Greasepaint (3 page)

Chapter Four

Michael perches on the fire escape attached to the loft. His fingers move across the guitar automatically. He stares down toward the alleyway adjacent to his building. Street lamps dot the sidewalk and are visible, but the light doesn't come close to penetrating the gloom of the alleyway. The melody that Michael plays adds to that gloom. The despair pours from his fingertips and is translated by the guitar into a mournful wailing. He tries to remember a time before
him
and finds it difficult. He knew his parents loved him. They loved him very much until their recent deaths. After the incident, as it was called at home, Michael was a different person. His exuberance left. His interests changed and he poured himself into music, a solitary pursuit that left little time for a normal childhood. That was fine, he didn't have a shot at a normal childhood anyway. Grade school prodigy, high school genius and then off to Columbia.

During his teen years he became enamored with the macabre. Anything gruesome and supernatural fit the bill. He, naturally, combined his love of the horror genre with music and was pleasantly surprised (the first time in a long time) to stumble upon the horror-punk/rockabilly scene. Other musicians, some of them trained and degreed as well, melded their love of monster films, fifties and sixties camp, with haunting melodies and formed the nexus of the musical movement. It was escapism for Michael, the films and the music. He could disappear for days on end, lost in a fictional land where
he
was the pied piper that lures the nasties to their doom instead of one of the unwitting children drawn to the cliff's edge by a clever minstrel.

He continues to stare, drawn to the darkness of the alley. Michael's eyes close partially. His vision hazy, Michael can barely make out a figure attempting to hide behind one of the streetlamps. The bright yellow jumpsuit and shock of synthetic crimson hair is a dead giveaway, though. Michael's eyes shoot open.

From around a streetlamp steps Orzo the Clown, in the flesh. The clown smiles…that best smile…and waves just like the show is starting. Michael's fingers falter and a chord goes awry bringing the music to a halt.

Michael clamps his eyes shut as the music ends and tears squeeze themselves out despite the desperate clamping. Michael slowly opens his eyes to reveal…nothing. There is no figure at the streetlamp. Slightly relieved, Michael scans the area. A quick motion at the entrance of the alley catches his eye, something white moves like a shot into the alley. Michael turns, staring at the alley, waiting. There is nothing for a moment. Michael continues to stare, afraid to look away and afraid to keep gazing into the darkness. Still nothing.

The fingers appear around the corner. Oversized and clad in bright white gloves, the hand wraps itself around the corner of the building. The white gloves catch all of the meager light from the streetlamp so the hand appears to gleam. Michael sucks in a breath. The last time he saw that glove it was doing jazz hands in preparation to rape and murder him. Michael stands on the fire escape, stepping backward. Unbelieving, Michael shakes his head and clamps his eyes shut again.

The sound of the fire escape ladder descending pulls Michael out of his self-imposed blindness. He opens his eyes to find Orzo, smiling, leering, has pulled the fire escape ladder down to ground level. Michael cries out and backs toward the rear of the fire escape. Orzo steps up onto the ladder. Michael turns and cowers with a strangled sob. He holds the guitar out as if it were some kind of crucifix like the kind Peter Cushing would shove in Christopher Lee's face to save the village from the Prince of Darkness. Michael holds that guitar aloft without looking. He can hear, though. He can hear the clang of oversize clown shoes on metal fire escape steps. He cries out again, not words, but pure verbalized anguish. The touch, his touch, will come at any moment. Michael can't bear to look.

Michael isn't aware of how long he stays in that position but after what seems close to forever he carefully opens his eyes. He is very slow about it, but the precaution is for naught. Orzo isn't there. Michael stands to find the fire escape ladder back in its original position. He wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt and kicks the steps down. Michael slings his guitar across his back and descends the steps. He lands on pavement and makes straight for the well-lit street.

Michael walks for hours, He finally finds himself on a darkened sidewalk. The streetlights still dot the roadway. Michael holds his breath as he moves from light to light, in and out of the darkness, from one pool of incandescent safety to the next. The large pane of glass announcing Crazy Al's TV and Appliance doesn't catch Michael's attention.

“It's me! It's me! Your best pal Orzo!” blares from the window. Michael's attention is caught. He slowly turns, ready for anything. He is greeted by four television screens. Each of them has the smiling face of Orzo the Clown plastered across them. They are all, obviously, on the same channel. Michael, assured that the bastard was not live, moves toward the window. He stares into the devil's eyes until the camera switches to a studio talk show.

