Chapter two

Micah stood on his spot two hundred feet in the air and held on to the weapon that hung across his chest. He almost liked the first show of the season because it had a live audience and gave him a chance to do some minor stunt work. The last show of the season ranked up there with the first because that’s when everyone went home. In between it was just a job. And since they filmed on Lenora Danmore’s estate, where he lived, sometimes it felt like a twenty-four-hour-a-day job.

He could have easily shut down StarBash after the first or second season. He owned the rights to the show—a condition he demanded before going into business with Lenora’s production company—but now the thing had become a ratings monster dragging a slew of stakeholders along for a big fat money ride. It had become too big to kill. He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts. No sense dwelling on these things now. Season four had been bought and paid for—no exchanges, no returns.

His earpiece crackled, and the director said, “Is Micah secured and ready?

“Secured and ready,” said the stunt coordinator, who stood out of view just behind Micah.

The director continued, “OK, everyone, it’s Wonka day. Take your places, stay on your game, and quiet on the set.”

They called it Wonka day because on the first show of the season, they always had him make a big entrance like the guy in the movie.

The director and crew went through their routine:

“Sound?”

“Set.”

“Cameras?”

“One set.”

“Two set.”

“Three set.”

“Four set”

“Roll sound, roll cameras. Intro and light cue number one in five, four, three, two, go!”

Two massive searchlights penetrated the night and danced back and forth across the sky. The show’s theme song enveloped the outdoor audience, five-thousand strong, and they eagerly clapped in time. “Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a man’s voice from the mammoth speakers, “in 2017 we gave you Grand Central Station!” Applause. “In 2018 we gave you the RMS Titanic!” Loud applause. “Last year we gave you Alcatraz!” Louder applause. “And now, StarBash 2020, the highest-rated show in television history, is proud to present New York City’s Plaza Hotel!” Mega kilowatts of lighting exploded onto the set and a giant curtain, four hundred feet by three hundred feet, fell dramatically to the ground to reveal what looked like an exact replica of the famed hotel. The theme song swelled majestically, and the audience erupted into applause.

Two powerful spotlights assaulted Micah’s eyes. That was his cue. He stepped from the hotel’s twentieth-floor fire escape onto a platform, pointed the flamethrower upward, and unleashed a geyser of fire into the night sky. The audience below roared.

A second later the audience got introduced to the first contestant by way of a videotaped bio projected from one of the hotel windows just a story below where Micah stood. The bio lasted twenty seconds and, as was normal for StarBash, the thirtysomething actress came across as a superficial dummy. Right before the video ended, Micah’s specially rigged platform shot down to the window. He fired the flamethrower at the projected image. The actress sizzled, and the audience heard a loud, shrieking witch wail, like the one from The Wizard of Oz. Micah heard the audience laughter all the way up to the nineteenth floor.

The next videotaped bio began playing from a window on the next level down. This was contestant number two, a man who had always played the wholesome all-American type. Now the video showed him snorting cocaine a few decades past his heyday. He looked pudgy and decidedly unwholesome. After the video, just like before, Micah zoomed down, aimed the flamethrower, and sent the actor to hades. Another round of witch wail and laughter followed.

This is how the world met the actors on StarBash 2020: head shots that showed plastic surgery run amok; film clips of bad acting; viral videos of kinky sex, pathetic misdemeanors, desperate felonies, snobbery, tweets, retracted tweets, drugs, apologies, rehab, more drugs, more apologies, more rehab, and drunken escapades of every color. StarBash had a winning formula, and the world ate it up. And nobody knew how to serve it better than Micah Bailey.

“And now,” boomed the announcer, “put your hands together to welcome your StarBash host, the Tinseltown terminator himself, Micah Bailey!”

Micah and his magic platform rocketed down to the stage like a George Jetson spaceship. It made a perfect two-point landing in front of the hotel. Micah dropped the flamethrower, thrust his fists into the air, and said, “Wow!”

The audience yelled, “Wow!”

“I said wow!” repeated Micah.

“I said wow!” exclaimed the audience.

Micah stepped off the platform and onto a strip of red tape that marked his spot. The platform disappeared back into the darkness and a lectern magically zoomed in from stage right and stopped right in front of him. Traditional comedy/tragedy masks adorned the lectern except the comedy figure had a bong attached to its mouth and tragedy wore a head scarf with a Gucci label. A large platform containing the actors, seated in two rows, briskly entered from stage left. They pretended to be relaxed. From behind his lectern, Micah faced the audience. The actors, some twenty feet from Micah, also faced the audience but at more of an angle.

Micah held up his hands and said, “It is now time to open these proceedings,” the audience quieted. Micah continued, “I will ask you all to rise and for the gentlemen to remove your hats.”

Everyone stood. The lights dimmed. The orchestra and choir added some religious flavor. Two spotlights, aimed at the sky, captured a black-and-white-marble pedestal as it slowly descended from the heavens. A shiny silver towel rack rested on the pedestal. A small purple towel, neatly folded, rested across the arm of the towel rack. The Greasy Dishrag had arrived.

