Dead Stars (50 page)

Jerzy said (the internet said) that sometimes praying mantises were called devil's horses. They were cannibals &
meateaters
holy
shit
YES fucking insect
carnivores!
It was like some shit out of
Starship Troopers,
which happened to be one of his alltime faves, some
Starship Trooper
shit
come to life!
But more than that, it was
biblical
, it was
germane
, it was more of the
4 Horseman shit that Suge told him at Cedars, the same shit he tried to run down to MoMA: White was Victory/Mantis, Black was famine/Hummingbird, Red was hummingblood . . .
Mind you, the devil's horsemen were
not
scavengers, nope,
huh
-uh, they weren't like
jackals
either (hell-
O!
Can I
tell
you why they aren't like jackals, Rikki? They aren't like jackals
cause they're fucking
INSECTS!
Hel-
lo) because they don't eat
dead things
, that just aint kosher . . . though under
certain laboratory conditions
, when, say, a rat cadaver was
manipulated
by some bored entomologist to simulate movement, the mantis could be tricked into pigging out.
The Reanimators!
Yech. Mantises could hide in plain sight by
undulating
like leaves in the wind. Double yech.
Whoa creepy.
Jerzy told him he read on the internet that mantises could kill fucking field mice & tree frogs &
soft-shelled turtles
—triple ugh! They seemed to be OCD sticklers too: when random offal detachSPLAT'd to the ground during an hellacious arthropodal chow, the morsel
stayed
on the ground like when a society lady drops a fork, you know suddenly it's untouchable
.

Hey Rikki do you feel me? Rikki? can you feel me?

Jerzy said the internet said Arabs thought mantises always prayed toward Mecca. The internet said Americans used to think or maybe still do that a mantis could blind a sleeping man & murder a baby in its crib. (
SID = Sudden Insect Death
) The internet said the French believed a praying mantis can point the direction home for a child who was lost. Well some of the French maybe . . . . . . . . . . .

Rikki said “Hey dude, enough, I don't want this shit in my head.”

Jerzy said “
I
didn't put shit in your head, bro, you put it in
mine
. You &
Fishburne
, right? I'm just
reminding
you of shit you
already know
. And you're going to
need to know it
, bro. So you better be listening.”

Rikki said (with a smile at least) “Dude you are
seriously
fucked up. You oughta lay that PCP pipe down for a little.
Whatever
it is you're doin. Cause that shit is fuckin you
up
.”

“If I lay it down you be pickin it up for sure.”

. . .

Nighttime. Rikki did a bootie bump right there in the truck while Jerzy was off stalking the wild
honeyshot!
—Madonna & her daughter, at La Dolce Vita. J'd been after Lourdes' hirsute honeydew for a few months now, stalking the elusive Little Madge vadge, a rare vintage indeed for Harry's privates reserve. H 'round the M was in Jerzy's front pocket now, seeing that Jerzy was the 1st & only snatcherazzo Harry deigned reach out to, the only one he thought would
understand
, & not judge. Jerzy had been pleased to introdouche himself.

Before Jerzy jumped out, he handed his young cohort a syringe of YES
sans
the spike. The boy really took to the meth/roxie combo
where have I been all your life
. He was smoking crystal now too, he'd do it in Tom-Tom's room, he didn't want ReeRee to see-see, Tom-Tom would laugh her spooky laugh not her goodtime girl laugh, T
²
seemed to mind Rikki the least when he did dope in front of her. Some kind of control trip.

Rikki bootie-bumped at the house but never in a car. A car!
Dude! Get over yourself . . .
hiked his pants down under dark Bev Hills residential moon trees a hundred yards north of Sta Monica blvd. &
shazam
the deed was done. When Jerzy returned, Rikki was in some kind of reverie, & startled. His pants were still down, right above the knees, he had an oblivious deathclutch on the base of his rockhard dick, holding it there like a bouquet at Queer Prom. Jerzy cackled.
Get a room, bro.
Pretty good size camel on him tho, lotsa
explainin
to do down there . . .
très
deboner oops I mean debonair. What Rikki did next took Jerzy by surprise: he stroked it a few times & came, gluegunning the glove compartment. Rikki never did that in front of a man before but knew it was just business, the business of meth, when he got home there was some crap in his pants too, decent amount, what shocked Jerzy was that the kid had managed to spackle at all because sometimes he jacked 10 hrs straight w/o liftoff.

Kids today.

. . .

He invited Rikki to see his work.

