Become a Fan
By Oliver Willis
Monday, July 15, 2002
He took a long drag on his cigarette before he clicked the mouse. Ever since he had been driven out of the world of “legitimate” print journalism, he worked on the Internet. An odd bit of writing now and then to some magazine nobody had ever heard of about a subject nobody cared about was usually enough to pay the bills and keep the landlord out of his rapidly thinning hair.
Most of his time now was spent working on his own site. A “weblog” they called it, a glorified soapbox is what it was. Clarence used it to spread a unique sort of vitriol across the globe – ranting and raving about politics, movies or whatever the hell had pissed him off on that particular day. Most of all he liked to write about the filthy underbelly of Los Angeles. The city was so filled with disease and slime that the sordid little morality plays tended to write themselves.
The particularly profanity-laced missive he had just written was about the idiocy of landlords and how they had a notably bad habit of demanding full payment on the first when they were completely aware of the financial state of the country made him grin. A little bit. Clarence never smiled much anymore, and when he did it was usually to make light of his misfortune than to portray actual human emotion. His eyes were tired. A night owl for as long as he could remember, twenty-plus years of staring at screens was finally catching up to him even if his body wasn’t tired.
Just one last glance at his email and it was off to bed.
It wasn’t so much the content of the email but rather the picture that caught his attention. Only the top of a head was visible at first, frugality had forced Clarence to get the cheapest and slowest modem available, but slowly and surely the body filled in. And what a body it was. The woman looked to be in her twenties, though at that point Clarence had more interest in her physical rather than temporal measurements.
Great shape, wonderful curves, the way she looked at the camera showed that she knew how to handle it. A model or an actress he figured. After keeping his eyes on her breasts for way past an appropriate amount of time he finally read the email.
SUBJECT: Friendley’s Girl
It’s come to our attention that Senator Friendley’s has been engaged in extracurricular activities with the woman in the attached picture. Would be good to get some coverage on this.
The return address didn’t give any clues as to who it was, which made Clarence Thornwood doubt its veracity. Usually when he received a note like this it was easily ignored. Political operatives on both side of the aisle had used him as a hatchet man in the past, and while he loved a good scandal a wild goose chase wasted time he could use to smoke cigarettes and knock down beer.
But this one had the picture. Whoever sent it knew what they were doing because Clarence had an axe to grind against Senator Ernest Friendley, and a healthy appetite for scandal. He had made his name reporting on the excursions the politicos in LA liked to make into the Valley – specifically the massage parlors and porn studios. That same muckraking had put him in the sights of Ernest Friendley.
A crusader for a “return to morality”, Clarence had reported on rumors of mob connections to Friendley – backed up from what he thought was a reliable source. Turns out the source was in league with Friendley and proceeded to denounce Clarence’s story as garbage and evidence of a personal vendetta. Clarence was a mean hack at the end of a modem line directly because of Senator Friendley. He relished the thought of bringing him down, and seeing a pretty dynamite stick of a girl in the process couldn’t hurt either.
He had followed Friendley for two weeks now. Wondered how many babies heads you had to kiss and old fogies hands you had to shake to get ahead in Washington. Only a pudgy slimeball like Friendley could look straight in the eyes of people he could give a rat’s ass about and tell them that he gave a damn. All this time, and Friendley looked clean. Sure, he met with his mob boys now and then, but Clarence knew that angle was a dead end. Mafioso and business dealings where too tough to prove and get over with the reading public anyway. Screwing around on your wife and kids with a knockout while you were preaching about the sanctity of marriage was an easy “get”. Hypocrisy was as clear as a bell.
In the copy shop he lifted a credit card from the young punk blissed out in front of a video game, just long enough to buy him some online time as he checked his mail. The “Friend” from before had emailed again.
I see you’ve been on Friendley’s tail. So you believe me. Keep an eye on him when he goes to the Osford Arms tonight.
The Osford Arms was the new luxury hotel that had sprouted up in Santa Monica, close to the Los Angeles that made it on Baywatch and postcards and far away from the urban grind the cities lower classes saw as their everyday reality.
