Thirty-Eight--State of Confusion

Quincy reclining on the bed, Piotr sitting at the desk chair, and Arvin slumping on the recliner, they focused their attention on Natalia Pertman, trapped in a cage at the foot of the king-size bed.  They stared at her in complete confusion, and she returned their stares with amusement and anger, a mixture of emotions that only made the trio more bemused than they had been before.  Behind her, the TV, muted, was playing a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

"It's not eating," Arvin observed.

It took Quincy a second to realize that when Arvin said it, he meant Natalia Pertman.

The cage was equipped with three different perches, a water dish full to the brim with Evian, and a food dish stocked with baby carrots, celery sticks, Brazil nuts, and prunes.

"Plus I haven't seen it use any of the perches," Arvin continued, in a tone indicating that he found Natalia Pertman to be a boring pet that refused to play with her toys.

"Should I put a pizza in there?" Piotr wondered aloud.

Arvin struggled to sit up.  "You don't feed it pizza.  You buy it a wheel.  Maybe it likes to run in circles.  What pet doesn't enjoy exercise?  Or you get it a chew toy.  Chew toys are a lock."  Childlike, he plugged his pinkie into his nostril up to the second knuckle.  "Or how about a little bell?  Let it hang down in front of its face.  I bet it likes to ring bells.  Half a dozen little bells.  Ringing bells all day long.  Bells are fun."

Piotr eyed Arvin, realizing with dawning horror that the manchild in the recliner wasn't joking, that Arvin had not only forgotten that their captive was a Hollywood starlet, but he couldn't even remember what type of pet she was supposed to be--what kind of bird, after all, uses a hamster wheel?--while Quincy just stared at Pertman, mesmerized.

Finally, Natalia gave a slow nod, Quincy in her sights.  "You spent all of this time trying to catch me," she said.  "You built the cage, got the movie script, director, other actors . . . everything.  But you don't have a plan for me.  Now that you've got me, you don't know what to do with me.  You don't know how the movie ends."

"I know how the movie ends," Quincy replied.

Natalia laughed, sensing a bluff.  

Her speech must've triggered a realization in Arvin's brain, because suddenly he spouted, "Get her a companion.  Someone to play with."

When Natalia asked, "Like who?" Quincy began to blush.

"I was thinking of the hot chick from That '70s Show," Arvin said.

"The redhead?" asked Piotr.  "That's Laura Prepon.  Not that hot."

"I meant the hot chick."

"Alexis Dziena?"

"Who?  . . . You've never even seen That '70s Show," Arvin accused.

"Just a coupla times," Piotr admitted, but walking past the cage to where Arvin was lying, he showed Arvin his iphone screen.  "This is Alexis Dziena in Broken Flowers.  Her nude scene."

"She's naked," Arvin replied.

"That's what nude means."

"Cheese and crackers!  Let's get that chick for the pet.  Mila Kunis too.  We can put ecstasy in their Evian and then eat a tub of popcorn while they make out."

"Arvin," Piotr said, taking back his phone, "that's the most intelligent thing you've ever said."

Arvin shrugged.  "They've gotta drink water sometime.  Why not drug it?"

Piotr went to work on his iphone.  A minute later he said, "No good.  Dziena's in Morocco filming for Sofia Coppola, and Kunis is in New York City with McCauley Culkin."

Just as Arvin and Piotr seemed to be out of options, Quincy said, "Guys.  Could you go downstairs for a while?"

"Yeah, guys.  Could you go downstairs for a while?" Natalia repeated.  

Piotr glanced at Quincy, but Quincy wouldn't take his eyes off of Pertman.  Pertman wouldn't take her eyes off of Quincy.  "Arvin, let's go get you seven Whoppers," Gleeman said, opening the door.

"Okie dokie."

When they were gone, Quincy approached the cage, inserted the key in the lock, and opened the door.  Slowly, Natalia stepped out of the cage, crossed to the bed, and sat.  Quincy sat next to her.  She turned to him, tilted her head, and closed her eyes.

"It's called Grand Theft Auto," Quincy whispered.  She opened her eyes and saw the controller on the bed next to her hand.  "You can shoot anybody."

She raised an eyebrow.  "This is why you kidnapped me?  To play a video game?"

"It's a really good game."

"Is this the game that taught you how to kidnap movie stars?"

"You can't kidnap in this game.  You can do everything else though."

