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7 hours ago, wasted said:

“I’m a hungry horse after dancing all night, so I think I will have a “Double Cheese Burger with Fries and a side order of Bar-B-Que ribs?”


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It's a fun read.


Knowing wasted from his posts, you know things aren't going to work out well for Charles. I thought Abda would just disappear on him maybe, leaving sad sack Charles in her wake, but wasted's ending is better than that, more of a punch to the face (pun intended). I see the "Skyscraper" title as a sort of Icarus reference, with Abda playing the sun. Charles' life lacks passion and intrigue. He's a great architect, but he almost couldn't care less. He's a millionaire, but money is an afterthought for him. The only satisfaction he gets is that others see him as successful, which is like a satisfaction once removed. He has no direct connection to anything. So he sees in Abda what he wants to see. He begins to imagine her as his conduit to something like Id or God. You hope you're wrong about Abda. Charles is an autistic social retard, but he's trying. For fuck's sake though, man, she's a stripper! Get your perspective in order! He can't though. Once he sees her shine, dancing in the Hilton foyer, it's over. He's not going to stop until he gets as close as possible, which is of course too close. He designs her a house after the second date like the autist he is. I figure that was when she decided it was time to execute her plan. Draw him in and let him destroy himself. Charles lets everything go on that final night. He doesn't realize what he's done until it's too late.


It's a classic hooker with a heart of stone story. Chuck Palahniuk meets Raymond Carver.


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On the other hand, Charles is just a douchebag rich guy, using an exotic (in multiple senses of the word) dancer to fill whatever vain void he imagines he has in his life. Maybe Abda is the protagonist. After two dates, dude is presumptuous enough to stick his building on her land and charge her for it, all while acting like he's doing her a favor, just because he's some literally who architect whom literally no one she knows has heard of. Is this guy fucking serious? Fuck him and everyone like him. He can't stop talking about money! "I'm one of the highest paid architects... I'll give you a discount of course... About the charge for the house..." Fuck off already. He knows she doesn't have shit. She's a fucking exotic dancer. Every piece of fancy clothes she owns comes from some shitbag like him who wants to fantasize all over her life for a couple of weeks. There is no plot of land. That's just something she's made up in her head to convince herself she'll get out of this life. She'll be at this forever if she doesn't make a move, or at least until she loses her looks, and then what? Some of these guys beat her up for fun, you know. Then they buy her something nice and/or threaten her life to keep her quiet. How about she turns the table for once. She's been hit enough times. What's once more? A million is enough for her to disappear with. He wouldn't dare go to the cops once he sees the note. He'll be looking over his shoulder for weeks. He'll be fine. He has millions more. Maybe he'll even come to understand that he helped save her life that night.


Edited by magisme

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8 hours ago, magisme said:
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On the other hand, Charles is just a douchebag rich guy, using an exotic (in multiple senses of the word) dancer to fill whatever vain void he imagines he has in his life. Maybe Abda is the protagonist. After two dates, dude is presumptuous enough to stick his building on her land and charge her for it, all while acting like he's doing her a favor, just because he's some literally who architect whom literally no one she knows has heard of. Is this guy fucking serious? Fuck him and everyone like him. He can't stop talking about money! "I'm one of the highest paid architects... I'll give you a discount of course... About the charge for the house..." Fuck off already. He knows she doesn't have shit. She's a fucking exotic dancer. Every piece of fancy clothes she owns comes from some shitbag like him who wants to fantasize all over her life for a couple of weeks. There is no plot of land. That's just something she's made up in her head to convince herself she'll get out of this life. She'll be at this forever if she doesn't make a move, or at least until she loses her looks, and then what? Some of these guys beat her up for fun, you know. Then they buy her something nice and/or threaten her life to keep her quiet. How about she turns the table for once. She's been hit enough times. What's once more? A million is enough for her to disappear with. He wouldn't dare go to the cops once he sees the note. He'll be looking over his shoulder for weeks. He'll be fine. He has millions more. Maybe he'll even come to understand that he helped save her life that night.


It is kind of reason vs the mother god but who knows who is better. They meet again in the next book. 

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The next one is like a retro online experience from 10 years ago now. 




Paris checked the admin section of her webcam site and saw that she had a new subscriber. That was 1,457 in total now, all paying $9.99 a month to watch her sit at her computer in a bra and panties. She had found some kind of illegal web-hosting, so it was all profit. All she had to do was promise on her frontpage that one day she might get naked or topless and buy a few new sets of underwear each month. She never did get even semi-nude and some subscribers quit after a month unfulfilled but there were always fresh sheep to fleece.


The other window she had open was a forum for Latin pop sensation Ricki Nadal who was riding high on the illegal download charts with his hit samba pop song, Dancing Lights. There were rumors on various internet sites that his new album would be out very soon. There were numerous leaks on the internet and LoveRicki had sent Paris some files of the new material. She had to spend most of the night online for www.brapanties.com so she might as well enjoy it. She did so by watching Ricki videos on youtube or posting on the forum, www.WeLoveRicki.com.


Another poster, GiveMeMore, had started a new thread topic titled “We deserve more leaks”. In his post he wrote:


We all know that Ricki is so talented (not to mention sexy) but he really needs to make more of his music available to us on this forum. we love you Ricki! we need new material now! i need it so much i can’t waits for the official releases


Another poster, LookDownTop, who had been owning Sacrifice all week mainly because she was uneducated and he had the upper-hand in terms of vocabulary and snide insults replied by saying that she had to “pull herself together, stop being so lame and go watch another chick flick”. They’d all had leaks; they should be happy with what they had. Stop whining you attention whore! 


Sacrifice would never judge Ricki in her replies, she would just repeat how great he was and that LookDownTop shouldn’t blame her for being a fan. Sides were taken and the battle would rage for endless pages into the endless internet night.


LookDownTop didn’t really care that much about Ricki’s music he was more interested in Mr. Nadal’s tanned body and there were enough topless pics on the internet sites to keep him busy. He mainly just came to the forum to chat with other gay guys or humiliate some of the dumb girls who frequented the site. It wasn’t hard they were probably about ten years younger than him but he was not interested in being respectable; only that he was respected by others on the forum. He clung to those weaklings and lived off their pathetic needs. Not reality, but image.


Paris also really wanted some new music but was still just happy to browse the image galleries like LookDownTop until Undeservedhappy managed to bargain some new tracks out of some infamous hoarders in Mexico City or a new single was official released, it couldn’t be long now. Paris had a feeling that Underserved wasn’t as close to those hoarders as he made out, but as long as most of the forum thought he was he was happy with the situation. Paris knew Undeservedhappy didn’t really take part in the forums threads that much, he seemed to get his pleasure from getting everyone on the forum “something 4 nothing is my goddam right!” as his signature declared. 


