Genuinely Dangerous

by Mike McCrary

  A woman holds a sign that reads WILL U MARRY ME?

  Standing next to her is Choke.

  96

  The On Air light burns red.

  The electric eye is on me. Choke’s eyes are on me. I can feel his gaze all over me. Scanning me. Drinking me in. It feels familiar, oddly comforting, like returning to something. I look down, away, anywhere but out the window. My hands are a trembling mess. Can’t see myself, but based on the reaction of the interviewer, I must look pretty fucked up.

  “Do you need a minute?” the interviewer asks.

  I’ve picked out a spot on the floor. A clump of something dirty, maybe gum, but it’s something I can zero in on while I’m shaking. Choke is dead. Right? He was tied up in a burning house, for Christ’s sake.

  “Jasper?” he says.

  That Houdini motherfucker.

  “Should we try this again later?”

  Yeah, that’s gum. No question.

  “It’s okay if we do.”

  Is that really Choke? Am I seeing things? Have the stress, drugs, booze, and long sleepless hours of cutting and navigating the media hailstorm turned me into one of those guys who sees people who are not there? Have to force myself to look.

  The interviewer puts a hand on my shoulder, dips his chin, and looks into my darting eyes.

  How reassuring.

  Turning my head, I steal a look out the window. The woman wanting to marry me is still there, but there is no Choke to be found. I turn around in my seat, checking the entire window. Back and forth I whip my head, scanning the whole area. He’s gone, if he was even there in the first place.

  The interviewer is looking around for help. “I think we need to stop this, maybe try this again another time,” he says, getting up from his chair.

  “No,” I say. “No, I’m okay. I’d like to push through if that’s all right with everyone.”

  The interview sits back down, flashing a warm smile.

  He knows, as I do, that is TV gold.

  97

  My Today Show interview was the most viewed clip on the Internet that day.

  That director guy who got kidnapped, he fucking freaked the fuck out on TV, bro.

  Choke has no idea how much he helped or how much his drug-and-booze-induced hallucination helped. Or maybe it was actually Choke and I hallucinated being on The Today Show. No matter how the reality shakes out, I came off to the public as a tortured, broken man who needs a hug. Women want me, and men want to know what kind of crazy shit happened to me. That’s according to my publicist’s data and a compilation of comments left on various sites.

  There were some other comments about how much of a douche I am. One said I liked big dicks. Another one about how God will be the ultimate judge of my soul and if I had prayed harder none of this would have happened to me. Another one simply said, “Vegans against violence.” One blamed liberals and another blamed conservatives. There was this whole heated debate about the Second Amendment. Fingers pointed at video games, television, bad parenting, entitlement issues in today’s youth, political correctness, immigration, gluten, God, Satan, and then, finally, the single voice of reason came from LordThickOne who contributed, “Hope this movie is better than his last one. That thing sucked big donkey dicks.”

  Amen, LordThickOne.

  Amen.

  98

  The date of the premiere is set in stone.

  A studio made an impressive offer and bumped its slate around to get my movie in. We are premiering next week. They want to capitalize on the amount of heat the story has been generating. Other studios actually moved their premiere dates off of ours. Didn’t want their movies to compete with ours for your movie dollar. Fear, always a good sign.

  I made the announcement on Kimmel. Foo Fighters were the musical act, and I went on after Stern. They were all so cool to me. Got a “Baba Booey” from someone in the crowd. Met a model backstage, never seen her before. From what I understand, she’s the next SI swimsuit cover girl. She was nice. She was ridiculously gorgeous. She asked if I’d take her to the premiere. I said yes without a moment of pause. She’s one of those women who rarely hears the word no, and I wasn’t willing to be a trailblazer in that regard.

  The broken, weird part of my brain hopes she’s a disaster with some real childhood issues—drug abuse, cut herself as a teen. Eating disorder is a given, I’m guessing, but I’m not going to count that one. I know none of this is healthy to think about, especially when beginning a new relationship, but I know myself and how things work with me.