Her character hopped into a taxi and ran over a pedestrian.  Instantly, cops were in close pursuit.  "So . . . where'd you learn how to kidnap?"

"Past experience."

"How did that work out for you?"

"Not so good."

Thirty-Seven--Capture!

Director: Okay, Ms. Pertman.  In this scene, Bennie the Pimp is going to lose control of himself.  He's high on his own supply and hallucinating, you see, and he thinks that you're a knife-wielding monkey that wants to cut out his lungs.  So his state of mind is self-defense.  So as he's flailing around, he's gonna rip your blouse off, at which point the audience will be exposed to exactly four boob-seconds--

Natalia Pertman: Zero boob-seconds.

Director: Right.  That's what I meant to say.  I meant to say that this scene is not where he rips your blouse off while hallucinating that you're a knife-wielding monkey, such that viewers will not get to see your glorious ta tas bouncing around gloriously during the struggle.

Pertman: Right.

Director: So then, you won't be naked, so then I guess we'll just do away with this sex scene that never happened.

Pertman: Right.

Director: The sex scene where you don't do film's first upside-down lapdance from a handstand.  An Oscar-worthy scene, containing 25.4 ass-seconds.

Pertman: Right.

Director: A lapdance that, upon completion, leads you to give special guest star Snoop Doggy Dogg himself, rap star and reggae star, a blowjob.  In the flesh.  In a dream.

Pertman: Are you fucking kidding me?

Director [shouting over his shoulder toward his assistants]: Tell Snoop Doggy Dogg the blowjob is out!

Assistant [yelling from a distance]: No blowjob for Snoop!  [Pause.]  Snoop wants to know--what about tomorrow?

Director [looking at Pertman inquisitively]: Uh, Snoop Doggy Dogg--

Pertman: I heard.  Not available.  Ever.

Director: Of course . . .  Would  a handjob be met with the same answer?

Pertman: Same fucking answer.

Director [yelling over his shoulder again]: Tell Snoop that Plan B is out!

Assistant [yelling from a distance]: Got it!  No finger magic for Snoop!

Director [yelling]: Tell Snoop maybe tomorrow!

Pertman: I quit.

Director [yelling]: Tell Snoop it'll never happen!

Assistant [yelling from distance]: Check!  No blowjobs for Snoop!  No handjobs for Snoop! 

Director [yelling]: Oh yeah!  Tell the body oil crew that their services are no longer necessary!

Assistant: Got it!  No need to oil Ms. Pertman's glorious breasts today!

Director: Correct!  We don't need her tits to be supply and shiny!  Fire the body oil crew!

Assistant: They're fired!  They're unemployed!  They've been stripped of their badges and are being escorted out of the hotel as we speak!

Director: When Las Vegas wonders why its unemployment rate rose two percent, tell them to contact Ms. Pertman's reps!

Assistant [mournful]: The body oil crew had children.

Assistant #2 [approaching Director with first assistant]: Those children started starving five seconds ago.

Assistant #1: Dying boys and girls just because Natalia Perman refused to give Snoop Dogg a little blowie.

Assistant #2: Or a handie.

Assistant #1: Not to mention the upside-down lapdance.

Assistant #2: I can visualize it perfectly.

Assistant #1: Natalia won't do a handstand, kids.  Say hello to food stamps.

Assistant #2: Government cheese is tasty.

Assistant #1: Is Ms. Pertman aware that the blowjob would've happened as part of a dream sequence?

Assistant #2: It would have been a dream blowjob.  Not even a real blowjob.  In a sense.

Assistant #1: Dream cock.  Not a real cock.

Assistant #2: Not even her real mouth.

Assistant #1: Dream mouth.

Assistant #2: Nothing real about it.  

Assistant #1: Except the paycheck.

Assistant #2: Of course.  

Assistant #1: The paycheck is always real.

Pertman: I quit.

Assistant #1: Forget everything we said.

Assistant #2: Apologies.  We didn't know you were eavesdropping.

Assistant #1: We were joking.  Poorly.

Director [Suddenly]: Enough of the chatter.  We're ready . . .  Annnnnnd action!

Upon hearing that magical word, Natalia Pertman snapped into character, all annoyances forgotten.  Suddenly, she was that naive, blackjack-addicted, broke hooker, and she was running down the hotel hallway, trying to get as far as possible from her demented, monkey-envisioning pimp.  She was a consummate pro.  

