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What the ever-loving fuck.
But, it’ll give me time to plot my revenge. I’ve got a lot of options. He could wake up with paparazzi hanging upside down outside his window to get shots of him sleeping naked across triplet prostitutes. That could be fun.
Of course, I would have to arrange for the prostitutes also, and I’m not sure I have a connection for that anymore after the last time. Royce explicitly outlawed unapproved female companionship, and he didn’t think it was funny when I procured a few conference ladies from Taiwan to “entertain” Brock until he was horny and mostly unconscious. He made it clear I was not to defy his rules again.
Without chicks, my options are limited but not impossible. I could sneak some shellfish into his dinner. Most of what he eats are those girly chopped salads anyway. He probably wouldn’t even notice until it was too late. But I guess there’s always a chance he’d actually go into anaphylactic shock and die, which makes the joke slightly less funny.
Cutting brake lines, adulterating his gas tank, flattening the tire of his racecar… Jeez. I am going to have to come up with something slightly less murderous. Maybe I should think about it another time so I can aim for funny instead of likely to get me locked up in prison for the rest of my life.
I’m assuming juries would find me less than likable if I bumped off my twin brother as revenge for taking our private jet back to Chicago without leaving me another one. People can be so petty.
He didn’t even spring for expedited boarding or anything. Brock is a fucking jerk. Even though we look the same, we sound the same, and people constantly get us mixed up for one another, he’s definitely more evil than me. Definitely. I don’t care what anybody says.
For instance, he is constantly copying my facial hair. If I get a haircut, he gets a haircut. If I get three-day stubble, he has three days’ stubble. He must have surveillance in every bathroom in our hotels. The penthouses, at least. Because somehow he always, always knows what I’m doing with the hair above my neck. And he thinks it’s hilarious to always have the same thing going.
See? Absolutely diabolical.
I practice some deep-breathing exercises that a certain actress/guru taught me, in order to relax. In for a count of three, hold it, out for a count of three. I mean, she taught them to me as a way to get me to double my load when I come. To my surprise, it kind of works.
It also is supposed to line up my theta waves or some bullshit like that. How they manage to get into my ball sack is a whole other mystery. But for right now, it’s helping me get through the security line, winding through the cattle chute like an ordinary citizen.
When I finally get up to the TSA checkpoint, I hand the agent my ticket and smile. She is short and squat, obviously worn down from a lifetime of watching her American brothers and sisters file through the line in front of her. I can only imagine her overwhelming sense of weariness and disgust. So I smile at her, hoping to brighten her day and get through this line a little faster.
“Something funny, sir?” she asks me menacingly.
I am totally confused. “Funny? No, not at all. I can barely find anything funny about this at all, um, Shawna. What a lovely name.”
Her upper lip curls like she’s snarling. Jesus. What the hell happened to this woman?
“You realize I’m authorized to detain you for any reason, sir? You realize that making threats to a federal agent is a crime?”
I hold my hands up to show that I am innocent.
“Shawna, my deepest apologies. Sincerely. I’m sorry.”
She stares at my boarding ticket like she’s looking for any possible errors she might use to kick me right out of the airport. At this point, I’ve given up hope of flirting my way out of this line. I’ll be happy to just not be arrested.
Oh, this is the most obnoxious practical joke ever. Brock is going to rue this day.
Honestly, just how allergic is he to shellfish? I mean, he probably wouldn’t die, right? It could be comedy gold.
Finally she picks up a stamp and jams it against the ink pad, then smacks the front of the boarding pass and hands it back to me without another word. She cranes her head to the side and holds up a hand with scarlet, spiky fingernails, gesturing to the person behind me.
“Next!”
“Yeah, hi, I don’t know if I have everything I need?” comes a throaty voice from a little pipsqueak of a woman. She pushes up next to me, dragging her heavy, workmanlike boots against my fine Italian loafers.
“Watch the shoes, please,” I mutter mostly to myself.
She looks up at me, startled. She’s got big brown eyes and a glossy bob that sweeps the top of her forehead. She looks like a little porcelain doll, with a distinctly sassy attitude.
“Excuse me? Aren’t you done?” she challenges me, one sable eyebrow arching imperiously.
“Sir? Do I need to call an officer to escort you?” Shawna begins to yell. She’s winding up like an air raid siren, giving me the distinct impression that this is my warning shot.
“Yes I’m done… but you need to show her your boarding pass,” I say as I back away, holding my hands up higher.
She takes a deep breath and pouts, shuffling papers in her hand. Finally she holds them all out to Shawna and shrugs helplessly at her. Shawna picks them from her hands with her long claws, jiggling one from the bunch and holding it up like it is some kind of biohazard.
