The assembled ninjas elbowed some masked highwaymen, and even more Scottish highlanders turned to where the astronaut was chatting up the ladybug. Foster continued, “That’s more than two thousand kids a day. One kid gets kidnapped every forty seconds in America.” He let the numbers sink in. “And that man is Emory Emerson.” He held his phone for the princess and those close enough to see the image he had on file.
The listening company of centurions and zombies no longer looked bored. The princess asked, “So?” not taking her eyes off the astronaut. “Do something!”
Foster shrugged under his hood. “I can’t make a move until he tries something.”
A zombie asked, “You a cop?”
Foster squatted down, reached into his boot and withdrew the gun, just for a flash before tucking it back. His ankle burned where it had been rubbed raw. The crowd stared at the bite scar on his hand as much as the gun itself.
The pimply gladiator drew a plastic broadsword from his belt and said, “Maybe you can’t do anything, but I can.” He turned to the princess and said, “Save my place in line, okay?”
Standing on tiptoe, the princess kissed him on the forehead.
Before the gladiator had charged halfway to the astronaut, the samurai broke ranks to follow. The elfin bandits went to join the fray. A cry went up from the astronaut, a bellow of panic and confusion, as the swarm of musketeers and ghouls surrounded and enveloped him. The plastic clack of fake cudgels and nunchucks drew even more attention. More people in line, dazed by boredom, stepped away to video the ruckus.
Seeing his opportunity, Foster edged past the distracted masses. As the ladybug screamed in alarm and the pervert was pelted with foam rubber ninja stars, Foster made his way through Halls I and J and into Hall K where the object of his search sat alone and ignored for the moment. Her handler had stepped away to call security, so it seemed. Blush herself looked older than he’d expected, almost his own age. Around her mouth were etched the telltale lines of a heavy smoker. Her hair looked too bright to be natural. She sat at the table holding a felt-tipped pen. A pile of glossy photos was stacked at her elbow.
Blush Gentry looked up with a sweet smile and asked, “Do you have a ticket?”
Foster fumbled inside the cuff of his spandex sleeve and brought forth a paper ticket dark with sweat. He asked, “Can we go somewhere? Somewhere and talk?”
She scribbled her name across a photo and handed it toward him, saying, “Thank you for stopping by.”
The line was re-forming. Any handler or talent wrangler would be back in a moment. Panicked, Foster stooped slightly, reached into his boot, and for the third time that day took out the gun.
Mitzi caught sight of herself. No one could escape the mirrors that lined the weight room from floor to ceiling. Even her baggy sweatshirt suggested a small baby bump. In her mind lingered so many half memories and dream fragments soaked in blood. She couldn’t definitively swear she had or had not gotten her period in the past several months. One half image stood out in particular, bleeding from her vagina. Or bleeding from someone’s vagina. It hadn’t hurt, and she’d put foam plugs into her ears, which didn’t make sense. She’d plugged her ears and said a prayer just before her last period, and the words of the prayer had been: “Scrambled eggs…bacon…orange juice…” The garbled nonsense of a dream.
A chime sounded inside her gym bag. Her own phone. A producer, Schlo, was calling. She said a quick prayer that it was a dubbing job, but her prayer came out as, “Poached eggs…link sausage…”
“Mitz, my baby girl,” Schlo said, “I need you should borrow me the original of that latest scream of yours.” Traumatic Orchiectomy.
Mitzi cupped the phone in her hand to mask the clank of weights around her. “You know that’s not my policy,” she told him. The policy was to never relinquish the original recording of a scream. Besides, the original was as lost as all the screams in the studio archives. Near her a man bellowed under a bar loaded with iron plates the size of car tires. His huffing and growling competed with the loud clank of cast iron.
“What?” the producer shouted over the phone. “Are you in a factory? Are you a United Auto Worker these days?”
A memory haunted Mitzi with the words, “Pancakes…oatmeal…toast.” A prayer like a waitress reciting the menu at a diner.
The phone said, “There’s something wrong with that last scream.” Jimmy’s scream.
Mitzi asked, “How do you know?”
“I’m texting you a link is how I know,” Schlo said. “We’re one day into audience testing and—boom.”
A new text chimed. Mitzi swiped to find a link. Clicking on the link brought up an Associated Press wire story. The headline read: “Over a Hundred Die Watching Film.”
Foster had to give it to her. Blush Gentry was a trouper. No sooner had he flashed the gun than she’d announced to the crowd, “The talent needs to tinkle. Can you give me a sec?” Her handler was just stepping up to assist her, and she told the woman, “I’ll be back in five.” She put two fingers to her mouth to mime smoking a cigarette.
Seeing the line that snaked away, the ever-growing number of fans waiting for their moment, Foster had no idea how to exit the floor.
“Give me your phone,” Blush said and jerked her head toward an unmarked door. She accepted his phone and stepped away as if confident he’d follow. With every step she was keying something into the small screen. Past the door, they stood in a service corridor, cinder block walls, fluorescent lights. There, she reached to tug at the hem of his executioner’s hood, saying,