The cameraman followed her with a handheld as she ran down the hallway of the thirty-second floor, glancing over her shoulder at her unseen pursuer.  Her eyes darted with growing desperation at each hotel room door that she passed.  She tried a knob, then another.  No luck.  Lurching across to another door, she tried a third.  To her amazement, it opened.  She slipped inside.

Into complete darkness.  Curtains drawn.  She urged herself to step forward.  Heard the door softly shut behind her.  She took another step.  Another.  A half-dozen steps later, she suddenly felt the cool of metal on her forehead.  

"Huh?" she said.  

She heard the clang of a metal door shutting behind her.

Seconds later, the lights came on, brightness stabbing her eyes.  When her vision adjusted, she saw that she was alone in the room, except for a teenage boy sitting on the bed across from her.  No cameraman, no director, no assistants.  She was staring at him through bars of a cage in which she was trapped. 

"I know you," she said.  

"I'm Quincy Capers," he responded.  

"What the fuck is going on here?" she demanded.

He shrugged.  "I kidnapped you."

She rattled the cage door.  "Let me out of here."

He looked confused.  "Do you know how hard it was for me to get you in there?"

She glowered.  "Wait a second.  You're bankrolling my movie.  You gave me a brick of cash for lunch the other day."

"Yeah.  The movie's over now."

Seeing a stool behind her, she sat.  "When I call the cops, you're going to jail for a long, long time."

"No phone," Quincy said.

"I'll scream," she countered.

"I rented every room on the floor.  I spent last night screaming my head off.  Nobody complained.  Nobody knocked on the door."

She sighed.

"We planned it pretty good," Quincy said.

She sat quietly, wondering.  Finally, she said, "You mean that you started a movie production company, bought a script, rented every room on the floor of this hotel, built a cage, and set up a scene where I would unwittingly walk into this cage--all because you wanted to kidnap me?"

Hesitantly, Quincy nodded.

Natalia unexpectedly beamed.  "That's so romantic!"

Smiling, Quincy approached the cage.  He had a plate in his hand.  On the plate was a single apple slice, a baby carrot, and two cashew nuts.

"Hungry?" he asked, offering it.  

Thirty-Six: Method Acting

Alex Trebek, who once upon a time had been America's favorite game show host but had since transformed into the country's newest serial killer, had been haunting the Rio casino during the late-night filming of "Hit Me," an indie movie about a blackjack addict (Russian-born movie star Natalia Pertman) who goes broke, starts turning tricks for cash, gets slapped around by her pimp, and goes batshit loony.  The director expected it to be the first film to be rated R for bitchslapping.

From what Trebek could tell, they were filming the part of the movie where she was losing all of her dough.  Again and again, they filmed Pertman tapping the table to indicate a hit and then slumping in defeat as her chips and then her cards were scooped away by an indifferent blackjack dealer.

Trebek hadn't been spotted by law enforcement yet because he was using all of his skills in disguise.  Today, he was dressed to look like this:

Trebek, gazing upon horizon

It was a look that he felt was a considerable upgrade on yesterday's, in which he had spent six hours at the Seinfeld progressive slots looking a bit more jolly.

Trebek, high on nitrous oxide, after trip to dentist.

Three days ago, when plainclothes police officers had appeared at the periphery of the filming, flashing their badges and asking questions, Trebek, taking no chances, had spun his wheelchair around and headed off toward the men's bathroom.  He entered the john disguised as a middle-aged man suffering from polio and seven minutes later had exited the bathroom as an aging Romanian bronze medalist in the pole vault.  He crossed the casino and stepped into another bathroom near the poker rooms, exiting four minutes later dressed as a fat bearded man in a little purple coat.  Crossing his fingers, he stepped directly into the ladies' bathroom across from the men's, sighed with relief at finding it empty, and reappeared 40 seconds later dressed as Courtney Love.  He signed two autographs before slipping behind some video poker machines and poking back out from behind them dressed in three shades of drab gray, looking like a government worker in a communist state.  From there, he pretended to slip and fall near an unoccupied customer service station.  When he stood, he was a statuesque redhead with a fantastic rack.  He was so impressed with his breasts that he couldn't resist feeling himself up.

When he finished his self-massage, he looked up to see that the cops were gone.

Tonight, there were no such worries.  He felt comfortable enough to wander around a bit.  Slowly wandering was better for his finances, after all, than playing the slots, which turned out to be eating his cash at a faster rate than his ex-wife who, before he had snapped and killed two dozen people, had been receiving  alimony to the tune of $25k per month.  If he couldn't find a good time and place to kill Quincy Capers--and soon--he risked going broke.

