why don’t we take this party upstairs and talk about it.”
Hours later Mitch awoke to a quiet, darkened room. His body was tangled with Jordan’s – both were spent from a
marathon of raw, animalistic lovemaking. Her expensive sheets were soaked in sweat and pheromones and various assorted love
juices.
He lay in silence and marveled at how easily he had been able to launch his plan into action.
Mitch quietly untangled himself from Jordan’s heavy embrace, grabbed his pants and went into the bathroom. Jordan stirred,
stretched, and watched him walk away from her.
She wasn’t sure why she had invited Mitch Pumper to the directors meeting. Maybe it was his rough good looks –
or his formidable expertise in lovemaking. But , no - it was something more. She saw something in Mitch Pumper that she saw
in herself. A determined, unrelenting will to get ahead at any cost.
Her heart stirred… something she hadn’t felt in years. Could it be she was…?? No. No, of course not.
The last time she had felt anything for a man was… Lance Spunk. He was her first and only real love. She thought back
to that disgusting photo she got in the mail earlier in the day and cursed his name under her breath.
She couldn’t believe his audacity. So many years since she had seen him and now he’s going to pull this bullshit?
She reached across the bed to her nightstand and opened the drawer.
Wrapped in a silk cloth was a .22 caliber pistol. She had it here to protect her from crazy fans – and you better believe
there had been many through the years. But now she was going to use it to put a quick end to his blackmailing ways.
No one stood in the way of Jordan Angora. Especially that plain, poor nobody, Lance Spunk. She would find him, and when he
least expected it, she would end her little problem.
She stroked the metal through the silk and thought once again of Mitch. Or maybe – just maybe – she could coax
his grateful little ass to take care of this problem for her.
In the bathroom, Mitch sat on the toilet and sighed. He was exhausted. And he wished there was something to read in here while
he took care of business.
Figures the lady wouldn’t have literature, he thought. He doubted she even read.
He scanned the luxurious bathroom and marveled at the excess. Gold drenched the fixtures. An enormous crystal chandelier dangled
above a large, deep whirlpool bathtub and richly woven rugs in plush Egyptian cotton covered the titled floor.
Huh. Even the trash can is expensive, he thought as he picked it up to look at the intricate mosaic tiling on the side.
That’s when he noticed it. The shredded photo – mixed in with a few q-tips and tissues.
He fished the remnants out of the garbage can and carefully tried to piece it together.
At first it didn’t register what he was looking at – was it a bear? No – it seemed to human. Was it a gorilla?
Maybe, but the features were off. He tried to hold it to the light when something slightly familiar about the beast’s
expression made him realize with horror he was looking directly into the eyes of Jordan Angora – or perhaps her offspring.
Disgusted, he felt the bile rise in his throat.
He fished his cell phone out of his pants and dialed.
“Haaa baybbby,” the woman’s voice drawled on the other end of the line.
“Kelly, honey, you are NOT going to believe what I just dug up at Angora’s house.”
“Mitch, honey… are you allright?”
“I’m fine – I’m fine I just have to tell you that we might have our meal ticket. I just found –
”
There was a knock at the bathroom door. It was Jordan.
“Mitch I’m coming in – I’ll have Concepcion draw us a bath.”
Mitch fumbled with the phone, dropping a few shreds of the photo.
“I’ll be right there- give me a second Ms. Ang - I mean, Jordan.”
“Mitch hunnnnyy?” he heard from his cell phone.
The door knob began to turn. “I’m coming in!” Jordan said in a sing song voice.
As he jumped up to hide the photo, a shred fell into the murky depths of the toilet.
“Shit!” he said as he fumbled with his pants.
There was no doubt about it. Things were getting hairy for Mitch Pumper.