If Underservedhappy did post he normally did so in the Today’s Day section which was just a random free-for-all of miscellaneous bullshit – Senators caught with strippers, Tallest woman in the world dies, Wesley Snipes is in Prison, I banged my boss last night, tipping is gay – these were the topics which would keep the forum humming during the waits between leaks and the eventual release in a couple of months. He stole DVDs from blockbuster on the weekends (his justification was that nothing was better than everything) and sold pot around campus to pay for his rented condo on Burbarry Avenue. 


Undeserved was always pm-ing Paris to try and get free membership to her site. She had declined so far and was hoping that maybe she could taunt him into registering. In a late night pm she said, “If you do, I might change the site to pantiesonly.com. : p” He didn’t reply so she was guessing he might have buckled to her cheap promise. 


Paris was not concerned with the facts of Ricki Nadal’s life – whether he really did date Russian ice skater Natasha Kinkowski while married to Britney Fox or whether Ricki really did have an illegitimate baby with an elephant in Thailand, she was concerned with the other posters and their relationships with everyone else on the forum. Any unfortunate Noob who asked “Is this true?” was met by a wall of “OMGz U mustZ bs Rigthz!!!@#!2!4dood%” sarcastic abuse or self righteous sycophancy which was presented as niggling doubts which snowballed into what in effect resembled a foul ball and a walk to first maybe. 


Paris didn’t want to have any ideas or do any thinking in general – this was the only principle she lived by. She just responded to the haters by declaring her devotion to Ricki. She was concerned with what the majority of the forum thought and joined them in coming together to support Ricki and his music – We Love Ricki, Ricki Loves Britney was her signature up until she changed it to I Love Ricki More Than Britney! 


Paris claimed in many work related threads in the Today’s Day section to be working on her website; but she knew deep down that she was not doing anything productive – she was just taking the money of bored, horny losers on the internet. This didn’t stop most of the guys on the forum from praising her for her long hours on the webcam and lauded her obvious business acumen. This was enough for her. She was respected by others. She had friends, not talent.




Ricki Nadal hoovered up the line that was as long as the Peruvian border. He was sitting on a white leather couch on the top floor of the Milton hotel – the penthouse suite was taken by Charlie Sheen but he got the next best thing – two salt water Jacuzzis and a balconey with a view of the city lights. He had a week before his next show at the Bay City Arena and had texted his usual escourt service. 


Pamela & Elizabeth where naked except for the jewelry he had given them on their arrival. Both of them sat next to Ricki petting him and whispering the things he had outlined in the scripts he gave them on the way in. Nothing about other celebrities should be mentioned and there should be no direct eye contact with him unless he specifically asked for it. Stilettos were optional but he preferred it especially if they were going to walk to the fridge to get him some ice cold Krug.


Ricki made a quick video montage of Pam and Liz (as he liked to call them) going at it for a few hours, and chatted on MSN with Adriana Lima about her shoot the next day in the Bahamas. Britney was definitely on to him on this one but she was in London doing a movie with Madonna’s new rentboy, Guy Titchie. He had a few weeks before he had to do some more of that paparazzi evasion.


Ricki saved the new video on his laptop and double clicked on Zero by The Smashing Pumpkins on his SonicStage music-player. As the killer guitar riff came in, Ricki clicked on the WeLoveRicki.com icon on his desktop. He never registered as himself but under pseudonyms he could browse the site, he just liked to see what people were saying about him. If he changed his screen name he was nothing in the pecking order of the site he was always a noob that got banned in the first week or went completely unnoticed for a few months. 


Ricki was regularly disgusted by most of the posters. Oh, how they ignorantly worshipped him. Their devotion could only be viewed as obnoxiously sweet or pathetically soulless. Of course he had to memorize statements given to him by his manager Randy Money where he charismatically had to promise his devotion to his fans. Seriously, sometimes he thought the less he knew about his audience the better but as Randy Money said, “This ain’t genocide, Ricki, this is capitalism, baby!”


The sad truth was that the fans played no part in his day-to-day life. He had places to go and people to do – and not any kind of doing, this had to be doing worthy of a Latin sex symbol. He shaved his chest for a reason and he exfoliated three times a day. To get even close to getting a record made he had to fuck just about everybody in the industry. The latest hip-hop producer’s sisters, record label’s buddy’s ex-girlfriend’s boyfrined, the flamenco guitarist from Brazil he had flown in still needed to get some head in the toilets just finish his guitar parts, even the studio head’s daughter was a “big Ricki fan”. He had to date her for three weeks just to get some studio time booked. Get a release date set was one hell of all-nighter with some of the label’s “friends from Columbia”.


Everyone wanted a piece of Ricki Nadal but he could only give to those who made his dreams come true; or at least paid enough to keep him in escourts, Krug and penthouse suites. He couldn’t just be giving Ricki-love to just any deadbeat internet pirate who asked. He might do some charity work if it got him face time on ET and he might even want in an ideal world to do these special exclusive interviews for every single internet forum or entertainment page on the web, but, in short, he might want an extra three inches on his ding-dong but it was never gonna happen. 


Ricki checked out Today’s Day section of the forum, he often went here to spam the site. Maybe someone could post up some pictures of gay porn he found online yesterday and post them in a political or animal right’s thread. There were hardly any knew topics in this section so he clicked over to the Main Discussion board. The same was true here but the Unconditional Love thread was still going strong – he checked out some of the new chicks who had posted up some pics of themselves in bikinis. 


These pictorially enhanced posts would certainly get deleted by the moderators quickly, so he had to be on his game to save the pic and copy and paste the email address into his “possible” folder for his next tour. Sometimes he would try to find out where some of these young fans were living by starting a Where are you from? topic in Today’s Day section. If he liked what he saw and he was in the town they were from he’d send them a quick email and get them backstage passes. The rest would be Ricki Nadal history.


The other thread that was still going strong after four or five months was called We Need It Now!  This was full of people making a virtue of their lack of Ricki. They had an insatiable need for his music and his talent. They needed his music yet they hated his individualism – most them were complete hypocrites. They huddled together and prayed that if they all needed his music enough then Ricki would join them and they would all get what they wanted, which was, it seemed to Ricki, to be nothing – they wanted to be zeros. 


They wanted to be zeros but they also wanted us all to be zero together. Even with the music they would be worth zero. In fact, the little fuckers were trying to turn him into a zero by stealing his music from the various studios he had been laboring in over the past three years. If Ricki Nadal doesn’t get paid how can Ricki be a creative individual they all loved? They were clueless at best, but equally soulless and pathetic. Some of them were pretty hot but whatever. I guess he was the one to their zero. 


