Killing Reality

by Bob Henderson

  She stalled, taking her time as she removed the compact mirror and a tissue from her purse. She carefully wiped off the mascara from her face. I watched intently, waiting patiently to see what was next. Suddenly, as if a thundercloud had moved across her face, she looked deadly serious as she tossed her compact back into her purse, this time closing it with force. I thought I was watching a cut from the movie Sybil, the one about a woman with a multiple-personality disorder who had 16 people crowded inside her brain. That had been scary, but not as scary as the abrupt change in Andrea.

  “Well, Marc. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I know who killed Petra.”

  I froze. She was all business now. She glared death into my soul, giving me the evil eye, or “malocchio,” as my Italian grandmother would say. It chilled my spine. Then, just as suddenly, Andrea shifted gears and launched into her well-rehearsed sob story of how Kyle had abused her and that she was glad he was in jail. My God, this woman changed personas fast—I had no idea where she was going with this, or which “Andrea” would pop out next.

  “I’m glad Kyle’s behind bars,” she said. “That’s where he belongs. And you know, everyone knew he had it in for Petra from the start. So you’re off the hook Marc and I’m free. It’s a win-win for both of us, don’t you think?” she said very matter-of-factly.

  The tears had been turned off and she morphed back into full Ice Queen mode. There it was. Out in the open. Andrea knew that I’d killed Petra, regardless of it was accidental or not. But, she wanted to pin it on Kyle to get him out of her life once and for all. Narcissistic results were all she cared about. This meeting was just another business transaction for her. Andrea was telling me, in no uncertain terms, that she would let Kyle take the blame and keep me out of it. But at what price?

  “It’s a win-win,” Andrea repeated with a sly smile. “Don’t you agree, Marc?”

  This conniving and deranged bitch was tossing aside a guy like Kyle, who everyone knew had never laid a hand on her, for three reasons. First, for a sleazy affair with that scumbag Petra. And second, as an easy way to get rid of him, the whole divorce process mess, and take all his money. And lastly, for the publicity and another shot as a TV star.

  My long-neglected conscience finally made an appearance. So, it’s the kettle calling the pot black, eh? Yes, I was responsible for letting Kyle rot in prison for a bit. But at least I felt badly about it. Unfortunately, I had no ace up my sleeve, so the mutual benefit from letting Kyle take the fall was crystal clear to both of us. Andrea wanted a new life; I wanted to stay out of prison. We both knew she was lying about everything, but if I didn’t cooperate with her, I’d have a lot more to lose and would be royally screwed. Yet I didn’t want to roll over so conveniently. Somewhere down this slippery slope, Andrea would just as effortlessly throw me under the bus as she had with Kyle if she (or one of her other personalities) ever felt threatened.

  So, I decided upon a new tactic. I placed my hands on the chair’s arm rests, supporting myself as I stood up and walked over to the garden sliding door, opening it and leaving it slightly ajar. I walked back into the kitchen to open a drawer and removed a picture of Petra’s phone that I had taken before disintegrating it into a million pieces. I had known that his phone was the last thing I needed to get caught with. But I’d also known that having a photo of the text message his accomplice had sent might come in handy.

  I paused for dramatic affect and tossed it onto the coffee table, where it landed right next to the cigarette burns. I watched her intently as she looked at the screenshot. She was thinking hard, trying to formulate a response. Saying nothing, she looked up at me.

  “So, you think I killed Petra,” I began, “and I think you were outside when Petra broke into my house. So far, Even Steven. But you also knew Petra was going to kill me, and you were the getaway driver, which makes you an accomplice in a murder that didn’t go as planned. You also probably figured that any evidence of your affair with Petra would never come to light with me out of the way, right?”

  I leaned towards her. She was still looking at me, her eyes turned into narrow slits. She was seething. “That’s one story, you little shit,” Andrea hissed, “but it’s not the story I would tell!”

  The changes back and forth between lovable airhead and Ice Queen was making me dizzy—if only her TV viewers could see her now. Andrea’s voice brought the temperature in the room way down, but I wasn’t about to flinch.

