The Last Paparazzo
Leaving rehab was like parasailing. Walking out the doors of the Betty Ford Clinic, Nina felt so light, it was almost as if she could spread out her arms and take off on the air currents. She felt wild and free, and she was. She sped up, all but running down the walkway, planning adventures, dreaming about Rudy, and romance, and Rudy. Because Rudy Tomlinson, was the essence of romance. Black curly hair, eyes so dark and piercing that they could see into your very soul. And his body - sculpted god-like muscles, and that musky, I’m-in-the-mood-for-sex scent – just the thought of it sent goose bumps down her arms.
Nina loved taking chances. She loved taking dares. Life was to be lived soaring above the world. Behind her dark glasses, her eyes were smiling. She’d soon get her chance to soar again. Not literally, of course, but in a few hours, she’d break out of the cocoon of one existence, the meek Ninochka, docile graduate of the Betty, and she’d become Venice de Milo, beloved actress, singer, and all-around bad girl - a transformation from Russian peasant to Italian goddess - all within minutes. She rummaged in her purse for a mirror, but not to correct her makeup. Unlike most women, Venice knew she was gorgeous. She just liked to watch the way her hair shone almost white in the sunlight, the way it swooped in thick, bouncy tresses over her shoulders. It made her think of a platinum blond Jessica Rabbit. She admired her nose, small and straight with a mischievous upturn at the tip. $95,000 and worth every cent of it. And her eyes! No one in the world had violet eyes as deep and dark as hers. Everything about that face was perfect.
Just as she reached the end of the walkway, her limo pulled up and the driver tipped his cap at her. Carl’s timing was flawless as usual.
But right behind Carl, like yellow jackets at a picnic, a mob of vehicles appeared, operated by the smarmiest bottom-feeding sub-human lowlife of the Western world. And before Carl could open the door for her, they swarmed the limousine. Venice ducked her head behind her arms. All around her was confusion, like in a scene from “The Birds”. Somehow the paparazzi had found her.
“So how did it feel to be back in rehab again?” The words caught Venice unaware. Her face betrayed the shock, and she actually jumped and wrapped her arms protectively across her chest. Leonard Gherkin, with his oily smile, his bad breath and his damned microphone, were inches away from her nose.
Venice gagged. She forced herself to smile. “Well…” She breathed deeply to calm herself, avoiding Leonard’s mouth as best she could. She assumed a celebrity persona as if she were donning a mink coat. “It was an opportunity to grow, to confront my…” But the camera was already turned off. All they wanted was that first shot of her when they had caught her off guard.
A pack of twenty or so bodies closed in on her. “And what are the odds that you’ll stay sober this time?” John Savage, the pushiest of the bunch, took over the questions. “Remember last March’s fiasco – just twenty-seven days after you got out of rehab? I believe it happened at the No-Name-No-Shame saloon.”
“It’s a little fuzzy, but…”
“I remember it clear as Lake Tahoe. You were riding Rudy Tomlinson yelling ‘git along doggy!’ with your blouse unbuttoned and your skirt torn up to your thigh.”
“I think…”
“And after Rudy bucked you off, you were screaming ‘F_ you!’ like a wounded banshee, and throwing whiskey bottles and bar stools, and anything else you could grab, and when all was said and done, three cameras were destroyed, you’d broken my arm and sent Willie Hall to the hospital with a concussion.”
Their voices attacked Venice like a swarm of African bees. She’d left the clinic feeling clean, strong, and wholesome. Now she felt cheap, degraded, shameful. It got worse when Eleanor Bostiglione sidled up to Venice. With a sweet, sweet, sweet, and innocent smile – really a smirk – she purred into the microphone, “Oh, Venice! Rudy and Jenifer Myers. You must be devastated. Please tell our audience how you really feel. You poor, poor girl! Do you think the news will send you back to drink and drugs?”
‘Venice tried to stay calm. She wanted to ask Eleanor “Did you bleach your hair with Clorox?” She forced a laugh, but she could feel the flush spreading through her face and her neck. Once again the paparazzi had gotten to her. Rudy? Cheating? No! He couldn’t be cheating on her! Not again!
Eleanor giggled, and her breasts jiggled as she laughed. Dolly Parton breasts perched above a wasp-like waist - that was Eleanor. “Did you see the pics of the two of them in The Orbit? Jennifer was dressed for way more than a handshake - if you know what I mean.” Eleanor waited for her words to hit their target. “Or should I say undressed?”
Somehow, Venice had parasailed into a hurricane of enquiring minds. Voices in her head finished off the job. There was Rudy’s whining, cruel and manipulating - ‘You’re just a two-bit tramp, not good enough to keep a man like me’; and her dad’s drill-sergeant orders – ‘Suck it up. Be a man if you can. ’; and her mother’s sarcastic observations - ‘What, no lover by your side? You’re slipping, girl.’ Her own thoughts ripped through her psyche inflicting more damage than the actual paparazzi attack with their mikes and their questions. As cameras clicked and snapped, she gave up the last vestiges of Ninochka the good girl, and yanked Eleanor’s hair with one hand, while trying to gouge out her eyes with her other, and screaming “dead meat, dead meat” the whole time. The reporters loved it.
Finally Carl got the limo door open, and he managed to push Venice inside, and then get back behind the wheel and drive off. From habit, she reached under the seat where she knew a hip flask of Vodka awaited. She gave a full three seconds of thought to the rehab work she’d just completed - and took a deep swallow. At last. Real freedom!
That night, morbidly fascinated, she watched herself coming unglued on the TV screen. It was maybe a ten-second clip; it seemed like hours.
At last they went on to their next story. According to the news anchor, that the infamous rag, “Power to the Paper” was two Chick E. Cheese tokens away from bankruptcy. Venice cheered. Finally some good news! She raised her vodka-tonic glass in celebration, remembering all the garbage they’d dug up on her through the years.
And then, when she thought the reporters had finished persecuting her, the last straw fell onto her back. There on the screen was Rudy Tomlinson – her Rudy – his arm around Jennifer Meyers. “We’re so in love. I never knew it could be like this before I met Jennifer.”
“And Venice?”
Rudy sighed – the ‘I tried to be patient, but she’s a loser’ kind of sigh. “There’s too much drama there – the pills, the booze, the men. Who needs it? Venice, honey, get help! Lots of help!” ‘Method acting,’ thought Venice. ‘That’s all it is. Damn but he was good!’
An old copy of “Power to the Paper” perched on her coffee table, and she threw it to the floor, then sent the tonic glass sailing at the TV set opting for something stronger. “A double valium vodka martini, that’s what I need.” She said the words out loud.
But she choked, trying to wash both pills down at the same time, and sprayed vodka and vermouth all over the floor - and all over the “Power to the Paper” with its photos and story of Mephi the Magnificent – magician/superhero, appearing nightly at the Orange Pickle, 1244 Stratford Street in downtown New Brunshire. Two drink minimum.”
That’s when it hit her – there exists a drug more powerful, more pleasurable than valium. She cleared her mind, speed-dialed her lawyer, and set in motion her plan for the days ahead.
Meanwhile, on the other end of town in a sad little turquoise and orange apartment building, Ezmarelda Frobisher scooped fried eggs onto a plate for herself and for her more-than-friend-but-not-quite-boyfriend Ernie. (Her ordinary chicken, Winnie, was proving to be an extraordinary egg layer.) Ezmarelda was dejected. Her fairy tale was over. Her bubble had burst. She was yesterday’s root beer float – no fizz left.
Two weeks ago, she had been all expectation and joy. She’d met a possible love of her life, Ernie Logan, and together, they’d submitted a story about Mephi the Magnificent magician/superhero, appearing nightly, etc. etc. to “Power to the Paper”. And they’d received $700 for the story and a Pulitzer nomination. Life was perfect. Ezzie had suddenly felt beautiful. Her hair was darker and shinier than ever, her eyes were bluer, and she was almost in love with Ernie. Even their poultry were happy. Winnie seemed smitten with Ernie’s rooster, Franklin Delano Roostervelt.