Pamela & Elizabeth were now in the Jacuzzi drinking Coke Zeros and making out pretty hard. This relaxed Ricki a bit and he went out to the balconey with a glass of ice cold Krug and gazed over the city. He would really like to tell the fans how he thought but really it was in his own interests to keep quiet - “The less they know, the more you are,” this is what Randy Money, his flamboyant manager, always said when he’d got a new shipment of coke in. 


Randy Money was right in the great scheme of things. Who the fuck cared who the fans were? This was not his concern, he had to work his ass off to be in this game and he’d come too far in a short ruthless time to now start asking questions and double guessing his own success. He saw Pamela waving handcuffs at him at him from the Jacuzzi and he went back inside to take his revenge on the world. 




Cindy had been a moderator on the forum for only six months. She’d started as just another fan posting for a few months; mainly just declaring her love for Ricki and how the forum should all just get a long and try not to hate. Her signature read: “We All Love Ricki Together” and this was pretty much what she preached as soon as she became a full time moderator. Nothing fancy just good common sense and a love of Ricki Nadal.


Becoming a moderator actually helped her to enjoy being a Ricki fan more. She could check if people were being fair to Ricki. If they were haters with no real point she deleted their posts and if they pm’d her boobie pics she banned them curtly. Most of the time, it was a pleasure reading posts from fans with a similar devotion to Ricki. She also got the leaks before everyone else and some free access to the Official Ricki Nadal Picture Gallery site – NakedRicki.com. That was pretty awesome. Some of the moderators even got free backstage passes when he came to the city.


Cindy knew Ricki came to the site. She could tell from his IP address attached to his posts. He had property in LA, Mexico City, Barcelona, Rio, London, Paris, Amsterdam, and Dallas – all in pretty exclusive areas. She thought it was funny how he came to the site just to post gay porn and start fights with some of the hot girls about their feminist ideals. Cindy had even sent him some pics of her holiday in Bermuda. Only one topless pic but Ricki said she had a nice pair and this made her week, her month, probably her year if she was honest. That was it, he didn’t really contact the admin directly. Just now and then he would drop in at 3am in the morning, sometimes you missed him; he never stayed long. 


At first, Cindy just set up some pseudonyms as other posters so she could hang out and be normal or just watch what was going on in some of the more wayward threads about animal porn or uses of blenders in the bedroom on the Today’s Day section. After about three months Cindy had three pseudonym screen names. She was only Paris and Cindy at first. She figured she’d keep her original name when she became a Mod officially. The other moderators did the same.


After the first leaks came in from the hoarders in Mexico City she took on the new screen name of Undeservedhappy. This was mainly just to make it easier to spread the leaks around the forum. Randy Money, Ricki’s manager, had contacted her first and offered WeLoveRicki.com the leaks if she sent him some naked pics he liked. He said Ricki might also want some. They didn’t know she was Paris of www.brasandpnaties.com fame and it would be no trouble to take some freeze frames and send them over. So she got the official leak from the management and the leaks from the hoarders – she was the queen of the information highway.


She also came up with the idea of GiveMeMore to keep the We Need Ricki Nadal Now! thread going. Before the leaks the site was losing members by the truckload, almost daily mass exoduses of posters migrated over to other Ricki related sites. There were other sites like JustLikeThat.com, named after Ricki’s breakthrough single and because of that had all the die hard fans from when he was just a Salsa dancer on the Michael Jackson tour, not to mention the official Ricki Nadal site which was really just a glorified news service which users had to pay for access to exclusive pics. 


Since the end of the tour, memberships had been dropping so much that sometimes there was only really the moderators on the forum. This is when Cindy came up with LookDownTop. She pitted him against Sacrifice and kept the Unconditional Love thread going pretty nicely. As soon as members got pm’d that some virgins were being thrashed by LookDownTop they were their in a heartbeat.


The other moderators didn’t seem to notice what Cindy was doing. Or maybe they didn’t even care anymore - they were probably on Paris Hilton’s or Charlie Sheen’s site - at least they were doing something degrading. 


The hits on WeLoveRicki.com had a hit an alltime low. Cindy was keeping it going with Sacrifice, Undeservedhappy and DownLook and a whole host of other pseudo-members she made up to continue the debate after they had either started a new thread or reignited a dying flame by having LookDownTop call GiveMeMore a “white trash attention ho” for needing More Ricki Nadal pics in Ocean Locations, as the title suggested.


There were still the regular members who were either the needing or the sacrificial kind. The needing fell behind GiveMeMore in their quest for more of whatever they wanted at the lowest possible price – in this case zero dollars. The more altruistic cuddled up to Sacrifice, and came up with threads about how they could offer their services to Ricki in a myriad of ways in order to help him release the album. Sacrifice composed a poem called Charity 4 Ricki in which she laid bare her ideas for her to fuck Ricki for 10 hours straight. She was looking for sponsorship. What she got was a round thrashing from LookDownTop. This open show of brutality immediately spurred a twenty page thread which was hotly pursued by five real members and five pseudo-members created by Cindy. The thread was finally locked when Cindy was bored and she had LookDownTop offer to fuck Sacrifice in her trailer for free if she really like charity fucking so much. *closed*


Cindy went on to fashion at least twenty pseudo-members. There was Pickypickings who found the fault with anything and could sort through any amount of details and come up the one thing that made everyone need something else from Ricki Nadal. There was Angelina Rose who just completely worshipped Ricki Nadal and wanted to be his wife even though she lived on a farm and rode horses all day. Dick Jingle never posted anything that wasn’t completely indecipherable pigeon text and had, by the looks of things, been reduced to an alcoholic by Ricki Nadal’s stardom. There was Ammo who was ready to fire on anyone who criticized Ricki and himself if he got bored. 


All the back biting and owning back and forth led to the ultimate conclusion which was that everyone became more and more belittled and less and less human. Each character Cindy created lowered the bar a bit more and made everyone just that little bit more soulless. Cindy played the roles out and round and round they went. In the end the forum was 50% percent pseudo-members and the rest a motely crew of innocent newbies and deluded die-hards – how could they not be, they posted on threads which were inhabited by fictional characters controlled by Cindy – who was by now totally disgusted with anyone who posted in her threads and totally lost in regards to her own indentity – was she Paris the soulless queen of the webcam or GiveMeMore the unsatisfiable blackhole post whore, or Dick Jingle the txt me bc if u lix it guy? Did it matter anymore? They were all zeros, even the real members who posted their truths in the vacuum which swirled from Cindy’s mind. The only one who was safe from all of this was Ricki because he was an individual, a talented individual who would never get sucked down into this vortex of waste. Ricki would always traverse the universal skies of the spiritually bankrupt.




