Hot Stuff

Rules:
*Short stories only--No poetry.
*Pieces must be written in the “Dark” genres: Gothic, Horror, Ghost, Paranormal, etc.
*Your piece must fit the prompt, and older pieces are acceptable so long as that’s the case.
*Post below  in bitem format.
*Spelling and grammar count. There should be no reason to edit after you have posted. Revise, review, then post.
*There must be three qualifying entries for the prizes to be given.
*Please, no sex, gore, or strong language. The occasional curse is not as offensive as the ripping of one’s limbs or a sex scene.
*Pieces that have been awarded after your post here but before the deadline will be accepted (I frequently enter a piece in more than one contest at a time; you should, too).
        "The Scribes"  strive to revive the classy horror story. I’m tired of gore and teenage sex and the F word. Victorian Gothic horror needed none of that. The books that came from that era are classics for a reason. If you base your story on the same formula as horror movies, in twenty years, it will no longer be scary (like Nightmare on Elm Street).
February Prompt: Because the second anniversary of his death recently passed us, Heath Ledger's passing and the mysteries surrounding it are what you must base your story on: a joker, an actor's insanity, overdosing, etc.
Deadline: 28 February 2010: 11:59

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Hot Stuff

By Indelibleink

The handsome young man took the drink from the star-struck waitress, thanked her, and then autographed a cocktail napkin per her request. She floated away with a euphoria befitting one who had just won the jackpot in the state lottery. Brad Steele took a sip from his margarita, stretched back in his pool-side lounge chair, and closed his eyes for a moment. Was there a more perfect time to reflect on where he had been and where he was headed?

At age twenty-eight, the young actor was sitting on top of the world. Two days earlier he had learned he had just been nominated for Best Actor for the up-coming  Academy Awards, coming less than a week after winning the Best Actor International Award for 2010. He had been romantically linked with at least a half-dozen starlets in the last year, and film producers and directors were virtually begging him to appear in their film projects. Brad had that kind of star-power.

The film that had put the young man up in the ranks of the great actors was his ghoulishly realistic portrayal of a sadistic mass-murderer in 2009’s thriller, The Surgeon, in which his character, Dr. Evan Wallace, was harvesting body parts of patients whose “time had come” considerably sooner than it should have. In fact, Steele’s acting had been so convincing that Steele had been the target of numerous death threats since the film opened, since some people apparently had trouble differentiating acting with reality. Of course, Brad had – against the advice of his agent – openly joked about how he had studied the biographies of some of the better-known mass-murderers: Gacy, Dahmer, etc., so he could “do the part justice.” Some critics thought his “antics” ill-advised. Brad simply viewed it as one of the hazards inherent to the business of acting. He also reasoned the most people had a firm enough grip on reality that - in their hearts - they realized Dr. Wallace was just a fictional character, and not a real surgeon. Not like the situation in Denver a month ago, where a woman named Lucy Ludwig had approached Brad at a posh restaurant with a butcher knife (she had called it a “message from Hell”), and was felled by the bullet of an off-duty cop who was assigned to provide security for Steele. Ludwig later died from the gunshot…

Brad’s thoughts were interrupted when he felt something obstructing his sun-light. He opened his eyes and turned to see a stunning brunette blocking the ultraviolet path to his already bronze physique. Another autograph! Brad sat up in his lounge chair. “Hello. What can I do for you? If you’re looking for publicity photos or autographed photos, my agent, Millie, is over on the other side of the pool – in the shade – and she has a whole assortment for you to choose from…”

“That’s not why I’m here. You probably don’t remember me. My name is Jennifer Wilkes. I met you three months ago at a premier of The Surgeon. My father was in the hospital, awaiting a suitable liver for a transplant, and I asked you about possibly finding one for him.” The woman’s voice belied her outward beauty; there was an air of impassioned anger in her words.

Brad felt a chill run up his spine, as he did recall meeting the beautiful young woman a few months ago. At the time, prior to the Lucy Ludwig incident, Brad hadn’t really dealt with that many delusional people, and had honestly thought the woman was joking.  In an effort to get her off the subject, Brad had told her at the time that he would “see what he could do.”  Jeez…She was too gorgeous to be a psycho, anyway! He had since learned that it was not wise to joke about such things with some people, but his actions from three moths earlier had put himself in a bind here today. “Yes, I do remember you, Jennifer. How is your father?” Brad winced inwardly as the question came out, knowing that it was not likely she would be here if he was doing just dandy.