His time following Friendley around had made Clarence reflect on the effect Friendley had had on his career. It burned him. It made him mad. Thinking of the Osford Arms, and that beautiful woman, and the putrid Senator pushed him over the line. He drove his black Nissan down to a pawn shop who was willing to take a vintage typewriter he had as a trade in for a digital camera. Played around with it for a couple minutes to get the hang of its operation, then made his way over the hill separating the Valley from Santa Monica and the West Side.
For a moment he thought about the email. The “friend” had seen him following Friendley? Was he being watched? Nevermind. Either way, knocking down Friendley would make it all worthwile.
A couple dollars in the palm of the bellhop told Clarence where Friendley would be staying. Clarence made his way across the bright red carpet with gold trim that gleamed in the rays of light that made their way through the clouds, busied himself in the lobby’s shop and kept his eyes peeled for Friendley and the woman.
He hadn’t made much of a plan, but it involved busting in on the two while they were going at it and taking a picture that would make it all worthwhile. Clarence grinned as he saw a news magazine with Friendley on the cover heralding his latest bold pronunciation on social matters he had no business or experience covering.
There she was.
The girl sauntered into the lobby in high heels and a trench coat, her hair bobbing as she strode across the carpet. The bellboys and desk clerks took as much notice as Clarence. She was a definite knockout and that body was a head turner of the highest order. He watched her rear end disappear behind the closing elevator doors.
For a moment Clarence reconsidered. While “getting” the Senator would be surely a good thing, dragging this beautiful creature through the mud seemed a little harsh. In her mind she was probably just impressed by Friendley’s bravado and his silver-tongued sense of self-importance. She wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Friendley had to go down and damn anyone who got caught in the crossfire. The thought was amplified as Friendley walked into the hotel half an hour later. He flew through the lobby, not looking at anyone’s face. The politician was gone, and the man was in his place. And sex was the only thing on the man’s mind.
Clarence wasted a little more time staring at a horribly pretentious piece of artwork hanging on the wall before he took the stairs up to Friendley’s room. The hallway was empty, and dimly lit. Classical music echoed up and down the building, at such a low level that it was barely audible and slightly tapped at your brain.
Finally that pass key he had bought off of the junkie in Van Nuys paid off. It had some sort of circuitry that allowed the lock to disengage on the hotel door without the telltale “beep”. Clarence leaned in and realized the fun had already begun.
Filthy animal couldn’t even fake a little romance.
Moans and groans that screamed sex. The sound of flesh hitting flesh combined with Friendley’s weight-induced wheezing made Clarence’s stomach turn. Revealing this sordid display would turn out to be a public service, he thought.
He got himself ready. He filled his mind with rage, and memories of the indignities he had suffered.
He grabbed the door handle and swung it open. Pulled the camera up and put his finger on the button.
He flew into the room, and started taking pictures. The flash combined with his adrenalin blinded him for a second so he couldn’t see what was going on. He heard screams and yells. Then he saw.
Friendley was on his back, the woman on top of him. Both completely naked, his body already awash in sweat as it jiggled from the force of their activity. The girl lifted her leg in the air, disengaging her body from the Senator. The face was just like the picture, even more beautiful in reality. Her breasts were almost symmetrical, probably not real but aesthetic nonetheless.
And between her legs was a penis.
Clarence snapped a few more pictures while he assessed what he was seeing, then a grin came to his face. The girl/man pulled the covers onto her body as Friendley leaped up from the bed, still erect and waving a fist in the air as he moved towards Clarence.
Clarence continued taking pictures.
SENATOR IN SEX DEN WITH SHEMALE
That’s how the headline read as Clarence published the article. He attached the entire set of pictures to it, deciding it would provide greater impact that way. He smiled, really smiled now.
Two weeks later in The Times:
EXPLICIT PHOTOS FROM WEBSITE FORCE RESIGNATION OF SENATOR
Leader of Opposition Party Says Claims of Sabotage ‘Unfounded’
Deep in his heart, Clarence knew he had been used as the instrument of destruction for a man, his family, and his career. He didn’t care. He just chuckled when he thought about the reality behind the picture that had gotten him involved in all of this.
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|Reviewed by Roy
|Enjoyed this tale, nice twist at the end|