Ricki Nadal took a shower with Pamela & Elizabeth at about 6am and then as the sun rose his two escourts for the night went into his bedroom to wait for him the pink heart shaped water bed. He went to his laptop and checked the forum, he had posted some really degrading porn on the Today’s Day section and was wondering if his newest atrocities had got him banned yet. As predicted his new screen name of CecilSuicide had been deactivated by Cindy. She had left him a little message – “you know better than that : ) Feel free to open another screen name at any time. ; )”


This didn’t sit right with Ricki – did she know he was Ricki Nadal? Taking a shower with Pamela and Elizabeth had cleared his mind, he was no longer worried about his role in making the forum members soulless – this was the game he played. Don’t hate the player, hate the game? Maybe, but either way it wasn’t his problem. Now that he wasn’t worried about it, he felt like he might as well go forth and tell the forum, his fans after all, that he Ricki Nadal hated them, thought that they should just quit worshipping him and get lives of their owns. What you looking at? Do something wit yo time!


So at 6.47am on a Sunday morning Ricki Nadal typed his full name, Ricki Villa Nadal, into the WeLoveRicki.com registry form and entered all his personal details, even gave his email address and the names of his pets when he was seven and lived in Barcelona .


Cindy saw that there was another new member – this time it was a real member not one that came out of her boredom. At first she thought it was funny that someone would be that uncreative to just type in the name of their idol, most people tried to find some kind of way to look like they didn’t really care about the one they truly loved. 


She wasn’t laughing when she noticed that the IP address was the same as the one that CecilSuicide had just got banned from. This was even more surprising because she knew CecilSuicide was actually Ricki, he often posted from the same internet server in the Milton hotel. She couldn’t be certain; but what obsessed Ricki Nadal fan could afford the Milton? She checked his personal details and saw that his middle name was correct, but that was feasible, anyone could find that out, but there on screen was a full roster of every detail, even his email address which only the mods knew and Cindy only knew because Randy Money had given it to her so she could send some naked pics to Ricki a few months ago. 


Cindy clicked over to the Main Discussion board and saw that Ricki Villa Nadal had posted a topic entitled: Get a Life People.


The post that followed outlined Ricki’s ideas about personal freedom and individuality, of which he thought he a lot of, along with a whole bundle of talent, and which he thought most of the forum members lacked in abundance. He described it as “a virtue of lack which poisoned the forum” and that although this “didn’t affect him” he had grown “tired and guilty” of this trend which seemed to be “getting worse every time he looked”. He was typing as hard and as fast as he could to answer all the requests and took bumps of coke continuously to keep himself awake and alert.


The replies came thick and fast. He was called out as a charlatan and predictably called an attention whore by Ammo. Ricki would never disrespect his fans! screamed one of the all too scarce real members. Cindy chimed in with all her aliases. Sacrifice said she would die for him if he was the real Ricki Nadal, Pickypickings corrected his spelling and said we all needed grammar lessons, Undeservedhappy said he wasn’t “4 Real” and that the Mexician hoarders were going to prove this by the days end, LookDownTop backed down for an hour before deciding to challenge Ricki to “prove it bitch boy!”, GiveMeMore pleaded for the release of the album and that Ricki post more on the site and not just leave this one offensive post as his legacy, Dick Jingle jst typ in txt & said I si drunx wat u gnna do r u rich or drunx fuxs ricki lakes 


The thread went on as Ricki tried to reason with the posters but Cindy ensured that none of her characters let the thread die, she would give Ricki some hope that everyone understood him and then bring in another one of her characters just to distort the issue. Ricki got more and more frustrated and started free basing his stash.


He stopped snorting lines and posting at 9am but was back at the keyboard shortly after Pamela & Elizabeth had left to crawl back to their condos on the East Side. He fought furiously with Sacrifice trying to find a soul somewhere deep inside of her. Surely she could not be such an empty whore as to sell herself to him online without even knowing him in person. She claimed she would do anything for him and pm’d him a long list of things she would do.


Desperately Ricki asked Cindy to block his account from Sacrifice which she did but then started in on him with GiveMeMore who complained that the new album wasn’t out yet. Ricki countered by saying he had just got off tour. You don’t own me you know? LookDownTop said that “he 
just got owned by Sacrifice and she was basically everyone’s property ROFL”. 


There was just no use in trying; he couldn’t get through to them. They all either worshipped him to the point of near oblivion or needed something from him so much they were just faceless insect parasites. They were all victims and he was to blame; he had created them for his own ends. Unwittingly, he had forged them in his reciprocal image but he was now, as he drowned in the noxious fumes of their posts, also victim to them. 


As they begged and asked questions and he tried to answer and provide them everything they needed; he became less of an individual. Cindy kept inventing new characters until the whole forum was fictional characters. She deactivated all the real members and stopped any new members joining.


When Ricki logged on the next evening after a poor nights cocaine sweat, there were only Cindy’s pseudo-members online. Now she had him all to herself. Her ultimate fantasy had come true. She had Ricki Nadal on his knees.


If Ricki had failed the previous day to convert the masses, then tonight was going to be the titanic of epic fails. The more Ricki, now possessed by some kind of insane feverish post whore opened endless threads about what grieved him about the world, about the industry, about the fans, about chocolate ice cream and handcuffs. This all played into Cindy’s hands, of course, as she could then post heretical replies in other threads while he was busy creating more.


At about midnight Ricki called for Pamela & Elizabeth and told the receptionist at Escorts24X to “tell them to bring some fuckin’ coke”. He was almost out and he had a hard night of posting ahead of him. He was now a picture postcard of a coked out self-destructive post whore. For every member that sent him a pm that agreed with him there were just as many posts by Cindy’s characters which couldn’t see his point of view, that clawed at his one, that tore at his soul; all the 0s against his 1. Some of the zeros that offered support one day by the next they were back to being zeros again.


By the end of the first week LookDownTop had started a rumor that Ricki wasn’t Ricki but really his jealous ex-wife Britney Fox. This held popularity for two days until Britney’s management came out and denounced such talk as nonsense and that Ricki Nadal’s fan base was obviously seriously deluded to think that Ricki would even be on their site which had less members than Rick Astley’s mom’s homepage. Randy Money texted Ricki after a week, he had been holidaying in Hawaii, when the internet rumor became real news on ET. Ricki denied ever being on the WeLoveRicki.com forum and Money relayed that message at a press conference saying, “People have no concern with facts; this is a great fabrication, an illusion.”