PART THREE: LANCE
By "Sadie LaSalle"
The bathroom door flung wide-open and as quickly as Jordan had opened it, she closed it. The stench was overwhelming; Drakkar
Noir mixed with rotten egg with a touch of cumin. She could forgive that he took care of business in her pristine bathroom
as opposed to using the servants quarters. There was something quite sexy with Mitch being comfortable in her own home so
soon; however, Drakkar Noir was unforgivable. Jordan had molded many diamonds-in-the rough over the years and she decided
at that moment, while still plugging what was left of her nose, Mitch would be her next pet project.
Mitch, relieved that he wasn’t caught, carefully stuck the pieces of the photo into the back-pocket of his 501's and
sheepishly exited the bathroom.
"Um, hi, Jordan, sorry about that I, uh must not be used to all this fancy LA food."
"Fancy LA food" chuckled Jordan under her breath. Post-coital they munched on enchilada’s made by one of Concepcion’s
kids. Or were they made by her nieces and nephews, perhaps sisters and brothers? Jordan could never keep up with the help’s
family ties. She associated big families with the lower class, unless, of course the children were adopted from various third-world
villages around the world by those more fortunate living in Beverly Hills.
"No need to apologize," Jordan whispered into Mitch’s ear. "We have a big day tomorrow, so it’s best that we
call it a night."
Jordan and Mitch retired to her bed and while he fell asleep instantly, Jordan was plagued by images of that photo.
Guy Head was also having a sleepless night. The anticipation of tomorrow’s meeting was weighing on him like one of
Pamela Anderson’s boobs. This movie had to be made, but it wasn’t for the money. Guy was recently named one
of Hollywood’s top-ten wealthiest living between the five-block radius of Santa Monica Boulevard and Barrington by Variety.
This was his opportunity to finally bed Jordan. He had been blown by almost every A-list Hollywood starlet and despite his
seven-figure bank account, his numerous blockbusters and countless awards he wouldn’t feel success until he found it
in the form of Jordan’s collagen-injected lips pressed firmly around his shaft.
"Christ," Guy exclaimed to nobody but himself. "Ben Affleck didn’t receive marquee billing in my latest film because
he has talent, it was his former girlfriend J Lo whose talent of licking the taint catapulted that pussy to stardom."
After downing a fifth of Scotch, popping a few Xanax and watching Girls Gone Wild in hi-def, Guy still couldn’t fall
asleep. He decided that it was time to place an emergency text which simply read "get over here bitch."
Brandee (two e’s no y) squealed with delight when she received her lover’s message. She quickly freshened up
by applying Wet n Wild’s Tangerine Dream to her lips while simultaneously wiping her other lips using a flushable moist
toilette.
Brandee arrived and knocked hungrily on Guy’s door. Guy immediately grabbed her, threw her up and against the foyer
wall, rattling the photos of him and movie greats including his personal favorite Sty Stallone. She wrapped her perfectly
sculpted legs around his waist, bore her acrylic nails into his buttocks and back and rammed him harder than the pole she
used to dance on at The Body Shop. Guy came with such force that he left them both paralyzed. Once his senses returned,
he let her drop to the floor and stumbled to the bedroom.
"You’ve got the magic touch baby," he yelled from the kitchen. "Feel free to spend the night, just not in bed with
me."
Brandee was happy to continue to play this ‘muse’ role as long as the mortgage on her Marina Del Rey condo and
her lease payments on her cherry-red Mercedes SL-500 continue to get paid. She had always embraced her reputation as a dumb
whore. It’s the perfect smoke-screen in her master plan to become the next Jordan Angora.
As Guy drifted off to sleep, Jordan woke up in a sweat screaming "damn you Lance Spunk, damn you to hell!"
Meanwhile, in the bowels of the Valley, Lance Spunk dreamed of the day when he could stroke Jordan’s hairy ass once
again.
The pungent smell of the 818 area code transported him back to the years of hot love-making he and Jordan had while traveling
the world as circus performers. The aroma of elephant manure mixed with her armpit sweat was intoxicating
Lance had begun his career as a lion tamer when he realized that he had a fetish for furry mammals. The moment he met bearded
lady Jordan, known throughout Bulloch County as "The Sasquatch Goddess," he knew that she had to be his.