“He died four days ago. He was cremated this morning. Up until the day he died, the doctors said he could be saved if he just had the right liver. I called your office every day, but I never got a reply.” Her voice began to quiver as it rose. “Not one damned reply, Dr. Wallace!” She produced a small caliber hand gun from the towel she had been carrying and aimed it point blank at Brad’s head.

Brad stood up, slowly, as he realized the gravity of the situation. A hush fell over those at poolside as folks became aware of what was happening. “Jennifer, you must realize, I have no office, and I’m not a real doctor!” Brad looked around for some help from the gathering onlookers, but there were not many people poolside that were prepared to confront someone with a gun.

“You belong in Hell, Dr. Wallace.” Jennifer raised the gun level with Brad’s forehead, and began to pull the trigger.

Whack! The flat side of a gardening shovel met Jennifer full on the side of her face, knocking her out cold before she could complete her task. Millie had seen what was going on from the other side of the pool and had been able to slowly sneak over, grabbing a shovel from a landscaper on the way. She walked over and kicked the gun from Jennifer’s hand and into the pool.

Quivering and exhausted, Brad slumped down in his chair. Millie watched as her star client took an Ambien from the small utility bag that lay by his side, wash it down with a huge gulp from his margarita, and then get up and give his agent a big hug. “I suppose you’re going to want a raise for this, huh? Thank you, Millie.”

“No…I don’t need a big raise, Bradley. Six percent has made me very comfortable. You keep eating those prescription drugs like they’re M & M‘s, and I won’t have anyone left to save from those crazies; you’ll kill yourself for them.” A number of sirens were heard approaching the pool area. “That’s the police and the media, no doubt. I’ll take care of them – you just go back to your room and get some rest. You have a 4:30AM wake-up tomorrow.”

Brad smiled and gave Millie another hug. Millie wasn’t just an agent. Hell, she had also like a mother to him from the day they agreed she would represent him. And now? Now, add bodyguard to the list!

Once up in his penthouse suite, Brad flopped down on his bed and considered the events of the day, wondering if the price he was going to pay for all of his acting success was a life of bodyguards, police protection, and apprehension regarding every “fan” he ran into. Would this ever end, or was this how it was going to be from now until the end? 

His mind racing like a quarter-horse, Brad took a couple of the sedatives that his shrink had prescribed to him, walked over to the bar and poured a shot of Jack Daniels. Sleep with a chaser! Got to, though: early day tomorrow. He walked back over to a mirror next to his bed. The bedside clock said 9:24PM. “Here’s to you, Jennifer, from Dr. Wallace.” Brad laughed out loud at the silliness of the “toast,” and downed the pills and the JD.  Even tough his brain tried mightily to resist, it wasn’t long before Brad began to feel the chemicals doing their collective “thing.”

There was a sharp knock at the door, which had Brad thinking it must be Millie. He could have sworn he had just laid his head down on the pillow 5 minutes earlier, but he was too groggy to focus on the alarm clock and check the time. Must have slept through the wake-up call again. “Hang on, Millie, I’m coming.”

Brad staggered to the door, and twisted the door knob, which was very hot to the touch. Puzzled – but still in a stupor – he opened the door.

He was greeted instantly by a wave of incredible, oppressive heat, along with two women that immediately shoved the door open and entered the room. Brad slammed the door on the inferno that raged in the hall. In spite of the fire outside his suite, the women were bent over and laughing hysterically. None of this making any sense, Brad grabbed the closest woman by the shoulders and straightened her upright to face him. “What in God’s name…”

Brad stopped speaking as soon as he recognized the woman’s face: it was Lucy, the crazy woman from Denver. He looked at the other: Jennifer, from the pool earlier today – still with a huge black and blue discoloration on her face. He looked back at Lucy. “How can this be…You’re dead!”

Lucy pulled the neckline of her dress down slightly, revealing an entrance wound made from a bullet. “And you’re, right, Dr. Wallace! I’m dead!”

Stunned, and becoming sick to his stomach, Brad looked at Jennifer.