But the Pulitzer had gone to someone else and the $700 had turned into rent, food, and a box of laundry soap. And Ernie burped more than he talked, and his pony tail somehow went from charming and artistic to sort of stupid. And he didn’t have a job either.
So here they sat eating eggs, Ezzie and Ernie, broke, jobless, and without any prospects. You’d think a Pulitzer nomination would carry some respect with it, but apparently any shmutz could get one – no big deal.
Ezzie flipped through the mail. Bills, ads, “You may have already won…” “If you don’t give me your refi business, I’ll eat my shorts.” And finally she found an envelope containing real mail. “You are invited to Venice de Milo’s mansion on Tuesday, May 18, 2010 at 11:00 a.m. Bring the photographer.”
“Hey, Ernie, what do you suppose this means?” She showed him the Venice de Milo invitation.
Ernie shrugged. “Dunno.”
Ezzie had acquired a very special Magic Eight ball. “What’s this all about?” she asked it. It sometimes came out with unexpected answers.
“Ask again later.”
“Do you think Ernie likes me?”
“Ask again later.”
So on Tuesday, May 18, 2010, Ernie and Ezmarelda found themselves part a flock of humans in the foyer of Venice de Milo’s mansion waiting for the superstar to show up. Most of the flock appeared down on their luck. Ezzie recognized a few from the unemployment office. In one corner, stood seven dejected beatnik types wearing black leather jackets with “Power to the Paper” stenciled on their backs. Two of them carried professional cameras. Others were texting on their iPods and Blackberries.
A sharp clap of gunpowder and a flash of fireworks signaled that something was about to happen. Ezzie screamed, Ernie jumped, and, in front of a spiral staircase, Venice de Milo suddenly appeared dressed in a tiger-striped skin-tight dress. The cleavage dipped to her navel and the skirt stopped a half inch below thigh. “You’re probably wondering why I brought you all here,” she said.
Venice laughed with her eyes. “I’ve just purchased 51% of “Power to the Paper”, which I’ve renamed…” Here she paused for dramatic effect. ‘Revenge’. Catchy, don’t you think!” She showed off a blood-red mast head for the new tabloid.
“I’m hiring all of you to free lance for me. I’ll pay $1000 for any photo or any story which I consider suitable to print in my new paper. And here’s what I’m after.
“For years, the blood-sucking ticks…” She gestured over towards the Power to the Paper contingent then continued. “The paparazzi - have made my life a living hell. No offense, boys. Now it’s my turn. I want you to do to them, what they’ve done to me. Any of the tabloid reporters is a fair target. And I’ll pay double for any dirt you find on these bastards – Leonard Gherkin, John Savage, Eleanor Bostiglione. And, I’ll pay quadruple for anything on Rudy Tomlinson, my supposed fiancé, my true love, and Jenifer Myers, his trollop.” And here her voice became just a touch shrill. “For they are the scum against which all other scum must measure down to.” Venice smiled. She checked her fingernails. “That’s all,” she whispered. And she was gone.
Back in Ezzie’s apartment, she and Ernie were digesting what they had heard. “We can totally do this,” said Ezzie. If we hang outside by Venice’s house long enough, they’ll show up, and we can just follow them and find out where they live. Then all we have to do is attach a nanny-cam to Franklin, and fly him up to the bedroom windows. You get the pictures, I’ll do the stories. With the right innuendoes, we can make going to the bathroom sound like debauchery.
“The first peeping rooster – how low tech!”
Ernie stroked Franklin’s feathers and drifted off into a world of day dreams. Investigative journalism. It was all very James Bond, very brave and daring, a chance for Ernie to be someone special, someone Ezzie could fall in love with, maybe even a hero, and not just the loser from the flea market. ‘Agent Logan, it’s all up to you. Too dangerous for any other agent. You probably won’t make it out alive.’ ‘Ha! Danger is my middle name.’
Ezmarelda was patting his face. “Ernie, are you okay? Your eyes sort of glazed over.”
Low tech plus Photo Shop turned out to be highly effective. Ezzie and Ernie had a natural instinct for tabloid reporting. In a short time, their dining had progressed from Winnie’s eggs, to dinners at Mc Donald’s, to restaurants that served food on ceramic plates. Ezzie kept a scrapbook of all their articles.
Bizarre Sex Cult
Shocking photos of Leonard Gherkin’s bizarre sex cult. Somewhere in Needles, California - exact location very hush hush. “Revenge” has learned that Leonard Gherkin, all-around good guy (ha ha) has a bevy of beauties. (Beauties? – Oh well! To each his own!) He’s stashed them in an out-of-the-way cabin. Leonard claims they were on a church retreat. Some retreat! Wink, wink. How do I join??? No, on second thought, this all sounds too kinky for me.
Eleanor Bastiglione Queen of Lipo
She’s been snipped and clipped more often than a book of coupons. Eleanor’s dish of the week had been John Savage. They’d been seen at the local McDonald’s under the table sucking toes, and swapping spit and sperm. Look out, John, Eleanor’s been ridden more often than Sea biscuit - ridden hard and put away wet. But subsequent rumor has it, that she dumped John at that tres chic restaurant Casa de Amore. She literally dumped him into a vat of marinara sauce. And she’s now hot on the prowl in pursuit of a hot dog vendor named Marty. Our advice – run, Marty, run! Run like Tammy Faye’s eyeliner in the middle of July.
Ezmarelda had a total of twenty-seven articles, in her scrapbook, pasted on acid free photo friendly pages. The scrapbook was her proof - proof that she wasn’t a loser, that she could be successful given half a chance. But this was only the beginning. And it seemed to be working. Revenge was suddenly turning a profit.
“We need to do more,” Ezmarelda said to Ernie. Our next article has to be something so over the top, so out of control, that they’ll be talking about it clear into the next decade. I want us to be heroes, celebrities. I want kids to know our names and look up to us. Slowly, she hatched her plan. It was supposed to come to fruition at the Oscars, only for some reason, she and Ernie were not invited. In fact, they were specifically told to stay away. No trust in their fellow humans – that was what was wrong with the world today. No compassion. She had to resort to plan B – as soon as she could concoct plan B.
And concoct she did. She frequented all the paparazzi’s favorite hangouts, leaking information in a stage whisper loud enough to carry thirty feet or so. “I heard that Rudy Tomlinson plans to propose to Jenifer Myers on Sunday June 14th at exactly 3:36 pm. Don’t let it get out. We can scoop this story.” Then, with Franklin’s help, she set up a fireworks display that her victims would remember forever.
By 3:30 pm on Sunday June 14th, Rudy’s entryway swarmed with news-hungry paparazzi. “What’s this about you and Jennifer tying the knot?” asked John Savage.
Rudy was visibly annoyed. “There’s no knot. I don’t know who started this irresponsible rumor, but…”
Rudy was interrupted by a string of explosions. All of a sudden, chaos ruled. Shots seemed to be coming from the perimeter of the property, louder and louder, herding the reporters into the middle of Rudy’s entry way like cattle rounded up for slaughter. More shots rang out. A rubber knife with feathers hurtled past John Savage’s ear and stuck in the crack of Rudy’s front door. Someone yelled out “They’re just cherry bombs and firecrackers. No need to panic.” But no one listened. People were running everywhere. Innocent cameras bore the brunt of the carnage.
Somehow a trip wire strung from a palm tree to a wrought iron fence suddenly sprang taut. Eleanor Bostiglione ran into it full tilt, and ended up in Leonard Gherkin’s arms. A fist shot up out of the crowd, hitting John Savage in the face. Heads butted. Within minutes an old-fashioned brawl broke out in front of Rudy Tomlinson’s mansion. Rudy took a step forward, lost his footing and fell headfirst into his rose garden, which had mysteriously acquired three feet of mud. Ernie snapped the pictures. Ezzie, taped the sounds - Wham bam and socko. And more cuss words than you’d hear at a teen age slumber party. Finally, Ezzie called 911 and she and Ernie hightailed it out of the fracas leaving Franklin and the nanny-cam to capture the final footage. From all of that, Ezzie and Ernie pieced together their piece de resistance:
War of the Paparazzi
John Savage, our savage reporter seeks revenge on Leonard Gherkin. “He stole the love of my life”, Savage said referring to none other than Eleanor wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am Bostiglione, seen here carried away in the arms of Leonard Gherkin.
