Today is a lovely day...

*CLICK*

Fuhgeddaboudit! It's hard to count how many people are stressing over their jobs and duties. One girl is traumatized after seeing heads in jars. Another girl is pregnant and mulling over the paternal truth. Some other girl is using drugs for suicide, and that backfired when she baked herself in a tanning bed. Another girl should be in a mental rehabilitation after she assaulted a man (and we know it was all on her, never his fault). Then there's the posh party prank princess on television, not in real life. The other Minkus interns shouldn't be counted out, either.

*CLICK*

How are select women getting by? Drugs? Sex? Why can't they use their money to see a real doctor, hmm?! We're in a society where everyone has issues. People have dirty little secrets, and that includes celebrities residing in New York. It's my girlfriend's job to expose them, and she uses the most resourceful tools to make it happen. I pride myself on being her most resourceful tool.

*CLICK*

The girls may be stressed out, but I still have my own problems, too. I hate that I don't have much help around the place. I'm supposed to return to my own house, but here I am at the Minkus International penthouse, tending to an intern who will never look at a head the same way.

*CLICK*


I am... awake? I should not be awake. It's only seven in the morning. Sleeping for three to four hours should make me still tired, but I'm not. I can feel the circles under my eyes, but I don't want to sleep. Once again, a man named Mr. Happy came to greet me in the form of seven and a half inches that needs attention.

As I closed my eyes, I imagined that Riley's mouth was my hand. Remembering that last time that I came, she took the head in her mouth despite her looking and feeling wrecked from my doing. Now I know why mad sex is good sex. It can get tiring, however. That can't be why I still feel tired. Stroking up and down, the warmth slowly rose and oozed from the head. My thumb smeared the clear stuff around, making sure to lubricate the most sensitive spot. The image that burned in my head was that of Riley, and I could not wait to see her again.

What I heard almost killed the mood.

The girl in my bed, Rolanda, groaned as she turned over, but she was still asleep. Black tears stained her mocha face, much like Riley's face was when I last had sex with her. Her half-and-half hair was disheveled. It's like everything she does reminds me of Riley. I can't win. The mixed feelings of wanting someone to fuck and belonging to someone were hurting me. I couldn't bear the thought of betrayal, even though that is part of my job... indirectly.

I turned away on my side to face away from the girl and focus on suffocating my snake. Remembering to show it who's boss, I gripped it, changing the color of the head from pinkish red to bruisy purple. As I returned to stroking, it struck me. While it may have been the white ropes of sperm that graced my abdomen and left pectoral, the reality is that love is love, and sex is sex. I know who loves me, and it's the girl whom I wish were in bed with me, not some copycat.

I grabbed a tissue and cleaned the minor mess from my midsection and manhood. This was probably the least painful session that I've had in quite some time, and I feel strangely grateful. The blood flow returned to normal, and Rolanda had disappeared somewhere.

"BLLEECCCCHHH."

As I heard a beeyou in my head, I grabbed the telephone and dialed a telephone number that this situation was warranting. After 30 seconds, someone answered, and I responded in return.

"Hi, may I speak with Isadora, please? Yes, I'll hold."

My tired eyes rolled around the room, and I noticed the light still turned on in the bathroom. Then I heard water running. She can't be running a bath now...

"Smackle, it's me," I responded, and she knew immediately. "Are you certified to do hypnotherapy? I just want to know if you can do it or not. It's not for me. It's for–" I stopped short in my speech.

The water shut off, and Rolanda stepped into the tub. I was ready to rid myself of the girl with hair akin to a split personality. What would be the best way to tell her that she means nothing to me now? How would she take it? Pffft, Minkus, if she's nothing, why do you care how she reacts? Mulling long and hard over what my answer was in regards of my relation to her, I took the first step. Okay, fine.

"She's neither."


(excerpt from Maya Hunter, Maya Hunter)

Josh and I drove to Bradford Photography to find answers to questions that still linger in my mind. While the shotgun of his Challenger provided some comfort to my well-being, I had fought myself tooth and nail to feel like I look presentable. I'm at that point where I hate my life, and I have Missy Bradford to thank. And Josh... before he hypnotized me.

We entered the outlet and noticed the atmosphere right away. It smelled secondhand-store musky. My nose inhaled the chemicals. Photographic evolution painted the walls, yet everything shaded brown. Bradford Photography sunk to a low for studios. Even Farkle's private shed in his backyard is superior to this place.

"Welcome to Bradford's, can I help you two with anything?" the owner, a 40-something dud gamer guy with a dad-bod and an unwashed ponytail wearing a Bradford polo and khakis, entered and asked.

"Hi," I began. "I spoke with your manager on the phone the other day about your records and Slutville?"

"Oh, Maya Butt-reeks," he remembered me, but as he blurted my little pseudonym, Josh and I kept our laughing stifled. "How did I not know Maya Hunter was on the phone?" he then recognized me. "What brings you to Bradford?"