After all, his expenses for disguises alone was costing him more than $4,000 each day.
And the high heels were killing his feet.

And the panties, despite being the largest size he could find, didn't have enough space for his crotch.  His testicles were being slowly, yet inevitably, being pushed up toward his asshole.  In the future, he'd just slice a hole and let himself freeball.

And what was he doing wearing panties anyway?

And when had he changed out of his tophat and tailcoat and dressed himself as a statuesque redhead again?

I'm a method actor, he concluded with pride.  When he dressed as a woman, he became a woman . . . until he changed his costume to appear to be ex-WWF wrestler the Iron Sheik, at which point he became the Iron Sheik, inhabiting his character so completely that when a waitress rudely asked whether he had really meant to order a Shirley Temple, he had--without breaking character--knocked her off her feet and put her into the camel clutch until she had passed out.

That had been a foolish move, drawing security.  Luckily, when they arrived, they came upon Trebek as a little old lady with Coke bottle eyeglasses, pointing toward the east exit and speaking in subdued horror about an attack by the Yakuza.

At times like this, walking was good.  It allowed Trebek to practice walking in high heels.  As he passed the bar, he stopped suddenly in his tracks.  Jeopardy! was on TV.  Was it a repeat?  

"What's this?" he asked in a Southern lilt.

"You've never seen Jeopardy?" a fiftyish man scoffed, without looking at him.

Still dressed up as a voluptuous redhead, Trebek took the seat next to the man and practiced his feminine wiles.  "Well of course I have," he said, "but not since, you know, the Trebek incident."

The man barked rough laughter.  "Yeah, that guy really lost his shit.  Anyway, Dennis Leary is the host now."

"Dennis Leary?"

"Yeah, big improvement too," the guy continued.  "The ratings nearly doubled.  It was hard to watch that show in the past without wanting to punch that Trebek in the face."

"In the face?" Trebek lilted.  He felt dizzy.

"Yeah, what a fucking know it all.  The worst was when he pretended to know all of the answers.  Didn't he know that the whole world knew that he getting the answers from his computer screen?  . . . You okay, lady?" the man asked, reaching out to steady the redhead sitting next to him.  He gave a healthy glance to Trebek's tremendous rack, then added, "You a hooker?"

Am I a hooker? Trebek wondered.  Despite being thrown off balance, he was still trying to maintain his method acting.  Would a tall redhead with large breasts talking to a fiftyish man at 3 a.m. at a bar in the Rio be a hooker?  

The inevitable answer: Yes.

Trebek gave a nod.

"Come with me," the man said.  Trebek was still lightheaded from watching that failed comedian helming his show.  He stepped into the elevator in a daze.  Before he knew what was happening, he was exiting onto the sixth floor, and entering room 604.  Once the door was closed, the fiftyish man put his hands on Trebek's shoulders and pushed him to his knees.

"Fifty bucks," Trebek lilted, reaching for the man's fly.  Method acting! Trebek thought triumphantly.  If only he were in the movies, he'd be receiving Oscar consideration.

"Great," the man replied.  "You're cheaper than I thought."

Thirty-Five: Jack-Deuce of Diamonds--The New Ten-Seven of Clubs

Quincy was the chip leader in a WSOP holdem tournament, holding a stack that surpassed the next nine highest stacks combined.  It was an academy of blind aggression and pure luck.  Quincy, listening to Cypress Hill on his ipod, was hardly paying attention.  He kept checking his cell phone for updates from Piotr on the Natalia Pertman Situation, but he wasn't getting any.  To pass the time, he kept maxing out the betting preflop.  Then he would bet on every flop.  When faced with any resistance, he elected to raise.  On his last hand, he had bet a flop of 

A♠ Q♣ 7♥ 

and gotten called by two villains.

He had bet on a 2♠ turn and been called twice.

And he had bet on a J♥ river.  One player folded in disgust.  The second villain, a middle-aged man with a face that oddly reminded Quincy of a socket wrench, had called, watched Quincy expose two-pair--J♦ 2♦--and then looked at the board and, a circuit shorting out in his head, started blinking rapidly as the pot was pushed once again to Quincy.

"Runner runner," the player to his left said.  "That's your name from now on."