“I always knew it was John, I mean Leonard,” Bostiglione was heard to say. Fists flew, not to mention knives and unidentified explosive devices. Rumors that the knives were rubber stage props have not been confirmed at this time.”
Exploding Flop
Speaking of rumors, reports of Rudy Tomlinson’s engagement to Jenifer Myers unfortunately were unfounded. It has been speculated that Rudy spread the rumors in an effort to build up his sagging ratings. Cheap shot, Rudy! And speaking of shots, our reporters were unable to ask their questions because they had to run for their lives. Someone was shooting at them. Later on, it turned out that the shots were just fireworks – firecrackers and cherry bombs. Rudy denied any responsibility for the shots. Said he didn’t know anything about it. Rudy was visibly annoyed at the questions. Could he have something to hide?
Venice was thrilled. Most of her arch enemies had spent the night in jail. Everyone thought Rudy was responsible for the firecrackers and resulting mayhem. The paparazzi had been slowed down due to technical calamities – broken cameras, tire trouble, black eyes, bruised ribs, and bruised egos. And Venice didn’t even have to pay any hospital bills or claims for broken cameras. Oh, they’d be back, but they’d have to think twice before messing with Venice de Milo and Revenge!
Ezzie pasted the last news article into her scrap book. Suddenly she felt old. And sad. And useless. She’d been happier after she’d been fired. She tried to pet Winnie’s feathers, but Winnie shrank from her grasp.
“What’s wrong?” she asked her Magic Eight Ball.
“Don’t bother asking again later. I’m not speaking to you.”
She tried several questions, but the answers in the Magic Eight Ball stuck and only the black background showed in the window.
“I don’t get it. We won. We’re the last paparazzi standing. What’s wrong?” she asked Ernie.
He just looked at her. “No, you’re the last paparazzo. I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s like, well… When I worked the flea markets, I never lied about my stuff – I never cheated anyone. I never made a ton of money, but at the end of the day, I felt way happier than I do now.
Ezzie looked at him. We have to fix this. But how?”
Ernie took a long time answering. “What if… What if we do another extravaganza - like the war of the paparazzi – only telling everyone what really happened? An investigative reporting thing. Enquiring minds want to know.”
Ezzie shook her head. “We can’t. We’d probably have to give Venice back her money. And we’d spend a couple of nights in jail. Let’s see what the Magic Eight Ball says.”
“Seek the higher ground.”
She shook it again.
“Shoot straight.”
“What does it say?” asked Ernie.
“It’s gone wacko.”
“Well,” said Ernie. “I’m going to write my mind anyway.” He found some useful photos of trip wires and cherry bomb remains. He stayed up till midnight working on his article.
That night, Ezmarelda sneaked Winnie up behind Ernie’s apartment. She just had to see what he’d written. And to keep it from being printed. The window was open. She petted Winnie. ”Beautiful chicken, clever chicken. What a special hen you are! You need to fly into Ernie’s window and get that article.” Winnie looked at Ezzie with the Winston Churchill look in her eyes. “Go on,” said Ezzie. Winnie hopped six inches into the air, dropped to the ground and lay on her back as if dead. No nudging no persuading, no “What a clever chicken” - not even a bribe of worms and grasshoppers could induce Winnie to fly into the window. As a last resort, Ezzie took Winnie bodily and threw her up into the air. Winnie circled around, pooped on Ezzie’s head, clucked a chicken chuckle, and circled back down to the ground in front of Ezzie with a self-satisfied chicken grin. At home, Ezzie asked the Magic Eight Ball, “How can I get Winnie to steal the photos.
“Ask again later.”
For three weeks, Revenge was the only tabloid on the market. Finally, The Orbit put out an issue. Ernie’s article was prominent on the front page.
When Good Reporters Go Bad
I’m not clever. But I know this. You should get paid for doing something good. Or at least something that doesn’t hurt anyone. You know that story – War of the Paparazzi? Well, I didn’t just help write it. I made it happen. I feel like toad vomit. And if you want to get mad at me or sue me or something, go ahead. I’m not going to write this stuff anymore.
Ernie Logan
But that was nothing. Because The Orbit’s lead story tore Ezzie’s guts out - as if she’d passed her heart through a paper shredder.
Cat Woman Breaks up Dynamic Duo
Guess who’s been slippin’ and a slidin’, wigglin’ and a jigglin’ all steamy dreamy, whipping creamy? Ernie Logan and Eleanor (the cat) Bastiglione, that’s who! Who’d a thunk it? Hey, watch out for the quiet ones. “He’s a sex addict,” Eleanor was quoted as saying. “Always ready to play the nasty, anytime and anywhere. The locker room at 24-Hour Fitness, the veggie aisle at Safeway (They have it on the security camera.) even at the flea market parking lot – he’s always ready to get my motor pur-r-r-ring.”
Ezzie really didn’t believe it until she got to the part about the flea market. It would be just like Ernie to shag at the flea market. Could it be true? Had Ernie really fallen for Eleanor’s eye-batting and butt-wiggling?
It was a breakfast scene at Ezzie’s apartment, but something was very different. Ernie Logan was reading the newspaper – not comic books, not the tabloids – he was reading the newspaper, and not just headlines or the sports page, he was trying to make sense out of all the articles.
“Shallow, shallow,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been all my life. I’ve never cared about anything except having fun. That and Franklin and you. But now I want to do something real, something that matters.” He went back to the paper muttering, “shallow, shallow, shallow.”
Ezzie stiffened. Wait a minute! Had Ernie actually said he cared about her? She couldn’t get up the courage to ask him.
Ernie was the one who broke the silence, but it wasn’t what Ezmarelda was waiting to hear. “Here’s deep,” he said. “Deepwater Horizon. Look at the pictures. That’s what I want. To report the truth, and report about something that really matters, not who’s sleeping with who and how kinky they are. Starting tomorrow, I’m hitching a ride to the gulf, and I’m only taking pictures of things that matter.”
And he did just that.
Ezzie found it hard to write without Ernie and Franklin. She only wrote one more article for Revenge.
Kidnapped by Aliens - A Victim’s True Journal
Day 1: The Abduction. All the Paparazzi’s have been abducted by aliens. I am the last one. It started out innocently enough with an anonymous invitation to an ice cream social. I arrived not suspecting a thing. “Chocolate fudge ripple, please,” I said. That’s the last thing I remember before waking up on the mother ship with electrodes attached to my ears and a 100-inch screen broadcasting ‘America’s Next Top Model.’
Day 2: I Take Stock of My Adversaries. Aliens don’t look like what you’d expect. They’re pink and furry, and about seven feet tall. They reminded me of department store Easter bunnies.
Day 3: Frustration. I believe they use a binary code similar to a computer for their language. I tried gesturing, but couldn’t make myself understood.
Day 10: Communication. An alien, who later introduced himself as Harvey, connected an electrode from my left ear to the ship’s computer, thereby enabling the computer to translate for us.
Day 12: They Explain their Mission. It seems that this ship was piloted by seven renegade aliens. Against all orders, they’d flown to our planet to explore our culture. They were particularly interested in rap music, raves, Venice de Milo, and Viagra. They figured the paparazzi were the ones who’d know the most on these subjects, which explains why we were the ones abducted.
Day 26: Freedom. I am released in exchange for photos of Venice de Milo, and a detailed map of Rudy Tomlinson’s mansion. Watch out, Rudy, they’re on their way to get you!