He had recently seen her smooth, hairless body on a movie poster and was shocked. Why would she have forsaken her sexy hairiness
for this plastic Hollywood ideal?
He knew that he had to convince her that hairy is beautiful. And tomorrow, after following her for weeks, she would once
again cry those sacred words, "Lance, spunk on my back hair!"
As he turned into the Olive Garden parking lot, he screamed "Damn those Brazilians and their hot wax."
Just then, he saw his long-time circus companion, Steve Studley the dwarf clown waiting by the valet stand. Steve too had
a love for Jordan and could only feel close to her through the images he had of Jordan and Lance’s naked trapeze acts.
He still had a collection of explicit photos of them that he had taken through a hole in the circus tent...
The following morning, as the sun beamed its rays through the LA smog, the meeting was well underway.
However, Chad couldn't care less about writing this script, he was obsessing on how he knew Mitch. Did they take a writing
class together in Hollywood?, did he jerk him off during an experimental phase in college?
No! It was something in his eyes and then like a smack on the head from the Reverend Benny Hin, it came to Chad and he gasped,
"those are the eyes of a Pumpernelli!"
Chad knew that he had to get out of there immediately, so he feigned a cell-phone call and exclaimed to the group, "I must
run, I’m late for my weekly colonic." He ran out of there like Clay Aiken from a willing woman’s vagina.
Mitch, perplexed by his sudden exit and the word colonic, wasn’t able to deliver the threatening note that he carefully
crafted for days which read, ‘Pay Now or Die.’
At Chad’s fleeing, the meeting came to an end.
Mitch walked Jordan to her car, jumped into his Ford F-150 and sped away to meet fellow mobster, Steve Studley. On his way,
he stopped at the local photo mat to make copies of the newly pieced together incriminating photo.
Feeling smug with multiple copies of the future cover of Star Magazine tucked securely under his buff arm, Mitch headed toward
the canyons that connected Santa Monica and Malibu. Unbeknownst to Mitch, he was being followed by a mystery man in what
appeared to be a clown car.
Mitch, being the crack mobster that he was, finally realized that he was being tailed and emulated his hero, Tony Soprano
and moved throughout the winding roads. He cranked up the radio to blare the rock jock anthem "Living on a Prayer." Singing
along with Bon Jovi, he sped along at 90 mph, dodging in between Porsche SUV’s and BMW convertibles, but he still couldn’t
lose this asshole.
Seconds later, the irony of "Living on a Prayer’ would not be lost on him as he spun out of control and the car careened
over a guard-rail where he and the photo met their fiery deaths.
Lance, the asshole in the other car, lit up a joint. Feeling satisfied that he had rid LA of another one of Jordan’s
lovers, smiled as the fragrant smoke hit the back of his throat. Damn that Orgasmo Queen sure gets good pot, he thought.
Without knowing it, the stoned Lance Spunk had just cruised past Leo Plastique’s Plastic Surgery Center where Jordan
and Joan Rivers were just leaving after a "buy one get one free" lipo session.
After Jordan air kissed Joan and her precious Pekinese, she slid into the backseat of her Bentley.
"FUCK," she roared. "Raoul, turn this car around immediately and go back to Guy Head’s office."
Panicked, Jordan had realized that she left Tinkle in his brand new Juicy Couture carrying case in that scum bag’s office.
She quickly texted Guy’s receptionist, not realizing that she was diligently servicing him. As they approached his
office on Wilshire, she demanded that Raoul fetch the dog, as she did not want to run the risk of bumping into Guy. She was
in no mood to fend off his advances.
As she sat in the car, she looked around the parking lot and noticed a familiar face. She peeled off her oversized Chanel
sunglasses and saw none other than that overweight, pink-haired gossip Jose Hyatt talking with Chad Lint and some hooker with
orange lipstick. She had despised Jose ever since he scribbled the word TWAT over a beautiful photo taken of her at last
year’s Oscars.
It then struck her, "oh my God," she cried, the photo!
