I glanced at the bedside clock. It was three in the freakin’ morning. The party was so over.
Mrs. C sleepily rolled herself off my bed. How in the hell had we all fit on the bed? “Sorry for saying your hooters were fake.”
“What are you talking about?” An icy tendril of fear started twisting through my insides. I vaguely recalled . . .
“Well,” she yawned, “when you showed them to everybody, they jiggled so much, I knew they were real.”
“Jesus Christ in high heels,” I yelled. “I thought that was a dream. Wait . . . then you owe me five hundred dollars.”
“Aww shit,” she muttered. “I was hoping you were too drunk to remember that part.”
“Turn down the TV,” Edith hissed. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“Then you need to try sleeping in your own room,” I said, shoving her and her drooly mouth off my bed.
“Kristy!” Mariah shouted as she woke up. She tackled me in a hug, possibly breaking a rib and making me realize I was still a little drunk. “It was frightening. We were so worried with all the singing and dancing and then exposing yourself and then . . .”
“Enough,” I snapped, cutting her off. “Enough with the scary Kristy imagery. I get it.”
“Can I take a turn?” Boo politely asked.
“Will it be long?” I asked.
“No.”
“Okay,” I relented against my better judgment.
“It was horrific, like the Exorcist head-spin-off horrific, or Alien baby-ripping-out-of-stomach horrific.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“No prob.”
“Oookay, party’s over. Time for everyone to go home. Now.” I opened my door and ushered them out. I had a bad feeling I would be living down this particular evening for years. Fucktard. I was never putting my lips to vodka again.
I heaved a huge sigh of relief when I was finally alone. I knew I needed to do two things before I went back to bed. Ibuprofen and water. If I didn’t I would be useless in . . . four hours, when I had to be out in the parking lot. Assmonkeys, how could I have been so stupid?
I unzipped the side pocket of my suitcase and searched for my ibuprofen. Got it, thank you, Jesus. I felt something rectangular and bumpy. What the hell? Oh my God . . . the bible. A wave of apprehension swept through me. I yanked it out of the suitcase and ripped the wrapping paper off it and almost vomited. The near-puke wasn’t caused by the alcohol still churning through my veins . . . it was caused by Pirate Dave and His Randy Adventures, written by Evangeline O’Hara, the novel-stealing skank that Rena and the porno grannies had brought to ruin. This book was the work of the profane and repulsive imagination of my best friend and roommate, Rena. Motherhumpin’ cowballs, my entire belief in Bigfoot was rooted in one of the biggest jokes of the century. God, I was so stupid . . . and stupid.
I felt panicky and nauseous. Why in the hell hadn’t I opened that damn present the first day? What was I supposed to do with this information? Did I tell everyone the bible was a stream of consciousness, filthy rant from Rena’s head? I could just imagine the look on Boo’s face . . . Hell, Mariah would probably break my nose or knee my ovaries up into my mouth.
Along with the sickness I was experiencing over discovering the true origins of the bible, I could feel my hangover coming on with a vengeance. I threw back six ibuprofen and chugged three glasses of water. I would tell them . . . No, I wouldn’t. Yes, I had to. Shitshitshit, was I supposed to? Had I found the bible tonight for a reason? This was too much to deal with at three thirty in the morning.
I would talk to Rich privately first thing. He was levelheaded and kind. He’d tell me what to do. He would never lead me astray. My panic slowly receded and my breathing went back to normal. I had no idea what I was going to do about this, but knowing I could go to Rich was as comforting as knowing that Mitch was coming back tomorrow night. Why? I had no clue . . . but it was.
Chapter 28
Morning had broken . . . unfortunately my hangover had not. At least I wasn’t the only one who looked like hell warmed over. Mariah had a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes and was wearing the same clothes she’d had on last night. The old ladies were sporting Jackie O sunglasses and their hair looked like rats had slept in it.
I’d at least had the wherewithal to have showered. I tried to tame my hair, but touching my head was a no-no. I was hoping after a few doughnuts and several cups of strong coffee, all would be right with my world.
