A/n: I'm sticking a 12/PG-13 on this entire Blog. Just to be safe. I may have to up grade this in later chapters. So, anyway, read on at your own risk, yadayadayada...
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So, How Cool Is This?
Mikey at Home
The 'r' key has died.
It's been dead for months, infact. Pain in the ass.
I should get a new one, folks'll think I can't type for shit. Screw 'em.
Anyway, there's me.
Shit Jesus. Guess what Folks...Mikey is pissed again. Royally.
"I hear ya talking guys..." I'm mumbling, half empty glass in hand.
When I'm not working I seem to spend half my time sitting in front of that fucking computer. Still better'n toffing it at some stuck up my own ass film premiere, right?
This internet stuff is a great invention, y'know?
You meet real people on here, and shit, you could be any body, and so could they, but no one cares! Beautiful because it doesn't really matter who you are in real life, just who you are playing today...
Anyway, sorry, I better explain some things.
That, well, that complete drip there, is me.
David Michel Mackenzie. Shit, God what am I thinking no one calls me that any more.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Mikey Mack. Yes, the Mikey Mack. Lucky me.
I don't always walk around looking like this, by the way. Occasionally I'll comb my hair. And I might throw on some real clothes, just for shits and giggles, but...Shit.
I just got up, didn't I?
I don't know why I do this when I'm drunk...there's no one here, but god do I talk to them.
My keyboard is fucked up, just in case you were confused by the 'r' key thing. I think I spilled something on it, but who knows, maybe some hack of a journalist crawled up my ass, and took a leak on it just to see what I'd do.
Oh well, might as well show you around now that I'm up, huh?
Not much to see really?
It's just your average high rise apartment, where the occupier hasn't had a maid in for months, and can't be arsed tidying himself.
I keep those drawn all the time, the curtains I mean. Shit, I really should clean those. That stain's been there for a while. Smells of smoke too.
Fuck it...Now follow me.
This is my son, Jimmie. How you doing, Boy?
He pressed his lips to the glass, in a drunken, slobery kiss, replacing the photo as carefully as his balance would allow, and crossed the room, to the gigantic stereo system.
"Fancy a song, Paula, darlin'?"
He pushed a few buttons, and drum beats and trumpets sounded throughout the grimy apartment.
"Tequilla!" he cried, raising his glass to the uncovered light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Mikey turned a twirl, whooping, sloshing the carpet a little more.
"Ooops," he sniggered. "Call the press, Mikey spilled his Jack again!"
Doesn't matter, as I said, there's nobody here to care.
I'm not a complete slob, just so as you know, I do actually have a maid. She just prefers to stay away while I'm home. Can't think why. Probably because those skimpy little outfits she wears don't get me off. Wonder how many other rooms she does where she gets more'n her wages, huh? Maybe she makes as much as I do, maybe. She can dream I suppose.
He tip-toed through the grimy linen foliage which seemed to have taken root in his bedroom carpet, and spread sporadically through into the other rooms, of which there were four. He deposited his empty glass on a large speaker which spewed out noise into the otherwise silent building. Which was fine too, no one had occupied the floor below since Mikey had moved in about five years before. Apart from that, they had pretty good soundproofing in these penthouse apartments. You never knew what 'they' might hear otherwise. No danger of that here.
Mikey's tiptoeing had given way to flat out stumbling, as he patted the pockets of his bathrobe, seemingly looking for something. He was still muttering, and becoming more agitated, he tripped into the kitchen.
And there was. He squinted against the sudden blindness, his head was pounding.
"Christ, thought the headache was s'posed to come the morning after. Shit, where the fuck did I..."
He trailed off, pulling over drawer after drawer, thrusting the contents around them, hardly caring should his fingers find revolver nor razorblade.
They didn't, but neither did they find his cigarettes.
"Fuck," he cursed, just a hint of maniacal laughter at the edge of his harsh tones.