  “You can’t prove shit, Andrea, since you’ll only implicate yourself if you breathe a word to anybody. As for me, I can tell the world about you and Petra and how you set up your poor chump of a hubby for murder, which the newspapers would devour. So, I think we both have a few bargaining chips now, don’t we?”

  I stood, feeling a little surer of myself now. Andrea went from looking confident, to confused, to stunned, all in mere seconds. Before she could say anything, I went on, “I’ll tell you what. Let me think about my options and I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

  With that, I quickly scooped Andrea off my couch and hustled her out the front door before she knew what was happening. Then I bolted the door and double-checked the lock. She was one very scary person, or persons. But I was satisfied up to a point with how it had played out. She wasn’t holding all the cards anymore and she might’ve been even a little scared. For my part, I needed to keep my cool and play my cards to my best advantage. I mimed a basketball hoop shot with a three-pointer at the buzzer. It’s a 3-pointer and the crowd goes wild!

  Much later that evening, getting ready for bed, I replayed the scene with Andrea over and over in my head. No way would she try to screw me now, since I could blow her out of TV Land with a few well-planned leaks to the tabloids. With any luck, she’d be sitting in a jail cell instead of Kyle. Sweet. The media would eat her alive. I let out a chuckle as I pictured the headlines: “Botox Bimbo Sours Milk.” That night I fell asleep like a baby for the first time in weeks.

  Sometime after midnight, I woke to a whiff of some sickly-sweet perfume. The scent was all too familiar, all too recent. Andrea! As I bolted up in bed, I could see the faint outline of Andrea in her hooded sweatshirt standing at the bottom of my bed with her arm outstretched. A scene from Kill Bill with Uma Thurman flashed through my mind. But I shook out of that thought fast, because Andrea was not only beautiful, she was a kick-boxer and a pretty damn good one at that.

  My instincts took over and I frantically slipped off the bed to the floor. No good—she was quicker and more awake, and she was instantly on top of me. I felt her overpowering me since, well, I hadn’t been to a gym in forever and she had muscles like steel. Unbidden, a picture suddenly came to mind: years ago, People magazine had photographed her kickboxing in a mini skirt, her thighs the size of a pole vaulter’s.

  Andrea had something gripped tightly in her right hand and when she pinned me to the floor, she put her knee firmly in my crotch and grabbed my jugular. Headlights from a passing car showed a glint of a syringe. Uh-oh. I was pretty sure this was no Botox. As I tried to wriggle free, I managed to throw her off balance long enough to scramble towards the bedroom door where my trusty Slugger stood.

  In what seemed like slow-motion Déjà vu, I grabbed the Slugger and swung with all my might. The bat made contact with the side of Andrea’s head with a horrifyingly familiar crack. Andrea went limp. The syringe slipped from her hand, landing on the stained floor right next to her. And like Petra, she dropped like a rock.

  Then, there was only silence. I leaned heavily against the bedroom door, trying to catch my breath. All I could do was watch her blood flow, crimson rivers seeping deeply into my carpet.

  Are you fucking kidding me?! My mind raced, thoughts swirling. I thought my head was about to explode. I couldn’t form a coherent thought, but somehow my brain remembered I had been here before and sent me straight to auto-pilot. I had to get rid of yet another body, just as I had with Petra. But I couldn't do it the same way. Or could I? Why not? Same river. Same game plan. It
may not have worked the first time, but with Andrea’s smaller size, and using a couple of concrete-filled bricks instead of stones, surely her body would get well past Long Beach before she got snagged on any debris in the river, wouldn’t it? Who knew, if I was really lucky, she would stay hidden in the water for a very long time.

  Three very long hours later, exhausted, I crawled back into bed. My Slugger was cleaned and standing at attention next to the bedroom door. There was no sleeping like a baby this time. I gazed at the ceiling, grateful there weren’t any more predators popping up. I felt depressed, confused, and scared out of my mind. What the hell am I doing? Who am I? It had all happened too smoothly. Too cleanly. And the most alarming part of it all was that I had never thought of any other option but to grab the Slugger and swing like DiMaggio. I couldn’t turn away from what I had done. Maybe it was time for me to face who I had become.