  This is all happening.

  Hard to get my head around it all, the weight of it crushing at times.

  This is me breathing.

  We are a few days from the premiere, and I’m tightening up a few voice-over lines and polishing the final cut. The score is amazing, perfect actually. As I sit here watching this cut of the film, it’s hard to imagine that I lived all this. I’ve seen it so many times and I’ve cut so many different versions I’ve become completely detached from it. Like it’s not even me up there. Before, I vaguely recognized the main character as me, but now, I don’t even know who that is. Just some guy, some actor, someone else. It really has become a movie to me, not something that happened in my reality.

  Haven’t seen Choke since The Today Show.

  Told my therapist about it.

  She was very comforting, saying what I’m going through is PTSD. I cringed at that idea a bit, knowing it is typically a soldier’s condition and I hardly felt like I was qualified or had the right to share such a thing with those men and woman. The therapist reassured me I was worthy. She’s nice, but…

  She doesn’t have a fucking clue what she’s talking about.

  99

  My biggest fear in all this?

  That Choke and his family will become celebrities. Become the Manson family. Cult-status antiheroes. There will be T-shirts, coffee mugs, memes with fun sayings or quotes sprawled across their images. Everything that an image can be stuck on will bear their likeness.

  They will become the stuff of legend.

  I will be the architect of their story.

  I will be the father of whatever spawn decides to copy their work. Carry on their efforts. Whatever half-wit, disenfranchised teenager who wants to get noticed and tries something Choke-like. Pink Rabbits will become the best-selling drink in bars everywhere. Some idiot will get a Choke tattoo. There will be workout programs designed to get abs like Boone. Glock sales will skyrocket. Fashion will mirror Ruby’s look. Bus tours will spring up taking you to the various exciting locations found in the movie. Bumper stickers. Songs. Burgers will be named “The Massive.” Shoes. Stuffed toys. Apps. Towels. Talking action figures. Jell-O molds.

  My lawyers will argue and fight over my cut.

  That can’t all happen, can it?

  I tell myself it cannot, but I know different. If the past is any guide to the future, then it’s a forgone conclusion that Choke, Ruby, Boone, and Harry are about to be the hottest thing on the planet.

  You’re welcome, universe.

  I take another pill.

  100

  The premiere starts in a little over an hour.

  The model and I had sex ten minutes ago. Her name escapes me. R-something, something Slovak maybe? I’ve also been drinking. Been popping some pills. The publicist chose a very nice Brioni Vanquish suit. She said Bond wears them. I said Bond is in better shape. She said we’d have it tailored.

  The model is in the shower washing away the sex. While standing in front of the mirror, I’m trying to focus and make sure my nose hairs are not an issue. Her outline through the steam has this almost science-fiction quality to it. This perfect shape with long limbs extending and bending, faceless and wonderful as if this shadow alien was sent here in a form I would find pleasing and is shedding its skin behind the shower curtain.

  I need to ease up on the pills.

  Need to get dressed in my forty-thousand-dollar suit that I paid nothing
for.

  Need to premiere my movie to the people.

  I take a hit of my Pink Rabbit.

  101

  Someone once told me, “If you ever get a chance to premiere your film and step out of a limo with cameras flashing and a microphone in your face, you should do it as often as possible.”

  I’m in the back of our limo. Pink Rabbit in hand. Through the tinted glass I can see the chaos outside. Spotlights carve up the night like giant glowing skewers or lightsabers extending out into deep, dark space. Cameras pop flashes like sniper fire. R-something is growing impatient. Women like her don’t know the word wait either. After snorting some magic powder and slugging back some Rabbit, I say, “Let’s go.”

  R-something steps out first. She’s a pro. Just enough leg as she slides out with a smile to say, I know what I look like and now you do too. She waves, working the paparazzi like a champ. From what I understand, she went through a thing with a baseball player, so all of this is nothing new.