An interviewer's desk, like any standard late night talk show, sits off to the side with a guest couch on its stage right. A large sign above the desk reads Late Talk with Monty Reigns. Sitting below the sign, Monty Reigns himself shakes his head in disgust. Late fifties, silver-haired and marginally photogenic, Reigns has built a career on badgering guests, taking the moral high ground, and being a class A hypocrite. He turns to his guest—a wiry, thin and bespectacled young man of Michael's age, and scowls. A text graphic appears underneath the guest announcing him to be Dan Prescott, Jr., the son of Dumpy Dan.

Michael presses in closer to the glass, desperate to hear.

Still scowling at Dan Jr., Monty picks up a DVD of
The Complete Orzo the Clown Show
from his desk and holds it out at arm's length to the camera.

“And welcome back to the Monty Reigns show,” he begins. “If you're just tuning in, we are with Dan Prescott, Jr. You may remember his Dad, Dumpy Dan Prescott? Well Dumpy Dan was the sidekick of a perverted child molester, right Dan?”

Dan, Jr., half smiling, shakes his head and runs his fingers through his thinning, sandy blond hair. He takes the question in stride. He expected this.

“Monty, my father was a children's TV star…so was Orzo. After Orzo's death, the rights to the show went to my father. They brought a lot of joy to a lot of kids…”

“And a lot of something else to a few more kids!”

The audience, as is standard procedure on the Monty Reigns show, worships their loud, gregarious, controversial and obnoxious hero. They erupt in laughter.

Dan just shakes his head and turns away.

“As my discerning audience already knows, this puke right here is releasing, on DVD no less, the complete Orzo television series! All two seasons. Now, why was this ‘essential part of children's programming history' only on for two seasons, Mr. Prescott?”

Dan smiles again. “As you know, Orzo was killed during his arrest.”

“For being a pee pee toucher.”

The crowd roars its approval. Monty stands and waves his arms up and down, egging them on.

“Orzo, or Reginald Bent, was never tried,” Dan tries to get across only to be cut off by a belly laugh from Reigns. The talk show host picks up the DVD and shoves it in Dan's face. Dan flinches involuntarily much to the delight of the assemblage. They cheer, spoiling for a fight.

“That's because he died with a SWAT team at the door and a little boy chained in the basement! This is so wrong…glorifying a pedophile!”

Monty turns toward the crowd.

“Whaddya guys think? Is this right? Or is Mr. Dan Prescott, son of Dumpy, just as big a pervert as his hero?”

Dan stands up, trying to plead his case. He tries to address the crowd as well.

“Look—” he manages to get out before being cut off by the crowd. Monty leads them in a chant, overpowering anything Dan might have to say.

“Pervert! Pervert!” Reigns starts.

“Pervert! Pervert!” the audience picks up quickly.

Dan looks around the studio. He raises his hands in a show of defeat and slumps back onto the couch. Monty smiles, smelling blood. He looks right into the camera and points to the viewer as the crowd continues to chant.

“All right! Clam it! I've got a job for you fans of the Monty Reigns show.”

A graphic comes up on Monty's right side. It is a grainy picture of a young Michael emerging from Orzo's house. The boy is covered in a blanket and being led by the SWAT Leader.

“Everyone who hates pedophiles out there, we're looking for this kid. His name was withheld after the SWAT team got him out of that sleazy clown's pit! We want pictures, we want a name and we want to know where he is! His voice must be heard so porno pushing perverts like Danny here can own up to their mistakes!”

Dan, resigned to his fate on this show, simply lowers his head into his hands.

“E-mail your videos or pics or info or whatever to Monty at montyreigns.com. Got it? Be good to each other, we're out!” Monty continues to pander to the crowd as the credits roll.

The show blips off and is immediately replaced by
The Complete Orzo the Clown Show DVD
commercial as an announcer informs the viewing audience that the Monty Reigns Show is brought to you by you know who.

Chapter Five

The commercial plays itself out on the small television in the band's loft. Ricky sits before the TV, eyes wide. He shakes his head in disbelief, unsure of what he had just seen. Skeezer and Mona are behind him, packing up equipment in large plastic cases. Ricky turns, ready to inform his bandmates that goddamn Michael was just on TV and that a clown did something when the door flies open. Ricky changes his mind in a flash.

Michael stands in the doorway, framed by the weak light of the naked bulb in the hallway. His head is hung low, guitar still strapped across his back. Ricky scrambles to his feet and stands straight as a board as if he were caught masturbating or something. As slyly as possible, he turns the television off with the remote control. Michael enters.