Epilogue: The police wouldn’t believe my story, but fortunately, there’s a group in Clear Lake that follows alien sightings. An ad hoc posse was formed to protect the neighborhood and safeguard the populace.
It was one of Ezzie’s finest articles, but she got no pleasure from the writing. Could Ernie have been right? Was she shallow? She asked her Magic Eight Ball, “What does ‘deep’ feel like?”
“Follow your heart.”
‘What’s in my heart,’ she wondered. ‘What’s important to me?’ Ernie! She cared about Ernie.
She picked up her phone and began to text:
Earnestly Seeking Ernie
No hype, just the truth. Ernie Logan, you are the sprinkles on my ice cream, the honey in my tea. I love you. I didn’t realize it till you left me. We can be shallow or deep. I don’t care. If you don’t want to do tabloids, I don’t either. I just want to be with you. So call me. Okay???
XOXOXO
Ezzie
P.S. Winnie misses Franklin.
Ezzie’s hands were shaking and her eyes saw double as she finished the text. She couldn’t believe she was actually sending a love letter text. And she almost chickened out of sending it. What if he didn’t text back? She’d crawl into bed and be depressed until she died.
But she accidently sent the text to Venice de Milo instead of to Ernie. ‘Another adoring fan,’ thought Venice and didn’t give it any further thought.
Ernie arrived in New Orleans with a thousand dollars in his pocket, and a rooster, and a suitcase containing his sleeping bag, a change of clothes, and a toothbrush. He figured he’d fly Franklin out over the oil rig, get some great pictures, and offer them to a local newspaper, but it turned out that the Gulf of Mexico was bigger than he had thought. He pointed towards the ocean, and threw Franklin up into the air, but Franklin circled back onto Ernie’s shoulder and squawked and cockadoodled. Loosely translated, Franklin was telling Ernie,”You’ve got to be kidding.” So Ernie had to try another tack.
Ernie found the office of the New Orleans Daily Gazette, and he told the receptionist he was ready to offer them his services. She really tried not to laugh. It was just that Ernie had Franklin the rooster perched on his shoulder, and, while Ernie was pleading his case in English, Franklin was crowing, strutting and demonstrating what champions the two of them were. The receptionist stifled one giggle, squirmed, and finally gave up, threw back her head, and laughed till tears came to her eyes. Finally she was finished and was able to talk. “We’re not hiring vaudeville acts right now,” she said. “But I’ll tell our editor that you came by.”
Ernie left the New Orleans Daily Gazette devastated. He tried a couple of other newspapers, but no one seemed to want a photographer whose only experience had been in tabloid journalism and flea markets. He wandered aimlessly wondering what he was going to do. He couldn’t go back to Ezzie - that was for sure - not as a failure.
For some time now, oil had been washing up on Louisiana’s beaches, and swamps. Ernie knew his photo had to be fantastic and different from any other in order to get him the kind of attention he wanted. So he drove out to the first beach he could find. He pointed Franklin towards the water and let him go, and Franklin turned around and headed back up the beach and landed on Ernie’s shoulder. “Franklin, you’re one chicken rooster,” said Ernie. But he gave up on Franklin coming up with any spectacular shots.
Next Ernie found an all-night surf and SCUBA shop, and bought some necessary supplies. Plastic baggies to keep his camera dry, a second hand surf board (quite used), water wings and flippers for greater swimming range, (Ernie was no Michael Phelps) and a half-priced Speedo. Then, leaving Franklin on the beach under an umbrella (which he’d also purchased), Ernie marched into the water. It was bracing but not all that cold once you got used to it. Channeling Jacques Cousteau, Ernie gamely plunged forward till his feet no longer touched the sandy bottom. Then he jumped on the surf board and kicked with the fins. His idea was to go out several hundred feet, turn past an outcropping of rocks, and photograph the shoreline from out in the Gulf.
After rounding the outcropping, he looked back and found himself facing a small channel of murky water flowing through oily-covered grasses. The water was a soupy orange, partly because of naturally decomposing vegetation, and partly from the suspended droplets of oil. This marshy area would make a perfect backdrop. Ernie looked around for a focal point for his shot.
Meanwhile, from his vantage on top of the beach umbrella, thanks to his eagle chicken eyes Franklin could see Ernie, and what he saw terrified him. He leapt to his wings fluttering and cackling like a rooster possessed.
Back in the water, Ernie concentrated on lining up his shot. A sleek grey animal appeared above the swells, and Ernie tried to use it as a point of interest, deliberately blurring the murky water behind it for dramatic effect.
Franklin’s frantic fluttering drew a crowd. He squawked and hopped and cackled, flying back and forth from the shore to the area behind the rocks where Ernie was concentration on his shot.
The grey object was clearly an animal, but Ernie couldn’t quite identify it. All he could make out was an arched gray form rising about a foot above the swells, moving gracefully against the channel’s current. But luck was with Ernie. The animal turned and began to swim towards him, and Ernie couldn’t wait to find out what kind of animal it was.
Franklin’s squawking turned to deafening screeching. Finally, giving up on all humans as completely useless, Franklin flew off towards the rocks. “I have the strength of ten because my heart is pure,” he kept clucking to himself. He wished for the talons of an eagle, but had to make do with the claws of a chicken to clutch the largest rock he could carry.
Peering through the camera’s view finder, Ernie finally recognized the animal he was trying to photograph. Triangular teeth, sleek dorsal fin, bullet-shaped body, it seemed that Ernie was looking into the mouth of a bull shark. Ernie froze with terror, but his hands trembled so hard that he captured the shot by accident. The animal’s mouth took up half of the photograph. And above this mouth a rock made contact with the shark’s nose, while a rooster with steely eyes hovered above.
In a flutter of feathers and squawking, Franklin snagged Ernie’s water wings in his claws, and flew as fast as he could around the rocks and towards the beach with Ernie kicking and paddling as hard as he could.
Twenty feet from the beach, the shark caught Ernie’s foot in its mouth, and began hauling Ernie out to sea. But by this time, the crowd on the beach realized that Ernie was in trouble. A bald life guard managed to grab Ernie’s arm, and was able to wrestle Ernie away from the shark.
Ernie was hauled onto the shore, then rushed to a hospital. Ernie’s injuries were serious, but luckily the shark had missed all the major veins and arteries.
They included Ernie’s photo of the shark in the story that ran on the evening news. Hero chicken saves swimmer from shark attack. “That bird, made the biggest ruckus you’ve ever seen in your dad burn life,” a bystander was quoted as saying. “At first we figured the bird was loco, but then we seen him hauling this idiot towards the beach, and him paddling like a house afire, and, I declare, you’ve never seen such a thing in all your born days.”
Ezzi couldn’t believe it when she saw Ernie on the six o’clock news. She packed her bag that night and flew to New Orleans. She stayed at the hospital until Ernie was pronounced healthy enough to leave, and she drove him to a motel room that she’d rented.
“It’s always been you. Ever since the flea market when we got gassed, and the birds got chicken-napped, I knew you were the one for me,” said Ezzie.
Ernie, ever a man of few words, drew her towards him and showed her what a fine kisser he was. Love’s first kiss - they shared it, with all the wonder and magic that lovers have known throughout time. They call it chemistry; they call it electricity. It sends tingles and chills through your body. The room spins, and you feel like you’re the only two people on earth. You’re king and queen. You just climbed Everest. You’re the champion. You can do anything. It was that kind of kiss – real magic.
And in the next room, Franklin sidled up to Winnie.
“Bawk,” said Franklin.
“Bawk,” said Winnie.
And Franklin drew a protective wing around Winnie for privacy, and delicately showed Winnie what a fine rooster he was.
Epilogue: All was quiet around the de Milo mansion. Venice got exactly what she had asked for. No cameras, no microphones, no tabloid articles. No attention. No publicity. Venice could feel her popularity slipping day by day. She was last seen at the No-Name-No-Shame saloon riding John Savage like a rodeo bull. Hats off to the both of you! May you never be put away wet.
