Greasepaint (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Back on stage, Monty Reigns sits at his desk, glaring at his guest. The show has just returned from a commercial break and Monty looks as if he has seethed through all of the adult diaper and Super Beta Prostate commercials.

The crowd catcalls and throws insults at the guest. A young man, no older than twenty-two, unshaven, sits wearing an “I Heart Clowns” T-shirt. He holds his chin high, ignoring the insults. The graphic underneath him reads “Orzo39.”

“Welcome back, true believers!” Monty announces, turning toward the camera. “This thing just keeps getting more and more strange, right?” Monty motions over to Orzo39. “This puke's name is Orzo39. That's his name because he refuses to give us his real name.”

Orzo39 shakes his head and turns toward Monty.

“Wait a minute…”

“Not yet, puke!” Monty interrupts. “This guy's screen name is Orzo39 because he is the moderator of the Online Orzo Fan Club! Do you people believe this?”

The assembled audience, as if on cue, erupts in boos, hisses and even louder catcalls.

“Should we let him explain himself?” Monty asks the mob.

“Noooooo!” reverberates around the studio,

Monty laughs and gives his audience a thumbs up.

Orzo39 simply shakes his head. He looks at the crowd and raises his voice. “The same thing happened to Dan Prescott on this show! All we want is for the world to appreciate family entertainment!”

The crowd, mollified by the incredible statement, quiets a bit. They trust Monty to stand up for logic and fairness, like they have been trained. Monty rarely disappoints. He turns and looks at Orzo39 incredulously.

“Family entertainment? Are you telling me that a murdering pedophile is
family
entertainment?”

The audience boos again, feeling a ramping up of the rhetoric.

“This is such crap! Orzo was a brilliant comedian and actor and…”

“And you're a psycho. What about Orzo's victims and their families?”

“It's tragic…”

“Tragic? That's the best you can come up with?”

The audience shifts and undulates, on the verge of picking up pitchforks and torches.

“Orzo fans feel terrible,” Orzo39 continues, trying to be heard. The vibe in the room is frightening. “We just want them to know, especially Mikey Talbot, that we are there for you and we love you just like Orzo!”

Monty dramatically retches, playing to the crowd. “I think I'm gonna vomit. How dare you…”

Before Monty can finish, Orzo39 bends over quickly and reaches behind him, pulling out a vintage kid's Orzo the Clown Halloween mask. He puts the mask on, crosses his arms and stares at the crowd.

The audience surges forward as one. Screams and death threats fly through the air. Monty ducks behind his desk as the studio security rushes into the room, making a fragile human barrier between the crowd and Orzo39, who continues to stay still, staring ahead.

“Oh for crying out loud! Take that thing off!” Monty calls to Orzo39 with no effect.

A soda can flies through the air and pelts Orzo39, opening a floodgate of debris. Orzo39 finally gives up his stoic position and ducks behind the chair as both he and Monty, as well as the security staff, are pelted with any manner of objects.

“Calm down, everyone!” Monty squeaks out from behind his desk.

Orzo39 and Monty continue to hide as the show pops off, cutting quickly to another fine sponsor of
The Monty Reigns Show
.

The penthouse stretches over the entire top floor of the luxurious high rise apartment building. Large windows surround the penthouse providing a beautiful view of the city in any direction. For someone who isn't used to the opulence, it would be literally breathtaking.

The interior of the penthouse resembles a large loft area as if it had been decorated by Christian Dior with an unlimited budget. It is very posh and very expensive. The center of the penthouse features a large living area, complete with huge HD television, beautiful furniture, and a mantle over a fireplace featuring a row of Emmys and other entertainment awards.

Monty Reigns, waist wrapped in a towel, enters the room. In one hand he carries a tumbler with some type of amber booze, in the other he has a cell phone up to his ear. Still dripping, Monty leaves wet footprints through the penthouse as he makes his way to the living room. He stares out of the window, grinning at the view, as he speaks.

“Hell yes! That was a great show! That freak almost caused a riot!” Monty pauses, waiting for the person on the other end of the phone to finish. “Screw that! I feel great. Fuck the world!”

Monty drops his towel and raises his arm, exposing himself out of the glass window. He shakes his hips, dangling his middle-aged penis at the little people down below.

In the window's reflection, a brightly colored shape moves quickly behind Monty. He does not notice.

Monty laughs and sets his drink down as he bends and pick up the towel.

“The clown is ratings, Angela, pure and simple. I'm going to keep working on Michael. That kid could be bigger than the pedo!”