Meanwhile, Ricki was still on the forum of zeros fighting for his individuality. He had decided not to call Escourts24X but instead called his old crack dealer, Omah, who used to get him the real shit back in the day, pure uncut medellin shit. Surrounded by such an immoral vacuum of a forum Ricki had little chance, his one officially became a zero when he finally admitted to not being the real Ricki Villa Nadal, he was just another jerk phoney trying to fuck with the internet but he had learned his lesson. He was hoping to get out of this alive but this was only the beginning.


Pickpickings found Ricki’s single shattered confessional post to be not enough. He wanted an Open Apology to the Forum. GiveMeMore wanted more, obviously, he wanted Cindy, now the only moderator who found any credibility in the site, to ban InvalidRicki as they had started calling him. He wanted more justice. LookDownTop took great pleasure in owning Ricki everyday. Ammo machine gunned any attempts he made in Today’s Day to generate some some sympathy. Ricki was the lowest of the low – he had tried to hoax them on their love of Ricki Nadal, their idol who they would die for or need until their last breathe squeezed out of their air-conditioned lungs. Dick Jingle even manage to be coherent for a one or two posts claiming that Ricki Villa Nadal was “a complete bitch and should leave the forum immediately.” No one had seen him spell correctly since he took up crack as a lifestyle in early 2001. 


Paris was the only one who offered him any sympathy. She gave him free membership to her webcam site but never removed her panties, no matter how many nights, when Ricki was high, he begged her to. Sacrifice was heartbroken for a second before realizing that her one true god was out there waiting to slaughter her on a bed of nails, even if Ricki Villa Nadal was a big fat liar! LoveRicki sent him a new leaks from the hoarders in Mexico which he had got from Undeservedhappy and Ricki Nadal downloaded his own new single illegally online. 


Whenever Ricki posted it was like he was just being reduced from a one, an individual, to less than nothing. 


What is less than nothing? 




Zero is less than nothing and Ricki was a zero. And now that he was a zero, he could log off but he could never leave. 


Ricki rolled his eyes at the banality of it all, did another line, deactivated his Cindy username and dialed Escourts24X.



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On 4/16/2019 at 7:58 PM, wasted said:

Ricki rolled his eyes at the banality of it all, did another line, deactivated his Cindy username and dialed Escourts24X.

I'm a little confused by this ending. If Ricki was Cindy the whole time, and Cindy was Paris, then where does the webcam come from? Is that a figment as well? If there were real members on the forum, wouldn't they check the cam?


This story is more ambitious than the first, if you know what I mean. It leaves more to think about, imo. My only criticism is the heavy-handedness with the 1 and 0 stuff. It's a decent metaphor, but you mention it so many times in the story, it becomes a bit distracting.


I want more!

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58 minutes ago, magisme said:
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I'm a little confused by this ending. If Ricki was Cindy the whole time, and Cindy was Paris, then where does the webcam come from? Is that a figment as well? If there were real members on the forum, wouldn't they check the cam?


This story is more ambitious than the first, if you know what I mean. It leaves more to think about, imo. My only criticism is the heavy-handedness with the 1 and 0 stuff. It's a decent metaphor, but you mention it so many times in the story, it becomes a bit distracting.


I want more!

Oh none of the characters are real. Rikki is Paris/Cindy and he’s all the forum members. 


I was reading a lot of Ayn Rand but it’s internet schizophrenia. Rikki was Paris/Cindy and everyone on the forum. It’s all in the mind of Rikki, the only real character is based on Rafa Nadal and Nikki Sixx. In a way I’m poking fun at A is A by placing it with virtual reality. Maybe I’m wasted. I wrote it 10 years ago. 


The next one is more basic, the second thing I wrote. It’s much lamer. 

Edited by wasted

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2 minutes ago, wasted said:

I was reading a lot of Ayn Rand but it’s internet schizophrenia. Rikki was Paris/Cindy and everyone on the forum. It’s all in the mind of Rikki, the only real character is based on Rafa Nadal and Nikki Sixx. In a way I’m poking fun at A is A by placing it with virtual reality. Maybe I’m wasted. I wrote it 10 years ago. 


The next one is more basic, the second thing I wrote. It’s much lamer. 

That was my guess -- that even the "real" members were Rikki. I like it.

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Not sure I remember writing this but next up




Luke Whittingham is an artist. He was born in 1967. He was prominent in the 1990s on the London Art scene. His most famous work to date is “Committed to Death” (2004), an installation which can be seen in The Royal Academy, London. He currently lives in SoHo with his two cats. Lucy and Mary.


The shop window is full of televisions sets. Each one shows a different weather program. The mouths of the weather girls move in silence behind the pane. Tourists hide from the rain underneath the overhang of delis, coffee stands and theatre booths. Some art students sit in Burger King with cups of coffee. Their eyes dart from one visual flash to the next. Long hair - shopping bag - 99p - plastic chair – receipt - cigarette butt – yellow – purse - mobile phone – blue – umbrella – red – watch - shoes. Outside The Queen’s Head, Maudlin Jugglers and mime artists continue their routines in the fine drizzle. Above the office buildings clouds wait. If you could read lips you would know that The Weather girl is saying, “Rain, with sun, later. Sunny patches. Winds up to 70mph.”

“Wake up, you’re going to be late.”

“Me alone,” Whittingham rolls over.

Mary sweeps apart the curtains of the hotel room.

“It’s 6:30 in the evening. Get up,” says Mary.

“Ok, ok,” he drags the sheets over his head, and burrows under the pillow.

“You’ve got to be there in an hour. Get up,” she repeats.

“Christ.” Luke Whittingham is sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching for the bottle of vodka.

“Do you really need to do that?” says Mary.

“Yes, actually I do,” says Whittingham.

“Have a shower,” says Mary. Whittingham hired Mary as his token blond PR girl, not as his personal ball breaker. In this world she was his slave.


“Ok, Luke, the Limos here and Lucy is here to help you with you’re stuff. You need to be there by 8:30 to talk to the press. I need to get to the gallery. Call me if there are any problems,” says Mary after applying black lipstick.

Luke Whittingham, famous artist and alcoholic, rises from his chair and greets Lucy Mack, his personal assistant with an affable “Good morning, Luce.”

“Mr. Whittingham, we really need to go. There’s Champagne in the Limo and those other things you asked for,” says Lucy avoiding his gaze.

“Merci bout coup, Lucy Luce,” he says brining to life a Cools Menthol, “These private views are a real bore, Luce. Can’t we just nip off to pub for a few G&Ts. They won’t even notice,” says Whittingham. She smiles and looks down.

Whittingham hoovers up a line of cocaine off the top of the glass coffee table.

“You know what happened last time, Luke,” warns Lucy.

“Oh, god,” says Whittingham.


