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“Make my day,” Tiffany finishes for him. Her sad eyes meet mine, her good arm shoving a pillow as hard as possible against her nasty wound. “That’s the old line, right?” She starts to shake. “By the way, I don’t have health insurance, so your television show better cover this.”
A groan like iron plates grinding together comes from the heap of flesh called Stellan, his eyes glazing over, hands fruitlessly patting at what used to be his cock. Lindsay’s turned it into ceviche.
“Corning never told us this could happen,” John says through gritted teeth. “This wasn’t part of the deal when we told him we’d rough Lindsay up four years ago.” Safety’s off on both his weapons, and he has the haunted, hunted look of a man who’s coming to reckoning.
“Rough Lindsay up?” The fact that I just watched my girlfriend turn one of the men who ruined her life into a eunuch has me firmly convinced she can be trusted. I want her to look up, to check in, to give me a chance to read her and understand her next move, but she’s just a wall of tangled, dirty hair.
“Yeah. It was supposed to be in good fun. Slip her something, get on camera, make her look like a slut, ruin her dad. You know.” He shrugs like he’s describing how he cheated on a test.
“And me?”
“You were all Stellan’s idea, man. He wanted insurance. Said you’d go nuts and ruin us.”
He casts nervous glances at Stellan, who is still breathing but clearly nonverbal. I hope the motherfucker is in so much pain every single sperm is screaming.
“That’s not fake blood, is it?” Tiffany says, hysterical, as she watches Stellan pass out. “Oh, my God!” Her panic winds up, her eyes catching everyone’s looking around the room.
Then she looks at the television and screams,”We’re on TV!”
Hysteria can do some fucked up damage to people. I ignore her.
Lindsay, though, looks up and focuses her attention on the television screen.
Then she smiles.
The look in her eyes makes me flinch, so I turn and follow her gaze.
The split screen on the cable news show displays us. Here. Right here, in Tiffany’s living room.
Live.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?” John screams, his voice going high.
* * *
“...new footage, a second videotape from the attack on presidential candidate Senator Harwell Bosworth’s daughter, Lindsay, shows a shocking discovery: Hollywood actor Stellan Asgarth, major league baseball player John Gainsborough, and up-and-coming California state representative Blaine Maisri all unmasked and all involved in sexually assaulting her unconscious form. Digital media experts confirm that the video footage is real and undoctored...”
* * *
The cable news announcer’s voice is flat and unemotional until her voice goes into a gasp, then the live feed from Tiffany’s apartment goes black for a few seconds, resuming with Lindsay’s body pixelated to cover her nakedness.
* * *
“We’ve received word from some webcam fans of a woman known on the Internet only as ‘Sexonda Beach’ that fans witnessed the live feed in her apartment and alerted law enforcement when men with guns, knives, and a naked woman suddenly appeared on camera. Police crews have been -- ”
* * *
“HOLY FUCK!” John shouts.
“I knew my live feed would come in handy some day!” Tiffany gushes.
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” John screams.
And then it comes together for me. Tiffany’s “camera work.”
Sexcam work.
“I run a live streaming webcam show from my house,” she explains, standing slowly, walking over to a fern and waving her good arm. “Before Drew came over, I made sure my live feed was set up so they could all cheer me on as I filmed my big break.” She blows a kiss at the fern. “Hi, guys! I love you! Thank you for taking good care of me!”