Leaving rehab was like parasailing. Walking out the doors of the Betty Ford Clinic, Nina felt so light, it was almost as if she could spread out her arms and take off on the air currents. She felt wild and free, and she was. She sped up, all but running down the walkway, planning adventures, dreaming about Rudy, and romance, and Rudy. Because Rudy Tomlinson, was the essence of romance. Black curly hair, eyes so dark and piercing that they could see into your very soul. And his body - sculpted god-like muscles, and that musky, I’m-in-the-mood-for-sex scent – just the thought of it sent goose bumps down her arms.
Nina loved taking chances. She loved taking dares. Life was to be lived soaring above the world. Behind her dark glasses, her eyes were smiling. She’d soon get her chance to soar again. Not literally, of course, but in a few hours, she’d break out of the cocoon of one existence, the meek Ninochka, docile graduate of the Betty, and she’d become Venice de Milo, beloved actress, singer, and all-around bad girl - a transformation from Russian peasant to Italian goddess - all within minutes. She rummaged in her purse for a mirror, but not to correct her makeup. Unlike most women, Venice knew she was gorgeous. She just liked to watch the way her hair shone almost white in the sunlight, the way it swooped in thick, bouncy tresses over her shoulders. It made her think of a platinum blond Jessica Rabbit. She admired her nose, small and straight with a mischievous upturn at the tip. $95,000 and worth every cent of it. And her eyes! No one in the world had violet eyes as deep and dark as hers. Everything about that face was perfect.
Just as she reached the end of the walkway, her limo pulled up and the driver tipped his cap at her. Carl’s timing was flawless as usual.
But right behind Carl, like yellow jackets at a picnic, a mob of vehicles appeared, operated by the smarmiest bottom-feeding sub-human lowlife of the Western world. And before Carl could open the door for her, they swarmed the limousine. Venice ducked her head behind her arms. All around her was confusion, like in a scene from “The Birds”. Somehow the paparazzi had found her.
“So how did it feel to be back in rehab again?” The words caught Venice unaware. Her face betrayed the shock, and she actually jumped and wrapped her arms protectively across her chest. Leonard Gherkin, with his oily smile, his bad breath and his damned microphone, were inches away from her nose.
Venice gagged. She forced herself to smile. “Well…” She breathed deeply to calm herself, avoiding Leonard’s mouth as best she could. She assumed a celebrity persona as if she were donning a mink coat. “It was an opportunity to grow, to confront my…” But the camera was already turned off. All they wanted was that first shot of her when they had caught her off guard.
A pack of twenty or so bodies closed in on her. “And what are the odds that you’ll stay sober this time?” John Savage, the pushiest of the bunch, took over the questions. “Remember last March’s fiasco – just twenty-seven days after you got out of rehab? I believe it happened at the No-Name-No-Shame saloon.”
“It’s a little fuzzy, but…”
“I remember it clear as Lake Tahoe. You were riding Rudy Tomlinson yelling ‘git along doggy!’ with your blouse unbuttoned and your skirt torn up to your thigh.”
“I think…”
“And after Rudy bucked you off, you were screaming ‘F_ you!’ like a wounded banshee, and throwing whiskey bottles and bar stools, and anything else you could grab, and when all was said and done, three cameras were destroyed, you’d broken my arm and sent Willie Hall to the hospital with a concussion.”
Their voices attacked Venice like a swarm of African bees. She’d left the clinic feeling clean, strong, and wholesome. Now she felt cheap, degraded, shameful. It got worse when Eleanor Bostiglione sidled up to Venice. With a sweet, sweet, sweet, and innocent smile – really a smirk – she purred into the microphone, “Oh, Venice! Rudy and Jenifer Myers. You must be devastated. Please tell our audience how you really feel. You poor, poor girl! Do you think the news will send you back to drink and drugs?”
‘Venice tried to stay calm. She wanted to ask Eleanor “Did you bleach your hair with Clorox?” She forced a laugh, but she could feel the flush spreading through her face and her neck. Once again the paparazzi had gotten to her. Rudy? Cheating? No! He couldn’t be cheating on her! Not again!
Eleanor giggled, and her breasts jiggled as she laughed. Dolly Parton breasts perched above a wasp-like waist - that was Eleanor. “Did you see the pics of the two of them in The Orbit? Jennifer was dressed for way more than a handshake - if you know what I mean.” Eleanor waited for her words to hit their target. “Or should I say undressed?”
Somehow, Venice had parasailed into a hurricane of enquiring minds. Voices in her head finished off the job. There was Rudy’s whining, cruel and manipulating - ‘You’re just a two-bit tramp, not good enough to keep a man like me’; and her dad’s drill-sergeant orders – ‘Suck it up. Be a man if you can. ’; and her mother’s sarcastic observations - ‘What, no lover by your side? You’re slipping, girl.’ Her own thoughts ripped through her psyche inflicting more damage than the actual paparazzi attack with their mikes and their questions. As cameras clicked and snapped, she gave up the last vestiges of Ninochka the good girl, and yanked Eleanor’s hair with one hand, while trying to gouge out her eyes with her other, and screaming “dead meat, dead meat” the whole time. The reporters loved it.
Finally Carl got the limo door open, and he managed to push Venice inside, and then get back behind the wheel and drive off. From habit, she reached under the seat where she knew a hip flask of Vodka awaited. She gave a full three seconds of thought to the rehab work she’d just completed - and took a deep swallow. At last. Real freedom!
That night, morbidly fascinated, she watched herself coming unglued on the TV screen. It was maybe a ten-second clip; it seemed like hours.
At last they went on to their next story. According to the news anchor, that the infamous rag, “Power to the Paper” was two Chick E. Cheese tokens away from bankruptcy. Venice cheered. Finally some good news! She raised her vodka-tonic glass in celebration, remembering all the garbage they’d dug up on her through the years.
And then, when she thought the reporters had finished persecuting her, the last straw fell onto her back. There on the screen was Rudy Tomlinson – her Rudy – his arm around Jennifer Meyers. “We’re so in love. I never knew it could be like this before I met Jennifer.”
“And Venice?”
Rudy sighed – the ‘I tried to be patient, but she’s a loser’ kind of sigh. “There’s too much drama there – the pills, the booze, the men. Who needs it? Venice, honey, get help! Lots of help!” ‘Method acting,’ thought Venice. ‘That’s all it is. Damn but he was good!’
An old copy of “Power to the Paper” perched on her coffee table, and she threw it to the floor, then sent the tonic glass sailing at the TV set opting for something stronger. “A double valium vodka martini, that’s what I need.” She said the words out loud.
But she choked, trying to wash both pills down at the same time, and sprayed vodka and vermouth all over the floor - and all over the “Power to the Paper” with its photos and story of Mephi the Magnificent – magician/superhero, appearing nightly at the Orange Pickle, 1244 Stratford Street in downtown New Brunshire. Two drink minimum.”
That’s when it hit her – there exists a drug more powerful, more pleasurable than valium. She cleared her mind, speed-dialed her lawyer, and set in motion her plan for the days ahead.
Meanwhile, on the other end of town in a sad little turquoise and orange apartment building, Ezmarelda Frobisher scooped fried eggs onto a plate for herself and for her more-than-friend-but-not-quite-boyfriend Ernie. (Her ordinary chicken, Winnie, was proving to be an extraordinary egg layer.) Ezmarelda was dejected. Her fairy tale was over. Her bubble had burst. She was yesterday’s root beer float – no fizz left.
Two weeks ago, she had been all expectation and joy. She’d met a possible love of her life, Ernie Logan, and together, they’d submitted a story about Mephi the Magnificent magician/superhero, appearing nightly, etc. etc. to “Power to the Paper”. And they’d received $700 for the story and a Pulitzer nomination. Life was perfect. Ezzie had suddenly felt beautiful. Her hair was darker and shinier than ever, her eyes were bluer, and she was almost in love with Ernie. Even their poultry were happy. Winnie seemed smitten with Ernie’s rooster, Franklin Delano Roostervelt.
