Daniel Price - Slick

“I don’t think so. No.”

She laughed again, then took a long sip of her cocktail. “You know, you think you’re such a bad-ass.”

“I don’t think I’m a bad-ass at all. I actually think I’m quite a good-ass.”

“Well, you’re an ass. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Good enough. At the moment I was just ass-tired. The whole Keoki operation had taken a lot out of me, and not because of Deb’s little tongue-lashing. I was impervious to the scorn of others, but when it came to the media, I was a smitten little boy. If you asked anyone in the world to personify American culture, they’d probably describe the stereotypical supermodel: moody, shallow, vacuous, easy to make fun of, but shamefully hot. Face it, everybody wanted her attention. She didn’t have to respect us, she just had to let us touch her. Personally, I didn’t even care if she knew my name. I was a grand-scale Cyrano. I wooed her through others. But today I had sent her one hell of a note. I was dying to know what she thought of it.

At the stroke of five, I got my answer.

The most frustrating part of my job was that I had absolute control over every part of the story except the outcome. I thought my timing would be brilliant. I figured February 1 was a perfect day for mass nudity. And it would have been, if it weren’t for a fifteen-year-old girl named Annabelle Shane. She trumped me. The goddamn kid had an even better trick than mine.

________________

This morning, as I led my army of coeds toward the beaches of Kaikua’ana, young Annabelle decided that today would be the last day of her life. She’d been thinking about death for a couple of weeks, we assume, but was waiting for February sweeps to begin. Like me, she knew her TV business. Like me, she had a carefully planned agenda.

She was a wee little slip of a girl. Stick-thin, short, and surprisingly pale for a Tiger Woods-like crossbreed (Dad was black, Mom was Thai). But Annabelle knew she was pretty. She had sharp features, great skin, and her mother’s exotic eyes. She wasn’t happy with her chest, but whatever nature had cheated her of, science would provide. Annabelle had often told her friends that she was getting augmented as soon as she turned eighteen. After that, men would be her lapdogs. They’d conquer France if she asked them to.

Today, she’d chosen to make herself sexy. Her mother’s mascara, that hot little spaghetti-strap number. She took an extra hour to style her short, raven hair. That was it. She was primed and ready.

For the first time ever, she walked to school, trekking a mile and a half through Hollywood in high heels. No doubt she was feeling it by the time she got to Melrose Avenue High School, a sprawling three story complex just east of Fairfax. By then it was already 12:15. Miranda’s plane was just touching down on the Keoki airstrip when little Miss Shane primped herself up one last time and entered the crowded cafeteria. With an “odd intensity” (quoth witnesses), she joined her friends at their usual table. Hey, where have you been? Are you okay? Why you all dressed up?

Annabelle smiled awkwardly and then retrieved a Sony camcorder. It was her father’s toy. Ever since those digital video numbers hit the market, the old-school VHS-C cameras had plummeted in price and size. This one was $299 at Circuit City and small enough to fit in a teenager’s crowded book bag. Annabelle placed the camera in Gina’s hands. What is this, Anna? What are you doing?

“Just film me.”

Those were Annabelle’s last words. She kissed Gina on the forehead, took her book bag, and crossed to where the basketball crowd sat. The Raiders were oft-discussed figures at school, and not just for their winning record. When the prying ears of adults were far out of range, the players went by a different name. This had been the student body’s best-kept secret until today.

I can’t even begin to imagine the thoughts in Annabelle’s head as she pulled out a Glock 17 9mm pistol, a product I had personally helped position into action films and video games. The gun was her father’s other toy. His only weapon. She didn’t hesitate in firing it at the Melrose Raiders, otherwise known as the Bitch Fiends.

A Glock 17 is a powerful handgun, the weapon of choice for a number of law-enforcement agencies because of its ease of use and accuracy. In the hands of a hundred-pound neophyte shooter, however, it’s not the most precise instrument. Her first shot went through the cafeteria window, puncturing a dumpster. The second bullet missed Bryan Edison, the strapping co-captain of the basketball team, by a matter of inches before embedding itself into brick. The third round hit his teammate Gary Halperin in the right collarbone, shattering it. All three shots happened within three seconds. The Glock 17 is also known for its super-light trigger.

From that moment on, accounts vary widely. Some students say Annabelle was icy calm in the chaos she caused. Others say she was crying and screaming. The only fact was that she kept shooting. At Bryan Edison. In retrospect, there’s no doubt that Bryan knew exactly what her mission was. While half the students ducked under tables, Bryan fled with the rest. And Annabelle followed.

Expanded in 1992, the Melrose High cafeteria accommodated more than six hundred students. It was twenty times the size of the school’s basketball court. In the thirty seconds it took Bryan to make it to the doors, Annabelle fired twelve more rounds. Four of them hit walls. Seven hit bystanders. The final shot nailed Brian in the back of the head just as he reached the exit. He died before he hit the ground.

The Glock 17 is so named because its standard clip holds seventeen bullets. Annabelle brought no backup ammo, and was obviously saving the last shot for herself. It pierced her troubled mind, into her left temple and out through the right.

In the end, there were five dead students, including Bryan Edison and Annabelle. Four others were rushed to Cedars-Sinai with moderate to critical wounds. Out of all casualties, three were eventually confirmed as Bitch Fiends. The others had never even spoken to Annabelle. They only had the misfortune of standing near Bryan Edison.

At 1:11 p.m. Pacific time, the first hints of trouble hit the AP wires. No names. No figures. Just shots fired and casualties reported. Local news teams had flooded the scene by 1:30. The story cracked wide open at three o’clock, when reporters around the nation first spoke the words “Bitch Fiend.” In New York, viewers heard it from their favorite evening newscast. In L.A., the kids coming home from more fortunate schools got their first glimpse of the tragedy. And at Keoki Atoll, right at that moment, I was cluelessly faxing every newsroom in the country with my super-hot announcement: naked young women protest beach resort.

________________

“Damn.”

That was Miranda, at the Tiki Bar, watching the news. By then the story was hours old. It had already mushroomed into the heavens. I wasn’t sure if she was cursing at the tragedy of the situation or the fact that she was the last reporter in the United States to get wind of it.

“Shit.”

That was me, next to Miranda. I was cursing at the tragedy of the situation. I had worked damn hard on my VNR. I’d spent over half a million dollars of my client’s money. And thanks to one disturbed but media-savvy little girl, my Trojan horse became a big white elephant.

________________

So what is a Bitch Fiend?

To most of the reporters on the scene, it was simply the phrase that Annabelle had inscribed on the label of the controversial mini-tape. Some heard she’d include a tell-all suicide note. Others reported that there was allegedly a videotaped sex act involving Annabelle and one of the victims. Or two of the victims. Or one of the teachers. Who knew? The cops weren’t talking.