PART FOUR: CHAD, JOSE, SERGIO, LINDA, BRANDEE, AND THE CLOWN CAR
By Peter Olson
Jose Hyatt leaned on the hood of his late-model Camaro pretending to pay attention to the screenwriter who was moving his
lips in front of him. As the California wind breezed over his thrift-store Armani suit and his faux Ferragamo shoes, Jose’s
mind wandered. “I know he says he has a good tip, but how am I — a pink haired gay Latin-American gossip columnist
who participated in an MTV rap competition — supposed to pay attention to a screenwriter? I could get blackballed from
the L.A. Men’s Health Gymnasium just for talking to him. Ugh.”
“Jose! Jose!” Chad Lint shouted, snapping him back into reality. “Jose, are you even paying attention?
I’m telling you this is big. Brandee here says that Jordan Angora…”
“Listen honey,” Jose interrupted. “Jordan Angora is old news. Old old news. Everyone from here to Reseda
already knows all about her drug use, her bulimia, her anorexia, her reverse-anorexia and the fact she got double pregnant
by Sammy LeFrank, you know the one who starred in last summer’s hit movie that involved robots that could change, maybe
even transform, into cars and back. I mean Jordan Angora is almost 27. She’s positively geriatric.”
The thought of anybody above the age of 25 getting double pregnant by anyone made Jose feel nauseous. He straightened up
his posture and almost unconsciously ran his hands along his ascot, just in time to see Jordan’s Bentley screaming towards
them across the parking lot.
Jose, Chad, and Brandee jumped in separate directions as Jordan deftly steered her Bentley into the front bumper of Jose’s
Camaro.
Jose stood up and turned to Jordan who was in the process of exposing her genitals to the greater population of south Los
Angeles as she exited the car. “Jordan, honey, I hope you’re not still sore about that whole ‘Twat’
thing.”
“You leave my sore twat out of this,” Jordan shouted, “ I’m only here for Tinkle.”
“Second door to the left after the lobby,” said Chad.
“Shut up, writer.” Said Jordan. “Why are you talking to this queefing cock gobbler anyway? I swear by
God and Armani that if any dirt of mine makes it on to his yellow rag, I’ll cut your balls off and feed them to a Namibian
orphan. I don’t care if you did write a movie starring Diane Keaton and Queen Latifah.”
Chad lint turned toward Jordan. His Hollywood screenwriter’s uniform of a black wrinkled shirt, worn blue jeans, and
shoes that were at least three years old put him in stark contrast to the gallery of brand names that surrounded him. Just
as he was about to yell something along the lines of “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do you cystitis-ridden
slunt, “ a yellow Mini-cooper slammed into Jordan’s Bentley.
Lance Spunk has been happy. He had both knocked off some of his competition and knocked himself off after a prolonged bout
of bearskin-rug-aided autoerotic asphyxiation. He had gone out for a congratulatory, post-masturbatory drive only to see
Jordan—his Jordan—surrounded by two men in a parking lot. He did the only rational he could think of—which,
coming from an unbalanced former circus performer, involved choosing from a highly limited menu of potential actions —
and crossed three lanes, the median, three more lanes, the curb and a thin strip of glass to swerve his Mini Cooper into the
Bentley. Lance staggered from the car.
“Lance Spunk!” Jordan screamed. “Do you remember what I told you the last time I saw you? Go back to the
circus and put your head back in the elephant cooch that spawned you.”
“You best not take that tone with me, Jordan,” Lance retorted. “I’ve got grainy video of you walking
through Montana. One call from me and every cryptozoologist from here to British Columbia will be all over your ass. Your
beautiful, hairy, peach-like ass. “
Jordan pulled out her pistol and screamed, a howling Sasquatch scream. Somewhere in the next valley a mournful howl drifted
back in reply. Lance Spunk dropped to his knees just as the door to the studio office opened and blockbuster director Guy
Head walked out.
