The article stated that pervy Petra was about to win a big countersuit against Kyle Milk, the estranged husband of long-legged, mini-skirted Andrea Milk, Petra's playmate in the storage room. The lawsuit alleged "defamation of character," which was laughable seeing how Petra had no morals to begin with. Kyle had declared in court—and to the tabloids, naturally—that he’d known Petra was sleeping with Andrea for some time. The problem was that Kyle had no evidence to prove it. Andrea swore on a stack of Bibles that she was a faithful wife, and the judge would have no choice but to rule in Petra’s favor. If Kyle lost the case, the poor schmuck could be forced to file for bankruptcy.
Wiping up the coffee I’d spilled, I threw the newspaper into the trash. Something inside me snapped as loud as a giant limb falling from a tree. How could this happen? The SOB was going to win again—screwing the justice system while screwing somebody's wife. No fucking way! Fuck reality TV, to hell with Petra and the rest of those fake stars. I knew I had to do something and do it fast. Maybe I was finally fed up with all the poisonous bullshit that Hollywood injected. Maybe I was hopped up from the triple espresso. Whatever the reason, I pulled my phone out of my jeans pocket and called Petra at home. And in the middle of a beautiful L.A. Saturday morning, whether good, bad, or stupid, I sealed my fate. Petra answered the phone with his usual snarl: “What?”
I summoned whatever courage I could to try and sound intimidating and matter-of-fact, but came off sounding more like a bad Arnold Schwarzenegger imitation: "Petra? This is Marc Henderson. You know, you fucking creep, the grip on Being Stronge. Remember me? I'm the one that saw you screwing Andrea Milk in the storage room. Well, you can kiss that lawsuit goodbye. You're not getting away with your shitty behavior any longer. Enough is enough! Drop the lawsuit or I’ll let Kyle’s attorneys know that I walked in on you and the very limber Mrs. Milk doing the horizontal mambo. I can just imagine the headlines, can’t you?”
I stopped and waited. All I could hear was College GameDay Football with Kirk Herbstreit blaring in the background. Then he hung up without a word.
Holy shit. What the fuck did I just do?
2 The Slugger
It felt pretty good to blow off some steam, but I couldn't shake the nagging anxiety that stalked me the whole way home from Starbucks. With any luck, Petra would come clean and lay off of all this lawsuit nonsense and that would be the end of it. I was certain he didn't want his dysfunctional home life to become even more screwed up than it already was, nor would he want his public persona trashed in the media any more than it already was. He had to understand how his idiotic actions could affect the show's ratings and most importantly, his revenue. Surely, he had enough intelligence to drop this lawsuit, didn’t he? I convinced myself that the decision to confront Petra was the right thing to do, tamping down the warning bells going off somewhere in my head.
After working with these wannabe celebrities for all those years, I’d finally figured out their Achilles heel, the one element their narcissistic fragile egos couldn't handle—cheating on their spouse press, which was one tiny step up from no press at all. Anyone who’d been in the Hollywood game as long as Petra had, had to know it wasn’t in his best interest to have pictures of his face Photoshopped in Andrea Milk’s ample assets, plastered all over the tabloids. Even the Great Petra had to face the facts: he couldn’t afford to lose his meal-ticket reality show. A little bad press could help boost show ratings, of course, but there was some news that could sour an audience’s taste and flush the ratings down the toilet. This news would definitely poison the “happily ever after” image he and Sandy had so carefully cultivated for their fans.
I retreated to my apartment and flopped on the couch; I figured a little TV therapy would soothe my mind. I watched reruns of mind-numbing shows for hours to no avail; my nerves were shot. I needed to escape and get as far away as I could. Where would I go and what would I do? My salary as a grip forced me to live a simple life. There was no upscale community for me, no cordial doorman at a North Hollywood high-rise, and certainly no high-tech alarm system (except for Daisy, my next-door neighbor Mrs. Fox’s hyperactive Bichon Frise).
Mrs. Fox, my still-sexy septuagenarian neighbor, often asked me to take Daisy out for her walks so she could “do her biz,” as she liked to say. She’d hand me Daisy’s leash and a plastic bag, pat my cheek, and give me a quick peck as Daisy and I would head out for a little green grass.