Whittingham does remember the last time, it was the first time. They often found them selves the last ones in the office on Thursday nights. Lucy had kept up her professional guard and resisted his come-ons, but eventually he wore her down. Until she couldn’t resist, until her business suit shirt was hitched up above her hips and her panties were dangling from her stilettos. Whittingham remembers how her nipple ring scratched his chest and how her calf’s gripped his ass, pulling him in. He remembers her asking him to hurt her as he twisted he nipple. It was all over very quickly and he was out the door with an “I’ll make you famous.” It was his new, very annoying, catch phrase. Lucy wondered how many other women had been treated this way. They had never mentioned it again.   


There are three sections in a standard limousine. The front section is where the driver sits behind the dark glass. The middle section has pull down seats on the driver’s side, three seats facing forward and a mini bar on the side opposite the sliding door. The back section is under the tinted back shield. Lucy sits in the middle section of the white limousine, ordered from PrimeLimo.com, with the mini-bar. She passes glasses of champagne back to Luke Whittingham, famous artist and millionaire, who is flanked by two female escorts from Elite Modeling London. One of them is stroking his hair while the other one is administering him a blow job.


“Fantastic!” Whittingham downs the first glass of Champagne as they turn out of the hotel’s underground car park. 

“This was a great touch Luce. Now I know why I pay you so much,” he groans.

“Thank you, Mr Whittingham,” she’s gazing out the window at a homeless person huddled under a bus shelter, out of the rain. Would she always be his slave?


“Good evening, Whittingham, you old devil.” It‘s Luke’s drinking buddy and “lad about town”, Daniel Hurst. His beer belly is sticking out from behind his Heineken t-shirt, but his Versace suit covers this quite well. He holds his cigarette between his teeth “Cheers mate. Great stuff again, I don’t know how you do it. You’re a fuckin’ genius mate, a fuckin’ genius. Cheers.” They clink champagne flutes.

“For fucks sake, Daniel. You could have at least stayed just below annihilated until this shit was over.” Whittingham is wearing a black Gucci suit and a black silk shirt from Dior and pair of classic ray bans he saw Jack Nicholson wearing at the Oscars. Jack is a close personal friend.

“Don’t worry mate, here have another glass of Champagne and this,” says Daniel as he slips Whittingham the small package the size of a stamp.

“You are incorrigible, Daniel,” Whittingham says, heading for toilets.


“Here’s the exhibition program, Mr Whittingham,” says Lucy, handing him the neon pink pamphlet. 

“Thanks Luce. God, what did I agree to this time? This is tasteless. Who OK’d this?” asks Whittingham.

“You did, Luke,” says Lucy. How long does this exhibition last?


The program outlines Whittingham’s new retrospective at the Derpertine Gallery in London’s Rabbit End.


NeoSpective by Luke Whittingham (21-10-2004)


This exhibition by controversial artist Luke Whittingham is an installation piece which plays upon the “Retrospective” phase of an artist’s career. Usually this era of an artist’s career is the final acceptance of the artist by the establishment into its elite club of internationally revered artists and results in the sale of many of the artist’s works to fashionable art galleries around the globe. It is seen as the peak of a respected artist’s career, a time for collectors and galleries to pay homage to a well established artist. The exhibition puts forward the idea that an artist who is at odds with this conveyer belt approach to art production should never have such an exhibition. Artist should always be pushing their boundaries and ways of representing ideas further. Hence the playful title of the exhibition. In some ways, paradoxically, the works on display for this exhibition are re-workings or thematically similar to the type of work the artist has always made. The conceptual framework of these works has become more complex while the individual works themselves have become more focused. The artist has always balanced the knowingness of conceptual art with the art styles of the naïve and childlike. 

- Charlotte Hampling, Curator of NeoSpective (2004)




1. “Serial Dudds” (2004) – Empty breakfast cereal boxes are set up to mimic the work of minimalist Donald Judd.

2. “Up and Coming” (2004) – Knowing Knows Dive 2 – Crashed airmail envelope paper planes recover and fly skyward. Sold.

3. “Persistence of Genius” (2004) – Children’s colored card used to make poster of sun, land and sky with the slogan arched around top of the sun.

4. “Silver Dreams” (2004) - Box covered in household formica. There is a window of silver foil like a cinema screen. The words on the screen read “Making It Is Easy”. 


“Mr Whittingham, Are you ready for the press?” asks Lucy.

“If I must,” says Whittingham.

The Prieze Magazine journalist says, “Some critics say you are not a serious artist anymore. That you are taking the, pardon the phrase, taking the piss. How would you respond to this type of criticism?” 

“I’m just not an existential artist. I’m not a demi-god passing on divine messages from some spiritual guru in heaven or hell. I’m just a guy who creates stuff out of the ideas that are around me. And when I went to the Judd exhibit I was left cold by his humourless po-faced work. So, I parodied it. It’s homage in a way, but, God, he needs to lighten up, live a little. I mean he lives locked away from people on this sort monastic ranch, where’s the fun in that?” says Whittingham.

“Luke, do you think this is your defining statement? There are rumours that you might give up producing art. That you’ve run out of ideas. You gonna do a Duchamp?” asks the hip journalist at the front.

“Well, that has crossed my mind, the frisson has gone, but as you know the money’s too good and I wouldn’t be able to meet up with you guys for our intellectual sparing, which I adore,” says Luke Whittingham. He sips his Champagne nonchalantly.

“Mr. Whittingham: what about the rumours that you’re dating Lady Penelope. Is it true?” calls a journalist from the back of the pack.

“That unfortunately is completely untrue. You rascals in the press.” He wags a nicotine finger drunkenly.

“So who are you dating?” asks another journalist.

“I have no significant others, at this moment,” says Whittingham.

A flash goes off.

Lucy steps in front of Luke Whittingham, contemporary art golden boy. Protect the master.

“No pictures, please. That’s all Mr. Whittingham has time for tonight. Enjoy the fresh salmon and may I remind you that the bar is free until 11. Enjoy,” says Lucy.


Back at the hotel, Whittingham opens a bottle of red wine. Soft classical music plays in the background and cold night air is coming in through the open window, a candle burns on the TV. There are scarves draped over all the lamps in the room. Whittingham is always very disappointed by the lighting in most of the hotels around Europe.

“Wine ladies?” asks Whittingham.

“Ok, I’ll try some, gets me in the mood.” Emma, a blonde with big tits, is on her first job working for Elite Modeling London. She is still on the bed with a black dress on. Smoking.

“Of course, my dear,” says Whittingham.

“You’re a bit posh, aren’t you Luke.” Tiffany, a brunette with a big ass, has been on the scene for a while.

“That I am. I am also a very famous artist,” says Whittingham.

“Give us a glass then.” Tiffany takes off her panties to reveal her shaved pussy. She swallows half a glass of wine.


