Shots Fired in the Melting Pot

by T. C. Clover

man winked back at the mother before turning away to resume his duties for Mitch Gentile.

  “See you around, Cody,” the woman expressed with pride and watched his backside swagger before attending to her children.

 

  The Shots Fired Loft – Manhattan, New York

 

  Fassim lowered her head almost to her knees as she sat across from Jennifer Priest in a small corner office of the penthouse. The paparazzi photographer removed a pink hijab from her head and straightened her body to engage the aggressive television producer on her own turf.

  “It’s racist for you to ask me to tell that story,” Fassim surmised through gritted teeth. “What is wrong with you television people? When I signed the contract, I didn’t know that you had this much information about my life. How did you get access to something that isn’t public record?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Fassim,” Jennifer claimed with a casual demeanor, “our contract allows us to refuse your weekly paychecks and to litigate if you don’t deliver. We knew that it would be difficult to tell these stories, which is part of the reason you got the job. Mike and I wanted people of diverse backgrounds who could say witty things and think on their feet. But we also wanted some heartbreaking emotional stories that could be shared with our audience. That is the heart and soul of television.” The producer finished with an exhausted gaze, though her stamina seemed steadfast for arguments of this type.

  “You know, I could protest and say that television doesn’t have a soul,” the impassioned photographer relayed with her hands resting in her lap, “but you wouldn’t hear anything that I said. I can look into your eyes and see that you’re the type of person who would eat your own kind to survive. And although you should be ashamed of yourself for what you’ve asked me to do, I’m certain that it’s far from the most terrible thing you’ve ever done.”

  The chubby blonde twisted her neck after this verbal assault from the Muslim and pulled the cap off of a silver fountain pen. She then held the pen in her right hand as though it were a knife and leveled the tip of the writing end with Fassim’s face.

  Fassim felt sick with fear and began to tug at her tan dress and green blouse in a state of sudden anxiety. The television producer was wearing a black pinstripe suit with a red power tie and looked just like a man, save for her face and hair. But there was something about this silent threat that resonated terror within the young woman. Somehow the paparazzi photographer knew that she had seen this type of evil in the world before today.

  “You’re going to tell the story with all the relevant details,” Jennifer ordered with a disgusting snort from her nasal cavity as she dropped the pen on her desk. “And let me tell you something else; your co-stars are also going to pour their hearts out on this show. We’re going to squeeze your hearts from the bottom up like packets of ketchup, if necessary. Because you’re right; I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. If an animal is suffering, you need someone like me to put it down. If a man is getting too proud, you need someone like me to remind him of his mortality.”

  “I think we’ve all been reminded too much about our mortality,” Fassim muttered in defeat as a tear spilled over her eyelid and dripped from her cheek. “So you’re going to make Jazzy talk about being raped the same way that you forced Stoney to come out as gay? We have no idea how the other police officers are treating him at work today. It’s something that could get him killed! And what about Richard, Litz, and CKB; do they all have to humiliate themselves for your ratings?”

  “What did you think this job was, Fassim?” The older woman challenged with a mighty voice of cynicism. “Did you think that we run a day spa around here where you get fresh clothing and makeup, and everyone adores you all day for no reason? Do you think that television stars ever get an easy ride? For everything in life, there is a pound of flesh to be paid, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask you to tell a story and shed a few tears. Look at you now, you’re bawling like a champ and not even getting paid extra. Do you think the construction worker who has to shovel frozen mud on the side of the freeway feels bad about your cozy existence? Don’t you think he’d like to bare his soul for five minutes to make ten times his annual salary? No, Fassim, we’re not giving any of you a pass on this, so suck it up and do your job. Our sponsors have paid for you to give us the meat of your sorrow. I don’t recommend that you disappoint them. You can tell the story any way you want. Get it over with fast – I don’t care. Just get it done and stop crying about it,” she commanded with a gaze of unshakable scrutiny.