When I first met Mrs. Fox, she wanted me to call her “Aud,” short for her first name Audrey. At the time, I thought she was a harmless, slightly ditzy, yet colorful senior citizen with too much time on her hands. That myth was quickly debunked.
Oh sure, there were a few senior moments when she might call me one of her (several) late husbands’ names, but for the most part, she was a sharp, fascinating lady who didn’t suffer fools gladly. Initially, some of the stories she told me seemed too outlandish to be true, and later she confessed she was testing me to see if I was paying attention.
Soon thereafter, when I’d come home from a long day at the set, we'd often share a beer on her back porch. She would then tell me her real stories, regaling me with adventures from her glory days when she was, in her own words, “a hot babe.” Mrs. Fox had left a small town in Ohio for big dreams in Hollywood. She’d been only seventeen and never looked back. She was a quick study and learned how to dance, act, and even sing a little through sheer will and determination. She worked steadily until she met her first husband, whose name I’ve forgotten. (There were three more husbands after him, so it’s understandable.) The marriage didn’t last long, and she was back to working before the ink dried on her divorce papers. Husband No.1 was wealthy and very good to her financially in the divorce, so she didn’t have to work, but as she told it, she got a “high” from being part of the biz and had actually missed it when she was married. I never said so aloud, but I had become very fond of Mrs. Fox, and she knew it.
Since I was on edge, I figured some time with Audrey would be just what I needed, but when I went to knock on her door, no one answered. Then I remembered it was Thursday, her weekly night out with her “peeps,” a small but boisterous group comprised of fellow divorced/widowed ladies who could drink a crew of Teamsters under the table. I silently thanked God for Uber.
As a Plan B, I called a few of my work buddies and met them for a low-key night at our favorite bar. To my surprise, I only had three Cardinal Sin Red Ales before calling it a night. The night out didn’t have the results I was looking for—I still felt uncomfortable and my anxiety was escalating.
As I parked my car on the street in front of my unit, my car lights exposed the shrubbery lining the perimeter of the retro ‘70s apartment complex I called home. The place was starting to look shabby; the exterior needed new paint, the windows were beyond ancient, and the entire building had a neglected air about it.
As I locked my car and headed to my front door, I noticed my feeble-at-best porch light was off. Great, I’ll have to call the landlord in the morning, I thought. My hands were fumbling with my keys as I tried to find the keyhole in the pitch-dark. I worked gently to keep quiet so as not to trigger Daisy's barking. Finally, it connected, but I noticed the key turned too effortlessly, raising my suspicions. Usually, it took a few times for it to catch. What the hell...? I thought as I opened the front door and flipped on the light switch. Brightness flooded the room—there was nothing out of place. Whew. I sighed with relief, feeling a little foolish that there would be anything worth stealing in my apartment to begin with. The most expensive object I owned was my car, and even that was a stretch. Then I secured the double-bolted door lock my mom had given me when I’d moved; I felt safer knowing I had a little extra protection, even though my apartment was on the first floor with a sliding glass door that anyone could shimmy open from the outside. For me, security was mostly a state of mind.
I tossed my faded Dodgers jacket on the couch and checked my cell to see if I had any calls, especially from Petra—zilch
. Maybe he’d decided to let well enough alone.
Exhausted, I headed for the shower. Afterwards, I headed to the kitchen to grab a bag of chips. But something made the hairs raise on the back of my neck, stopping me cold in my tracks. As I slowly passed the couch, I noticed the sliding door to the patio was slightly open. The faint reflection of someone standing directly behind me came into focus. Oh shit!
I stared blankly at the glass for a split second, then my brain cells thankfully kicked in. I knew I was in trouble and my body moved on instinct, searching for anything to defend myself with, when someone swiftly slid behind me, beating me to it. All I could feel was a hard thump on my head and I immediately blacked out.
When I came to, I had a hard time concentrating. I wondered how long I had been laying on the floor—was it minutes…hours? I tried to lift my head off the floor but winced with pain as a massive headache pulled me back down, like cement blocks in the ocean. My hands searched my body as my eyes adjusted and examined my surroundings. I was tied tightly to the leg of my mom's antique oak desk, one of her many donations to my apartment.