Jennifer rubbed the side of her face that had been whacked by Millie earlier in the day. “That agent of yours packs a pretty mean punch, Dr. Wallace. Surprise! I’m dead too! Speaking of agents, Lucy and I have an agent of our own outside the door. Want to meet him?”

Before Brad could respond, Lucy went to open the door while Jennifer – exhibiting unusual strength – pushed Brad across the room and onto his bed.

The door opened once again to incredible heat, seemingly more intense than the last time, and an un-kept man in an expensive business suit casually strolled in and over in front of Brad, and extended his hand.

Leaving the suite door wide open, and flames now licking her body, Lucy said, “Dr. Wallace, meet your new agent…Jeffrey Dahmer.” All three intruders began laughing maniacally, and Brad curled up into the fetal position on his bed. The laughter and increasing heat made his head want to explode; he felt his cheeks beginning to blister. Dahmer grabbed Brad’s hand, and the burning was beyond comprehension. Brad screamed with everything he had in his body.

Suddenly, Brad shot up in his bed. Literally dripping from sweat, he looked around – the suite was empty. He looked at the clock. 9:37PM! He had fallen asleep only minutes ago – this had all been one big lousy, stinking dream! He got up and out of bed and went to the suite’s door and gingerly touched the handle. Room temperature. Still not convinced, after making sure the security chain was attached to the door, he cracked the door ever so slowly and took a peek out. Everything normal. That was – without question - the worst damn dream he had ever had. He went to the bar and downed a couple tall ice-waters, as he was pretty sure he had sweat every ounce of bodily fluid out of him a short time earlier.  He took a couple of extra blankets and placed them over his saturated sheets to act as a buffer, and then crawled back on to give sleeping another try.

The problem was, Brad had become so over-stimulated by the nightmare earlier, that all he could do was stare at the ceiling and re-live the events of that unbelievable experience. At 10:47PM, Brad got up from the bed and walked to the bathroom to pee. Frustration mounting over his inability to sleep, he then went and took a couple more sedatives and lay back down. Must get to sleep. must get to sleep. Aw, what the hell... He then took two more, closed his eyes, and finally drifted off.

Brad Steele was awakened by the sound of laughter that surrounded his bed. He tried to get up, but he couldn’t move. He tried to speak, but his mouth was frozen. I’ve been drugged! Although staring straight up, Brad’s peripheral vision allowed him to see that the three visitors he had from his nightmare earlier were indeed back. Lucy, Jennifer, and Jeff were dancing and gyrating around the bed while continuing the laughter. This time, too, the flames that had engulfed the hallway earlier were now in Brad’s room, almost at his bedside. Curiously, though, this time he couldn’t feel the heat. Must be a by-product of the drugs they gave me.

Jennifer noticed that Brad’s eyes were open, and came over and stroked his cheek. “Well, Sugar, did you miss us? We sure missed you, Dr. Wallace. Can you talk yet? You should be past the ‘transitional stage’ by now.”

Brad was surprised to find that he could move his eyes and his lips now. Slowly, movement was coming back to his body. “You know, as much as you spawns of the devil bother me, at least I know this time that you will only be here temporarily – that you’re all just a nightmare.”

All three laughed, and Brad could feel the heat starting to affect him again.

Lucy said, “Dr. Wallace, you don’t understand how things work after….”

“After what?” Brad was beginning to tire of the whole game that was being played here, dream or no dream.

“After you die, silly!” Jennifer was happy to elaborate. “See, Dr. Wallace, our last visit wasn’t really a dream. We had to create a situation where you would be inclined to take more of your precious sedatives to push you, well, in our direction. We needed you to take more pills in order to join us – permanently.”

“But, I’m a GOOD PERSON! I don’t belong in Hell.” The panic was now becoming evident in Brad’s voice.  “I’ve never hurt anyone.”

“I’m afraid, Dr. Wallace,” Jennifer continued, “that you don’t fully understand how it works. You see, if there are enough of those among the living who state their desire for someone to join us, then sure as Hell they do!” All three laughed at Jennifer’s humor.

Brad Steele shrieked, “For the love of God…I’m not Dr. Wallace!”

“Now, now, Dr. Wallace, we don’t say the “G-word” down here. Our Master gets very angry when one misbehaves like that.  And by the way, Dr. Wallace, my father is still waiting for you to see him. But, he told me to tell you not to rush. After all, you do have eternity.”

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word count: 2408