Guy Head was tired. He had just completed a long conference call in which he had simultaneously completed a corporate deal
with a rival studio and completed his own deal into the face and hair of his secretary, who followed him out of the building,
carrying Jordan’s Juicy Couture doggy carrier with Tinkle hanging his head out the back. He did not expect to see the
writer of his next movie, his mistress, a Hollywood gossip columnist, a busted Camero, a dented Bentley, a totaled Mini-cooper,
and the star of his next movie holding a former trapeze artist at gunpoint in the parking lot of his office.
“What the hell is going on here? Some kind of goat-felching 12-step meeting?”
“Guy?” Brandee shouted.
“Who is this?” Guy’s secretary demanded.
“Why am I having to even deal with this,” Guy Head thought to himself. “I mean, I directed a series of
franchise films about a neurotic British woman played by a Texan actress. Tomorrow, I’m making a PA handle my mistresses.”
He turned angrily to his secretary. “Come on girlie, do you think you’re the only chick fresh off the bus from
Topeka to give Guy Head head?” Guy Head yelled, annoyed. Guy Head’s head turned red.
It is true that Guy’s secretary, Linda Honeypussy, was fresh off the bus — or at least the bus, by way of a brothel
in Vegas, a crackhouse in Compton, the Century Women’s Regional Correctional center in Lynwood, a halfway house in the
San Fernandino valley, and a methadone clinic on Hollywood boulevard — but she wasn’t about to let some two-bit
skank, a two-bit skank talking to a writer no less, get in the way of her rise to stardom. Linda Honeypussy grabbed a switchblade
from her purse ran at the Bentley-Camaro collision before her, screaming “Bitch I’ll kill you.”
Chad Lint, Jordan Angora, Jose Hyatt, Brandee (with two “e”s), Lance Spunk and a passing jogger all screamed and
scattered, none of them sure of exactly who was the target of Linda’s switchblade. Linda swung wildly, driving deep
scratches into the finely coiffed paint jobs of the assembled cars before fixating her gaze and direction on the bleach blonde
head of Brandee. Brandee swung her fake Prada bag defensively at the oncoming semen-stained badly permed blur of hairspray
and polyester rushing at her. She hit Linda squarely across the head, hard enough to knock the switchblade flying into the
air. It rotated as it soared over the assembled heads of the slice of Hollywood’s elite that had gathered there for
the street fight in the studio lot. Guy Head held up his forefinger and thumbs to frame the arc of the knife and thought
to himself, “I’m totally using this in my next film.” Chad Lint did the same.
The switchblade reached its apex and began to accelerate towards the crowd. It fell fast — faster and faster —
too fast for the crowd to get out of the way, until it implanted itself firmly in one of Jordan’s firm implants. A thin
pressurized stream of silicone shot out of the incision, spraying Chad and Jose before dying down and emptying into a puddle
at Jordan’s feet. Tinkle, thirsty after having been locked in Guy’s office all day, leaped out of her bag and
began lapping up the silicone puddle. Jordan dropped the gun and stared blankly forward, an almost serene expression on her
face.
“Jordan…Jordan honey…” said Guy, a modicum of concern poking through his tanned leathery skin.
“Yes, guy” said Jordan. She blinked.
“Jordan. You have a knife in your tit.” Guy said.
“Well…it’s not the first time.” Jordan replied.
The group stared at each other for a moment, their silence punctuated only by the sound of the traffic around them until the
screeching of five sets of car tires jolted the five of them out of their shocked stupor. Four long, black Lincoln Town Cars
and one tiny red clown car shot gravel and burned rubber across the parking lot until they encircled the combatants.
The clown car door opened to reveal the diminutive but surprisingly toned body of Steve Studley — little person, circus
impresario, and L.A. under boss to the Pumperelli family — dressed in a velour track suit zipped open to his navel.