“Hi…Michael,” Ricky offers. At that, Mona and Skeezer stop what they were doing and look up. Mona's face lights up, relieved that Michael is home. Just as quickly, it falls into a scowl. She returns to packing the equipment cases, a tad more violently than before. Skeezer saunters over to Michael. He is scowling and holds his arms out as he approaches.

“The proud eagle son returns!” Skeezer announces.

Ricky half-heartedly suppresses a laugh. Skeezer crosses his arms and just glares at Michael, waiting for an excuse.

“That's prodigal, dude,” Ricky says.

Ricky is unable to contain it any longer. He laughs out loud. Skeezer, annoyed, turns from Michael to Ricky, unable to decide who he hates more at that moment. He finally gives up.

“Fuck you both!” Skeezer manages to sputter out before he stomps through the front door. “I gotta get the van.”

Michael jerks a thumb at Mona and Ricky catches his drift. Ricky reaches in his pocket and pulls out a ring filled with different keys.

“He's not gonna get far without these,” Ricky says as he jangles the keys. Michael claps him on the shoulder as Ricky exits after Skeezer. Michael slings the guitar from his back and turns toward Mona. He takes a deep breath. He approaches her from behind and gently grabs her shoulders. She stiffens at his touch.

“Mona…I, I don't know…” he begins.

Mona spins, getting nose to nose with Michael.

“I don't give two shits what you think, all right? This band is important to me, but not as important as you are and when you just flip out like that…it hurts, okay?”

As she speaks, Mona jabs her finger in Michael's chest, punctuating each syllable. Michael moves backward as quickly as Mona pushes forward. His foot gets tangled in some errant cables and he tumbles backward over a drum, his head smacking the floor. The noise is loud, sounding a bit like meat being thrown against a wall. Mona's anger melts.

“Michael?” Mona squeals as she rushes over to aid her fallen beau. With Mona's assistance, Michael slowly sits up. Mona scans his face, his crown, and the back of his head looking for blood. As she attends to him, Michael's face breaks out in a large smile. Mona notices and frowns, but only for a moment. She takes his face in her hands and matches his grin. They laugh and Mona plops onto the floor next to Michael. The laugh some more until the giggles die out on their own. The smiles remain.

“I'm sorry,” Michael starts.

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know. Me too.”

Michael wraps his arm around Mona and she nestles into the crook of his arm. They sit for a moment, at peace.

“What freaked you out?” Mona finally asks. The million dollar question.

“Nothing. It's nothing,” Michael stares at the ceiling, unblinking.

“Didn't seem like nothing.”

Michael takes a deep breath. He isn't ready for this. Mona knows that. She stands and looks down at him. Her brows knit.

“I'll tell you about it sometime. It's nothing…really,” Michael says. He can't look her in the eyes. After a moment, Mona holds out her hand.

“I don't believe you,” she says as Michael takes her hand. She helps him to stand and hugs him tight. He is a bit taller than her so she reaches on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “but we'll work it out. Right now, we've been busting ass loading gear and it's your turn to help.”

With that, Michael turns away, ready to leave. Mona grabs his arm and spins him back around. He is smiling from ear to ear.

“But I'm a star!” he whines.

Mona bends over and picks up a large speaker case. She hands it to Michael like a personal trainer with a medicine ball. It thuds into his chest and he nearly doubles over.

“Quite whining, rock star, we have work to do,” Mona says as she bends to grab her own case. Michael admires the view for a moment and hefts the case onto his shoulder. Thoughts of balloons, clowns and nightmares are temporarily banished…it was show time.

Monty Reigns sits behind his desk on the soundstage of
The Monty Reigns Show
. The studio audience is alive and not ashamed to let Monty know it. The green light on the camera blinks on and a sign reading “On Air” flashes, just off camera. The audience takes their cue and cheers. Monty stares straight at the camera and motions for the audience to calm down. The boisterous crowd reluctantly complies with the intermittent whoop and holler thrown in for good measure.

“Clam it! Tonight we are going to hit some serious news,” Monty says after a patented dramatic pause.

The crowd quiets a bit, their hero has spoken.

“Last week I asked you monkeys to send me any information we could find about that little kid that the clown screwed up.” Monty keeps up the serious exterior until, after an amount of time that can only be measured by astute showbiz professionals, he smiles Cheshire-wide. “And you boys and girls came through like gangbusters! Let's go to Angela Martinez, girl reporter, on the street with the scoop!”

Monty turns to his left as if an image of Angela Martinez, a slim brunette holding a microphone with a “Monty” nameplate has just appeared there. For the studio audience, they can see Angela on the screens that hang above the camera viewing area. For the Monty Reigns fan at home, Angela pops up on their screen to Monty's left.