Squirming, I saw there were cords holding my wrists together. I also saw a pair of boots next to my couch and my eyes followed the boots up to the person they belonged to, who was sitting there, slouched, pointing a gun at me. Surprise, surprise—it was Petra Stronge. He was smoking one of his beloved ecstasy herbal cigarettes. He only smoked them to make himself feel cool. What a poser, was my first thought. My second thought was that I was the one tied up and Petra wasn’t. I quickly regrouped. I had to do something about it.
Petra looked—and smelled—like he’d been partying pretty hard. His lids were half-closed, while his phone was pinched between his ear and his shoulder. “Yeah, I have him. No hurry. He ain't going nowhere,” Petra snarled in the “stage voice” that he used when shooting the show.
Becoming more alert, I desperately realized I needed to loosen the cords that pressed tightly against my skin, causing burning friction. Blood trickled down my throbbing forehead, an annoying result from the blow I’d received earlier.
“Yeah, you can bring the car around now,” Petra said, chuckling as he hung up the phone. He turned his piercing eyes to me. “Didn't I say you would be sorry, you little prick?”
Then he smiled and started laughing. I had never noticed Petra's menacing laugh before. I knew he was up to something dangerous. He extinguished his cigarette on my coffee table and kept grinning at me as he got up and walked into the kitchen. Even in my panicked state, I knew what Petra was capable of doing to me. It was well known on the set that Petra was more than a little OCD, and he especially disliked any lingering touch or scent on his hands. We’d discovered this on the very first episode of Being Stronge after shooting a scene where the Stronge’s met their new neighbors, where there was a lot of handshaking and backslapping going down. When the director yelled “cut!” Petra held up both hands like a surgeon going in to operate. We all just stared—except his personal assistant, Mandy, who came in running like a madwoman with wet wipes, as if she were going to administer CPR to a heart attack victim. After the initial shock wore off, it quickly became an inside joke with the crew; we made daily bets on if and when Mandy and her wet wipes would make an appearance.
Lost in his germaphobia, Petra lathered up in my sink, allowing the silence to fester in the air. He reached for a kitchen towel to dry his hands, but there wasn’t one. Thank God, I hadn’t gone to the store yet. As a result, he started opening drawers to find something to wipe his hands on. While Petra was busy searching for a towel, the cobwebs finally cleared from my brain and I seized that moment to make my move. I had no idea what that move was, but I didn't dwell on it. “What the hell, Henderson! Don't you own one goddamn towel?” Petra yelled from the kitchen.
I used this distraction to find a way of getting myself out of this ugly situation. Being a grip, my habit was to always have a tool on hand, 24/7. I wriggled my hands into the back pocket of my jeans, where I kept my trusty Swiss Army knife. With a practiced flick of my wrist, I cut into the rigid chords and quickly slipped them off. I hopped to my feet before Petra realized what had happened. I dashed to the bedroom and grabbed my old school safeguard propped up against the wall: a Louisville Slugger, autographed by the infamous Sammy Sosa.
Petra caught on and raced to follow me into the bedroom where we suddenly came face to face. My eyes widened as I glanced at the gun he was holding in his wet hand. Without warning, Petra lunged like a snake attacking his prey. I twisted out of his grasp and then swung the Slugger like my life depended on it, connecting with the crown of his head.
There was a loud crack, followed by a copious amount of blood. Petra dropped like a 220-pound sack of potatoes, ending whatever plans he had in mind for me. All the blood in my body froze as I watched the Slugger drop next to Petra on my now sodden floor. I knelt down and placed my fingers on Petra's creepy neck, hoping I’d only given him a bad concussion. My face felt flush as my stomach tied into knots. I searched for a pulse but there was nothing, only the cool beads of sweat on his skin sliding through my fingers. There was no more fiery anger in Petra's eyes. They were glassy, open, and void. I imagined them staring right at me. I immediately felt sweat pool under my arms and my stomach beginning to churn with nausea. I scurried to the bathroom, making it just in time for the bean and chicken burrito to make its grand debut in my grimy toilet.
I was heaving, and my heart was pounding heavily. What the hell just happened? Shit! These were the only words my mind could process. I kept repeating them like a mantra.
