30 minutes in a hellscape

Lucas awoke woozy, and bleary eyed. His mind was playing mental hopscotch with his ability to focus, as well as remain conscious. As Lucas went to rub his eyes, he realized he was cuffed and suspended face down. He was unable to move much beyond a slight wiggle from his midsection. As he blinked himself into reality, he panicked, finding himself staring downward at an oil stain on a filthy concrete floor. He struggled against his restraints, and tried desperately to find his voice to scream for help. Only the sound of a thick raspy cough could weaze out from his burning throat. A moment later, Lucas could hear the very distinct sound of a distant door closing.

Lucas went quiet trying gravely to find his voice. He could hear the footsteps approaching him. The heavy footfalls that advanced were now a set of boots directly in front of him. Lucas struggled to look up, but did so as high as his neck would allow. In doing so, Lucas realized he was chained to the undercarriage of an old car.

“You didn't think I'd find you… Didn't Think I’d make my way back here again. You're gonna suffer slow for what you did to my family, Luke.”

The voice was sharp in Lucas' ears. He knew that voice… that horrible, mean, goddamn voice….

Lucas' heart dropped as he felt, and heard the driver's door open. The springs bounced as the man slid into the seat, and closed the door behind him. Just when Lucas had summoned all he could to scream, the big block Pontiac engine roared to life and snuffed his yells into whispers. His pleading fell quiet against the massive roaring machine.

Lucas heard the car shift harshly into gear. He felt the power of rear tires peeling out by his feet, and the contorting jerk of his wrists being pulled as the front wheels cranked left into a sl….

Edwards' typing was cut short as the caller ID displayed the name “Satan's minion”.

“Oh, fuck me…” Edward sighed. Everyday it was something new with the publicist.

Edward didn't want to answer his phone. He was exhausted with everybody in that clique trying to molest his book, and couldn't care less about what nonsense they were strumming at now. Yet, Edward also knew he had to answer because of the new draft he had recently sent in. Edward braced himself, and clicked the “accept call” button.

“Yeah.” Edward answered, sounding clearly annoyed.

“Hey, Eddie! How's it goin’, man?!”

Sid, the publicist, had practically screamed into Edwards ear.

Edward: “I have no idea, Sid. What the hell do you want now?”

Edward slid a cigarette from his pack on the kitchen table, and dug through his jeans pocket hunting for his zippo.

Sid: “Well, Eddie, Alan finally got your latest draft back from the editors…”

Sid was a huge fan of letting a sentence hang. He did this either because he wanted to surprise with good news, or because he really didn't want to say what the bad news was. Either way, at that moment all Edward wanted was to beat him with a wet mop.

Edward: “Yeah. And?”

Sid: “I think we should meet up in person.”

Sid sounded a bit too ominous for Edwards liking.

Edward cocked his head back, and sighed. If his eyes had rolled any harder, Sid could've heard them over the phone. Edward already knew the score: Sid was gonna suggest some new farm fresh shit show of a restaurant, and have to listen to Sid drone on and on about the new book, and what everybody thinks it needs.

Edward: “For fuck sakes… okay. Where and when?” He said with frustration.

Edward was already sore about the day. He wasn't much of a morning person anyhow, and was further aggravated that his cat, Lickey decided to pounce, and had attacked his left hand like it was an injured rabbit. Much of the morning, he had been relegated to typing his latest brainstorms with his thumbs, and was not crafting as well because of it…

Now this shit…

Sid cleared his throat.

Sid: “Can you meet me at ‘Frilly Pads’, in, oh, say an hour?”

Edward could feel the quaker oats start an uprising revolt in his esophagus. The name alone sounded like a product sold to pregnant women for hemorrhoid relief.

Edward: “Whatever. The sooner, the better.”

Sid was piping up about clothing attire, of tire rotation or some damn thing, but Edward wasn't interested in any of it, and hung up on Sid almost immediately.

A little after an hour later, Edward pulled his old Cavalier convertible up to the valet parking of “Frilly Pads”. Edward could see a majority of the clientele's vehicles mainly consisted of modern, overpriced and self indulgent cars. Edward knew instantly the inside would be a veritable who's who of who knows, and who cares?

As Edward jolted the Cavalier to a stop at the valet station, he cranked up the emergency brake, and exited the car. The oily faced valet eyeballed Edward as if he were about to rob them blind, or try to steal the keys to basically anything else. In this area near Beverly Hills it was pretty standard, and even the peons were fucking snobs.

Edward handed the keys off to the kid, and sarcastically stated:

Edward: “She pulls to the left…. Much like your dick.”

The valet took the keys, and killed the car twice trying to move it. Edward wasn't exactly pleased that this kid was driving his car at all, much less killing the clutch in the process. Edward watched the kid drive off, and made his way to the entrance.

The hostess greeted Edward with all the excitement of a thirteen year old girl being asked to do a chore. She sounded like a snot, and had obviously acquired whatever the latest vocal affectation was from some dipshit social media app.

Hostess: “Table for one, sir?”

Edward; “I'm meeting somebody.”