The rest of the crew looked chipper, especially Kim and Hugh. He was following her around like a lovesick puppy and she was loving every minute. She looked as pretty as she had last night and I noticed she had forgone her usual full-camo face paint. Hugh’s customary heavy metal morning serenade had turned into a medley of sappy love songs. They held hands and I’m pretty sure I spotted a hickey on her neck.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Rich whispered.
“Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For not talking loud.” I grimaced.
He handed me two glazed doughnuts and a cup of coffee. I was in love. “Rich,” I said with a mouthful of doughnut, “could I talk to you about something?”
“Certainly.” He led me over to a bench by Paul Bunyan’s right leg. Thankfully we were shaded. The bright sunlight was not my friend this morning.
I was hesitant. Part of me was afraid of how he would answer. “Do you, um . . . really, you know, believe?”
“In Bigfoot?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Do you?” he asked, turning the tables. My brain wasn’t functioning at full capability and his question threw me. I was on my way to telling him Boo’s bible was full of lies, so I figured I would be honest about everything. Besides, I was an even worse liar than I was a cheater.
“I didn’t, but then I was starting to and then I found out something really, really bad and now I don’t think I do anymore.”
He took a sip of coffee and watched me closely. His green and brown eyes stared intently into mine.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Do you think I’m a bad person?” Crapballs, I never should have asked him anything. I’d just thought . . .
“I think you’re a wonderful person,” he said. “I’m simply processing what you just said.”
“Did it make any sense?” I wondered aloud, shoving the rest of the doughnut into my mouth.
“Not much,” he admitted.
I swallowed my doughnut and blew out a frustrated breath. I’d already started . . . I might as well finish. If he felt betrayed or angry, I’d have to deal with it. “Okay, I’ll explain, but you have to answer two questions first.”
He looked at me expectantly and waited.
“Do you believe in Bigfoot and where in the hell are you from?” His accent was killing me. It sounded fake, because there were so many variations.
“As to the question of the existence of Sasquatch, I believe in the possibility,” he said slowly. “And my homeland is Australia, but I’ve spent time in England, Scotland, South Africa, and Kentucky.”
“But you’re a magician,” I sputtered, trying to make sense of his vast amount of travel.
“I worked cruise ships for a while and was fortunate enough to get to visit places all over the world.”
Wow, maybe the accent made sense. Maybe he was one of those people who picked up the local dialect without even realizing it. I felt bad for doubting him. “Okay,” I mumbled. I felt my cheeks heat, so I bent down to retie my tennis shoes.
“So what do you want to talk about?”
Unfortunately I had only two laces and there were only so many ways to tie them. I sat back up and stared at my hands.
“Kristy, are you okay?” He lifted my chin so I had no choice but to look at him.
“The bible is a lie,” I whispered.
“Which part?” he asked.
“All of it.”
“Oookay,” he said, giving me an odd look. “I get that
Noah’s ark is difficult to swallow, but you think the entire thing is fiction?”
“Oh my God,” I giggled. “Not that one.”
“Is it the loaves and fishes? I find that story a bit suspect, or maybe the parting of the Red Sea . . .”
“No, Rich, you’re referring to the wrong bible. I’m talking about the Bigfoot bible.”
He glanced up at the morning sky and tried to suppress a grin. He gingerly ran his hands through his nappy hair and composed himself. “So you think the Bigfoot bible is fiction?”
“I don’t think. I know. And why are you trying not to laugh?” I asked, annoyed that he wasn’t taking me seriously.
“I’m trying not to laugh because I’ve always thought the Bigfoot bible was fiction . . . very alarming fiction,” he said, smoothing his muumuu.
“You did?” I gasped. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because everyone needs something to believe in.”
That certainly shut me up. It was a profound and completely unselfish sentiment. Who in the hell did I think I was? My headache mocked my self-righteousness by pounding like a rock band in my brain. Rich was correct. How much good would it do to tell them? None. It would do no one any good. It would be embarrassing and mean.