But the Pulitzer had gone to someone else and the $700 had turned into rent, food, and a box of laundry soap. And Ernie burped more than he talked, and his pony tail somehow went from charming and artistic to sort of stupid. And he didn’t have a job either.
So here they sat eating eggs, Ezzie and Ernie, broke, jobless, and without any prospects. You’d think a Pulitzer nomination would carry some respect with it, but apparently any shmutz could get one – no big deal.
Ezzie flipped through the mail. Bills, ads, “You may have already won…” “If you don’t give me your refi business, I’ll eat my shorts.” And finally she found an envelope containing real mail. “You are invited to Venice de Milo’s mansion on Tuesday, May 18, 2010 at 11:00 a.m. Bring the photographer.”
“Hey, Ernie, what do you suppose this means?” She showed him the Venice de Milo invitation.
Ernie shrugged. “Dunno.”
Ezzie had acquired a very special Magic Eight ball. “What’s this all about?” she asked it. It sometimes came out with unexpected answers.
“Ask again later.”
“Do you think Ernie likes me?”
“Ask again later.”
So on Tuesday, May 18, 2010, Ernie and Ezmarelda found themselves part a flock of humans in the foyer of Venice de Milo’s mansion waiting for the superstar to show up. Most of the flock appeared down on their luck. Ezzie recognized a few from the unemployment office. In one corner, stood seven dejected beatnik types wearing black leather jackets with “Power to the Paper” stenciled on their backs. Two of them carried professional cameras. Others were texting on their iPods and Blackberries.
A sharp clap of gunpowder and a flash of fireworks signaled that something was about to happen. Ezzie screamed, Ernie jumped, and, in front of a spiral staircase, Venice de Milo suddenly appeared dressed in a tiger-striped skin-tight dress. The cleavage dipped to her navel and the skirt stopped a half inch below thigh. “You’re probably wondering why I brought you all here,” she said.
Venice laughed with her eyes. “I’ve just purchased 51% of “Power to the Paper”, which I’ve renamed…” Here she paused for dramatic effect. ‘Revenge’. Catchy, don’t you think!” She showed off a blood-red mast head for the new tabloid.
“I’m hiring all of you to free lance for me. I’ll pay $1000 for any photo or any story which I consider suitable to print in my new paper. And here’s what I’m after.
“For years, the blood-sucking ticks…” She gestured over towards the Power to the Paper contingent then continued. “The paparazzi - have made my life a living hell. No offense, boys. Now it’s my turn. I want you to do to them, what they’ve done to me. Any of the tabloid reporters is a fair target. And I’ll pay double for any dirt you find on these bastards – Leonard Gherkin, John Savage, Eleanor Bostiglione. And, I’ll pay quadruple for anything on Rudy Tomlinson, my supposed fiancé, my true love, and Jenifer Myers, his trollop.” And here her voice became just a touch shrill. “For they are the scum against which all other scum must measure down to.” Venice smiled. She checked her fingernails. “That’s all,” she whispered. And she was gone.
Back in Ezzie’s apartment, she and Ernie were digesting what they had heard. “We can totally do this,” said Ezzie. If we hang outside by Venice’s house long enough, they’ll show up, and we can just follow them and find out where they live. Then all we have to do is attach a nanny-cam to Franklin, and fly him up to the bedroom windows. You get the pictures, I’ll do the stories. With the right innuendoes, we can make going to the bathroom sound like debauchery.
“The first peeping rooster – how low tech!”
Ernie stroked Franklin’s feathers and drifted off into a world of day dreams. Investigative journalism. It was all very James Bond, very brave and daring, a chance for Ernie to be someone special, someone Ezzie could fall in love with, maybe even a hero, and not just the loser from the flea market. ‘Agent Logan, it’s all up to you. Too dangerous for any other agent. You probably won’t make it out alive.’ ‘Ha! Danger is my middle name.’
Ezmarelda was patting his face. “Ernie, are you okay? Your eyes sort of glazed over.”
Low tech plus Photo Shop turned out to be highly effective. Ezzie and Ernie had a natural instinct for tabloid reporting. In a short time, their dining had progressed from Winnie’s eggs, to dinners at Mc Donald’s, to restaurants that served food on ceramic plates. Ezzie kept a scrapbook of all their articles.
Bizarre Sex Cult
Shocking photos of Leonard Gherkin’s bizarre sex cult. Somewhere in Needles, California - exact location very hush hush. “Revenge” has learned that Leonard Gherkin, all-around good guy (ha ha) has a bevy of beauties. (Beauties? – Oh well! To each his own!) He’s stashed them in an out-of-the-way cabin. Leonard claims they were on a church retreat. Some retreat! Wink, wink. How do I join??? No, on second thought, this all sounds too kinky for me.
Eleanor Bastiglione Queen of Lipo
She’s been snipped and clipped more often than a book of coupons. Eleanor’s dish of the week had been John Savage. They’d been seen at the local McDonald’s under the table sucking toes, and swapping spit and sperm. Look out, John, Eleanor’s been ridden more often than Sea biscuit - ridden hard and put away wet. But subsequent rumor has it, that she dumped John at that tres chic restaurant Casa de Amore. She literally dumped him into a vat of marinara sauce. And she’s now hot on the prowl in pursuit of a hot dog vendor named Marty. Our advice – run, Marty, run! Run like Tammy Faye’s eyeliner in the middle of July.
Ezmarelda had a total of twenty-seven articles, in her scrapbook, pasted on acid free photo friendly pages. The scrapbook was her proof - proof that she wasn’t a loser, that she could be successful given half a chance. But this was only the beginning. And it seemed to be working. Revenge was suddenly turning a profit.
“We need to do more,” Ezmarelda said to Ernie. Our next article has to be something so over the top, so out of control, that they’ll be talking about it clear into the next decade. I want us to be heroes, celebrities. I want kids to know our names and look up to us. Slowly, she hatched her plan. It was supposed to come to fruition at the Oscars, only for some reason, she and Ernie were not invited. In fact, they were specifically told to stay away. No trust in their fellow humans – that was what was wrong with the world today. No compassion. She had to resort to plan B – as soon as she could concoct plan B.
And concoct she did. She frequented all the paparazzi’s favorite hangouts, leaking information in a stage whisper loud enough to carry thirty feet or so. “I heard that Rudy Tomlinson plans to propose to Jenifer Myers on Sunday June 14th at exactly 3:36 pm. Don’t let it get out. We can scoop this story.” Then, with Franklin’s help, she set up a fireworks display that her victims would remember forever.
By 3:30 pm on Sunday June 14th, Rudy’s entryway swarmed with news-hungry paparazzi. “What’s this about you and Jennifer tying the knot?” asked John Savage.
Rudy was visibly annoyed. “There’s no knot. I don’t know who started this irresponsible rumor, but…”
Rudy was interrupted by a string of explosions. All of a sudden, chaos ruled. Shots seemed to be coming from the perimeter of the property, louder and louder, herding the reporters into the middle of Rudy’s entry way like cattle rounded up for slaughter. More shots rang out. A rubber knife with feathers hurtled past John Savage’s ear and stuck in the crack of Rudy’s front door. Someone yelled out “They’re just cherry bombs and firecrackers. No need to panic.” But no one listened. People were running everywhere. Innocent cameras bore the brunt of the carnage.
Somehow a trip wire strung from a palm tree to a wrought iron fence suddenly sprang taut. Eleanor Bostiglione ran into it full tilt, and ended up in Leonard Gherkin’s arms. A fist shot up out of the crowd, hitting John Savage in the face. Heads butted. Within minutes an old-fashioned brawl broke out in front of Rudy Tomlinson’s mansion. Rudy took a step forward, lost his footing and fell headfirst into his rose garden, which had mysteriously acquired three feet of mud. Ernie snapped the pictures. Ezzie, taped the sounds - Wham bam and socko. And more cuss words than you’d hear at a teen age slumber party. Finally, Ezzie called 911 and she and Ernie hightailed it out of the fracas leaving Franklin and the nanny-cam to capture the final footage. From all of that, Ezzie and Ernie pieced together their piece de resistance:
War of the Paparazzi
John Savage, our savage reporter seeks revenge on Leonard Gherkin. “He stole the love of my life”, Savage said referring to none other than Eleanor wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am Bostiglione, seen here carried away in the arms of Leonard Gherkin.