Hostess: “Are they literally expecting you?”

Edward chuckled a little. One thing that was a pet peeve of his many, were people that didn't understand what words mean. She was probably the same type of idiot that constantly said “actually”, and “epic” on repeat all the time, and always out of context.

Edward: “Unless I'm a decade too early.” He said sarcastically.

Edward was painfully aware that not much was being caught between the hostess’ two heavily pierced ears. He may as well be explaining the finer points of how to walk through an automatic door to her.

She exaggerated a confused look that she probably stole from a meme or something, while Edward glanced around for “Sid The Story Killer.”

Hostess: “What do they look like?”

She snarled at Edward, ready to summon her manager over to deal with this fashionless creep.

Edward took a break from looking around, and gave the hostess Sids “description”:

Edward: “Yeah, he's a mid-sized, overstuffed, blowhard in an expensive suit. A greasy, ratund, shitbird that were he any more full of himself, would have to hang a coffee carafe off of his ass in some vain effort to catch the excess.”

As Edward looked around again, he realized he had inadvertently described most of the patrons.

Edward was taken off guard when a heavy hand patted his left shoulder.

Sid: “Ah, Eddie!! You're such a character!”

Sid laughed thinking Edward was fully aware he had snuck up behind him.

The truth was Edward had no clue, but couldn't have cared less even if offered payment to do just that. Edward wouldn't be heartbroken if most people caught wind of his opinions of them.

Sid: “Eddies with us. Come buddy, we’re in the canopy section just over this way.”

Sid led Edward through a labyrinth of tables, and sections. Had Edward known how pretentious, and up its own ass this spot was, he would have straight off protested to meet elsewhere. This place was clearly some trendy, heart healthy, grass-fed, shit in a plant, tic-toc type of trash hole where ne’er-do-wells, and loser influencers share iphone photos of their $37 avocado toast to each other's instagram stories. Edward burned places like this down, and pissed on the ashes in his stories.

Sid and Edward arrived at the table, where Misty Rivers stood to greet them. The first time Edward was about to be introduced to Misty, he was positive Sid had hired a stripper to “claim” she was his assistant as some kind of joke. Nope. Her name just sounded like that type. Misty was only a bit more tolerable than her boss. Providing of course, they weren't all in the same room together.

They all took a seat, and began with the typical formalities of a business meeting. The work appetizer served just before the eighteen course shitshow meal that was the work itself that Edward was expected to finish, and on a deadline no less.

Sid: “Eddie, you know my assistant Ms Rivers.”

Edward shook her hand, but looked Sid deadly in the eyes and said:

Edward: “For the umpteenth, my name is Edward, Sid. Edward. Eddie sounds like some kiddie diddler that hosts a puppet show on P.B.S.”

Misty chuckled a smidge, and did her best to hide it. She didn't want to give a reason for Sid to grill her on the way back to the office later.

Sid, and Misty already had some water at the table, and knowing how these two operated, they were probably awaiting smoothies, and boba tea. Edward would get a bloody mary as soon as possible. He hoped that with a little luck some alcohol might help lube the gears to even out this encounter.

Sid: “I'm sure you're probably curious as to why we were hoping to have a conversation in person.”

Edward: “Well, I'm not here because this was my ideal place to meet.”

Sid: “Okay, Eddie… Uh, Edward. The editor went over your latest draft for ‘Tom The Dic’, and well, she, Alan, as well as some of us in your squad, think we should discuss some of the story… as well as your attitude about certain things with it.”

Misty scribbled some notes. Likely checking off boxes about what they were obligated to cover during this fiasco of a meeting. Edward surmised that if this were an actual job, this would be the equivalent of an H.R. meeting.

Sid: “We know you have a prefered style, and you don't really wanna be hassled about changes to your baby. I've read your stuff repeatedly, and God knows, I think it's all well done…”

Sid was failing at his ass kissing approach. Edward knew Sid had maybe sifted through a couple of pages from various drafts, likely looking for the sexiness of a typical private investigator story, and being pissed to no end that it wasn't there. If the first book's manuscript had fallen flat, Edwards' three book deal, and handsome advance would not even exist. Everyone loved “Dic 4 Tat”, and figured Edward would fall in line just as did his predecessors. Everybody, including Sid the publicist, failed to accept that why “Dic 4 Tat” was so successful was it's a pushback against the mainstream drivel.

Sid continued, and Edwards eyes would light up everytime a possible waitress strolled by. Edward figured the quicker he could get a drink, the smoother this would go, and the quicker he could return to Lickey the cat, and the inspiration to work whatever story he felt needs it the most. Edward suddenly realized Sid was still talking, just as Sid said:

Sid: “.... I really need you to hear me on this.”

Edward: “Sid, I don't know how many times I have to tell you the same goddamn thing. I didn't send up a book to be published, just so your cronies could rip it to pieces, and turn it into the same muddled bullshit thats sold en masse on paperback at every fuckin’ Wallgreens.”

Sid: “You gotta give the readers what they've come to expect, Eddie.”

