Elimination Night - By Anonymous Page 0,96
never did admit to that overdose. The official explanation was he’d been “overcome by tiredness and emotion” following his mother’s death, and therefore—as a precautionary measure—had checked himself into Mount Cypress to spend the night under observation. This spectacular untruth was made a lot easier to maintain when Joey’s pee test came back clean. I thought he must have just gotten lucky, or that he’d somehow managed to drown himself in enough Kangen water to fool the lab. It was only when he also sailed through the next test—in spite of having ingested a year’s supply of maximum-strength aspirin—that I started to get suspicious. And then of course came Chaz Chipford’s story (on which more later), which blew everything apart. By that point it was too late for Joey to get fired, however. Besides, he claimed that it had all been a practical joke, a publicity stunt in the spirit of Honeyload’s early days on the road.
“Let’s get straight to the point,” said Dick, prodding at a remote control barely wider than his thumb. The lights dimmed as a motorized projection screen lowered itself from the ceiling at the far end of the room. To the sound of a tiny fan blowing cool air over hot circuitry, an image wobbled onto the white rectangle in front of us: a stock photograph of a burst pipe, spraying water everywhere.
“As you’ve probably noticed, Miss King, we have a leak here at Project Icon,” announced Dick, nodding with almost fatherly pride at the visual metaphor now being displayed for my benefit. “Someone in this building—someone with the most intimate of access to our talent—has been passing along highly sensitive information to members of the press, and by that I mean a certain trumped-up jackass at ShowBiz magazine, who writes under the name of Chaz Chipford.”
Dick clicked his remote again, and a photograph of Chipford—taken from afar, seemingly without his knowledge—appeared on the screen. He was emerging from a Russian dry cleaner’s somewhere, with a curious expression on his face.
“Now, we can only assume that whoever has been providing Mr. Chipford with his information has being doing so in return for monetary compensation,” Dick went on. “And this of course would be a gross violation of any Icon employee’s contract. Make no mistake: Zero Management and the Rabbit network cannot and will not tolerate such breaches of confidentiality. That’s why they’ve retained my services to locate this mole. And when I do, Miss King, he—or she—will be held accountable, to the maximum-possible extent under the law.”
Before I could object to the implicit accusation, Dick had activated the projector again, causing Chipford’s face to dissolve into a montage of his recent ShowBiz front pages.
I had to admit—it was an impressive body of work:
THIS LITTLE PIGGIE WENT PEE-PEE-PEE!—HOW WILDMAN LOVECRAFT BEAT PROJECT ICON DRUG TEST
(A CHAZ CHIPFORD EXCLUSIVE)
SORRY GIRLS, HE’S YODEL-GAY-HEE-HOO: LI’L NUGG GETS SNUG WITH BIBI’S MYSTERY HUNK DRIVER
(A CHAZ CHIPFORD EXCLUSIVE)
#METHHEADMIA: BAZOOKA-BOOBED DIVA STOLE TV FROM DYING GRANDMA TO BUY “ONE LAST FIX”
(A CHAZ CHIPFORD EXCLUSIVE)
“COMRADE CASSIE” EXPOSED: SHE LIVES ON FOOD STAMPS WHILE DADDY MAKES $200BN A YEAR
(A CHAZ CHIPFORD EXCLUSIVE)
When Dick was sure I’d fully digested Chaz Chipford’s greatest hits, he sat back down with a grunt.
“Thank you, Dick, for that insightful presentation,” said Len, yawning. “Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here, Bill. No one suspects you of anything. You’re far too tediously honest for that kind of behavior. Nevertheless, I can’t ignore what my dick’s telling me—so to speak—and he’s observed some lifestyle changes that need to be explained, so you can be ruled out of our investigation. You took a cab to work today, for example. Highly unusual, as I’m sure you’ll agree. After all, we pay you as close to nothing as makes no practical difference. And then there’s this issue of your attire. I found myself looking at you this morning and not feeling slightly depressed, Bill. That’s unusual. Then it came to me: You’re wearing a dress—which is frankly nothing short of extraordinary. It’s not even one of those hideous tie-dye things you sometimes drag from the swamp of your wardrobe on the hottest days of the year.”
“It’s a Diane von Furstenberg,” I volunteered.
“It’s a bloody miracle, that’s what it is,” said Len. “With some heels and a bit of makeup, there’d be a serious danger of someone finding you attractive.”
“You’re such an asshole, Len.”
Len feigned shock. “Finally!” he cried. “She fights back. I’ve been wondering how long that would take. You