Smiling from ear to ear, Monty turns toward the couch, trying to get the towel wrapped around with one hand. The same brightly-colored shape, white and red and fast as hell, slips behind him.

“Good work, kid. I'll talk to you later.” Monty hangs up the cell phone and throws it on the couch. He manages to get the towel reattached and bends over the coffee table, grabbing a cigar and lighting it.

He turns and heads back to look out of the window, a big grin on his face.

As Monty stares out, the shape moves in behind him. Monty's grin drops as he sees the reflection of a clown in the window. Monty grabs the cigar out of his mouth, unsure of just what is happening…or how.

“What the fuck!”

He starts to turn. A white gloved hand shoots out and grabs Monty's throat. Monty is pushed back. He struggles against the shape, but can't make any headway. Monty is finally slammed against the glass of the large windows, his greasy head squeaking against the pane. The erratic movements cause the towel to drop once again.

“What…do…you…want…?” Monty gasps.

There is no response. The shape rams Monty's head into the glass. Repeatedly. The glass cracks and splits. The expensive, up-to-code security glass designed for the top of tall buildings is very durable. The shape bashes Monty's head into the glass again and again and again. After a while, the skin on Monty's head splits causing blunt force lacerations. Blood sprays and smears. The shape only stops when the glass finally cracks all the way through and shatters.

Monty is not thrown through. The stiff breeze from the now-open window jogs Monty a bit, preventing him from slipping into total unconsciousness. He grins at the shape, eyes focusing on the large, red nose of his assailant.

“You're another…goddamn…Emmy…” Monty smiles as blood seeps from his mouth. His large, white teeth are uncharacteristically stained.

The broken glass leaves a large shard sticking up into the air like a stalagmite the width of an average man. Say, the size of Monty. The shape pushes Monty backward, his lower back positioned over the shard.

The shape pushes down. As the shard pierces Monty's back, his eyes go wide. The shape uses its own body weight to force Monty down, little by little, as the glass shard digs deeper and deeper. Blood gushes and Monty can only open and close his mouth in complete agony. It takes a full two minutes of concerted effort from the shape to push the glass through Monty's spinal column. Once that has been breached, the rest of the job goes a bit quicker.

Monty's torso tumbles from the broken window to the street below. The lower half of his body just slides to the floor of the penthouse.

The shape disappears. Crime scene investigators will have no luck finding Monty's cell phone.

Chapter Nine

Angela sleeps. This is a luxury since the personal assistant to Monty Reigns was on call, twenty-four-seven. The room is frilly, complete with stuffed bears and a four poster bed of faux-Victorian design. The attached bathroom is simple and neat. The room represents everything her professional life is not: prim, proper and stable. Her ever-present “Monty Reigns Direct Line” cell phone lays next to her alarm clock on the doily-laden nightstand.

The cell phone vibrates, rattling against the wood of the stand. Angela, used to ridiculous demands late in the evening, reaches over automatically. She barely turns her head on the pillow before the phone is to her ear.

“It's late, Monty.”

Angela swings her legs over the bed and sits up, reaching for and turning on the lamp. She is wearing a long, oversized T-shirt with a cartoon cat frowning. It reads, “Insomina is for winners.” Angela stands, phone to her ear, and walks past the open bedroom window.

“Hello? Monty?”

Angela paces, back and forth, in front of the window. She continues to call out to Monty, but receives no answer. She stares at her phone for a moment to see if the signal had been lost when a blurry, multi-colored shape passes in front of the bedroom window. Angela doesn't have the first clue.

“Whatever. Call me tomorrow and quit drunk dialing.” Angela hangs up the phone with the press of a button and slams it on the night stand. “Asshole!” She says to no one in particular.

Angela sits back on the bed with a sigh and reaches for the lamp. She grabs her abdomen and her shoulders slouch. She will never get to sleep.

“Shit.”

Angela heads for the bathroom. She enters, pulling the door closed behind her. She sits on the toilet and yawns. She hangs her head and waits for the inevitable.

The door to the bathroom opens just a crack, just enough for someone…something to peek in. As Angela looks up, the door closes. She shakes her head, unsure of anything that she sees at this hour.

Angela finishes, stands and turns to the sink. She turns on the water and stares at herself in the mirror. She is far too young to have so much luggage underneath her eyes. She glares at herself and wonders when money became more important than happiness.

The door opens again, just a crack.