Tiffany sits down next to Whittingham. She leans across him and they start kissing.

“Oohh an expert,” she says as he flicks off her bra. She crawls on to the king size bed. Whittingham gets behind her and starts thrusting away. His skinny white body is in deep contrast to his slick greasy black hair. Tiffany says, “Easy tiger.” when he becomes too enthusiastic. 

Shyly, Emma kneels beside Whittingham. 

“Get them out then,” says Whittingham.

Emma gingerly rolls down her black nylon strapless dress.

“Here, put this on your tits.” Whittingham hands her a small bag of cocaine. He is still banging away at Tiffany, casually drinking his wine. Tiffany keeps on moaning falsely, as he sniffs the cocaine off Emma’s tits. Tiffany liked to make eye contact with her client when they were behind her. She, also, liked to open her mouth like she had seen other girls do in the videos. She had noticed that her rating had gone up on the website since she started using these two techniques.

“All I ever wanted to do was snort cocaine off beautiful models!” says Whittingham with one arm over his head, rodeo cowboy style. 


The two girls leave a passed out Whittingham at 4am.

Tiffany says, “That guy is real posho twat, he should try getting a real job.” 

“Yeah, but he paid us twice as much as normal. Wait until I tell Peter,” says Emma.    

“Love, maybe you shouldn’t tell Peter,” says Tiffany.

“Oh yeah,” says Emma. 


Lucy looks down at the front page of The Star. 

The headline reads:

Luke Whittingham in Suicide Shenanigans. 


The story goes on:

Controversial artist, Luke Whittingham, was early this morning found dead in his hotel room of a supposed drug overdose wearing only a pink leather mini skirt. Police on the scene disclosed that Whittingham was badly beaten but had ruled out foul play. Whittingham was 43. No significant others survive him but the London art world has mourned the passing of a talented artist. 

Personal friend Daniel Hurst said “He was a great lad to go on the piss with. I’m devastated he stole my idea. You know, the ironic cocaine-hooker-suicide scene. He’ll go down in history as mega.” It is rumored that Daniel Hurst has been checked into rehab by concerned friends. As the scandal breaks, the two Elite Modeling London escorts who are rumored to have seen him alive last gave their comments to the Star last night “He was a shit shag but was generous in some ways.” said Tiffany, 21, of Sussex. While Emma, 19, from Middlesex said tellingly, “It was my first time with Elite. He seemed like a good bloke.” Lucy Mack, Whittingham’s Personal Assistant for over 10 years, had no comment as The Star went to press.


Luke Whittingham is reclining on a sun lounger by the hotel swimming pool. It’s another humid day in Bangkok. Across the pool, two girls are also sunbathing, wearing matching white bikinis, they haven’t moved one millimeter since they lay down at 11 this morning. They look eastern European from this distance. Whittingham motions to the bar staff. As the barman makes his way across, through the palm trees, Whittingham looks at the newspaper. Headline Reads: Luke Whittingham Funeral Today. There is no reaction on his face, then a slight smile.

“What would you like, sir?” says the barman.

“It’s John. Er, I’d like another Tequila Sunrise.” He lifts up his mirrored shades.

“Thank you, sir.” Off he goes.

“Make that two,” Whittingham says when the barman returns with the first. Off he goes.


It’s a month since Whittingham’s death and the newspapers have had a fantastic time with his obituary. There have been full page spreads in the broadsheets and more banal headlines in the tabloids. Tiffany and Emma are releasing a hotly anticipated yoga video next month. Some rather embarrassing nude pictures have been circulating around on the internet and even a fake sex tape of him and Ashlee Simpson, the sister of that Britney clone, Jessica Simpson. There has been talk of a show at Milan’s Space Gallery. Neospective was hailed as the best contemporary art show of 2004 and Cecil Seer, art collector and curator, bought “Set of Draws (Formica Box)” for a record undisclosed sum. Madonna has already bought “Up and Coming” from the Neopspective show. Whittingham knew his death would be good for business, but this is ridiculous. He sucks long and hard on the straw and the Tequila Sunrise rises fluently into to his mouth and down his throat.   

It seems that he might have got away with the ultimate con. He has cheated death and the media. He has finally pulled off his finest piece of work. “Committed to Death” is his most exuberant work yet. All the plans for faking his death and the intricacies of getting a new identity have all been chronicled in the book. Only one copy exists. How he dyed his hair and grew a beard and put on weight are only the surface details which pale into the background when the book turns to who is involved in this conspiracy. He is really only a pawn in a much wider propaganda. It would make him paranoid if he didn’t know that even the rich and powerful are pathetic. He hasn’t decided whether to put the book out for public display in the gallery, or to have it incased in glass, so no one can read it, therefore building the myth, always build the myth. As the sun goes behind the hotel, Whittingham floats around ideas in his head, as the tequila flows around his body, even his toes are numb.

Whittingham opens the door to his hotel room with the card. There is steam coming from the shower room. Whittingham turns on the TV, mutes the sound, and opens the complimentary drinks fridge. He pulls out an ice cold bottle of Corona and starts chugging from it as he walks into the bedroom.

“Are you drunk again?” Mary is wearing a white towel. Her hair is still wet from the shower.

“Remember you’re only my PR girl,” says Whittingham.

“Oh, Luke, for such a dim witted idiot, you sure have a big dick.” She walks over to him and they kiss.

“Darling, my manhood directly corresponds to the size of your arse,” says Whittingham.

“You are a bastard.” Her Irish accent has been replaced with some sort of posh London twang. Behind closed doors Mary treats Whittingham with the respect he deserves. The World sees a potential she sees a pathetic slave.

“Language dear, you are in the presence of genius,” says Whittingham. To her he is only skin and body parts. Parallel to the world we know there are other identities, other lives.   

“Ho,ho, you’re a real bastard, Luke,” says Mary. To the public Luke is God. Mary knows that in a broader context, Luke is only an artist. He is only a powerless image to condense and sell. He wants to be a slave.

“So they say,” he finishes off the bottle of Corona. Could Corona do an advert for Luke Whittingham?

“Mick says that they are all set, a couple of months, maybe a year. They want to maximize your return. So that means me and you can get down to some serious fucking,” says Mary dropping the towel.

“Not so fast my dear, I have to consider my options and besides your tits are sun burnt,” smirks Whittingham.

“What do you mean? Consider your options. You’re going back to be Luke Whittingham, contemporary art genius or you’ll end up in a fucking body bag,” says Mary.

“Darling, the situation needs a rethink. The public is going to rip me to shreds, it’s a shot at everything that is holy. Death, the whole shebang. It’s never been done before,” says Whittingham.

“Well, you’ll have to take your chances, come on and fuck me you bastard.” Mary has positioned herself on the bed with her arse in the air.

