Ken Bruen: Pimp

Max, under a giant disco ball, said, “You, you’re off the show. Lindsay Lohan’s replacing you.” He flashed back to his time as a CEO and said, “You’re terminated, my sweet bitch.” Then he was at a pub in Galway and Angela was the shite-slow barmaid, and he went, “Ya old cunt, get me like, double Jameson on the rocks and you know, like, maybe before the fooking sun sets,” and he snapped his fingers.

Even off in the stratosphere on P, he knew he’d made a huge mistake. Not by firing her, but by snapping. He’d forgotten the golden rule of never, ever snap at an Irishwoman.

Sure enough, Angela moved right in his face, went, “Hey, cocksucker, have a drink of this,” and Max felt the jolt in his head, his neck snap back, and knew the cunt had shot him.

He emitted a tiny, “Duh?” and, like a deflated balloon, crumpled to the floor.

The P said to Angela, It is what it is . And she answered, “Ah, shit the fook up.”

She had the double Jameson, her mind a mix of utter blankness and fierce practicality, urging, Get... get... get rid of the body .

She answered aloud, “Okeydokey.”

In a purple haze, she got Max in the front seat of her car, propped him up like a passenger, blood only slightly leaking down his jaw. But some Dark Gods were minding her, it was dusk and she got him to the L.A. River, humming, Drop kick me Jesus tru the goalposts of life .

A fuck of a tune to hum.

Then in a P-fueled surge of energy, humped him over the bridge and into the river, where he made an almighty splash, something he’d always wanted. Then she dumped the gun she’d used, the dainty .22 she’d bought for protection and been carrying strapped to her thigh — ’cause you always gotta watch your back in this town — in there with him.

As she drove off, she crooned, “He got the goldmine and I got the shaft.”

The moon played out over the surface of the water and later Angela realized if she hadn’t been so far gone on P, and had been playing real close attention, she might have seen the slight bubbles hitting the surface and easing out like sad credits on a sadder movie.

Angela was living the dream. She was helming Bust , the hottest TV show in the country, which had been nominated for nine Golden Globe Awards, including Best Television eries — Drama, and she was part of the hottest gay couple in Hollywood. Yep, Angela and Paula were an item, the last lesbian power women of Hollywood, the Ellen and Portia du jour. They’d been featured in all the major mags and had had an exclusive, invitation-only wedding back on Lesbos. She had been to rehab to get off PIMP and tearfully told her story of overcoming her addiction to Oprah. She made Oprah cry when she talked about the abuse she’d suffered from Max Fisher and the other men in her life, and how the experiences had driven her to porn and prostitution. But when Angela talked about her meteoric rise to the top of Hollywood the audience gave her a standing O and Oprah shed tears of joy. Book rights to Angela’s life story had been sold at auction to St. Martin’s Press with Paula as the ghostwriter, and a film was in development at Universal with Angela — AKA Brandi Love — executive producing.

Speaking of Love, Angela was in love with Paula, considered her her latest soul mate, but Angela also loved that she was taking a break from men, who’d caused so much havoc in her life. As Angela often told her new A-list friends, the best part about Paula was she didn’t have a dick, and without a dick you can’t get fucked.

On Golden Globes night at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, Angela and Paula were making a big splash. They’d already told the fashionistas at E! what they were wearing — Angela in Herrera and Paula in Dolce & Gabbana. Arm in arm during their entire stroll along the red carpet, they stopped for photos every few seconds and to do an interview for Ryan Seacrest. Then they posed for cast photos with Paul, Lindsay, and Colin, waved to John Stamos, Tom Hanks, and, of course, Jodie Foster, and chatted with other celebs including Jennifer Aniston and her new ex-boyfriend — both huge Bust fans — and with Robert Downey Jr. and his wife, Susan. Angela had a new movie project in development with Robby so it was all smiles but, the truth was, she was planning to dump the project in the morning. Robby was hot but not hot enough to get in on the Brandi Love bandwagon.

Angela didn’t want the night to end; she wanted the red carpet to stretch on for eternity. It was hard not to get emotional as she flashed back to the journey that had gotten her here: New Jersey, Dublin, New York, Greece, Attica, Butt Fuck Canada, London, and finally Hollywood. Her life had been like the most challenging maze in the world with so many dead ends, but she’d finally found a way out and emerged onto the red carpet of the Golden Globes. It felt a lot like destiny.

It felt a lot like destiny . Great line, she’d have to remember to remind Paula to include this in the book.

Then Paula said: “Oh my God, I can’t believe who I just saw.”

Angela was smiling for a paparazzo, maybe the image for the next cover of People , and then noticed Paula staring at something in the distance.

“Who?” Angela asked. She couldn’t see for herself, more flashes blinding her.

“It’s impossible, of course,” Paula said. “I have to be imagining it.”

“Who?” Angela asked again, hoping Paula had spotted Brad Pitt. Angela imagined convincing Brad to ditch Angelina later at the after-parties. Would Angela swing back the other way for Brad? Hell, yeah. For all her big talk, she was getting bored with being a lesbian, and writers could be depressing as hell. Besides, it was about time to reinvent herself again and fook Brangelina. Brangela had a better ring to it.

“Brad Pitt?” Angela asked.

“No...”

Angela was smiling for another photo and only turned to look after Paula said:

“...Phil Hoffman.”