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“Why wasn’t I told we were shooting a fucking show?” Candy Vargo shouted.
“Clearly, you were, asshat,” Cher said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
Candy huffed and puffed. She wasn’t happy. “Thank goodness for Lilith. If she hadn’t told me what you fuckers were doing, I might have missed my shot at stardom.”
“What?” I asked, confused.
Candy Vargo rolled her eyes and flipped me off. “You told me I could pole dance on your TV show.”
I squinted at her. “Not sure I said those exact words.”
She ignored me. “So, I’ve come to pole dance on your show. Where’s the fucking pole?”
“Coming right up,” Stella said, snapping her fingers and producing a shiny stripper pole right smack in the middle of the living room set. She drilled it into the floor with her boobs. That DIY move elicited applause. Because, you know… boobs.
“Now you’re talking,” Candy said, admiring the pole. “Sushi, you got a costume for me?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“No worries. I brought my own.”
The Keeper of Fate removed her sweatpants and baggy sweater. Underneath, she wore an old-timey, purple polka-dot swimsuit with a bustle. It was the antithesis of what one would wear while sliding—or falling, in Candy’s case—on a pole. Sushi groaned in disgust and walked away. The outfit was a tragedy of a spandex dress with a big pink ruffle on the butt. Candy pulled out a red swim cap from her cleavage and put it on. Her black socks and mismatched tennis shoes were the icing on top of the poop cake.
“How do I look?”
“Great,” I lied. “I’m not sure you have any lines.”
“Don’t matter,” she assured me. “I’ll be on the pole the entire time. If I think of something interesting to say, I’ll just ad lib.”
“Awesome.”
“PLACES,” Cher shouted.
Bean was behind the camera, ready to roll. Ophelia, who’d found a beret somewhere, was in her director’s chair. It wasn’t her best look, but she had Candy’s swimsuit and Corny’s underpants beat. Uncle Joe hovered in the air above the camera, his hands clasped in delight. Stella was with Cher at the light and sound boards.
Abaddon called my dad to start the livestream. Shit was getting real.
Cher let out a whistle. “Places every one!”
Corny sat down on the couch in his grundies. Both Moon and Fifi were waiting for their cues on the upstage side of the front door hidden from view. Irma was perched on the loveseat, looking very green in the face. I made a mental note to keep a healthy distance. Jonny sat down next to Corny on the couch. I went to my mark at the entryway to the kitchen. Candy Vargo hopped up on her pole, fell off, cussed like a sailor and tried again. This was going to be interesting.
“Quiet on the set,” Cher bellowed.
“Lights! Camera! Action, bitches,” Ophelia called out.
It was all I could do not to laugh.
The theme music blasted through the speakers. It was catchy and cheesy. The canned laugh track was positively cringey. It was perfection. The prerecorded opener that Sean had made was next.
“Live from studio B at Keystone Studios in sunny LA, it’sThe Wicked Warehouse. Written entirely by the Shitty Whore aka Pandora! Sit back. Relax. And enjoy he show!” Sean’s voice boomed through the soundstage loud and clear. If there was any doubt about where we were, it had been quashed.
And the shitshow began…
Corny stood up and stretched. “Well, now, kiddledoodles. I think it’s time you people move out of my house and get your own places. You Demons are too old to be living with your pappy!”
“That’s funny, pops!” Jonny shouted, standing up and flexing his muscles—for a full minute. I didn’t recall that move from the script, but there wasn’t a stripper pole in the show, either. “I own this house.”
Canned laughter.