“Jesus Christ,” says Whittingham. He avoids the challenge by leaving the room.


“Look at you, your gut’s hanging over your belt like a trucker and your beard, your beard is disgusting, Luke. What the fuck are you wearing, is that a football shirt? And those swimming trunks, Jesus mother of Mary. Stop drinking. Do you ever stop drinking?” says Mary.

“Not if I can help it.” Whittingham lurches over and kisses the Thai bikini girl behind the ear.

“They love us for our freedom, darling,” says Whittingham.

“It’s been two years, slave. We have to go now. They said in two weeks. You look like shit. Oh, for fucks sake, Luke.” Whittingham slithers over and kisses the other girl on the lips this time. This girl looks like a Russian call girl. After thirty seconds of tongue kissing, he rights himself and leans forward and does the cocaine off the chair he has positioned in front of him.

“Darling, I like it here. I’m taken by the way the sun shimmers on the pool’s delicate shimmering surface and way the Thai girls lick my cock,” says Whittingham.

“Luke, it’s over. Tomorrow you’re going to gym or I’m personally going to put a bullet in your head. I swear to Jesus,” says Mary.

The first few days in the gym are hard work but after he cuts down on the beer he is looking almost the same as before, if a little tired around the eyes. His mind, however, is now sluggish and his witty banter has spiraled down into ugliness. By day, Mary is working him hard with a regime of swimming in the morning, gym and then a sauna. By night, Mary is also working him very hard between the sheets. Whittingham barely has time to eat after the sauna before her mammoth breasts are bouncing up and down in his face and her big ass is grinding away on his now red raw dick. After a week he’s looking much trimmer, much emptier. The cocaine helps as well. 


Mary has found the suit he was wearing the night of his death and bought a shirt which fits the description Whittingham slurred to her over dinner last night. Squid salad. Try saying that after nine Tequila Sunrises.

“There, you look the same.” Mary is looking at him, head tilted.

“Darling, I am the same,” says Whittingham.

“You’re still a fucking slave,” says Whittingham. Mary wouldn’t be treated like the other women in Whittingham’s “life”. Lucy was his slave now. He was hers.

“So you keep telling me,” says Whittingham.

“Flights on Friday, darling. I’ve got everything you need. Now fuck off back to those little Thai bitches you love so much,” says Mary advancing on Whittingham with handcuffs.

“Certainly, my dear,” says Whittingham as she closes the lock behind his back. 


On the morning of the flight Luke can barely get out of bed without a shot of vodka and snort of cocaine. The flight is early to make sure the papers and the whole media has a full day to collect themselves, recover from the shock that, actually, Luke Whittingham, who is now the stuff of art legend, is not strictly dead. He’s not in art heaven with Warhol and Picasso, and all those other geniuses. No, he’s just got off a flight at Heathrow and is back at his old abode in Chelsea. They need to be given time to take all this in and then write something half intelligible by the next day. To maximize his return. 


Everything has been planned, the first interview he will do for The Times, will be on the front page. The headline will be: Back From The Dead. There will be features in Prieze and Cash Art to control the most outraged in the art community and there will be pieces in Week and News Time, both for and against this affront to decency. Should he be locked up, is this art? Who cares? None of this will matter because Luke and everyone involved are protected. 

When “Committed to Death” first opens there are almost riots outside the Royal Academy. One art student attacks the piece with a pick axe and the gallery closes for a day. The hysteria around the work redoubles the next day. Whittingham is quoted as saying: “Now I know what it feels like to be more human than human.” The media are happy, they love it, the public love to hate it, the wheels turn, and the money rolls right in, everyone gets paid. To the World, Luke Whittingham is Successful. Luke Whittingham is Famous. Luke Whittingham is Huge. Luke Whittingham is Universal. Luke Whittingham is the New Messiah. Luke Whittingham is Jesus. Luke Whittingham is God.

To Mary, Luke is a slave.

To Luke, Lucy is a slave.

We’re all slaves.


With the new influx of cash Whiitingham, with the help of Mary of course, buys the top floor of an office building in London. It is going to be his new HQ. He has just finished the first wave of media, marked down on the schedule as Maximise Return. Mary says that they won’t need him for a month now. Always leave them wanting more. It might be longer than that as Whittingham has taken every piece of furniture in the open plan office, and even the side offices, and rammed them up against the front door. There are four or five hefty filling cabinets, numerous desks and chairs all locked together, almost unmovable now. Before he barricaded the door, he had a king size bed and two fridge freezers delivered from Harrods. He hasn’t made up the bed yet but the fridge freezers are full of Champagne and frozen gourmet meals. 


Whittingham has taken up residence in the board room, he’s sitting behind the big conference table, wearing only a white PVC vest, leather boxer shorts, matching alligator cowboy hat and boots. His feet are up on the table and he is smoking a Cools Menthol using a cigarette holder. There are two open bottles of Champagne on the table, one in an ice bucket. At the end of the room there is a bank of TVs, three high and five across. Each horizontal row covers one of the five TV channels. First row is Channel 1 and so on. He’s been monitoring his media coverage via the TVs and the online newspapers. There are nine remote controls scattered across the table.


At this very moment his image is on Channel 3, it’s the 10’Clock News. He looks away, back to Channel 1, the news has finished. Now it’s The Weather. That’s something he can understand. The weather girl is quite buxom, Whittingham notes. The fashion for Swedish models seems to have given way to a glut of rather large British girls. The weather girl points to London on the map and says, “London will be cloudy with sunny spells, some rain in the afternoon, and maybe even snow, with winds up to gale force in some areas, with temperatures reaching high 20s later.” Luke Whittingham lights another Cools Menthol cigarette.


“Hello, Luke. Fancy meeting you here, here of all places,” says Lucy on entering the board room. ”Here at your headquarters, at your central offices, where you control everything, where you are God. Or do you want to be a slave?” Lucy is standing at the office window, looking over the city. Her eyes move from building to building, nervously, looking for hope in each office window. She turns to face Luke and says, “Today, Luke Whittingham was found at his London offices. Whittingham was infamous for making a mockery of the whole art world earlier this year when he staged his own death, only to return a year later to more adoration. Now after being found truly dead, after being whipped to death by his own PA, Lucy Mack, it seems Luke Whittingham will be remembered for completely different reasons…” She is idling around the corner of the conference table, letting the whip trail behind her. It’s ready to be cracked. 

“What do you intend to do with that whip, my dear?” asks Luke Whittingham from the far end of the conference table.

Lucy __________s. 

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14 hours ago, GnRLiars said:
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Why all the hidden content?


How do you do hidden contents?


Might be better than posting seven page walls of story text. 

Edited by wasted

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