  Taking a moment, I look out through the door. R-something is a vision in her red dress with lights flickering, popping all around her. Amazing to behold. My jaw literally drops. How can any of this be happening? How did I get here, to this place after all that’s happened? R-something looks down at me, extending her lotioned, manicured hand.

  This isn’t me.

  This isn’t me breathing.

  Behind her I see Choke holding a butcher knife to her throat.

  I blink.

  He’s gone.

  I’m calling Lucy after the premiere. That was the deal I made with myself.

  R-something cocks her head. Playtime is over. Her expression now clearly says, Jasper, I don’t starve myself and spend half my life with a trainer so I can stand here looking like an insanely gorgeous idiot. Do you have any idea how many men around the world want to fuck me? I’ll help you with the math—it’s all of them. So if you want me to do that thing I will do to you tonight, you better get the fuck out of that fucking car.

  Set down my Pink Rabbit, wipe my nose, and pull myself out.

  Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.

  102

  Watching my days and nights with the Choke family on a fifty-foot screen is an odd experience.

  First, it’s difficult to watch yourself on-screen no matter what the situation is. You see all the imperfections. All the things you hate about your face are all there, big as hell, for all the universe to see. That time Bradley Stuckerman made fun of your nose in the fourth grade? He was right, you get that now. Also hate the way my voice sounds. So damn nasally and weak. Do I actually sound like that? Looking at R-something, I can’t believe she takes pleasure in having sex with me. Look at that clown up on the screen. I wouldn’t even fuck myself.

  Second, watching all the uncomfortable moments unearthed and thrown up on the towering screen in front of a live audience is making me want to vomit. Violently. We just watched Harry get his face blown off. A few people gasped in the back. People keep staring at me. Wish they’d stop. I guess they want to see the guy who lived through all that insane shit, or maybe they are just a pack of assholes. Maybe a mix of both.

  Who knows?

  R-something holds my hand. It’s so damn soft I can’t stand it. I look into her perfect set of baby blues, getting lost for a moment. Her face catches the flickering lights of the screen. Flickering the visceral images of Ruby coming undone and stomping the throat of Boot Boy. All the rage and violence of the screen bounces off one of the most beautiful women on Earth as she sits there smiling, as if absorbing it into her perfect pores. This might be one of the strangest moments of my life.

  R-something cracks a smile and kisses me.

  Can’t wait to see what she looks like with the scene of Ruby and me going at it in the guest room. Will she smile? Kiss me? Flash me those blue eyes as she steps on my balls on her way out of the theater?

  I wish I had a drink.

  And some pills. Yeah, pills maybe more than the drink, but both would be ideal.

  This is going to be a long movie.

  103

  The after-party is going to have its rough spots, I knew this coming in, but I need to shine it on no matter what.

  I’m being swarmed at the Hollywood and Highland Center. They come at me from every and all angles. Questioning how I survived. Bullshit about how brave I am. Bullshit about how amazing I am. Bullshit on top of bullshit piled high enough to kiss the clouds.

  I can’t drink fast enough.

  “You need to slow it down,” R-something tells me. She doesn’t want to do the whiskey-dick thing again, she says. Says it hurts her feelings when I don’t cum. She’s fragile like that, she says.

  I smile.

  I thank people for their kind words.

  I absorb their praise.

  I want to peel the skin from my face.

  Alex is here. He tells me the initial response from critics is very positive. He tells me Captain Kangaroo is happy. He asks me what it’s like having sex with R-something. I tell him I can ask her if she’d be into giving him a go. He asks me how much I’ve had to drink. I tell him not enough.

  The publicist hugs me.

  The studio head hugs me.

  I hate myself for getting so many people killed.

  I hug a waitress a little too long.

  I see Choke. He’s in black tie carrying an Academy Award in one hand, a blood-coated axe in the other. His mouth is straining to hold his massive smile. I stand here waiting, hoping that I’ll at least get to hold the award before he puts that axe into my chest.

  R-something wraps her arm around mine and leads me to our awaiting limo.

