19-04-2019, 11:00 PM
So Night Follows Day Pt. 20
By T. MaskedWriter with special guest author Susan Bailey.
*****
"If your mem'ry serves you well, you'll remember that you're the one
who called on me to call on them to get your favors done.
And after every plan had failed, and there was nothing more to tell.
You knew that we would meet again, if your mem'ry served you well.
This wheel's on fire, it's rolling down the road.
Best notify my next of kin. This wheel shall explode."
-Bob Dylan, "This Wheel's on Fire"
How's it going? Susan here. I don't seem to be to most of the people with us right now.
We were finishing lunch at the most expensive restaurant in Seattle, where Contessa Helena de San Finzione paid for hers, mine, Julie's, Mander's, the paparazzi, and everyone else in the place's lunch, as photographers jockeyed around her to find decent shots without me, Julie or Mander in them. Before we'd emerged from the limo, La Contessa had commanded them to ignore us and destroy any footage they got with any of the three of us at all in the shot. Since we were staying close to her, they had to work hard to get decent angles.
I usually only refer to Helen as "Helen," but didn't just now, because that wasn't who had stepped out of the limo. She wasn't Helen Parker, the woman I'd discussed intimate secrets with over plain old drip coffee with hazelnut creamer earlier this morning. This was the woman I'd seen on television for years before I met Troy and Julie; Contessa Helena de San Finzione.
Occasionally, I hear Helen say something she'd said in an interview in person, and get a little smile about it. But since our conversation during the thing in Uongo, I haven't really thought of her as "The Lady From the TV," until I realized that's who I was seeing mugging for the cameras and acting like she was about to take a freakishly large bite of something, or tossing back another drink with wild abandon. Giving the tabloid photographers exactly what they wanted as a martini olive whoopsied its way into her cleavage and laughing it off with queenly disregard, as she plucked it out and ate it with a front-page-worthy smile.
When we returned to the limo, the rest of us entered before she did. La Contessa stopped and turned to the crowd of reporters. An Ultimado held an umbrella over her head as she told them to go ahead and look over what they've got to make sure there aren't any Nobodies in any of the shots, delete any of those, send off the good stuff, and meet us at the mall next. She made a joke about several of the press corps seriously needing a wardrobe upgrade, suggested she might do something about that when we get there, and got into the limo.
As soon as the door was closed, La Contessa removed the sunglasses, took her cigarette out of the holder, and Helen flopped onto the back seat.
"THAT," Helen panted, as she took the bottled water that Mander had already seen she needed and gotten from the fridge for her. "Was why I said we'd need a good lunch before we begin."
Julie was checking the news on her iPad. She thumped it briefly, then got something.
"The tabloid sites wasted no time." She reported. "The UK ones are the first to jump on it, like you said they'd be."
"Fucking Almighty Athiesmo save the Queen." Helen replied with a smile.
"There's a clip of the olive thing, with the headline 'Contessa Helena de San Finzione: Shaken Not Stirred.' Troy's going to want a shot of that. Oh, one about you buying them all lunch. 'Contessa Helena de San Finzione to Press: Let You Eat Cake! Buys lunch for reporters and entire restaurant!'"
"Perfect." Helen said, taking another drink. "My full name, cozying up to the press, AND them patting themselves on the back. Who's not gonna hate that? Let's keep that up at the mall; pick out a couple reporters and get them makeovers, buy them clothes, something." She thought a second. "We should have grabbed one of the big luggage carts with the roll bar on it, back at the hotel. Is there a store that sells those? That should be our first stop."
Reception in downtown Seattle seemed to be coming and going that day, but I was able to bring up Facebook and see various pro-and-anti Helen pages talking about the first stories coming in.
"One of the conspiracy groups," I told Helen as I scrolled through mentions of her. "Is talking about how you have Dracula's Coffin in your secret vault under the castle and that sleeping in it is your secret to eternal youth and beauty."
Helen laughed pretty hard at that one.
"The nut who tipped me off about Whyte's video. He was ten years older than me, and I was fucking with him; calling him 'sonny' and 'boy.' I figured he'd go report it back as 'proof' that I've got the Holy Grail in 'the vault,' but Dracula's Coffin is even better!"