Jerzy stayed in the poolhouse which actually was the coolest place to live but no one wanted to because a generator as big as an outhouse sat buttnext to it. The thing was connected to two frigidaire freezers Betty White bought in the 1800s and kept out in the garage. The old generator had a full personality; it'd been around long enough to have earned run of the house (at least of the poolhouse & areas adjacent), meaning it belched revved rebooted and refarted whenever it damn pleased
.

Rikki was anxious to see his new BFF's art. Jerzy kept his various stashes in the poolhouse/garage & Rikki was anxious to see those too. Jerzy was now the official hostess w/the mostess.

The middleschool dropout, out-of-work actor & dad-to-be stepped back to take it all in while Jerzy rooted around for a pipe. Rikki was confused. He thought the photos would be shots of celebrities but couldn't tell
what
they were. Jerzy kept mum, he was otherwise engaged. Rikki's head was elsewhere too, he was thinking of his BFF's stash but knew he really needed to try & focus
solely
on the so-called artwork because the more sincere & attentive he was to the pictures on the wall, the sooner & larger the bowl of crystal awaited him as a reward to ignite his bones . . . so he made sure to stay respectfully
on
it, even tho each millisecond was a war waged against ripping his eyes away from the weird, perfectly hung images & swiveling around to google if Jerzy was still treasurehunting the pipe or if he'd found it & already moved on to tapping no-longer-a-Secret Stash #1. Rikki decided to pose a question, which would at least afford him a quick glance, all like very fake casual, doop-de-doop-de-doo, like why would he have
any
interest in whatever the fuck Jerzy was up to, you know, like, how Rikki
really
wanted to spend the next 4 days was writing up a little
critique
about Jerzy's fucked-up
art project
, the very
last
thing on his mind being to smoke a few bowls & get to the porn.

“Are you going to call it anything? I mean, it's like gunna be a show at a museum & shit?”

Not bad—the
actor
in him did a pretty good job too of not seeming too anxious you know like if Jerzy offered him a bowl, cool, but if not, that'd be cool too, which like it
wouldn't
because Rikki would probably fucking club Jerzy to death with whatever was at hand. But Jerzy had the pipe
&
bowl in hand; shit was looking up.

“‘Bad News Bears.' No, I'm kidding.
Daydream Believers
. I'm kidding I'm kidding. Do you know what a ‘captcha' is?” Rikki shook his head. “It's when you go online and there's like a word & maybe numbers in a box written in wavy letters? And before they give you access you have to type in what you think the numbers & letters are? They call that a
captcha
. It's how they can tell you're human & not a computer.” Rikki didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. “It's how they separate the hummingbirds from the mantis. So right now that's what I'm calling it, ‘Captcha.' And I'm calling myself
Squeegee
. ‘Captcha by Squeegee.'”

“Cool.”

“So do you want to smoke some of this?”

. . .

“Can you listen?”

“Yes.”

“We'll get down some more after you listen.”

“I'll listen. I'm listening.”

“You have to
want
to listen.”

“But I do, dude. I do.”

“This is about the number 3. Are you ready for this?”

Rikki nods.

Then:

“
3
 . . . is the
only
number with a
beginning, middle &
end
.”

Rikki let it sink in. Jerzy watches it sink into Rikki.

“I'm going to give you a triad. Know what a triad is?”

Rikki shook his head.

“It's a
group
or
set
of
3 connected people
or
things
.”

Rikki was already so far out there
whoa why would I need why do I even need to why would I want to get more out there yes I need to get more more more out there I do—

“OK. All I'm going to do is give you
one triad.
1 set of 3.”

“OK.”

“Then we'll get down with the KJ.”

“Okay.”

“I got a hundred roxies.”

“For real?”

“For real-real. For really-real real.”

“You're the bomb.”

“We cn get stardusted.”

“Uh I don't know I don't think so.”

“I'm going to give you a
triad
. But you need to be
ready
.”

“I am. I am. I'm ready.”

“I'm just going to say it.”

“I'm listening.”

“Here it is:
Iovine
,
Mathers
,
Jay-Z
.”

“What?”

“Say it.”

“You trippin dude you trippin.”

“Say it.”

“Man this is—shit—you—”

“Say it.
Iovine, Mathers, Jay-Z.
”

“Iovine, Mathers, Jay-Z. But dude you trippin–––––”

“Jay-Z is
Hov
. Say it.”

“Dude I just want to smoke.”

“Jay-Z is
Hov
. Say it.”

“Jay-Z is
Hov.
”

“Hov =
Jehovah
. Jay-
hov-uh
.”

“Jay-hov-uh.”

“Jehovah = YAHWEH.”

“YAHWEH?”

“That's a triad. That's all you need to know.”

“All right. All right. I'm down, dude. I'm down. I'm down.”

