The Bacchanal

The Celebrity groaned. The artificial smell of the duct tape covering his mouth mixed with the sick sweet stink of the blood caked into his now thick, sticky hair. He again tried to get up from the floor of the minivan, but he'd never realized it was so hard to get up while wearing handcuffs behind your back. Of course he'd worn them on the set, and during some kinky escapades even off the set, but he'd never been forced to get upright while wearing them.
If only they'd remove the tape, then he could talk to them, ask them what they wanted. They were probably stoned goons hoping for a shitload of money. The whole world must be looking for him, these stupid fucking kids would get lynched when they were discovered to be the kidnappers. Or.. maybe they were terrorists or idealists or something. You know, not in it for the money and shit like that. Little punks. They bored him but they didn't scare him.
He noticed that the sounds of traffic around them were increasing. They must be somewhere in a city or something. Nobody could see him from the outside, he was in the dark back part of the minivan. He desperately attempted to shout, but the looks they gave him told him it was probably not a good idea.

Alex turned around from the passenger seat. From behind his Ronald McDonald mask he said to the Celebrity: "Tell me, has this been the worst you've ever been treated in all your life?" The Celebrity looked at him, probably wondering whether this was a trick question. But in the end, he nodded. Alex crawled over the seat to the back of the van and put his face next to the Celebrity's. "Well, you ain't seen nuthin' yet. And the best part is, we're not gonna do it."
With that, he opened the side door, threw the Celebrity out in one smooth gesture, and the minivan drove off at high speed.

The Celebrity found himself in the middle of the busiest square in the city. "OHMIGOD!!" he heard. "Look who that is!!" He heard his name being shouted from all directions. He gave his practiced, I'm-so-honored smile, but the screaming only increased in pitch and volume. Bold people walked up to him, to touch him, to verify he was real. They soon started pulling on him, while the crowd around him pressed them closer toward him. He felt the sleeve of his jacket give way and disappear. The crowd pressed into his chest, taking his breath away. Hundreds of hands were now pulling on him. His name was being shouted, first confused, then in unison, faster and faster, like the ritualistic chant of a primitive jungle tribe. They'd torn off his clothes now, he was naked and defenseless among them. They scratched him, tried to kiss him but bit him, ripped off pieces of him as mementos, drowned out his cries and howls, they ripped him to pieces, tore him from limb to limb, disintegrated him, scattered him into minuscule pieces of bone shards, blood drops and bits of flesh until there was nothing left of him.

Posted by cronopio at 02:42 AM, January 31, 2002 | Comments (0)