“StarBash 2020 has now officially begun!” exclaimed Micah.

The people in the audience responded like dyed-in-the-wool worshipers. Then everyone sat back down, and Micah continued his shtick, “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to StarBash 2020, and welcome to the Plaza Hotel, New York, New York. You’ve gotten a close-up look at the hotel, and you’ve met our contestants. That means it’s time to get down to business. Actors!” He yelled the word, and a few of them jumped in their seats. “On June 4, in exactly seventeen weeks, one of you is going to walk away with the Greasy Dishrag and a ten-million-dollar movie deal. To win that incredible prize, one of you is going to prove to the world that you are more than just an actor. You are going to prove that you are human. As in past seasons, you will start out at the top of society, where it’s easy to fake your way through. And then, round by round, you will work your way down until you have been demoted to the very bottom, where only real people survive. Tonight you will dine in a luxurious penthouse. Four months from now, one of you will be scrubbing dishes in the kitchen. And that person will be the winner of the Greasy Dishrag!” The audience cheered, and the actors put on serious game faces, some more successfully than others.

Micah made eye contact with Cassandra Moreaux. If looks meant anything, she wanted to kill him. He winked at her. She mouthed an obscenity.

“Now,” continued Micah, his voice quieter, “that’s the good news. The bad news is there are fifteen of you and only ten will be checking in. That means”—his voice got louder—“it’s time to play…paparazzi ping-pong!” The audience cheered as a giant game board descended stage right of Micah, angled so the actors could see it. A beautiful assistant named Tiffany Talador stood next to the board. Tiffany pointed at things. And since she belonged to the International Sisterhood of Pointers, Presenters, and Magicians’ Assistants, one of Hollywood’s most powerful unions, she got paid very well to do it. Micah gestured toward the board and said, “Here are your categories: ‘Nanny Fanny,’ ‘Mother of All Tantrums,’ ‘Moving to Canada,’ ‘Do You Know Who I Am,’ ‘Mugshot Masterpiece,’ ‘Make Them Bigger,’ and that good old standby, ‘Addicted to Rehab.’” As Micah read the categories, Tiffany posed picturesquely and pointed at each one. “The game is simple,” continued Micah, “you choose a category and name one of your fellow contestants who belongs in that category based upon recent paparazzi articles. If you choose correctly, your fellow actor is fired. If you choose incorrectly, you are fired. Now let’s begin.”

A shiny glass ping-pong-ball hopper shot up from under the stage. The balls bounced like popcorn in a popper. Micah pushed a button, and one of the balls released into a chute at the top. Micah took the ball and read the name, “Rye Steadly!” The audience clapped, and one of the actors pumped his fist, showcasing his impressive biceps in the process. Micah looked at the actor and said, “Rye, you seem happy. Why is that?”

The neatly coiffed forty-year-old flashed a smile that needed to be dimmed by half a megawatt and said, “I’m super stoked, Micah, ’cause let’s just say the fruit is hanging low on this puppy. If I don’t hit my head on it, I should be fine.” The audience clapped on cue.

“OK, Rye,” said Micah. “I guess we know what that means. Please choose your category.”

“I’ll take ‘Mother of All Tantrums,’” said Rye.

A faint gasp and a murmuring of the word “Casmo” rippled through the audience. Micah pretended not to hear it. The actors craned their necks and looked at Cassandra Moreaux. She sat expressionless.

Micah smiled. He didn’t trust her. She had no good reason to be on the show, and he didn’t trust her. He continued, “OK, Rye, you’ve chosen ‘Mother of All Tantrums.’ According to the paparazzi, the actor listed in this category has thrown one or more viral tantrums that include all of the following: at least fifty cuss words, at least three broken objects, at least five minutes in length, and, finally, saying the words ‘I am an artist’ at least thirteen times. Rye Steadly, are you ready to name the ‘Mother of All Tantrums’?”

“You betcha. I’m so ready.”

“Who do you accuse?”

“I accuse Cassandra Moreaux!” said Rye, with a fist pump for a flourish.

The audience murmured loudly. Micah plowed forward. “Tiffany, please show us the answer.”

Tiffany, the comely pointer, performed her magic, and a name instantly appeared. The audience gasped and, after a beat, clapped loudly. The displayed name was not Cassandra Moreaux. Rye Steadly slumped in his seat and looked sick. The chant of “Casmo” erupted spontaneously, first quietly then more loudly. Micah didn’t understand. It was wrong…it was supposed to be…He looked at Cassandra Moreaux. She smiled and winked.