Steve coolly looked over the assembled crowd before walking to one of the Town Cars and opening the door. An Armani clad
wise guy exited the car and walked briskly over to a second car, followed by Steve Studley. The two of them stood at attention
as they gingerly opened the door. A second grim wise guy emerged from the car, nodded curtly to Steve and the first and then
curtly ran to the third Town Car. The three men lined up in a phalanx, and the door opened. A third, identically suited
wise guy emerged, and the four men lined up two on a side around the rear passenger side door of the final town car. The
door slowly opened and out stepped an aged man in a grey flannel pinstriped suit.
The three wise guys walked the elderly man almost tenderly towards the group. He stared at them disapprovingly before speaking.
“Looks like some kind of asshole convention we got here.” He said.
“Who the hell are you?” Guy yelled, still contemplating the value of the coagulating silicone pool in front of
Jordan.
“I,” the old man intoned, “am Sergio Pumperelli, and these are my associates: from Italy - Tony Innuendo,
from Paris - Vincennces Double-Entendre, and from London – Nigel “the Veiled” Reference.” The three
enforcers all grunted identically. Steve Studley waited a moment and then cleared his throat.
“And I believe you know the midget.” Sergio Pumperelli continued. “We’re here to find out which one
of you scum bags killed my nephew. Now who killed Mitch Pumperelli?”
“Who the Hell is Mitch Pumperelli?” asked Jordan.
“It’s Mitch Pumper, you dumb citch. It’s your fucking pool boy. You know, the one you were fucking,”
yelled Chad.
“Chad Lint,” said Sergio Pumperelli. “Looks like we can kill two birds with one bullet here.” Sergio
trained his .44 magnum at Chad, who crumpled to his knees, murmuring “My Pulitzer! My Pulitzer!” over and over
to himself.
“What?” demanded Sergio. “What are you mumbling to yourself?”
“All I ever wanted was a Pulitzer!” moaned Chad.
“But you’re a screenwriter.” Said Tony Innuendo. “You can’t win a Pulitzer.”
“What?” said Chad.
“Yeah, uh, the Columbia Journalism School only awards the Pulitzer for the fields of public service, breaking news reporting,
investigative reporting, explanatory reporting, local reporting, national reporting, international reporting, feature writing,
commentary, criticism, editorial writing, editorial cartooning, breaking news photography and assorted works arts and letters.
There’s no Pulitzer screenwriting award, you palooka.”
“I’ll kill you all!” screamed Chad as he lunged at the nearest wise guy. He got about two feet before his
head exploded in a hail of bullets. Guy Head grabbed Jordan’s gun off the ground and fired a succession of shots at
Sergio, only to be kneecapped by the Steve Studley. Guy fell on Steve, crushing the midget and causing the 22 to misfire
and shoot Jose through the heart.
Sergio, mortally wounded by Guy’s barrage, fired two shots at Jordan, who slumped to the ground in front of her Bentley.
Lance, seeing his beloved sasquatch felled, grabbed the knife from her tit and charged Innuendo, Reference, and Double-Entendre.
He managed to stab the knife deep into Double-Entendre, who promptly expired (“It’s just…a little…prick,”
were his last words).
Innuendo and Reference shot Lance Spunk, riddling both his body and his Mini Cooper with bullets, piercing its gas tank.
The Mini Cooper exploded taking with it Linda, Nigel, and Tinkle, who, let’s face it, was already on her way out after
lapping up a quart of silicone. Tony Innuendo looked around, holstered his gun, let out a brief sigh, and spontaneously combusted.
And for a few seconds only the sound of the highway floated above the parking lot.
Brandee (with 2 “e”s) rolled out from under one of the Town Cars and stood up, surveying the scene. “What
horror,” she thought, “What carnage….What an opportunity! Jordan Angora is gone. There’s no one
to stand in my way! This is how people get their start in Hollywood! I’m going to be a Name now! I’m going
to be a star! As long as no one ever learns my secret.”
Brandee walked down Santa Monica Boulevard, secure in the knowledge that she was going to make it in this town, that
she was going to have her name above the title, that she’d one day be thanking everyone she knew on national television,
and that those pictures of her as West Virginia’s Bat Girl had long since been destroyed.
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