“How do you know it’s fake?” Rich asked, watching my inner turmoil with concern.
“Because my roommate wrote it to destroy an over-Botoxed, novel-stealing bitch,” I sighed.
“How did you put it all together?”
“I didn’t until last night. It had sounded bizarrely familiar at certain points, but I couldn’t place it. I’d never actually read the book. Rena would just tell me bits of the story.”
“Is this the Evangeline O’Hara disaster?”
“Yeah,” I laughed without much humor. “How did you know?”
“I love the Anderson Cooper show and the night she went down on national television was one of the most entertaining evenings I’ve had in front of the tube.”
“That was a good one,” I giggled, remembering how Evangeline had gotten her just deserts, and all the women she’d been blackmailing and stealing from had gotten their due. “Thank you,” I said, giving him a quick hug. God, he smelled good . . . at least he had that going for him.
“For what?” He gently wiped the doughnut glaze from my mouth.
“For setting me straight. You really are a beautiful human being, Rich.”
He blushed and it was actually kind of cute in a disturbing way. When we got back to Minneapolis, he wasn’t going to know what hit him. I was soooo going to fix him. All he needed was . . . well, he needed a lot, but I was the gal to make it happen.
“Come on people, chop-chop,” Stuey yelled, coming from around the back of the building. Why in the hell did he always come from the back of the building? All the doors to the rooms were in the front . . . Maybe he took a final pee in the woods every morning.
“For God’s sake,” Edith hissed. “Keep your voice down or I’ll rip your larynx out.”
“She can do it. I’ve seen it,” Mrs. C warned Stuey. “Twice.”
That statement made everyone pause. I was fairly certain she was telling the truth. What in the hell was their former occupation? Their skills, when added up, made no sense whatsoever. I should have pried when we were all drunk. Assmonkeys, I was usually good at taking advantage of opportunities. Knitting, tree-shimmying, trap-laying, larynx-ripping, cheating twin lesbians . . . equals? No clue.
“Okay,” Stuey whispered, as Heidi and the Baldies pulled up. “Let’s get loaded and get out of here.”
“Hey, swamp-ass,” Edith called out to Stuey. “Why in the hell is the trailer still locked if all the equipment is out of it? I want to put my goddamn suitcase back here.”
She stood at the trailer and rattled the door. Mariah walked over and examined it closely.
“I can pick it, if you want,” she told Edith.
“Noooo, no, no, no,” Stuey said, running over and dragging the huge suitcase to the cargo hold under the van. “I lost the key. It must be out at the cabin. Hell,” he muttered, “I’ve been losing everything. Has anyone seen my wallet?”
A chorus of no’s answered him, and he appeared agitated and pissed. Unfortunately, I had a very good idea where his wallet might have ended up. The smirk on Mariah’s face was the nail in her coffin.
“When we get out to the cabin, you will drop the wallet on the ground where he’ll be sure to find it. Do you understand me?” I whispered in Mariah’s ear.
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes and grinned.
“How much money did you take out of it?”
“Not enough that he’ll miss it. He’s got thousands of dollars in there,” she said.
“For real?” I asked. Why would Stuey be running around with that much cash? Maybe the TIT network had finally cancelled the credit card . . . Whatever. The money did not belong to Mariah and she was not keeping it. Period.
Heidi Kugelschmooson, in an obscene outfit, moseyed over, gaped at Kim’s new look, and exchanged a few flirty sentences with Stuey until Stan yanked his partner aside.
“You lost your fucking wallet?” he hissed.
Stuey paled and pulled Stan away from the group. I watched them argue out of earshot and it didn’t look friendly at all. Shit, was Mariah in possession of the rest of the budget for the show? This day was starting off bad. I prayed to Brett Favre it wouldn’t get worse.
“Jesus Christ in a miniskirt, that wig is hideous,” Mariah mumbled as she watched Heidi wobble off to her SUV.
“Do you think she’s bald or something?” I asked, agreeing with her assessment.
“Nope. I think she has thin hair or she’s under the impression that blondes have more fun. She wears contacts too.”