But this was bitterness speaking.  Quincy didn't always go runner-runner.  And he didn't always catch up on the river.  But the table was an abusive relationship, with Quincy as the sole, indifferent abuser . . . an abuser so used to abusing that he wasn't even aware that he was traumatizing the other nine players.

He just wanted the game to be over.  Limit was boring.

Sometimes he caught up on the turn, as when his pocket fours caught up to Q♥ J♥ and A♠ J♠ on a board that ran out 

J♦ J♣ T♠ 4♥ 2♦

and netted Quincy a monster pot in which both other players hung on till showdown.

Every once in a while, Quincy actually had a great hand and was called or raised every step of the way.  Quincy just kept pushing chips across the betting line.  In this way, his pocket kings got paid off far more than they should have.  He could do no wrong.  Even when he lost, he followed it up with an even bigger win.  He was playing 100 percent of his hands, always raising or reraising, and luck carried him again and again to the winner's circle.

But the players weren't busted out quickly enough.  Quincy just wished that it would end.

If things were going according to plan, Natalia Pertman had read and approved changes to the script.  None of the changes involved her getting naked.  Piotr promised that he would send Quincy a text if any hitch blocked the progress of Plan B.  

He wondered whether he should just leave the table and find out.

With a shrug, he stood, sighed, and wandered off towards the elevator.

Somehow, that simple act of complete indifference towards the game, its players, and the outcome of the tournament put half of the table on Capuchin monkey tilt.  Half of the players raced to imitate Quincy's winning ways.  On a flop of

Q♦ Q♣ T♠

one player bet, another raised, a third reraised, and the original bettor capped.  

On a J♠ turn, a bet and a raise ended up being called.

On a 4♠ river, the action went exactly as it had on the turn.

The three players exposed

5♣ 4♥

K♥ 8♥

and

2♥ 2♦

and the players laughed as a hill of chips was pushed towards the dotcom millionaire who had rivered his four.

After that hand, the betting continued to be maxed preflop, despite Quincy's absence, and large pots continued to be pushed towards players with shit hands.

"Where'd Runner Runner go?" someone wondered.

None of them would have been able to guess the truth: that he was headed upstairs to see whether Natalia Pertman was finally an occupant in a cage that would be her future home.

He was proud of his craftiness.  He had written the cage, and her imprisonment, into the script.

Thirty-Four--Arvin at the Bar

After disastrous results in his first five World Series of Poker events, busting out within 15 minutes in all of them, usually with holdings like 7 4 offsuit or pocket deuces, Quincy finally got off to a good start in his sixth event, $3,000 Limit Holdem.  He was still dressed as a sixty-year-old farmhand, and he played the limit format as if he hated it, raising most hands preflop, most flops, most turns, and most rivers, because he did hate it.  His only problem was that he kept catching cards and was beginning to amass a gigantic stack.

Arvin, Quincy's toady, having little to do and never having learned poker, hung out at the nearest Rio bar, where his immense size had convinced Rio staff that he wasn't a minor.  A woman wearing a rhinestone-studded miniskirt, and who resembled a backup singer for a band that makes music for gay cowboy porn movies, asked Arvin if he'd like to buy a cowgirl a drink.

"No thanks," Arvin replied.  "I already have one."  He was, in fact, ingesting Jack and Coke at ten-minute intervals and feeling no pain.

Holding out a hand and leaning over so far that a nipple made itself visible at the top of her dress, she said, "Oh my," then pretended to blush and slowly, methodically pushed her nipple back into the confines of her dress.

"Nice tit," observed Arvin.

"Thanks.  I've got another one just like it over here."

"Me too," Arvin responded.

"So, cowboy, what's your story?"

Arvin dropped into a lengthy silence, staring vacantly at nothing, and then he said, "I was born with a big head, and I grew into it.  I went to school.  My brother drowned in a speedboat accident.  The cage with the screaming girl inside made it top heavy.  So when he died, I got his job.  I'm a sidekick.  I've always wanted to be a sidekick.  Some people call me muscle.  You can call me either.  I was in a facepunching contest, and I put myself in the hospital.  That's how I got the job.  My name is Arvin."

Undeterred by anything he had said, Rhinestone whispered, "I heard there's a party in your room."

Arvin nodded.  "Better than that.  There's a cage."

She rubbed her hand up and down his arm.  "Do you wanna put me in your cage?"