  I look back at the waiter holding a tray of bacon-wrapped asparagus tips whom I have mistaken for Choke.

  Through the fluffy haze clouding my self-medicated, alcohol-addled brain, it’s difficult to tell if what I’m feeling is disappointment that it wasn’t Choke and I’m still alive or if I am feeling something yet to be defined.

  104

  R-something was correct to be upset.

  The whiskey dick was in full effect. Fully erect but not willing to fire off. We went at it for at least an hour. At one point I thought her arm was going to fall off. We fought about it. She took it personally. It’s not a personal thing, simple truth is I’m completely wrecked and Mr. Happy is not serving up any pudding under these conditions.

  After much holding and consoling, R-something has returned to being a fan of Jasper. We agreed to try it again tomorrow. “First thing,” I say, then I give her a kiss on the forehead. She’s a good kid. Gorgeous and insecure. Just damaged enough, maybe, we’ll see.

  She drifts off to sleep in my arms. I watch her for a moment. So peaceful. Her breathing evens out, and she eventually rolls over. The room is beginning to spin a bit on my side of the world. Booze is running its course, and I’ll need to pop a pill, or six, to get right in the morning. She’ll be up first thing looking for sexual redemption, so therefore I need to be a bright green light. We’ve been through this before. Got to work the timing just right though, balance is the key, remember, and it’s too soon right now.

  I reach for my phone, and without even thinking about it, I rest the phone against my ear and play Lucy’s message. The room stops spinning. Her voice is its own soothing medicine, to me at least. I think of calling her, but even in this state, hammered on multiple meds and a dick that can cut diamonds, I decide drunk-dialing Lucy at four A.M. might be a mistake.

  At least I’ve grown some. Used to dial her up hammered all the damn time.

  I drift off, replaying Lucy’s voice.

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow I’ll call her.

  105

  I feel something warm and moist providing suction to my penis.

  R-something really did want an early start. If there are better ways to wake up, I’d like to hear about them. Last night must have really done a number on her thinly coated ego. I can only hope my body has flushed its
issues out during the night. My cell is still held tightly in my hand. I slide it onto the nightstand with as much cool as I can muster.

  Her technique is modified. Familiar, but different. I hope she wasn’t up all night thinking about changing up her style. Her previous style was great, not a thing wrong with it. Again, I was wrecked. Jenna Jameson with a Hoover couldn’t have made the rabbit come out of the hat last night.

  This is working too, don’t get me wrong.

  I’d say her name, but of course, I don’t really know it. Calling her R-something during this intimate act might cause some friction. Friction. I’m funny.

  Damn, she’s on a mission.

  My fingers grip the sheets.

  Yeah, that whiskey-dick issue has worked itself out. Being a gentleman, I tell her I’m about to go, giving her ample time to pull off and avoid the obvious fruits of her labor. She goes at it stronger.

  I explode into her mouth.

  Eyes roll back into my head. My internal organs tingle. I’m a little dizzy. Waves of warming calm roll down my entire body. I finally let out a breath, exhaling—breathing never felt better.

  Her mouth releases me. I feel my worn-out member slump.

  “Well, good morning to you too,” I say, grinning ear to ear.

  After the initial wave of euphoria subsides, the dull rumblings of a growing hangover rears its butt-ugly head. I let my fingers fumble for some pills, any pills, on the nightstand. Anything over there will work.

  “Wow. Thank you for that,” I say.

  Ruby says, “You’re welcome, lover boy.”

  106

  “Did you find her pretty?” Ruby asks, wiping her mouth.

  I don’t know why I’m shocked, but I am. My stomach drops. Something has snatched away my insides, leaving only a gaping void inside of me. Empty. Hollow. Echoing body cavity left with only a phantom-limb-like feeling. My fumbling mouth searching for something to say. Mind claws inside my skull, scratching to find logic or some form of understanding. I scrunch up tight to the headboard as if I’m trying to escape, with nowhere to go.