Humor Fiction posted August 22, 2016

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The Socialite

by Thomas Bowling

The author has placed a warning on this post for language.

Her breasts bounced playfully beneath her skimpy, green, short dress as she trotted down the steps and across the marble pool deck and ran toward the pool. The night breeze was chilly, but she didn't care as she slipped off her clothes and ran to the edge. – She didn't see the maintenance sign. She closed her eyes and dove head first into the empty pool. She opened her eyes just before impact and started to scream, one last scream that was never made. When the maintenance worker found her body in the morning, she was unrecognizable. He guessed she had been beautiful, but all he could do was guess. Her head had been split open and dry blood and brain matter covered the parts of her face that hadn't been crushed. Gloria Rutherford, heir to the Rutherford fortune had attended her last party.

The newspapers didn't report the gory details of Gloria's death. They simply said, Young, socialite dies in freak diving accident. The photo accompanying the story was one of Gloria coming out of a night club in New York. Naturally there were no crime scene photos,. There was no crime.

The Rutherford fortune had been acquired through a chain of restaurants, hotels and fashion shops that stretched around the globe. The producers of Gloria's reality show met the next day.

“Okay we have to decide the fate of Growing Up Bitch. The show is set to debut in two weeks and we don't have a star. Why doesn't somebody put a handler on these stupid bitches! Do they have any idea what it cost to put one of these shows together?” The voice was Gary Hunt's, the producer of the latest incarnation of The Kardashians knock offs. “If Bruce Jenner would cut his dick off, we wouldn't even be talking about this.”

Gloria had been the next beautiful young socialite, set to become famous for being famous. Ted Worthy, one of the writers said, “Well, it turns out that it was a brilliant idea to keep her identity secret until launch. She doesn't appear in any of the promos and no one will recognize her voice. It only shows up at the end when she says “That's Fantasssstic! Any one of a hundred socialites could say that, they all talk that way.” Everyone at the table laughed and agreed.

“Okay, launch date is still on,” Hunt said. "All we have to do is hurry up and find another dumb blonde to step into the role."

”Gotcha covered, boss.” Frank Stuben, an eager young intern, passed a file across the desk.

“Her name's Julie Davidson, heir to the Harley Davidson fortune.”

“I like the name,” Hunt said. “A lot better than fucking Rutherford. Everyone knows who Harley Davidson is. We would have to keep explaining Rutherford every episode.” Everyone laughed and agreed again. They did that a lot when Gary Hunt spoke, especially the interns. The interns usually started laughing as soon as Hunt opened his mouth, anticipating that he was going to say something funny. They were practically rolling on the floor before Hunt got the words out, ”Gloria Rutherford is dead.”

“Somebody get Julie Davidson on the phone, break the good news to her. Don't say anything about Gloria. They were friends. Besides, I'm sure she already knows. No use throwing shade on the best day of her life,” Hunt barked.

When Julie heard the news, she was ecstatic. “Let's throw a party!” she said to her publicist. “Can you believe it, I'm going to be the Bitch?” Julie said a silent prayer and thanked God for the bad luck of her friend.

The intern called Julie. “You've got to get over here right away. If you can't make it today, get over here first thing in the morning. We need to give you diction lessons. Can you speak valley?”

“Fer shor,” Julie said in her squeakiest voice.

“It's, fer sher. Let me hear you say that. Think Ed Sherhan.

“Fer sher.”

“Perfect ,” the intern said. “You sound just like... just like a girl I used to date.”

“I thought you were gay?”

“This was before.”

“All I have to do is touch up, my make up and I'll be right down. Give me two hours.”

“Fuck!” shouted the intern. “In two hours I'll have somebody else in here! Get your fucking ass in gear and get over here!”

“Okay, no need to get your panties in a wad. I'll be right there.”

Three hours later, Julie walked into the studio. Cell phone to her ear, surrounded by her usual entourage of twelve to fifteen hangers on. The number varied depending on who Julie was on the outs with today.

“She certainly has the diva part down,” Hunt said as he saw her walk in. “Hi, I'm Gary Hunt, you're my new boss.”

“You're funny,” Julie said. “Is Mr. Hunt around?"

“I'm Gary Hunt.”

“Oh, I didn't hear you. You're very soft spoken aren't you?”

Julie had the ears of a cat. She didn't hear people who didn't interest her, which was anyone who wasn't fanatasssstic. Julie was introduced to the cast, the show runner, the crew, the make up people, the lighting people, the camera men and finally, the least important people on any reality show, the writers.

“I thought we just adlibed,” said Julie.

“Right,” said, Tom Harken, the head writer, to another writer. “That girl couldn't adlib her way out of a parking ticket without showing her tits.”

Tom hated his job. He hated lying to his mother when she asked him what he did. He long ago gave up the dream of a Pulitzer Prize, but you gotta pay the bills. At least his crushed dreams had left him with a sellable case of sarcasm.

The studio was rushed for time, so the next day they started taping. When the rushes came back Gary Hunt and the writers assembled in the screening room.

“Alright!” Gary yelled to the the projectionist. He didn't know why they still called them that. Nobody used projectors anymore. The term was just a carry over from by-gone days.

When the lights came up, Hunt and the writers looked stunned. “I've seen bad acting,” Hunt said. ”I thought Kim Kardashian invented it. This girl makes Kardashian look like Meryl Streep.

“What are we gonna do?” Tom said. “We've got millions riding on this.”

“I don't know. I've got to sit down.”

“You are sitting down,” Tom said.

“I mean with a drink.”

Gary Hunt walked to his office. He was sitting behind his desk with his head in his hands, contemplating the gun in his drawer when an intern burst into the room.

“Boss stop production!" he yelled excitedly.

Bruce Jenner's on the phone. He's agreed to cut his dick off.”

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