“Take the pipe.”

fuck dude thank you
. (Smokes/coughs. Crazy/smokes. Crazy)
o dude thank you o shit dude it/s good. thank you. all that shit is for real heavy all your art too man dude shit thank you. i fuckin
LOVE
this shit hey hey hey dude, go for a ride let's just drive or whatever you want to do what do you need man what do you need I fuckin
LOVE
this shit if you want me to do like I'm not like that but if you want me to do whatever to you to make you feel good, to keep the bowls cummin that/s cool i don/t do that shit for real but i/d do for you for real to whatever because all this shit is for real serious thank you i
O! SHIT!
dude, let's go for a ride! let/s go back to britney/s cmon dude! but we don/t have to, we don/t have to but if we don/t can you like take me down the hill? can you maybe like take me down the hill in the morning or tonight or whenever? cause i forgot to get maxipads for ree she said to get maxipads she's leaking pee dude let/s smoke can we just another bowl

CLEAN

[Michael]

Cancer Awareness

It

was early in the game, but he had that old
feeling
, the feeling that things were coming together
.

He was at Ago with Heather Morris, the screenwriter Steve Kloves and the dancer Benjamin Millepied. Ben's wife sent her regrets; home with a sick baby.

Though he still planned to write the script himself (he was working on it in his trailer between
Treasure
scenes), talking it out with Steve was invaluable—the man, as they say, not only knew his shit but remembered where he put it. They first got to know each other on the set of
Wonder Boys
and had loosely kept in touch. Through the years, Michael's family made it a tradition to have supper with Steve and Jo whenever
Harry Potter
had its UK premières.

He knew Benjamin's work long before
Black Swan
. Michael and Catherine were fans back when he was a soloist at the City Ballet. When they finally met, Ben shared that he'd performed in a Jerry Robbins piece. Michael was a friend of Jerry's and realized he must have seen the kid dance sometime in '95. It was fun to introduce him to Heather. She was sweetly nervous, and the dancer put her at ease. He told her that he and Natalie loved
Glee
(and especially her). Ben did his YouTube homework too; he was genuinely impressed by HeMo's hip hop dance videos.

Benjamin got a call from his wife and left a bit early. Through a faraway window, Michael and his guests saw the explosion of flashes coinciding with Ben's exit. They even heard shouts, no doubt of the “Where's Natalie! Where's your wife!” variety. Heather was the next to go, and went alone as well. Michael wanted to keep his project under wraps & didn't want them to be photographed together.

. . .

Whenever she left a restaurant, there were always professional autograph seekers begging her to sign all sorts of Brittany/HeMo glossies, posters, and promotional items. When she started getting famous, other
s cautioned her not to sign, telling her those “fans” just turned around and sold everything online. Heather didn't care. She felt so blessed that she always signed anyway as she walked to her car.

[strobe storm cell clusters, then:]

Heather!

Brittany!

Are you friends with Michael!

Why were you having dinner! Heather!

WHY

are you going to work together!

is Catherine returning to Glee?

is Michael going to be on Glee!

Brittany! Over

HERE!

Here!              Smile! Does Catherine know

does Catherine know

does Catherine know you had dinner

with Michael?——————————————

She got in the car. The valet unsuccessfully tried to block the chubby sweetfaced woman now at her window. “Heather we
love
you but we read in
Us
what you keep in your bag, & I need to
warn
you that a lot of the ingredients
are not safe.
Your MAC Skinfinish has TALC&
retinyl palmitate
which is linked to
cancer
!         And
ethyl

“Heather!                             Heather!!!!!

hexyl methoxycinnamate interferes with cellular signaling, &

“H E A T H E R—————————”          can cause

mutations &
H H
H
E
A
T
H E R
H
E
A
T
H

DEATH!  Flirt Dreamy Eyes Eyeshadow has chlorphenesin

chlorphenesin is a preservative that is restricted in Japan it is NOT recommended for pregnant or nursing wo

H----

. . .

Initially, Michael was concerned when his agent told him the talented director Bryan Singer was developing a film drama about Fosse for HBO. “Bye Bye Life” didn't have a screenwriter yet, & would be based on the eponymous bio. They spent two hours on the phone—Bryan was in Europe—which began with trepidation and ended with the director's peppy
insistence
that Michael proceed. Bryan said it might be a tougher call if he wasn't making his film for cable; two Fosse biopics might be more than the feature marketplace could bear. By the end of their talk, both men were convinced that the approach of the two films was different enough for each to flourish in its own way. Bryan said that in light of Michael's fairly recent, very public cancer drama, the whole concept of him dancing through a remake was beyond brilliant. It was inspired.