Arvin looked at her in all seriousness.  "With one hand, I want to lift you up in the air and twirl you like a pinwheel while I bounce you off my penis, spinning round and round, while I drink these"--he held up his Jack and Coke--"with the other hand."

"You get to the point."

"But you'd probably vomit all over the place."

"I bet I would, pardner."

"And I wanna put you in the cage too, but I can't."

"Why not?"

"Not my cage."

"Whose is it?"

"Natalia Pertman's."

"You've got Natalia Pertman in a cage in your room."

"Not yet."

Rhinestone's curiosity was engaged.  She took the seat next to Arvin and waved off the approaching bartender.  "So you're gonna kidnap Pertman?"

"It's not kidnapping if you do it for love."

She laughed.  "So it's love, huh?"

"Not me.  Boss."

"Boss loves her."

"Yup."

"So you're going to put her in a cage for Boss, because he loves her, and because he loves her, it isn't kidnapping."

"Yeah."  He turned to her with a perplexed look on his face.  "And the tough part is, I can't bop her on the head.  It would be so much easier if I could just bop her on the head.  But I can't.  Those are the rules."

"Sounds tough."

"Yeah.  Step one, bop her on the head.  Step two, carry her to the cage.  Step three, drink these."  He held up the drink.

"You've got it all figured out."

"Yeah, but Boss says we have to use stealth.  I'm not good at stealth."

"I see that."

"My only instruction now is to be secretive.  'Do not tell a soul.'  Those are my instructions."

"I'm sure you can do that."

"So far, so good."

Meanwhile, Quincy had quadrupled his buyin.  He raised from early position, two players in middle position called, and an Internet kid on the button threebet.  Quincy fourbet, and everyone called.  The flop came

Qd 7c 3s

Quincy bet, and everyone called.  The turn came

3h

Quincy bet, and everyone called.  The river came

3d

Quincy bet, and everyone called.

Quincy turned over 4s 3c.  Everyone else mucked.  The button stood and marched away from the table without a word.  Piotr had told him never to speak, because he would give himself away as a kid if he did.  So he just shrugged and started stacking the chips.  Stacking chips resembled manual labor and made him wish that all of these events could happen online.  That way he could watch South Park or something, because one-tabling was pure hell.

Still, he was the chipleader, and that counted for something.

His pocket buzzed.  He pulled out his cell phone.  Tonight, Piotr had texted him.

Quincy imagined Natalia Pertman, surrounded by iron bars, eating some yogurt and a few cashews.  The most beautiful and exotic pet in the world.  Should he install a perch for her?  Would that be thoughtful or inhumane?  They would watch cartoons together.  And when Beavis spoke, they would laugh simultaneously, no matter what Beavis said.

Yes, his luck was changing, on every front.

Thirty-Three--Piotr Invents a New Term

As Quincy was playing in Event #3--$1,500 PLO--of the 2006 WSOP at the Rio, and as Alex Trebek, disguised as a washed-out Hells Angel, raced south towards Las Vegas with a car trunk full of shotguns, Natalia Pertman, a fictional character bearing no resemblance to any living movie starlet, approached the director of "Hit Me," the indie flick owned by Gleeman Productions Unlimited.

Pertman had a copy of the script in her hands.  She slapped it down in front of the director, Harvey Wills, who had previously directed only dog food commercials.  "I have problems with your edits," she said.

"They aren't my edits.  I'm just the director," Harvey said.

"You're the director.  That's important," she said.

"You can talk it over with the producer."

"Where's he?"

"Right there," Harvey said, pointing at Piotr, who was texting with one phone while talking into another phone.

"That kid is the producer?"

"That kid hired me."

"So one kid is bankrolling the movie, and another kid is exec producing it?"

The director shrugged.  "Money is money."

As Natalia stalked over to Piotr, he quickly finished with both phones.  "Ms. Pertman, a pleasure," he said.

"Your edits are shit," she said, tossing the script onto the felt.

Piotr smiled, unruffled.  "Which edits in particular bother you?"

"Look at them," she said.  "The original reads, 'Fiona: Hit me.'  Now it reads, 'Fiona [seductively]: Hit me.'"

"What's wrong with you being seductive?"

"It's blackjack.  I'm losing.  I'm asking for a hit from a 70-year-old female blackjack dealer.  What's seductive about any of that?  Are you going to have me asking for her number next?"

"Would you do that?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Okay.  It's out.  Good eye.  Anything else?"

"Lots.  When I order a bloody mary, the script now says I'm topless."