“Lots of people wear contacts,” I said, hoping there were more doughnuts in the van. They were my perfect hangover food.
“She wears colored contacts,” Mariah told me. She hopped up into the van and strapped in.
“How do you know?” I was fascinated with Heidi and her bizarre disguise. I’d seen the brown hair sticking out of the wig and it didn’t look thin at all. It looked healthy and shiny. Was the getup for the weather girl gig? My gut said she’d be a lot prettier without all the crap.
“She got a merkin pube stuck in her eye yesterday and I saw her take out her brown contact.” Mariah passed an almost-full box of doughnuts back to me in my seat. I wondered if anyone would notice if I polished off a dozen or so. My ass would probably notice, but my hangover didn’t care very much about my ass.
I shoved a doughnut in my mouth and remembered I was still in the middle of a conversation with Mariah. “What color were her real eyes?” I asked through my wad of hangover food.
“A striking icy blue. I don’t know why in the hell she would cover up that color . . . unless she had something to hide.”
I mulled over what Mariah had said as I ate my fourth doughnut of the morning. Was she in on something with Stuey and Stan? Was she trying to kill Bigfoot too? Wait a minute . . . there’s no such thing as Bigfoot. I knew that, but did they?
“I’ve got Moon-Unit on the line,” Kim shouted excitedly, driving as erratically as ever. I wanted to slap her in the back of the head for talking so loud, but hearing what Moon-Unit had to say was far more important than the fact that my brain had just partially exploded in my skull. “I’ll put her on speaker!”
“Hello? Can you hear me?” Moon-Unit sounded a bit tinny and far away, but it was comforting to hear her voice.
“Yes, we can, dear,” Kim said. “Did you find anything?”
“Yes and no,” she said.
Fucktard, I hoped this wasn’t going to be an unbalanced cryptic conversation.
“What did you find out about Stuey and Stan and Heidi?” I asked. I noticed Rich tense next to me. He knew something was off too.
“First things first,” Moon-Unit yelled into the phone. “I am approximately twenty-four hours away from killing the e
vil chi. There’s been some divine intervention from a traveling band of hobgoblins. I was concerned the hobgoblins had come to start a war with my trolls, but thankfully I was mistaken. As a matter of fact, several of the trolls and hobgoblins have mated.”
“What in the fuck would their offspring be called?” Edith yelled from the back of the van.
Oh. My. God. Was I the only one with a hangover in this vehicle? And why in the hell were we discussing the mating particulars of things that didn’t exist, except in the minds of insane people?
“They have informed me that they will be called trobgobrolls. It’s a wonderful step to bringing peace to the land of Spoctersprocket.”
I’d had enough. “Moon-Unit, what about Stuey, Stan, and Heidi?”
“Oh yes, yes,” she bellowed. “Your Heidi Kugelschmooson doesn’t exist at all. She shows up in no database whatsoever.”
“Did you use the links we sent you?” Mrs. C asked.
“Yes, I did,” Moon-Unit answered. “I am impressed with you two. I had no idea.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Edith cut her off before she could say anything else. “What about the shiny little bastards?”
I noticed that Hugh had been humming a soft version of the theme from Law & Order throughout the entire conversation, Boo was taking notes, and Rich looked nauseous. I was a bit queasy to hear that Heidi didn’t exist. What did that mean?
“As for Stan Angelusi and Stu Greenberg, there are a ton of them, but none that match up with our guys.”
“What do you mean?” Boo stopped taking notes and spoke up.
“There’s no record of them working for TIT anywhere, and I can’t place those two at any production company in Los Angeles.”
“Impossible,” Kim gasped and almost swerved off the road.
“Goddamn it, Kim, if you kill us I will hunt you down and drag you to my condo in hell,” Edith hissed.
“Sorry,” Kim sputtered, sitting up straighter and closer to the steering wheel.
“Are they in the data bank we sent you the link to?” Mrs. C asked in a clipped and professional voice I didn’t recognize. I felt Rich turn around and look at her.
Size Matters Page 23