  5 Losing My Grip

  Over the next few days, I became a complete hermit again. I took a leave of absence from work and glued myself to the TV, sitting and scrolling through as many news articles as I could. I just knew that, at any minute, my guilt would be splashed across the headlines: “Grip Loses His Grip!” or “Reality Show Showdown!” I was sweating so much, I felt like what my menopausal mother must have felt like during one of her hot flashes she’d always complained about. In short, I was a total wreck.

  Suddenly, a notification popped on my screen. I had subscribed to all kinds of news and gossip sites waiting for any inside scoop, and there it was! My eyes landed on a headline that read: “Want $um Star Gets Hers?”

  The article speculated on the highly suspicious disappearance of a yet another reality TV star, following so closely on the heels of another. It hinted none too subtly that the two murders were linked. And, as before, there were vast numbers of people commenting on how the world would be better off without Want $um on air. Not to mention that viewers didn’t want or need another narcissistic, two-timing bimbo like Andrea parading around on television.

  The article didn’t seem to be concerned over Andrea’s well-being or whereabouts. No colleagues or family and friends had come forward to pray for her safety. No, it was Andrea’s turn to be raked over the coals by a very fickle public. Wherever her final resting place was (and I assumed it had to be in a pretty warm climate), she’d be thrilled with the obscene amount of publicity—good or bad—that was coming her way.

  I scanned through the article a few more times and was struck by the public consensus that no one really cared about Andrea’s (or, for that matter, Petra’s) well-being. Then it came to me: I hadn’t just killed two reality stars, I might’ve been killing reality TV itself! Without intending to, my desperate acts had affected ratings in a way no one had expected. The tide of public opinion was turning, and the “good-riddance” attitude extended not only to these so-called celebrities and their bad behavior, but to reality TV in general. This sentiment hit producers where it hurt the most: their holy grail of ratings, which translated to money—lots and lots of money. I did a quick Google search and learned that several shows were losing point shares every week. Without any forethought or planning, I was finally getting what I had wanted all along…the end of reality TV!

  This unexpected but very welcome demise of reality TV was like a jolt of adrenaline to my system. I rallied from the black hole I’d sunken into and was back in the game with a renewed sense of purpose. At the moment, there was literally no evidence that I needed to worry about. I felt the weight of the world come off my shoulders. Even returning to work on Primed Minister felt like a much-needed change of scenery. But somewhere buried in the far corners of my mind, I must’ve known these feelings of relief, optimism, and security would eventually run their courses.

  Rumors were rampant on set the next morning, as the previous night’s news broadcast led with the story that the police had released Kyle Milk due to insufficient evidence. The crew shared common feelings that Kyle was innocent all along, and co-workers were placing numerous bets on who the killer might be, and more salaciously, which reality star would be the next target. Still, there was a general unease and tension on set, as everyone realized a psychotic killer was still on the loose.

  On social media, a Facebook survey entitled “How to Get Away with Murder” was even making the rounds. How sick is that? I thought. Then, I sobered immediately, vividly remembering that I’d been the one who’d started this whole mess in the first place.

  While blameless Kyle had spent months stuck in some cold, invasive jail cell, I had remained untouchable when it came to laying blame for Andrea’s disappearance. And while I was relieved to see an innocent man go free, the police had since intensified their investigation, which meant I still needed to keep under the radar.

  I halfway convinced myself that if I kept my head down and my mouth super-glued shut, the dust would eventually settle and the whole thing would blow over. So, I focused on what I did best: working as a grip.

  After work, I’d go home and fall into a heap on my couch. I’d surf channels I’d never even watched before. But one night, I landed on a show called Dexter. Dexter was about a sociopathic killer who curbed his blood lust by killing only people who had committed their own full-blown murder for no reason other than the sake of killing and greed. Dexter spent his sun-drenched days on a Miami CSI crew helping to solve murders, while moonlighting at night committing them—all for the greater good, of course.