  “You’re terrible people,” the paparazzi photographer emoted in an impulsive display of repressed anger.

  Fassim wiped off her face and placed the hijab back on her head as she stood up to depart the office. On her way out, she glanced at the silver pen on the desk and then into the dead eyes of the woman who sought to change her life forever.

 

  Pier 81 – New York

 

  Ned Jones turned on the water of a three-headed shower in the master bathroom of his seventy-five-foot yacht. He wasn’t surprised when the water came out at precisely seventy-eight degrees, but had been dismayed that his boat captain neglected to order the proper amount of red wine. Were it not for this moronic act, he wouldn’t have had to subject himself to drinking champagne before bed.

  The thirty-one-year-old billionaire decided to shake off these difficulties from an otherwise standard day. He looked down at his pot belly and smirked with a deep level of self-adornment. There was nothing better than knowing that he could get as fat as a house and still maintain a steady stream of beautiful women. The hedge fund manager put his right hand under a motion sensor that released a perfect dollop of lime green soap into his palm. He then began to finesse the soap through his incredible dark hair in a passionate state of gratification. Ever since childhood he had loved having a clean body, and mother had always told him that important people should be cleaner than everyone else.

  The fanatical billionaire ran his fingernails down the contours of his thighs, leaving light red scratch marks on the skin. He breathed out in a spasmodic display of dominant grace and wondered if David had wept at the sight of his own perfection.

  Ned felt his inner musings interrupted as the bathroom went dark. He heard the shower door open and wondered who would dare intrude on his most beloved ritual of the evening. Something popped a few inches from his face, and he felt a stinging sensation near the right side of his chest. In the next instant, his body convulsed as a substantial electrical current traveled through a pair of wires into his chest.

  He gritted his teeth in a state of unbearable pain while the electricity seemed to issue bites all over his body. In addition to that sensation, his muscles tensed and released simultaneously. It was as though every inch of his muscle tissue, other than his heart, was going into a deep spasm.

  Ned felt his body slide down the corner of the shower walls in a rush, and he was soon in a sitting position on the grainy, non-slip surface of the floor.

  Litz flipped the lights back on to see CKB standing over the naked billionaire with a Taser in his right hand. Thanks to her suggestion, he had the presence of mind to wear an insulated glove in the event of any water splashing him from the shower. The emboldened plumber walked with the swagger of a gangster as she took a position at the left of CKB.

  “You know that woman who is lying in your bed right now?” Litz inquired with a wily gaze of satisfaction. “We hired her to let us know when you were getting in the shower. She also helped us to get on the boat – right in front of your bodyguards. I think they’re still eating the pizza that we brought.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Ned demanded with a panicked expression as he pounded his fist in the water at the bottom of the shower.

  “You raped our friend,” the woman replied with a ruthless gaze of contempt. “In the next few hours, you’re goi
ng to find out how huge a mistake that was…”

  XII. Tragic Appetizer

  Ned Jones lamented the heavy whitetail deer antlers that were fixed to the top of his head. He saw a seventeen-year-old redheaded cheerleader dancing seductively just two feet below him on a white platform. The adolescent woman was clad in an Abraham Lincoln High School uniform of traditional blue and white colors. She held a black can of pepper spray in her right hand, which had been used on the billionaire’s eyes throughout the morning.

  There was a one-ton pickup truck beneath a makeshift float, and its sole deck was broad enough to hold six cheerleaders. The platform had been fashioned from pieces of lumber and wooden supports that were painted white. As a final touch the students had glued blue and white streamers to the float, giving it a more authentic appearance. The high school marching band played brass horns and snare drums in a spirited song as they paraded in front of the float. They were followed by the Lincoln Railsplitters football team, which jogged behind the vehicle while it made wide circles in the Abraham Lincoln High School parking lot.

  A group of high school students stood at the edge of the parking area, enjoying a deep belly laugh at the colorful spectacle. It was early enough in the morning that the