By T. MaskedWriter with special guest author Susan Bailey.
*****
"If your mem'ry serves you well, you'll remember that you're the one
who called on me to call on them to get your favors done.
And after every plan had failed, and there was nothing more to tell.
You knew that we would meet again, if your mem'ry served you well.
This wheel's on fire, it's rolling down the road.
Best notify my next of kin. This wheel shall explode."
-Bob Dylan, "This Wheel's on Fire"
How's it going? Susan here. I don't seem to be to most of the people with us right now.
We were finishing lunch at the most expensive restaurant in Seattle, where Contessa Helena de San Finzione paid for hers, mine, Julie's, Mander's, the paparazzi, and everyone else in the place's lunch, as photographers jockeyed around her to find decent shots without me, Julie or Mander in them. Before we'd emerged from the limo, La Contessa had commanded them to ignore us and destroy any footage they got with any of the three of us at all in the shot. Since we were staying close to her, they had to work hard to get decent angles.
I usually only refer to Helen as "Helen," but didn't just now, because that wasn't who had stepped out of the limo. She wasn't Helen Parker, the woman I'd discussed intimate secrets with over plain old drip coffee with hazelnut creamer earlier this morning. This was the woman I'd seen on television for years before I met Troy and Julie; Contessa Helena de San Finzione.
Occasionally, I hear Helen say something she'd said in an interview in person, and get a little smile about it. But since our conversation during the thing in Uongo, I haven't really thought of her as "The Lady From the TV," until I realized that's who I was seeing mugging for the cameras and acting like she was about to take a freakishly large bite of something, or tossing back another drink with wild abandon. Giving the tabloid photographers exactly what they wanted as a martini olive whoopsied its way into her cleavage and laughing it off with queenly disregard, as she plucked it out and ate it with a front-page-worthy smile.
When we returned to the limo, the rest of us entered before she did. La Contessa stopped and turned to the crowd of reporters. An Ultimado held an umbrella over her head as she told them to go ahead and look over what they've got to make sure there aren't any Nobodies in any of the shots, delete any of those, send off the good stuff, and meet us at the mall next. She made a joke about several of the press corps seriously needing a wardrobe upgrade, suggested she might do something about that when we get there, and got into the limo.
As soon as the door was closed, La Contessa removed the sunglasses, took her cigarette out of the holder, and Helen flopped onto the back seat.
"THAT," Helen panted, as she took the bottled water that Mander had already seen she needed and gotten from the fridge for her. "Was why I said we'd need a good lunch before we begin."
Julie was checking the news on her iPad. She thumped it briefly, then got something.
"The tabloid sites wasted no time." She reported. "The UK ones are the first to jump on it, like you said they'd be."
"Fucking Almighty Athiesmo save the Queen." Helen replied with a smile.
"There's a clip of the olive thing, with the headline 'Contessa Helena de San Finzione: Shaken Not Stirred.' Troy's going to want a shot of that. Oh, one about you buying them all lunch. 'Contessa Helena de San Finzione to Press: Let You Eat Cake! Buys lunch for reporters and entire restaurant!'"
"Perfect." Helen said, taking another drink. "My full name, cozying up to the press, AND them patting themselves on the back. Who's not gonna hate that? Let's keep that up at the mall; pick out a couple reporters and get them makeovers, buy them clothes, something." She thought a second. "We should have grabbed one of the big luggage carts with the roll bar on it, back at the hotel. Is there a store that sells those? That should be our first stop."
Reception in downtown Seattle seemed to be coming and going that day, but I was able to bring up Facebook and see various pro-and-anti Helen pages talking about the first stories coming in.
"One of the conspiracy groups," I told Helen as I scrolled through mentions of her. "Is talking about how you have Dracula's Coffin in your secret vault under the castle and that sleeping in it is your secret to eternal youth and beauty."
Helen laughed pretty hard at that one.
"The nut who tipped me off about Whyte's video. He was ten years older than me, and I was fucking with him; calling him 'sonny' and 'boy.' I figured he'd go report it back as 'proof' that I've got the Holy Grail in 'the vault,' but Dracula's Coffin is even better!"
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