 

***

 

It’s not an easy task putting on makeup remover when you’re smiling like a clown, but Cassandra couldn’t help it. Micah Bailey, the Tinseltown Tinker Bell, had stepped in horse shit on national TV, and she couldn’t stop smiling. It almost made the whole dreadful experience worthwhile. Thank God the money guys were nothing if not predictable. That’s how she knew she’d make it past the first round. For the last two weeks, they’d plastered her face on coast-to-coast commercials. They finally had a big name on their pathetic show, and they wanted to show it off; it didn’t take a marketing wizard to know that they’d throw super-tubular Rye Steadly under the bus in a heartbeat if it meant keeping the golden goose safely locked up for another day.

And if that seemed crooked, nobody really cared. StarBash belonged on the lowbrow side of the performing-arts spectrum, next to roller derby and professional wrestling. So as long as the money guys got paid and the cretin audience got to see some movie star ass-slapping, everyone went home happy. Except Micah Bailey. Cass sat at the makeup table in her trailer and covered her cold-cream-slathered face with a warm washcloth.

Despite what Micah had exclaimed to the world, the actors lived full time in trailers on location, sequestered by contract from the rest of the world. The magnificent hotel with the penthouse suites had been movie magic made out of stage flats and scaffolding. Because of problems controlling the wind, the crew had assembled it that morning and broken it down that night. The rest of the shows were filmed on the soundstage or back lot, which contained smaller, more manageable portions of the façade. From façade to soundstage to back lot, the entire production took place on Lenora Danmore’s estate, Rancho de Fresas, located eighty miles outside Los Angeles in the foothills northwest of Ventura. Lenora had purchased the property from one of the studios many years before and had spent her twilight years turning it into what was to be The Lenora Danmore Museum.

Cass turned out the light, slipped into bed, and closed her eyes. As her mind slowly wound down, backtracking over the events of the day, it got stuck in one particular spot, on a particular face, actually: Brandi Bonacore. She and Brandi shared an unpleasant history, and the sight of her sitting with the other contestants had unsettled Cass. StarBash loved putting microphones on troublemakers. And nobody in the world knew how to make trouble better than Brandi Bonacore—especially for Cass. This show had been a bad gamble in the first place. Cass didn’t need a big-mouthed booby trap making it even worse. She thought about some different solutions to the problem, everything from bribery to a big diva tantrum, but eventually decided that maybe it didn’t really matter. She had fulfilled her contractual commitment and had no intention of sticking with StarBash for more than a couple of episodes. During that time, she needed to concentrate on the real purpose: Lenora Danmore. With any luck at all, she’d finish her business with Lenora the next morning. After that, Cass planned to orchestrate the fastest heave-ho departure in the history of reality TV. Goodbye StarBash, goodbye Lenora, goodbye Brandi-what’s-your-name.

 

***

 

Lenora stepped into the doorway of the workshop. Micah stood across the room next to a sports car, his latest project. He ignored her. She admired his appearance, which had always been a secret source of pride for Lenora. He was handsome, not like a flashy European charmer but like one of those old-time salt-of-the-earth Americans who built log cabins and hunted wild game. He had simple, utilitarian, and neatly trimmed American good looks. Unfortunately, he also had the straight-and-narrow personality to go with it.

Lenora eased into the shop a few steps and said, “Micah…”

“Yes, Lenora.” He compared paint samples to the hood of the car and didn’t bother looking up.

“I’ve always…in my own way…been a dependable part of the team, haven’t I?”

“OK,” said Micah.

“And everyone knows ‘dependable’ is practically your middle name.”

“What do you want, Lenora?”

Lenora told herself to stay calm. Micah had an infuriating way about him, especially when she wanted something. She continued: “We have always been a team.”

“That’s not why you’re here,” said Micah.

“The final two exhibits just came out of design.”

“And…”

“They’re calling for six more androids. We have to go for another season. I need the money. I need you to make the deal with the network,” said Lenora.

“Disneyland opened with only twenty attractions and wet paint. Start with what you have and add to it as you go along,” said Micah.

“This isn’t Disneyland. It’s more comparable to the theater, which means I’m only going to get one shot. If I don’t make it on opening night, the museum is as good as dead. Why take that kind of risk when we don’t have to?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Micah. “I haven’t made the deal because I haven’t decided.”

“You have the highest-rated show in history. What exactly is the problem?” said Lenora.

“We’ve become a mirror image of the institution that we’re supposed to be mocking. That’s the problem. We chase ratings and dollars, and we’ll do anything to get them. And since we’re talking about it, what happened out there with Cassandra Moreaux? We sacked the wrong actor, and we did it for the money.”

“It’s reality TV! What do you expect?” yelled Lenora.

“OK. I’ll give you the answer. I haven’t decided. That’s the answer, and you’re just going to have to live with it for now. There’s plenty of time to worry about next season.”

“I’m trying to be reasonable, Micah, but I’ll drag you into court if I have to. You’ve seen me do it to others, and I’ll do the same to you if I have to!”

“And tie up your money with high-priced lawyers? I don’t think so.”

“You listen to me, Micah! You make the deal, or we’re through! Do you hear me? We’re through!”

“Does that mean no more gin rummy?” asked Micah.

Lenora stormed out of the workshop. He’d done it to her again.