“
That's
a movie I want to see,” he said.

. . .

Post-
Glee
, Catherine and the kids flew to their home in Quebec. He was 3 wks into
Treasure
, a 4-month shoot in all, and thus far workdays had been heavy. The producers assured him that wouldn't last, or at least that his schedule would get light before it got heavy again.

Michael had a few long weekends coming up and was anxious to join his family.

. . .

He was booked on Jimmy Kimmel at the end of the week. Before going to bed, he watched a a clip on YouTube of his Kimmel appearance last year. He looked for a while then scrolled down, idly reading the comments. He'd trained himself not to do that, but tonight it just happened.

 

whiteonwhite 4 days ago @j4902lovechild I always knew he should be on stage—STAGE FOUR!!!!! SOOO HAPPY as an actof he has always SUCKED

 

catacomb12 4 days ago @vermilion 1 month ago you are SO SICK he is a brave soul&wonderfull MAN may god have mercy on your DISSEASED SOUL

 

Destroyallcheese 2 weeks ago @2120juvenilia HE IS STILL SMOKING MARLBORRO REDS!!!!! that is not a fighter.

 

Jerseywhore 3 weeks ago @ottawacentipede (I hate to say this), but RARELY have I seen people winning against cancer. Many people I know(includin my grandfather) died from cancer. he was diagnosed in 2005, he went into treatment, he then felt alot better (the cancer was gone), but in 2009 the cancer “was back”. He struggled ALOT, went into treatment again, but he

 

Invisible forces led him to continue his scroll.

Someone said that Catherine wasn't bipolar, she was just a spoiled cunt, & they hoped she got cancer right in her starting-to-droop tits and in her waxed butthole too because that's what happens when you sell your soul for $$$$ to a philandering kike with an HPV.

Someone said the divorce with Diandra was a ruse, they were still married, & Kirk discovered that the greedy juices of Diandra's vagina gave him eternal life. They said Michael didn't fall too far from the jewjew tree because he bought Catherine at auction & everyone groupsexed, Catherine got paid $2,000,000 each time Diandra held her down for Kirk to rape her talentless, cellulite-strafed ass and another two mill whenever they did it in front of Michael and the kids . . .

He walked to the balcony to shake it off.

He thought about calling Calliope but it was already after midnight. She might still be up watching one of her movies, or be dead to the world. He didn't want to risk waking her.

He tried diluting the poison by staying up and meditating. He went through the breaths Catherine taught him. (It really helped during chemo.) With each inhalation God came in and with each exhalation, the poison flushed out, from his head, his gut, his heart.

When sleep came, he fell instantly into bad dreams.

Backstage, waiting to go on. A producer approaches to tell him Jimmy Kimmel went to the hospital for emergency cancer surgery. The last minute replacement is Roger Ebert.

Michael hears himself being introduced. He takes the stage under glaring lights. The audience rises to its feet but does not applaud or whoop—like automatons standing formal sentinel. The actor knows he can soften them up with his famous icebreaker. He swivels on the couch, looking into the theater.

“There's gotta be an easier way to get a standing ovation.”

His timing is perfect, but still no response.

Awkward.

He turns back to Ebert.

The film critic wears a black turtleneck whose collar ends at Ebert's pointy Thalidomide witch's half-chin. Above that, the we-never-close fishmouth, with an invisible hook pulling the lower lip into a goofy, sing-hallelujah-come-on-get-happy grin.

– Michael, thanks for dropping by! When did you first learn that the cancer came back?

The actor is nonplussed.

– It didn't, Roger. I'm still cancer-free.

An explosion of laughter from the dead vertical audience.

– Aren't we all!

Another volley of disembodied guffaws.

– Michael, let's talk a little about the American doctors who ‘missed' it. I was fortunate enough to have doctors who missed mine too. Now, I know it wasn't until you had it looked at in Sierra Leone that—

– Beverly Hills.

– What?

– They diagnosed at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

– Were you angry?

– Very.

– Are you going to sue?

A pause, then:

– My wife Diandra will, on my behalf.

His timing is perfect. Ebert and the audience laugh in approval of his guest's droll wit. Michael is surprised, thrilled at the reaction, & swivels again to acknowledge them but is perplexed to be looking out at an empty theater—a vast barn, with no seats or people.

– Just one more thing, because I know you can't stay. [The host directed his words toward the infinity of windblown emptiness] Michael's going in for his weekly check-up—let's pray with him that the cancer's back.

The actor started getting angry.

He closed his eyes and tried the breathing meditation.

Ebert said:

– Michael? There's just one more thing I'd like you to share.

 

Mercifully, he awakened.