fame is fleeting. So I greeted Alex at the door in Levi 511’s, a white button-down oxford-cloth shirt—and a pair of zebra-print Maud Frizon loafers. Hey, I might have come down from my once-lofty pedestal, but I was going to wear nice shoes after the descent.
He showed up carrying a huge rectangular object covered in wrapping paper with a huge red ribbon and bow perched on the corner of the object. It was a painting or photograph judging from the shape as he ferried it into my living room and set it gently on the floor.
“Open it,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
I tore the paper off and took a look at the enormous photo. It was a picture of an asshole. A human asshole.
“Do you like it?” he asked eagerly.
“What’s not to like? It’s a four-by-four-foot picture of an anus.”
“Five-by-five,” Alex corrected me.
“Even better. There’s nothing better for filling up empty wall space.”
“But do you like it? It’s the one that our ex-client Vicktor Teller sent us on our cell phones.”
“Oh, I remember. It made me lose my shit on national television. Alex, it really is beautiful. What did you do? Photo-manipulate it?”
“Photoshopped it myself, and had it enlarged and retouched. Then I added special effects and false colorization, removed the hair, etcetera,” he said proudly.
I had to admit it, the photo really was beautiful. It didn’t actually look like an asshole. It looked like a beautiful red–orange crater. But there was a much bigger question that formed in my head: Was this just a piece of art for my home, or was it a message from Alex to remind me of what I almost turned into? Neither me nor Lady Gaga could see through his poker face, so I resigned myself that it would always be both: art with a message.
“I’m going to hang it right there near the entrance,” I said, pointing toward my front door.
“Great idea. I was going to suggest that. Perfect location.”
I got up and carried the photo over to its new home and set it down on the floor. Alex and I stood there for a moment, not a word passing between us, but volumes of unspoken words being exchanged. He then walked over and gave me a big hug—a hug I really needed right now since I was on the verge of tears.
“Welcome back,” he said.
We sat down to eat and we had a wonderful, wonderful meal. And I had never felt more real.
Epilogue
Eleven months after the final episode of Things Are a Bit Iffy aired to a huge viewership, Ian Forbes died peacefully in his sleep at a hospital in Los Angeles with David Laurant at his side. David sold Ian’s huge estate in Palm Springs with Amanda Thorne and Alexander Thorne as listing agents. Because of the controversy surrounding the winner of the wildly popular Things Are a Bit Iffy, David Laurant gave $2 million each to Drake Whittemore, Marcus Blade, and Gilles Moreau. David Laurant eventually moved to Paris where he lives to this day. And the paternity tests conducted on Keith MacGregor proved conclusively that Keith could not have been Ian Forbes’s son. Evidence showed that while Keith was Ena Forbes’s son, genetically he could not have been fathered by Ian Forbes. The results of this test were made available to Ian at around the time he chose David Laurant as his companion and heir from the television show that made them both very famous. For a short time.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th St.
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2012 by David Stukas
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012941702
ISBN: 978-0-7582-7876-0
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Dedication
C HAPTER 1 - The Cold, Hard Bitch Slap of Reality
C HAPTER 2 - An Indecent Proposal
C HAPTER 3 - Sign Now, Pay Later
C HAPTER 4 - Let the Games Begin
C HAPTER 5 - I’ve Got A Funny Feeling About This
C HAPTER 6 - Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. Does That Apply to Sluts Too?
C HAPTER 7 - Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
C HAPTER 8 - I’m Ready for My Close-Up, Mr. DeMille
C HAPTER 9 - Open Mouth, Insert Prada Loafer
C HAPTER 10 - The Slap Heard ’Round the World
C HAPTER 11 - Being World Famous For Fifteen Minutes Is Far Too Long
C HAPTER 12 - Would Someone Please Shoot Me?
C HAPTER 13 - And What Are Your Plans for That Cucumber?
C HAPTER 14 - What Does A Scotsman Have Hidden Under His Kilt?
C HAPTER 15 - A Twisted Game of Twister
C HAPTER 16 - The Pocket Gopher Did It
C HAPTER 17 - The $how Must Go On
C HAPTER 18 - The Hottest Memorial Service of the Season
C HAPTER 19 - A Memorial Luncheon to Forget
C HAPTER 20 - Amanda Thorne, Incorporated
C HAPTER 21 - I Now Pronounce You Empress Dowager
C HAPTER 22 - Here, Let Me Help You Tie Your Tie
C HAPTER 23 - What A Load of Fertilizer
C HAPTER 24 - Maybe You Should Talk To A Psychiatrist About That
C HAPTER 25 - Live Fast, Die Young, and Leave A Fashionably Dressed Corpse
C HAPTER 26 - You Have the Right to Remain Horny
C HAPTER 27 - Okay, You Can Open Your Eyes Now
C HAPTER 28 - A Pair Of Well-Fitted Trousers Can Be Very Revealing
C HAPTER 29 - Colonel Mustard Was Blowing Professor Plum In The Library
C HAPTER 30 - Amanda Becomes the Butt of A Joke
Epilogue
Copyright Page