Starlet

-This is an older piece I tinkered with a bit-

"Oh for fuck's sake, someone shut her up?"

She lays on the floor, sobbing. The sounds coming from her throat really can't be human; vile wet gagging noises. It's really past pathetic and into the territory that makes you just want to turn your head. No car crash looky-loo here, at least that's what you tell yourself. But just like everyone else you stare, you watch the once magnificent specimen of femininity crumble to a miserable has been. Her once pretty face is mashed into the carpet, skirt hiked up
revealing sadly sagging panties, worn out looking thighs, fabric bunched up to slide into her crack at any moment. You can't not look. She's a one-woman bombshell of a car wreck. Freakishly more beautiful in her descent than ever on her way to the top.

Eyes shift, feet shuffle, someone coughs. Nobody wants to say anything. What do you say, "excuse me, ma'am. Could you please move your breakdown to another area of the room? Maybe yank those drawers out of your ass and head to the ladies room?" No. As I've heard my grandmother say, "God don't love ugly." And to break into her melt
down would be ugly.

Kick a hippie ugly.

So instead they all just gawk and try to look appropriately concerned. Although, I can see the gleam in the eye, through the hank of lush blonde hair, one of the Starlets old adversaries. That devilish glee that some women express when witnessing the fall of a rival. Her agent has a look on his face that makes me wonder if he's got dysentery and
is afraid to take a step for fear of staining his Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Who knows, who cares really?

I know I should be watching her come carefully unraveled, but, really the others reactions are far more interesting to me. After all I did help co-author this little scene, what should we call it? Dissolution? Voluptuous spontaneous deconstruction? Or maybe a last ditch effort of a fading star to get the limelight back onto her surgically maintained face? Call it what you want I don't care.

I'm sitting in my chair here in the corner. A bottle of Valiums in my pocket, a glass of cheap nasty smelling wine in my hand, waiting patiently for my cue. The moment she'll lift her tragically puffed up face, snot streaming from her nose, mascara and cake eyeliner spreading around her eyes, her big pretty mouth all screwed up and
then the gesture. It's a tiny thing, nobody else will notice. As her diamond-crusted fist smacks the ground, her little finger on the other hand will waggle.

I am a super hero in that instant. Always. I scoop her into my arms, cuddling her against my sagging breasts, coo at her and palm a Valium into her mouth as I swipe snot and tears and makeup from her face. She'll cling to me, turn her back on our audience. I'll smooth her rucked up skirt over her bony saggy ass.

No one loves her like I do. They'll all feel like shit for staring, feel terrible for not rushing to the aid of the downed princess.

I'll feed her a sip of the fetid wine, pat her lips with my sleeve. Kiss her forehead and shoot my, "die motherfucker die" sort of look at the assembled spectators. She and I will dance clumsily to our feet. I say something catty and evil to all those gathered. A righteous, "how dare you?" type thing on the fly. I'm superior unscripted.

I love this next part. To tell you the truth, it's always been my favorite. It's how I got my reputation for being a vicious bitch. They know it's coming and I can almost see them wince. Can nearly feel her agent's butt cheeks clench in anticipation of my wrath.

Hell hath no fury like a personal assistant scorned.

I really get into it. Pointing and hissing like some hell spawn dressed in Chanel. I show each and every one of those shits watching our little scene just how ugly they really are. It may all be an act but their reactions aren't in the script. They are off their marks and I yell it loud and proud. Teetering on my skyscraper heels for just a few minutes my Starlet is calm and I am the mother fucking hurricane. I am everything they should be afraid of. I know all of them well enough to know exactly what to say, know when my voice should tremble or rise shrill and sharp.

I know their secrets. I know which of them has a secret gay lover, I know which of them phone in tips to the tabloids about themselves when they are afraid that the public will forget their faces. And their faces? Shit don't- even- get me started on that. I personally have un-retouched pimple ridden fat ass senior pictures for each of them and they know it.

Later my Starlet and I will get flowers and cards.

Bottles of champagne delivered already chilled and with sappy notes of
faux concern.

I've got them in the palm of my hand.

And my Starlet? Oh, she loves it. We'll stay up late watching old cartoons and I'll tell her about it over popcorn and dirty martinis by the pitcher. She loves it as much as I do. We are quite a pair she and I.

While I hold her glaring daggers at our audience, we are the only real stars in the room.

And I'm on in five, four, three, two,-