I had never killed anyone before. What did I just do? I was in full-on hysterical mode now. My brain scrambled to piece information together. You would think that with all the CSI shows I'd watched over the years, I'd have an idea of what to expect when you killed someone. Nope. Time crept. Numbness slithered through my tired body. White noise rang loudly in my ears, masking any sound that tried to come through. I think I was in shock. I became paralyzed by the overwhelming, life-changing reality of the situation. Suddenly, I heard a buzzing vibration. A cell phone ringing on the kitchen counter broke the chilling silence. It was Petra's. The jarring tone snapped me out of my stupor, and I raced to see whose name came up on the caller ID: UNKNOWN.
It had to be the person Petra had asked to bring the car around. I hastily answered. “What?” I gruffly spoke, trying to mimic Petra’s voice. The caller must have realized it wasn't Petra and quickly hung up. Damn. Seconds later, I heard the jarring sound of squealing tires outside. I rushed to the front window to see the back of a vintage Mercedes 250 SL turning the corner. I hurled the phone into the kitchen garbage and ran back to my room. I stopped in the doorway, examining what I began to think of as the “crime scene.”
Crimson-colored blood formed streams along the floorboard. Petra's eyes were still open. Resting my hands on the door frame, I started freaking out. Holy cannoli, what am I going to do with a dead Petra on my bedroom floor? I should dial 911. No wait, the police will arrest me, won’t they? But it was self-defense. But would they believe me?
The thought of being trapped in a jail cell for even the briefest period of time had me hyperventilating. I quickly moved on from any feelings of remorse or moral responsibility and into survival mode. Without a backward glance, I began to strategize my next move. I went to my end table and grabbed my MacBook, carefully skirting the blood and Petra’s rapidly rigor-mortising body. I sat down at my desk, opened up the laptop to Google, and typed: “How do you get rid of a dead man twice your size?”
No, that wouldn’t work. I erased that and tried again: “How to get rid of a dead body”.
To my surprise and immense relief, there was a ton of search hits. I scrolled through pages and pages of useless articles until I finally stumbled across a forum that seemed more like a community filled with knowledgeable, helpful citizens. Not sleazy criminals.
Patricia C. wrote, “In this day and age, DNA evidence is everywhere…”
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br /> “Thanks, Patricia,” I said sarcastically. It sounded like she was posting a thesis to one of her criminology college essays.
Jenna W. offered, “Every time I put my comforter in its duvet cover thingy after laundering, I think to myself, what a great way to wrap up a dead body!” followed by laughing emoji’s. My eyes darted to the wool blanket draped over my bed.
Caitlin W. mentioned the good old wood chipper from the movie Fargo, but she warned: “Just make sure to get every bit in the clean-up. Target has some good ones on sale now.”
Hmmm, sounded like Caitlin was going to be featured on an episode of The First 48 soon. And besides, I wasn't sure if Target was the solution to my very urgent problem.
Mike C. from Nebraska suggested, “Pigs will eat anything. With enough time and enough pigs, you are good to go!”
Maybe I could have taken Mike’s suggestion at face value, if only I were on a fucking farm. I was in the middle of Los Angeles, who had time for that?
Stephen F. said he would “...marinate the body and let it slow roast for 10 hours.”
What the hell? I rolled my eyes. I wonder if he and Caitlin knew each other—there really are some weirdos on the internet.
Then Kathy T. chimed in with: “...walk the L.A. River Bikeway and dump the body there. It will slowly drift downstream in the urban wetlands and eventually get caught on some flora. A walker, biker, or skater will discover it at some point, but it will be too late to identify the body.”
Ha! The L.A. River Bikeway! Why hadn’t I thought of that? I closed my laptop and glanced at Petra's body, calculating how I was going to haul his heavy ass out of my apartment—and out of my life—once and for all.
Four exhausting hours later, I arrived back home after carefully dumping Petra in the river. Initially, I’d been worried that the location might be too close in proximity to my apartment, but my worry dissipated as I watched Petra float for a while in the cool water, drifting until his body was sucked beneath the current with the help of some stones I’d put in his pockets.
Killing Reality Page 2