Standing outside on a sidewalk, conveniently situated before the local police station, the well-dressed Angela begins her news stand up. Unfortunately for Angela, her voice isn't quite the complement to the statuesque beauty that most real news organizations require for their anchors. She has a high-pitched, nasally voice that most people automatically equate to bubble-headed bimbo. Only half correct, Angela is only biding her time with Monty Reigns until one of the three big broadcasters call. She just knows it. Until then—

“Thank you, Monty. Our viewers have sent in droves of information and we now know the name of the mystery child rescued from Orzo the Clown,” she says. A graphic of Michael pops onto the screen next to her. It is a promo shot from the band.

“His name is Michael Talbot and he currently performs in the rock and roll band Corpus Delicti.”

Monty nods, feigning rapt attention in Angela's report.

“Well isn't that ironic,” he says. The audience roars their approval.

“Yes it is, Monty. We also have this footage…”

The photo of Michael blips off and is quickly replaced by shaky cell phone footage of Corpus Delicti performing. The band can barely be seen between the blurs, but they appear to be in full costume for the performance. The not-so-gentle strains of punk rock music rip through the studio in glorious cell phone mono. Monty clamps his hands onto his ears.

“Damn! I feel sorry for the kid but turn that crap music off!”

The fan-cam footage blinks out and Angela is reframed, taking center stage on her half of the screen.

“Sorry, Monty. We know that Michael is a graduate of Columbia. He was living in Los Angeles until the death of his parents three years ago…” Angela disappears mid-sentence. The camera focuses completely on Monty. He shakes his head, feigning disgust.

“This poor kid can't catch a break! We'll be right back.”

The building itself is nondescript and is located in a desolate warehouse district that resembles a ghost town this late at night. It is small, gray and only a single story high. The entranceway, though, lets the casual observer know that this might be someplace special. A large LCD screen monitor is affixed above the spartan gray door. It plays clips from
The Orzo the Clown Show
, promotional commercials for the DVD, and other Orzo-abelia on a continuous loop. The logo painted on the window explains it all. It reads “Clownin' Around Productions.”

That door opens into a hallway lined with posters and prints of classic Orzo moments from the television show or candid moments from public appearances. The hallway eventually leads to a small group of offices and an editing bay with a few Macs, monitors and sound gear. One of the walls is covered in green screen fabric. All in all, the set up is a decent make-shift studio for small projects.

The largest office, set at the mouth of the hallway, features the only resident still in the building. All others have left for the night. Dan Prescott, Jr. sits behind a large desk. He has a cell phone to his ear but squints at a large monitor screen. The computer in front of him has two different posters pulled up, each of them featuring a version of the Orzo the Clown DVD.

“Look. I just said I need the copy changed on the first poster…and just scrap the second one, okay?” Dan spins around in the chair, grimacing at what he's hearing on the other end of the line. “I said, and I quote, scrap the second one, it's shit, all right?”

Dan snaps the phone shut and slams it on the desk.

“Good. Bye. Bitch.”

Dan spins back around to the posters. He exits out of the image software and into an e-mail program. He types in silence.

The sound of shuffling comes from somewhere in the studio. It is faint, but loud enough to register. Dan stops typing and looks up. He knows he is the only one here, the DVD hasn't sold enough to hire anyone; it is just him and the part-time intern.

Slightly louder, a little closer, the same shuffling sound comes from the studio area this time. Dan looks up and his eyes narrow. This sound is unmistakable. He stares out into the gloom of the office.

“Hello?” Dan asks the nothingness as he stands up, still trying to make something out in the dark. He looks down quickly, trying to find…ahh, scissors. From an Orzo the Clown coffee mug Dan snatches a pair of scissors. He holds them in front of his body like a weapon.

“I know someone's there, all right? I got the death threats, very nice! This DVD is coming out! No. Matter. What.” Dan announces. He listens for something, anything in return. A taunt, kids smashing windows, anything. He waits a moment, then another longer moment.

The shuffling returns, much louder than before. Dan jumps at the sound since it feels so close. This time, though, it ends with a thump. Dan, slightly panicked, has seen quite a bit so far in life and isn't about to let some jerk off frighten him out of his birth right. After taking a deep breath, Dan moves toward the sound.

The lights go out and Dan stops short.

“Shit!”

Outside the studio, the power outage has an effect. The LCD screen and lighted sign flicker and blacken. There is a moment of silence which is broken by Dan's screams. His shrieking continues for a moment, followed by another thud that, if there had been tenants in the nearby buildings, would have been heard and reported long before Dan fails to attend a marketing meeting downtown the following morning.