He hauled himself back into the spacious lounge area, bumping into the couch, mor out of habit than actually not seeing it. he wrinkled his nose. Since when had his place looked so fucking brown?
The door to his bedroom was wide open, as always. The PC whirred from beyond, filling in the silence between rock and roll songs, ticking over invitingly. He plonked himself in front of it, grinning as he spied and reached for the cigarette packet that he now remembered leaving next to his 25 inch monitor before he had gotten up to dance.
He flipped the lip impatiently.
"Oh, holy sweet mothering..." It was empty. Mikey cried out in frustration, and began typing at the keyboard.
-Gotta go out for a while...My mom needs cigarettes *rolls eyes*
Wow, Jimmy. You can get cigarettes??-
-No Dummy. But I gotta go with her!
Oh right. Okie, see you later. Ethan-out.
"I gotta remember kids don't buy cigarettes."
He stood, surveying the wasteland of unclean clothes, looking for something remotely wearable. He snatched at at a navy blue t-shirt, and sniffed it. It didn't smell too bad compared to the rest of him.
It's not like that, ok? It isn't, and it never fucking was.
I don't enjoy lying to the kid, but it's necessary, for both of us, right?
He'd be different if he knew who I was, they all are, once they know.
I'll be in Maccy D's, and the 'barely in high school' pimply teen serving reels off the menu from behind a plastered on smile without so much as looking at you. Then you talk, and their greasy head snaps up, because they just 'know' those tones. After that it's "Here's your order, Mr. Mack.", "Can I get you something else, Mr. Mack?", "Have a complimentary donut, Mr. Mack.".
Actually, that last response isn't so bad. I normally hand that complimentary donut right out to the first bum I see.
They need more'n I do, afterall. Not like I can't afford my own food, right?
Anyway, looks like I'm as ready as I'm going to get...
Mikey pawed at his chin, trying to focus on his bobbing reflection, scraping his fingertips across the grating stubble. He shrugged, less likely to be recognised he supposed.
He groped through the tangled pile of things on his dresser, fishing out his keys, and checked that his wallet was still in the right hand pocket of his well-worn denim jacket. You just never knew.
A last glance at the unfamiliar face which blinked back at him, and Mikey left the room, narrowly avoiding a collision with the door frame.
The front door slammed behind him, and the all the lights in the apartment blinked out. Mikey Mack has left the building.
The early morning sun hit him square in the face as soon as the elevator doors slid apart, revealing the minimalistic, yet spotless lobby. Marlon was on the front desk, navy and gold uniform inpecable as ever. He tipped his cap as Mikey sauntered past, trying not to look too far gone.
Mikey nodded, grinning, in response. He liked Marlon, he was respectful, without the syconphantic lolling tongue itching to lick Mikey's boots. Just as an example, Mikey seemed to have forgotten how to manuever the revolving doors, just now, and instead of falling over himself and everyone else to extend an expectant hand, marlon stayed sitting at his post, patiently waiting to be asked to help. Mikey was grateful for being left alone.
He eventually got there, almost revolving them too far, but managing to fall out at the last minute, quite lucky that all of his limbs were still intact.
The pavement meandered beneath his auto-piloted feet, as Mikey head out towards the store. They knew him there too. It was an okay neighbourhood, he supposed.
"Time for crossing, Mikey."
The curb proved not to difficult to handle, with the help of a parking meter for support.
Mikey chuckled to himself, his eyes rolling in his head with the sound.
It was still echoing around his head, when he remembered to look out for traffic.
Red. Brilliant shining Red. Galloping towards him. Mane whipping behind with the force of rushing air. Bodywork rippling, as sunlight bounced off of the sleek silver muscules. And it roared. Two hundred and sixty horses screeched in unison.
And, the world blinked out.
The pavements were on fire with the crisp crimson leaves that had fallen, still dry because the rains hadn't set in yet. It was so early on in the season that that sun was trying to hold onto to it command of the sky, with gripping hot tendrils.