  The protagonist Dexter really caught my attention. Maybe in some sort of bizarre way I was like him! Maybe I was doing the world a favor by effortlessly taking out the bad guys of reality TV. It reminded me of Batman defending Gotham City from the Joker. All I lacked was a mask and cap. Okay, maybe I lacked the six-pack abs too, but I convinced myself that was just a technicality. By day, I hid behind the bland colorless life of a camera grip, but by night, I was the self-proclaimed champion of the public. I was ridding society of these greedy, narcissistic low-lives! I gave in to this wild delusion with glee. I immediately began plotting how I could bring justice to the sick world of reality TV. As the saying went, killing was definitely not the answer. But unfortunately, in my case, killing both Petra and Andrea had been my answer.

  6 Only the Fake Make It

  Only a few weeks had gone by and already I was fed up with the job on Primed Minister. I tried my best to deal with phony celebrities who were treated like royalty, but who in no way deserved the honor. It didn’t take long for their plastic personas to get my blood boiling, yet I knew I needed to hold it together. I couldn’t ignore them in order to keep my sanity, but I’d have to in order to keep this god-awful job.

  After each work day, I couldn’t wait to get home to my refrigerator filled with ice-cold beer. It was the homemade happy hour I couldn’t get enough of. My nightly ritual consisted of making a beeline to the fridge as soon as I got home, grabbing a beer, and sitting down in front of my laptop. I’d take a deep breath to steady myself, then I’d start scouring the headlines. By this time, the Kyle Milk story had fallen off the front page, relegated now to the lonely back page of the LA Gazette and was dimming in the public’s memory, just like the Andrea and Petra stories. Speed-reading as much as possible, I found a few articles about some concerned citizens who were afraid for their lives with a “crazed serial killer” in their midst. I smiled at some others who commented that the deaths of these “pathetic posers” were a study in karma. What goes around, comes around. It never fails. There were even some folks who depicted me as a lone anti-hero, lurking in the star-studded shadows of Hollywood, ridding the city of its “trash.” There was even an online community forum started by a strange lady named Adele R., who thought the killer was “...a total hottie, yet a sensitive guy who needed a girlfriend.” Who knew I’d have groupies sticking up for me?

  One night, after closing my laptop, I discovered the media websites still seemed to miss the most crucial point, that reality TV was a cancer. Period. Stop.

  Since my second career
choice was to be a writer, well, a screenwriter, I figured this was a chance to test my skills as an “auteur” and draft a letter to some high-profiled editor about the lack of sensibility, common decency, and most of all, REALITY across the entire reality TV landscape. I mean, someone had to point out the obvious—why not me?

  One of the ways I got my creative juices flowing was to simply watch reality TV. I’d watch it while cooking my ever-so-bland nighttime meals. Can you even call nuking a frozen pizza for five minutes cooking? Old Jersey Shore reruns had me screaming obscenities and throwing a perfectly good can of Coors Light at the screen. And Real Housewives of Beverly Hills gave me an actual migraine. But no show sent me over the edge quite like Keeping up with the Kardashians. It stopped me in my tracks, and more often than not, put me off food altogether.

  The Kardashian-Jenner family invaded every home, turning viewers into voyeurs who lusted after their power, fame, and material possessions—not to mention all the cosmetic surgery they’d lied about not having. I started thinking of Keeping Up with the Kardashians as Throwing Up with the Kardashians.

  But as much as I loathed it, the show was a great incentive for my writing process. My letters got started, but I scrapped most. I eventually crafted a final draft and emailed it to a few targeted newspapers and online news sources. Nothing happened. Zero, zilch, zip. No responses, no standard rejection letters, nada.

  Crap. What was I missing? Maybe I lacked conviction. Did I not have the hard facts to back up my arguments? I quickly began gathering “ammo” from published articles and online news reports about the troubling effects of reality TV on a crucial population: the millennials.

  Then it was time for more research. I’d watch rerun after rerun, trying to dissect the core of the show’s appeal or what I liked to call “pathological mass psychosis.” Keeping Up with the Kardashians heavily emphasized being famous solely for the sake of being infamous. A sex tape goes viral—oops!—and that’s all it took, folks. How convoluted and distorted was that? Yet the show brought in very high ratings for the network, which led to the creation of spinoffs, including Kourtney and Kim Take Miami, Khloe and Lamar, Kourtney and Khloe Take the Hamptons, and let’s not forget Dash Dolls.