Love In Reality Excerpt

Rand Jennings enjoyed killing his boss, Marcy Edelstein.

He enjoyed it so much, he sometimes killed her twice in a single meeting.

They weren’t hurried affairs, either. Sure, he once capped her twice in the back of the head, Mafia-execution-style, before walking away. Usually, though, he took his time, pairing up cinematic murders with Marcy’s too-thin, too-caffeinated, too-Botoxed body. In fact, he’d researched whether he could kill her with Botox. Unfortunately, as apt as that would be, it took too much of the toxin to be practical.

So Rand settled for the classics. He shot her and let her fall into a Hollywood Hills swimming pool (Sunset Boulevard). He stabbed her in the shower (Psycho)—an awkward, blindly-slashing affair as he really didn’t want to see her naked. He dipped her in gold paint so her skin smothered (Goldfinger). During one of Marcy’s particularly nasty harangues, Rand slipped up behind her and garroted her with her own Hermès scarf (The Godfather, modified).

“Jesus, people, wake up!” Marcy screeched. “I need better ideas. Opposites attract this year, so we have to cast interesting people—of course no fatties—who the audience will understand in a very specific way.”

Rand leaned sideways toward Debbie and whispered, “How about Narcissistic Actor as a type?”

“They’d all qualify,” she muttered.

Marcy glared at them. “You two are like third-graders passing notes. Grow up! The Fishbowl isn’t going to produce itself. I’ve come up with the grand theme. The least you can do is help me amplify my vision.”

“C’mon, Marcy, it’s reality TV,” Rand said. “Let’s not lose sight of the fundamentals. Good-looking people in bathing suits jump around during the day and backstab at night while trying to win a million dollars. It’s not hard to figure out the themes. Greed and competition. This isn’t Hamlet.”

Marcy’s head stilled, the conference room lights deepening the shadows of her angular features. “Hamlet,” she said slowly. “The Lost Boy? No. I don’t think so. Too depressing. Could we do other Shakespearean characters? Puck versus Lear? Romeo versus Juliet? Othello versus Iago?”

Debbie piped up, “How about Lady Macbeth? Instead of fishing out the competition, she could just stab them all in their sleep.”

For a moment, it looked like Marcy might go for the heightened drama and increased conflict. Then her face hardened into scorn. “That’s ridiculous. Legal would never allow us to cast a homicidal maniac.”

“I guess it would drive up our insurance premiums,” Rand said as he mentally duct-taped Marcy to her chair, poured honey over her thousand-dollar hair weave and put her in a box with fire ants.

* * *

Ah, those were the days, when this season of The Fishbowl was still limited to Marcy’s hen-scratching on a whiteboard. Now Rand was crisscrossing the country, looking for her elusive types among the young, sexy and bird-brained people who’d applied to be on the show.

His cab was speeding away from the Philadelphia airport when text messages from Marcy started to make Rand’s phone ping. One called him an “utter waste of time” and then claimed that his work was essential. The next berated him for his uselessness but commanded him to call her immediately and give her an update on his search.

One made Rand laugh.

Why do I even put up with this shit? You couldn’t cast this show, let alone produce it, if I didn’t hold your hand the entire time. Nepotism will only get you so far, dickwad, so don’t think you can trade on your father’s fame for the whole of your career. Now get me a Ditz. I want tape on my desk today!!

The cab pulled up to a South Philly bar and Rand got out. An icy wind helped him slam the cab’s door.

He turned, taking in the bar’s windows, bright with neon. Not the worst place to be on a chilly March night. Inside, The County Cork was warm and redolent of fresh beer over a clean scent. Standard layout—horseshoe bar in the center, tables and booths around the perimeter. The few patrons were clustered close to the bar as though huddled together for warmth and community. It looked like the type of local bar where they really did know your name.

Rand hung up his coat and leaned down to use an antique pub mirror to fix his windblown hair. He needed a haircut. Oh, well. Time to get to work. Five minutes—or less—would tell him if he’d found the Ditz Marcy wanted for the show this summer.

Rand scanned the room for his target, spotting the bartender pulling one of the fancy wood-handled beer taps. Long brown hair, cute figure in jeans and a close-fitting top, nice smile. She passed the bikini test at least. Rand settled on a seat at one end of the bar.

 “Hi. What can I get for you?” the bartender asked him. He looked up. She had beautiful eyes and an interesting nose. She’d look good on TV. But did she fit Marcy’s idea for the Ditz? Rand suspected he knew the answer. She’d think the bartender too cool and confident, and Rand would get another screaming text on the subject. Marcy was like that old TV ad: She hates everything.

Learn more about Magdalen here:  http://MagdalenBraden.com
Book Link: http://harmonyroad.com/books/love-in-reality

~ciao
LA