They shone into his eys, as he paced back and forth before the school gates.
Where was she? It was most unlike her. Miss. Monroe had been out twice already.
"James, dear, are you sure your Mommy is coming for you today?"
He hated that voice, grating, and full of false concern, which wouldn't have been altogether lost on a more spoilt child.
But, James Mackenzie was not your average Hollywood Kid. He was Mikey Mack's son. Mikey Mack, who shyed from any camera that wasn't around to see him act, who didn't 'do' interviews or Premieres, or parties. He and his wife had raised a good child, decent, which was almost a miracle considering.
So, instead of kicking her shins, he nodded, politely. "Yes, Miss. Monroe. She told me she might be a little later, because she had something to do, before picking me up."
She squinted her eyes, in what was probably meant to look like a comforting smile, "Won't you wait inside, Dear? You'll catch cold out here."
"No thanks. She'll be here soon."
Miss. Monroe nodded, and swished her skirts, high heels tap-tapping up the path, as she thought about coffee in the teacher's lounge, and perhaps getting around to grading a few papers. Blissful, unaware that James wouldn't be back for school tomorrow, that James, in fact, was about to die.
Paula Mackenzie was stuck in traffic.
It was a typical enough scenario in Beverley Hills, especially around this time. Nose to tail limos ferrying the chitlings back to rich, empty lives. She just wanted to pick up her son, and tell him the great news.
She checked her mirror, scouring the ticking cars behind her, and rounded the corner at warp speed minus one hundred, and sighed, as she hit yet another red light.
It had been a long day. She'd helped Ramona with the house chores, and prepared dinner, then gone out to her interview.
It had been her first in a while, but she hadn't lost her confident air. A flick of her auburn flamed hair, a subtle pouting of her painted lips, and there weren't many men who didn't cower, even if they were Senior Editor of a literary publishing house.
She winked at herself, chuckling. Mikey had been the same back when they'd met. Putty in her hands, not.
She'd known who he was, of course. His career had barely heard the first clunk of machinery on the white knuckle ride that was his rise to Stardom, but being a journalist had trained her to see trends before they happened. She had been so nervous at meeting him, sure he'd refuse to talk to her, as was his custom. But, au contraire, he'd not been able to turn down an off the record 'chat'.
The rest, as they so often say, was history.
She merrily whistled, tapping the steering wheel, as she thought of his reaction to her having gotten the job.
His eyes widened with eager excitment, as he saw the boy, standing, and alone.
It was most unlike her not to be here yet. On a normal day, they'd be driving a little ahead of him by now, and he'd have to teasingly follow them, watching the house until Mr. mackenzie came home.
There was the boy, defenseless. And, here was he, behind the wheel of his trusty Cadillac.
There was no one else on the street. Too good an oportunity to pass up.
He stepped down hard on the excelerator, and cackled as the car lurched into a frightening sprint.
Mikey Mack Junior was shuffling his feet, nudging at the debris, hands in his pockets, blue rucksack hanging lazily from his shoulders.
He wouldn't have stood a chance, even if he had noticed the snarling beast which snapped on the asphalt, pouncing up the curb, and bounded hungrily towards him.
The bone white bonnet, waxy and stark against the morbid crimson saliva, crumpled into a hideous grin, as the car took out the heavy school gates.
Word count: 2210
Time taken: 4 hours
Finished by: November 22nd.
It's not easy having a good time. Even smiling makes my face ache.- Frank N. Furter.
So, How Cool Is This? Part 28. So, How Cool Is This? Part 27. So, How Cool Is This? Part 25. So, How Cool Is This? Part 24. So, How Cool Is This? Part 23. So, How Cool Is This? Part 22. So, How Cool Is This? Part 21. So, How Cool Is This? Part 20. So, How Cool Is This? Part 18. So, How Cool Is This? Part 17.