“I always knew it was John, I mean Leonard,” Bostiglione was heard to say. Fists flew, not to mention knives and unidentified explosive devices. Rumors that the knives were rubber stage props have not been confirmed at this time.”
Exploding Flop
Speaking of rumors, reports of Rudy Tomlinson’s engagement to Jenifer Myers unfortunately were unfounded. It has been speculated that Rudy spread the rumors in an effort to build up his sagging ratings. Cheap shot, Rudy! And speaking of shots, our reporters were unable to ask their questions because they had to run for their lives. Someone was shooting at them. Later on, it turned out that the shots were just fireworks – firecrackers and cherry bombs. Rudy denied any responsibility for the shots. Said he didn’t know anything about it. Rudy was visibly annoyed at the questions. Could he have something to hide?
Venice was thrilled. Most of her arch enemies had spent the night in jail. Everyone thought Rudy was responsible for the firecrackers and resulting mayhem. The paparazzi had been slowed down due to technical calamities – broken cameras, tire trouble, black eyes, bruised ribs, and bruised egos. And Venice didn’t even have to pay any hospital bills or claims for broken cameras. Oh, they’d be back, but they’d have to think twice before messing with Venice de Milo and Revenge!
Ezzie pasted the last news article into her scrap book. Suddenly she felt old. And sad. And useless. She’d been happier after she’d been fired. She tried to pet Winnie’s feathers, but Winnie shrank from her grasp.
“What’s wrong?” she asked her Magic Eight Ball.
“Don’t bother asking again later. I’m not speaking to you.”
She tried several questions, but the answers in the Magic Eight Ball stuck and only the black background showed in the window.
“I don’t get it. We won. We’re the last paparazzi standing. What’s wrong?” she asked Ernie.
He just looked at her. “No, you’re the last paparazzo. I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s like, well… When I worked the flea markets, I never lied about my stuff – I never cheated anyone. I never made a ton of money, but at the end of the day, I felt way happier than I do now.
Ezzie looked at him. We have to fix this. But how?”
Ernie took a long time answering. “What if… What if we do another extravaganza - like the war of the paparazzi – only telling everyone what really happened? An investigative reporting thing. Enquiring minds want to know.”
Ezzie shook her head. “We can’t. We’d probably have to give Venice back her money. And we’d spend a couple of nights in jail. Let’s see what the Magic Eight Ball says.”
“Seek the higher ground.”
She shook it again.
“Shoot straight.”
“What does it say?” asked Ernie.
“It’s gone wacko.”
“Well,” said Ernie. “I’m going to write my mind anyway.” He found some useful photos of trip wires and cherry bomb remains. He stayed up till midnight working on his article.
That night, Ezmarelda sneaked Winnie up behind Ernie’s apartment. She just had to see what he’d written. And to keep it from being printed. The window was open. She petted Winnie. ”Beautiful chicken, clever chicken. What a special hen you are! You need to fly into Ernie’s window and get that article.” Winnie looked at Ezzie with the Winston Churchill look in her eyes. “Go on,” said Ezzie. Winnie hopped six inches into the air, dropped to the ground and lay on her back as if dead. No nudging no persuading, no “What a clever chicken” - not even a bribe of worms and grasshoppers could induce Winnie to fly into the window. As a last resort, Ezzie took Winnie bodily and threw her up into the air. Winnie circled around, pooped on Ezzie’s head, clucked a chicken chuckle, and circled back down to the ground in front of Ezzie with a self-satisfied chicken grin. At home, Ezzie asked the Magic Eight Ball, “How can I get Winnie to steal the photos.
“Ask again later.”
For three weeks, Revenge was the only tabloid on the market. Finally, The Orbit put out an issue. Ernie’s article was prominent on the front page.
When Good Reporters Go Bad
I’m not clever. But I know this. You should get paid for doing something good. Or at least something that doesn’t hurt anyone. You know that story – War of the Paparazzi? Well, I didn’t just help write it. I made it happen. I feel like toad vomit. And if you want to get mad at me or sue me or something, go ahead. I’m not going to write this stuff anymore.
Ernie Logan
But that was nothing. Because The Orbit’s lead story tore Ezzie’s guts out - as if she’d passed her heart through a paper shredder.
Cat Woman Breaks up Dynamic Duo
Guess who’s been slippin’ and a slidin’, wigglin’ and a jigglin’ all steamy dreamy, whipping creamy? Ernie Logan and Eleanor (the cat) Bastiglione, that’s who! Who’d a thunk it? Hey, watch out for the quiet ones. “He’s a sex addict,” Eleanor was quoted as saying. “Always ready to play the nasty, anytime and anywhere. The locker room at 24-Hour Fitness, the veggie aisle at Safeway (They have it on the security camera.) even at the flea market parking lot – he’s always ready to get my motor pur-r-r-ring.”
Ezzie really didn’t believe it until she got to the part about the flea market. It would be just like Ernie to shag at the flea market. Could it be true? Had Ernie really fallen for Eleanor’s eye-batting and butt-wiggling?
It was a breakfast scene at Ezzie’s apartment, but something was very different. Ernie Logan was reading the newspaper – not comic books, not the tabloids – he was reading the newspaper, and not just headlines or the sports page, he was trying to make sense out of all the articles.
“Shallow, shallow,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been all my life. I’ve never cared about anything except having fun. That and Franklin and you. But now I want to do something real, something that matters.” He went back to the paper muttering, “shallow, shallow, shallow.”
Ezzie stiffened. Wait a minute! Had Ernie actually said he cared about her? She couldn’t get up the courage to ask him.
Ernie was the one who broke the silence, but it wasn’t what Ezmarelda was waiting to hear. “Here’s deep,” he said. “Deepwater Horizon. Look at the pictures. That’s what I want. To report the truth, and report about something that really matters, not who’s sleeping with who and how kinky they are. Starting tomorrow, I’m hitching a ride to the gulf, and I’m only taking pictures of things that matter.”
And he did just that.
Ezzie found it hard to write without Ernie and Franklin. She only wrote one more article for Revenge.
Kidnapped by Aliens - A Victim’s True Journal
Day 1: The Abduction. All the Paparazzi’s have been abducted by aliens. I am the last one. It started out innocently enough with an anonymous invitation to an ice cream social. I arrived not suspecting a thing. “Chocolate fudge ripple, please,” I said. That’s the last thing I remember before waking up on the mother ship with electrodes attached to my ears and a 100-inch screen broadcasting ‘America’s Next Top Model.’
Day 2: I Take Stock of My Adversaries. Aliens don’t look like what you’d expect. They’re pink and furry, and about seven feet tall. They reminded me of department store Easter bunnies.
Day 3: Frustration. I believe they use a binary code similar to a computer for their language. I tried gesturing, but couldn’t make myself understood.
Day 10: Communication. An alien, who later introduced himself as Harvey, connected an electrode from my left ear to the ship’s computer, thereby enabling the computer to translate for us.
Day 12: They Explain their Mission. It seems that this ship was piloted by seven renegade aliens. Against all orders, they’d flown to our planet to explore our culture. They were particularly interested in rap music, raves, Venice de Milo, and Viagra. They figured the paparazzi were the ones who’d know the most on these subjects, which explains why we were the ones abducted.
Day 26: Freedom. I am released in exchange for photos of Venice de Milo, and a detailed map of Rudy Tomlinson’s mansion. Watch out, Rudy, they’re on their way to get you!