Angela decides it is far too late to continue destroying her own self-esteem and bends over to splash water on her face. She stands back up and stares into the mirror to find…nothing, only her own reflection.

Angela turns, grateful to get back to bed, only to have a white-gloved hand press itself against her mouth. Another hand wraps around her head. She can still see, standing before her, what looks like Orzo the Clown…sort of. It is hard to tell, but the colors and face are right. She tries to scream but before she can even get a syllable out, the clown spins her around and lifts her off the ground by her head.

She is suspended like that, swaying in the bathroom. Angela tries to kick her attacker but it is strong and holds her away from the clown-suited body.

Angela can see the toilet before her if she looks down, straining her eyes as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. A clown-shoed foot flips the padded toilet seat up to expose the porcelain edge of the commode. Angela panics, kicking harder. She knows, just knows, that this maniac is going to drown her.

Rearing back, Angela's head in both hands, the clown rams it toward the gleaming porcelain toilet. Her head slams into the shiny white lip of the toilet causing her forehead to cave inward. Angela doesn't die instantly. The long dent in her forehead works like a tongue and groove, holding Angela suspended over the bathroom floor.

The clown straddles Angela as her body spasms and shakes. As she twitches, blood seeps from her nose and ears indicating that the impromptu frontal lobotomy has effectively ended her career as Monty Reigns' assistant.

From over Angela's head, the clown drops Monty's cell phone into the toilet. It lands with a plop. With that, it leaves. Angela takes another four minutes to die.

Chapter Ten

Behind the club, vans and U-Haul rental trucks line the alleyway. From each of them, rock and rollers, clad in black with jackets and T-shirts emblazoned with whatever logo represents their band, pull musical gear out of the vehicles. This is their night. This is Halloween and this is the show that has a recording contract on the line. Every one there, from roadie/fan to seasoned veteran knows the importance of tonight's performance. Needless to say, the chitter chatter is at a minimum.

Skeezer, behind the wheel of the band's van, is directed into a spot just in front of the large garage-style doors that function as the delivery entrance to the club. Mona and Michael stand off to the side, attempting to blend into the shadows of the alley.

Fans crowd into the alleyway just beyond the line of vans. Clad in black or in costumes—it is Halloween after all—like their idols, the rabid horror punk fans are as excited for this show as the musicians. Tonight is the night legends are made! For some of the fans, those wearing Orzo masks, the music matters much less than the hero they have come to see.

The other band members can't help but notice the strange, masked fans staring Michael down. Some musicians snicker at the tortured singer, most try to ignore him while others are bold enough to shoot Michael the bird.

Skeezer stops the van and clambers out. He joins Ricky at the back doors; Michael and Mona are walking towards them when a voice cuts through the din of gear load in and set up.

“There he is!” The voice behind that sentiment rings out, carrying through the alley and bouncing off of the concrete walls. Michael and the rest look up to see a group of Orzo fans, wearing masks and clutching photos and DVDs, barreling through the bands, oblivious of what kind of chaos or damage they are causing. The group is led by Orzo39, fresh from his appearance on The Monty Reigns show. The press of flesh is followed by a gaggle of reporters and camera operators from multiple TV stations.

“Oh shit,” Michael says.

Mona steps in front of Michael. Ricky and Skeezer can't take their eyes off the cameras.

Mona turns toward the club and pulls Michael in that direction. Before they can make any headway, Orzo39 steps in front of them, stopping their progress. Michael looks longingly into the dark recesses of the club. He can be anonymous in there.

“Michael! Michael! Wow…it is so great to meet you. Do you think you could sign some stuff for us?”

The Orzo fans, attempting to be respectful to their leader, jockey for position behind Orzo39 with their photos and DVDs.

“He must have loved you!” a masked fan shouts.

“What was he like?” another asks.

Michael is unable to answer; all around him were the masks, the faces, of Orzo the Clown. He can barely breathe. Recognizing this, Mona takes over and shoves Orzo39, and whatever fans get within her reach. Some tumble backward, others hold their ground. Being with Michael has made her a celebrity too.

“Each one of you bastards is one sick fuck, all right?” Mona blurts out. “Get the fuck out of our way!”

The crowd presses in closer. Michael, thanks to Mona's frenzied pushing a moment ago, finds an escape route. Sliding between people, Michael enters the club and pulls Mona along with him.

The fans press forward until Orzo39 holds up a hand, stopping them. The reporters and camera operators do not follow, either.

Smiling from ear to ear, Orzo39 calls into the club, “We love you!”