"Yep.  That part requires toplessness."

"I'm standing in the middle of a casino, ordering a bloody mary, and I'm topless?"

"Exactly."

"How did I suddenly get topless?"

"You took your top off."

"Why?"

Piotr shrugged.  "The a/c is broken."

"Bullshit.  Nothing in my contract states anything about being topless."

Piotr drummed his fingers on the felt.  "What will it take?"

"Take?"

"To get you topless."

"I've never been topless on film before."

He met her angry stare with one of his own.  "This is a business.  How much per boob-second?"

She blinked.  "What?"

"Let's break it down to boob-second.  How much per boob-second?"

"Boob-second?"

"If you showed one boob for five seconds, that would be five boob-seconds.  If you showed two boobs for ten seconds, that would be twenty boob-seconds.  Two questions.  One, how much do you need per boob-second?  Two, how many boob-seconds will you agree to?"

She stared at him with her mouth open.

"For example," he continued, "let's say we agree to--oh, I don't know--fifty thousand bucks per boob-second.  You go topless ten seconds.  That's a quick million right there.  Half a mill per boob."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"So what's your max?"

She took a breath and said, "My max is zero."

"Zero what?"

"Zero boob-seconds."

"How about 100k per boob-second."

"My max is zero boob-seconds."

"250k."

"Zero boob-seconds."

"Okay.  This is going to be experimental, and I don't think it will work, but we'll try the scene with you clothed.  It won't be realistic, but let's see how it plays.  Anything else?"

"Yeah, asshole, this part.  The original says, '[Fiona steps onto elevator after losing all of her money.]'  The edited version reads, '[Fiona steps onto elevator buck naked after losing all of her money.]'"

"Correct."

"What am I doing buck naked?"

"It's a metaphorical thing about you losing your shirt at the blackjack table.  It's all very philosophical.  Because your max offer is zero boob-seconds, we'll have to shoot you from behind.  Have we negotiated an ass-second rate yet?"

"My max is zero ass-seconds."

Piotr opened his hands.  "How are we supposed to shoot you buck naked if we aren't allowed any ass-seconds or boob-seconds?"

"You aren't going to shoot me buck naked!"

"Okay, okay.  No nudity.  It won't be realistic, but let's see how it plays.  Anything else?"

She grabbed the script and flipped through the pages.  "I won't kiss my tits for luck."  She turned a page.  "I won't massage my ass to relieve stress."  Another page.  "And I won't dry hump the wall in my sleep while having hot sex dreams."

"What if your tits are clothed?  Will you kiss them then?"

"No."

"Same thing for your ass?"

"Same."

"About the sex dream, everything in the movie leads up to that moment.  We had a really good song chosen, Milli from Milli Vanilli would've licensed it to us for pennies, Vanilli committed suicide, of course, but this new song by Milli would've started his comeback, it would've been just perfect--"

"No sex dreams!"

Piotr nodded slowly.  "Anything else?"

"I'm going to ignore all of the edits."

"Deal."

She stalked off.  Piotr texted Quincy, She hated your edits.  No to all of them.

After receiving the text, Quincy reraised with 6 3 offsuit, then busted out after five-betting all-in preflop against pocket aces.  He hurried back to his hotel room, excited by a new idea for a fresh batch of edits.  Time for Plan B.

Thirty-Two--Travels with Trebek

After the massacre at the Sisters of the Silent Hug, Alex Trebek had fled in the school bus with Pluto, Far Flung, Inkblot, and Creeper--four doofuses that he only knew by code name.  At the on-ramp to I-80 West, Trebek told Creeper to pull over.  When he did, Trebek stepped off the bus, a vehicle which he figured--correctly--was headed for immediate capture.  Unfortunately, Far Flung, an acne-scarred moon-faced waddler, had stepped off the bus with him.  Hearing sirens in the distance, they rushed down the embankment and up the other side, until they found themselves in a Walmart parking lot.

"Can you jump start a car?" Trebek asked.  Far Flung nodded.  "Well then, do it."

Within 60 seconds, Trebek's last sidekick had found a Camry, opened the door, and started it up.  Leaving the car, he waddled over to the bush where Trebek was waiting, at which point the host of Jeopardy! used a silenced pistol to pump two slugs into Far Flung's heart.

Master planner! thought Trebek.