Epilogue: The police wouldn’t believe my story, but fortunately, there’s a group in Clear Lake that follows alien sightings. An ad hoc posse was formed to protect the neighborhood and safeguard the populace.
It was one of Ezzie’s finest articles, but she got no pleasure from the writing. Could Ernie have been right? Was she shallow? She asked her Magic Eight Ball, “What does ‘deep’ feel like?”
“Follow your heart.”
‘What’s in my heart,’ she wondered. ‘What’s important to me?’ Ernie! She cared about Ernie.
She picked up her phone and began to text:
Earnestly Seeking Ernie
No hype, just the truth. Ernie Logan, you are the sprinkles on my ice cream, the honey in my tea. I love you. I didn’t realize it till you left me. We can be shallow or deep. I don’t care. If you don’t want to do tabloids, I don’t either. I just want to be with you. So call me. Okay???
XOXOXO
Ezzie
P.S. Winnie misses Franklin.
Ezzie’s hands were shaking and her eyes saw double as she finished the text. She couldn’t believe she was actually sending a love letter text. And she almost chickened out of sending it. What if he didn’t text back? She’d crawl into bed and be depressed until she died.
But she accidently sent the text to Venice de Milo instead of to Ernie. ‘Another adoring fan,’ thought Venice and didn’t give it any further thought.
Ernie arrived in New Orleans with a thousand dollars in his pocket, and a rooster, and a suitcase containing his sleeping bag, a change of clothes, and a toothbrush. He figured he’d fly Franklin out over the oil rig, get some great pictures, and offer them to a local newspaper, but it turned out that the Gulf of Mexico was bigger than he had thought. He pointed towards the ocean, and threw Franklin up into the air, but Franklin circled back onto Ernie’s shoulder and squawked and cockadoodled. Loosely translated, Franklin was telling Ernie,”You’ve got to be kidding.” So Ernie had to try another tack.
Ernie found the office of the New Orleans Daily Gazette, and he told the receptionist he was ready to offer them his services. She really tried not to laugh. It was just that Ernie had Franklin the rooster perched on his shoulder, and, while Ernie was pleading his case in English, Franklin was crowing, strutting and demonstrating what champions the two of them were. The receptionist stifled one giggle, squirmed, and finally gave up, threw back her head, and laughed till tears came to her eyes. Finally she was finished and was able to talk. “We’re not hiring vaudeville acts right now,” she said. “But I’ll tell our editor that you came by.”
Ernie left the New Orleans Daily Gazette devastated. He tried a couple of other newspapers, but no one seemed to want a photographer whose only experience had been in tabloid journalism and flea markets. He wandered aimlessly wondering what he was going to do. He couldn’t go back to Ezzie - that was for sure - not as a failure.
For some time now, oil had been washing up on Louisiana’s beaches, and swamps. Ernie knew his photo had to be fantastic and different from any other in order to get him the kind of attention he wanted. So he drove out to the first beach he could find. He pointed Franklin towards the water and let him go, and Franklin turned around and headed back up the beach and landed on Ernie’s shoulder. “Franklin, you’re one chicken rooster,” said Ernie. But he gave up on Franklin coming up with any spectacular shots.
Next Ernie found an all-night surf and SCUBA shop, and bought some necessary supplies. Plastic baggies to keep his camera dry, a second hand surf board (quite used), water wings and flippers for greater swimming range, (Ernie was no Michael Phelps) and a half-priced Speedo. Then, leaving Franklin on the beach under an umbrella (which he’d also purchased), Ernie marched into the water. It was bracing but not all that cold once you got used to it. Channeling Jacques Cousteau, Ernie gamely plunged forward till his feet no longer touched the sandy bottom. Then he jumped on the surf board and kicked with the fins. His idea was to go out several hundred feet, turn past an outcropping of rocks, and photograph the shoreline from out in the Gulf.
After rounding the outcropping, he looked back and found himself facing a small channel of murky water flowing through oily-covered grasses. The water was a soupy orange, partly because of naturally decomposing vegetation, and partly from the suspended droplets of oil. This marshy area would make a perfect backdrop. Ernie looked around for a focal point for his shot.
Meanwhile, from his vantage on top of the beach umbrella, thanks to his eagle chicken eyes Franklin could see Ernie, and what he saw terrified him. He leapt to his wings fluttering and cackling like a rooster possessed.
Back in the water, Ernie concentrated on lining up his shot. A sleek grey animal appeared above the swells, and Ernie tried to use it as a point of interest, deliberately blurring the murky water behind it for dramatic effect.
Franklin’s frantic fluttering drew a crowd. He squawked and hopped and cackled, flying back and forth from the shore to the area behind the rocks where Ernie was concentration on his shot.
The grey object was clearly an animal, but Ernie couldn’t quite identify it. All he could make out was an arched gray form rising about a foot above the swells, moving gracefully against the channel’s current. But luck was with Ernie. The animal turned and began to swim towards him, and Ernie couldn’t wait to find out what kind of animal it was.
Franklin’s squawking turned to deafening screeching. Finally, giving up on all humans as completely useless, Franklin flew off towards the rocks. “I have the strength of ten because my heart is pure,” he kept clucking to himself. He wished for the talons of an eagle, but had to make do with the claws of a chicken to clutch the largest rock he could carry.
Peering through the camera’s view finder, Ernie finally recognized the animal he was trying to photograph. Triangular teeth, sleek dorsal fin, bullet-shaped body, it seemed that Ernie was looking into the mouth of a bull shark. Ernie froze with terror, but his hands trembled so hard that he captured the shot by accident. The animal’s mouth took up half of the photograph. And above this mouth a rock made contact with the shark’s nose, while a rooster with steely eyes hovered above.
In a flutter of feathers and squawking, Franklin snagged Ernie’s water wings in his claws, and flew as fast as he could around the rocks and towards the beach with Ernie kicking and paddling as hard as he could.
Twenty feet from the beach, the shark caught Ernie’s foot in its mouth, and began hauling Ernie out to sea. But by this time, the crowd on the beach realized that Ernie was in trouble. A bald life guard managed to grab Ernie’s arm, and was able to wrestle Ernie away from the shark.
Ernie was hauled onto the shore, then rushed to a hospital. Ernie’s injuries were serious, but luckily the shark had missed all the major veins and arteries.
They included Ernie’s photo of the shark in the story that ran on the evening news. Hero chicken saves swimmer from shark attack. “That bird, made the biggest ruckus you’ve ever seen in your dad burn life,” a bystander was quoted as saying. “At first we figured the bird was loco, but then we seen him hauling this idiot towards the beach, and him paddling like a house afire, and, I declare, you’ve never seen such a thing in all your born days.”
Ezzi couldn’t believe it when she saw Ernie on the six o’clock news. She packed her bag that night and flew to New Orleans. She stayed at the hospital until Ernie was pronounced healthy enough to leave, and she drove him to a motel room that she’d rented.
“It’s always been you. Ever since the flea market when we got gassed, and the birds got chicken-napped, I knew you were the one for me,” said Ezzie.
Ernie, ever a man of few words, drew her towards him and showed her what a fine kisser he was. Love’s first kiss - they shared it, with all the wonder and magic that lovers have known throughout time. They call it chemistry; they call it electricity. It sends tingles and chills through your body. The room spins, and you feel like you’re the only two people on earth. You’re king and queen. You just climbed Everest. You’re the champion. You can do anything. It was that kind of kiss – real magic.
And in the next room, Franklin sidled up to Winnie.
“Bawk,” said Franklin.
“Bawk,” said Winnie.
And Franklin drew a protective wing around Winnie for privacy, and delicately showed Winnie what a fine rooster he was.
Epilogue: All was quiet around the de Milo mansion. Venice got exactly what she had asked for. No cameras, no microphones, no tabloid articles. No attention. No publicity. Venice could feel her popularity slipping day by day. She was last seen at the No-Name-No-Shame saloon riding John Savage like a rodeo bull. Hats off to the both of you! May you never be put away wet.