Edward: “If they’ve come to expect it, then why the fuck are they still reading, Sid? Huh? If every morsel of consumable entertainment is the same copy paste bullshit, then why the fuck bother with any of it at all?”

Misty suddenly chimed in her two cents, even at the cost of a potential ass chewing from her boss later.

Misty: “For the love of the art?”

Sid gave her the side eye, and Edward would have clapped had his left hand not been mangled by his couch tiger. He instead displayed his hands like he was presenting a special guest.

Edward: “That's part of it! Abso-fucking-lutely! Now, why would there be a ‘love for the art’, if it's not for something new and exciting?”

Sid “That's why they wanna work with ya, kid! They are craving something unique! Something bold! Something wild!”

Edward: “Sid, you and I clearly know the odor of horse shit, okay? Stop insisting I huff it with you while you try convincing me that it's downy laundry sheets. Now, where is that goddamn waitress at?”

Sid: “Look, boy-o, we have to play ball in this field if we're ever going to score the big win!”

Edward: “Really? A fucking sports analogy, Sid? So, tell me, Ace, is this the part where I begrudgingly agree with you, and despite all of our differences, we play like some underdog sports team that overcomes all adversity to win that big ol’ championship game, where, then, we are hoisted upon the shoulders of our fellow team mates, being carried off into the sunset to live happily ever after, with some front page fuckin’ victory photo of us making hearts with our goddamn hands?.....

….. well, I fucking hate sports, Sid!! I was not placed upon this earth to help anybody win jackshit!”

Sid was visibly getting flustered, and wanted to ditch the conversation with Edward. Sid knew most artists had their peaks and valleys regarding their works, and what they would tolerate when it came to the notes, patches, and replacements of said artists' pieces… however, Edward was becoming more and more of a rotted tooth in an otherwise healthy mouth. Only way it could be helped was if it was extracted.

The waitress arrived at the table, and just as Edward thought. Smoothie for Sid, and a boba for Misty. She carefully placed the drinks before them, along with metal straws. She acknowledged the newcomer to the table with a smile, and addressed him directly.

Waitress: “Hello, and welcome to “Frilly Pad! My name is Emmy! Can I get you started off with something to drink?”

Edward did not think twice, as he looked to Emmy.

Edward: “I'll have a bloody mary, kettle one double. Extra spicy, and with two cel…”

Misty interrupted Edward.

Misty: “Ed, they don't have alcohol here.”

Edward went wide eyed and said:

Edward: “Beer. I'll have a beer! Ya gotta have beer, right?”

Sid shook his head, as Misty broke the news to Edward.

Misty: “No alcohol of any kind, Ed. Sorry.”

Edward was over it. At this point, he wanted to nod along to whatever, just to get himself out of this place. He muttered “fuckin’ trendsetter shithole” under his breath to himself. He then breathed deep, and asked:

Edward: “Coffee. Do you have coffee, or is it some kind of mindful scandinavian earth elixor?”

Misty spit boba on Sid. She didn't mean to laugh, she was more caught off guard that Edward had said that to the waitress, and was now deeply embarrassed.

Emmy pulled out a cloth napkin, and offered it to Sid to wipe himself clean, then left. Edward could tell Sids blood was boiling.

Sid: “Okay, Edward. Okay. Look, most of this is pretty simple, and it's not gonna make or break anything. Only thing is, Liza really wants there to be a love interest in the book.”

Now Edwards blood boiled.

Edward: “No.”

Sid: “Come on…”

Edward: “No. I don't write those.”

Sid: “What if we al…”

Edward: “No. I write fiction, not fantasy.”

Sid: “Liza thinks it will make your character more relatable.”

Edward: “A. Liza couldn't find her own asshole with a pencil and a flashlight. B. Not going in on that gooey romance shit IS REAL. Most of those cute stories are masturbation tools for single lonely middle aged women. Even Hollywood knows those stories are crap. The reality is love is dead, and nothing written can bring it back.”

Misty, as well as most women, hated hearing that. Edward didn't want to be the bearer of bad tidings, but was also very confused as to how anybody could not know it already. Sid was sipping his duckshit green smoothie, and trying to figure a way to reason with Edward. Misty decided to chime in.

Misty: “Why are you so bitter? I always expect nihilism or existential philosophy with all the writers, but you just want to burn everything you hate. Why?”

Edward: “Would you rather be lied to? What good would that do, at the end of this meeting? Even if you disagree with me, all that means is you're not my audience. I'm not going to lose sleep over not being able to relate to everybody, nor will I be hurt by it. I’m too fucking old to cry about not getting picked first for dodgeball.”

Edward stood up, and said:

Edward: “Tell Emmy I don't want that potion anymore. Do you have the edits from my last manuscript?”

Sid sighed, and pulled it out of his leather binder to hand to Edward.

Edward took the draft, and rolled it up.

Edward: “I'll be in touch.”

As Edward walked out, Sid yelled:

Sid: “What about Liza?”

Edward: “I'll send her a scratch & sniff kama sutra to tide her over.”

Edward put on his sunglasses, and almost ran to escape the “Frilly Pad”.