He drove down I-80 85 miles till he hit Sacramento, where he pulled into a gas station.  Stepping into the Exxon, the man behind the counter managed to say, "Hey, aren't you--?" before Trebek shot him in the neck.  He substituted the dead cashier's blue pickup truck for the Camry and headed south on I-5.  Cop cars passed twice, coming from the other direction, sirens flashing.

After midnight, he pulled into a small motel across the street from an abandoned gas station and rang the bell.  A gray-haired woman answered the manager's door in a green robe.

"Any rooms open?" Trebek asked.

"Hell, they're all open," she answered, and Trebek put two bullets into her, grabbed a key, and slept in Room 101.

In the morning, he saw two people he guessed to be the janitor and the dead woman's replacement.  He shot them both in the parking lot, drank a couple of coffees, and headed off down I-5 in the woman's yellow Subaru hatchback.

Driving carefully at 65 miles per hour in the slow lane, he saw a car pulled over on the side of the road and a man waving his arms.  He rolled down his window and shot him as he drove past.

Naked freckled boy scout, Quincy had said at the child prodigy edition that never aired.

And what had Trebek said?  Had he sensed a trick?  Yes, he had.  The boy was trying to explain Jeopardy! to Trebek.  He was trying to teach Trebek the rules!  Hell, Trebek knew that contestants were given the answer and had to supply the question.  But what had he said?

"Pardon?"

To which the boy had replied with a smirk: "Who is handcuffed to Trebek's bed?"

Then the audience had gasped and started giggling.  All of those taunting faces.

At that point, Trebek knew he had to kill the boy.

But no, not in front of a studio audience.  Later.  When the boy was least suspecting a terror attack.

Trebek winced.  So okay, he got the wrong address and ended up blasting a house full of nuns.  His mistake.  No excuses.  Not exactly the sign of a master planner.  But now he would be in control.  He would manage his impulses.  He would be at the height of his powers.

He pulled into a 76 station, filled up with gas, shot the cashier and two truckers, grabbed a couple of hot dogs and a Coke, and hit the road.

He would not make any more mistakes.  No more random shows of violence.  Control.

The road to Las Vegas was a long one.  At a gas station, where he shot the cashier, two mechanics, and a school bus full of teenaged girls, he entered the bathroom with a razor, scissors, and a makeup kit looking like this:

and came out of the bathroom looking like this:

but when he ordered a baked potato and chili at the first Wendy's he saw down the road, everyone said, "Tom Selleck!" so he tossed a grenade into the kitchen area and shot the senior citizens eating their doublestacks on the patio, then hurried into the bathroom and came out looking like this:

and zoomed off down the road on a stolen motorcycle.

He spent three months living in a foreclosed, abandoned house in North Las Vegas.  It had no electricity, and he made sure not to leave a candle burning during the evenings.  Cold water ran in the faucets, but Trebek didn't need hot water.  Cold water kept him sharp.  No one ever stopped by.

He knew the boy--knew that eventually he would be pulled to Vegas.

During the World Series of Poker, Trebek had begun to feel his hope slipping away.  No sign of the kid anywhere.  Sure, he knew, the kid was underage, but his private investigators had given him so much information!

They said, The kid's playing in disguise!  The kid's winning millions!  Nobody can stop the kid!

Well, he, Alex Trebek, would stop the kid.  With a bullet in the forehead.  And then he would go down in a hail of bullets, a hero of the people.

The first few events had given him no hint, no clue whatsoever.  But then he had noticed that late at night, a movie was filming.

Starring Natalia Pertman.

Hot teenage Russian chick, Trebek thought.  Yes.  He sat at video poker ten nights straight and lost three thousand dollars.  All the while, he watched.

And then it happened.  He saw him.  No costume.  Just a shithead kid with his shithead friend.  Trebek saw Quincy give Pertman a brick of cash, saw the shithead run off to the elevator, saw a blush creeping onto Pertman's face.

She likes him? he wondered, aghast.  Then he smiled, understanding that this could work in his favor.

A waitress appeared at his side.  "Would you like a drink?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.  He reached for his pistol, then remembered that he had to play it cool, real cool.

Just say what a normal person would say, he advised himself.

"I'll have an Aqua Velva," he said.

"Ooookay.  Is the bartender gonna know how to make that?"

"One ounce vodka, one ounce gin, one ounce blue curacao," he instructed.  "Mix together and serve with a little umbrella."

"What color umbrella?" she asked, laughing, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to strangle her against a slot machine covered with mermaids.