"Did you know that Missy Bradford has been slandering me? A while ago, she threatened to publish a picture of me dancing with two of my friends on the cover. Guess who got in trouble? My friends. One had just got out of the ICU, and the other is a resident huckleberry. They were guys. Have you any idea why she has been taking pictures behind my back AND in front of my face?" I let myself loose.

"When did you first notice your pictures being taken without your permission? No, no, don't answer that. When were these photos brought to your attention?" the owner asked.

"In October? November?" I wasn't quite sure when. Maybe it's something Farkle can confirm later.

Josh stepped ahead of me to show the owner a photograph of that dreaded night. While the owner was not surprised at the least, he knew exactly what was next.

"Do you know who took this photo, sir?" Josh asked.

"Big," the owner examined the picture, "bald man," he kept pausing, "well in shape," he continued, "tried to hit on the girl with the bandaged pinky, but he was then threatened with pepper spray," he smiled as he finished the last sentence.

"How do you know this?" I questioned his answer. Maybe he was there that night?

"I was working security that night, monitoring the surveillance footage. Lots of paps were on the loose, and 'Baldy' was one of them," the owner confirmed.

"You got his number?" I suddenly asked.

The owner took to his computer to search for this so-called "Baldy" and where to find him. I then heard Josh whisper in my ear something about said photographer who most likely is picking a bone with me. I guess Uncle Boing and I will find out about that later.

Once we gathered the information, we were on our way out of that dusty place. A breath of fresh air made me feel a million percent better. However, Josh took a new job at the hospital that Smackle is working at, and I was going to be left alone with no one to comfort me. The car ride to my house was a big fat blur because I need Josh's help.


(we now come back to Dirty Deeds)

"Welcome, everyone, to the premiere of The Forsaken Separatists, starring Wade Capra and Evani Farrow. The movie, directed by Capra, centers around the themes of religion and abandonment. If there were anything to look forward to tonight, Farrow suggests that the cinematography is high-caliber. Coming from the actress's actress, that's saying a lot about the movie. Will it be nominated for the Oscars or the Golden Globes in a year and a half? We'll see when the time comes."

And here I am, snapping pictures for the magazine. So far, I've seen some of the crew members, some family members of the cast, and the cast's significant others. Brett Barricklow was also in attendance for tonight's little black tie affair. He has been walking around the dining area, trying to spike the champagne glasses before they've received their carbonated fill.

*CLICK*

"Hey, Wade, over here!" said one photographer.

Wade Capra just arrived, wearing a black button-down shirt untucked from charcoal gray slacks. His cuffs were rolled up to his elbows to display his tattoos. I cannot comprehend what he inked into his inner wrists. It's worth a try.

*CLICK*

To my surprise, here is the resident cheating girlfriend, Erica Bionx. She finally had the balls to show up to a public event! With Wade, no less! I eyed her up and down in her little black dress that defined her curves and little baby bump. Her shiny red peep-toe stilettos had that dissonant tone to her aesthetic. That's when I saw something on her ankle that looked like it was trailing a path. Does Erica realize that she's trickling blood between legs? I don't know if every other photographer can see what I'm seeing. The blood almost matches her orangish skin. Or is she peeing herself because she's pregnant? Nope, that's definitely blood.

*CLICK*

She lost the baby!

I called Erica toward me.

"BiBi, over here!" I bellowed.

She followed the sound of my voice until she saw my dark fedora. In a new twist, she was more than ecstatic to see me in the flesh.

"Farkle!" she ran to me and hugged me, almost crushing my camera between us.

"Oh, hey, there," I grunted, returning the embrace.

"How have you been?" she said in my ear.

"I'm good. Could you say the same?" I reciprocated.

"I am, Farkle. Why wouldn't I be?" she giggled, and we snapped a selfie.

*CLICK*

#InternLife

"I would head to the hospital after this," I murmured into her ear.

"Why? What's up, Minkie?" she asked cluelessly.

"I think you're hemorrhaging," I blurted.

"Thanks for letting me know," she said, breaking our embrace, trying to adjust herself until my words hit her. "Wait, WHAT?!" she looked at me upset as I prepared to take another picture.

*CLICK*

I snapped her reaction, and she fled. Capra was looking in the direction of her running, and he knew something was up. He can wait two, maybe three hours.

Arriving in a black limousine is the Hollywood couple of the New York cinema scene: Matt Truskin and Evani Farrow. They wore matching black suit-tie and pantsuit ensembles. Gotta love color coordination. They were never apart for a microsecond as they exited the limo and smiled at the cameras. Well, smiling and smirking. Matt Truskin was never known to say cheese in red carpet photos.

*CLICK*

Some jerk to my right blasphemously called Truskin out. What did Truskin ever do?

"Hey, you! Truskin! You, jackass!"

"Ha, ha, very funny," I read his lips.

*CLICK*

"Over here, Evani!"

Matt and Evani followed the voice of the next photographer, a roguish female with dark brown hair and a black baseball cap with the word "Sisters" embroidered in an Old English typeface, also colored black like the cap. Nice hat, I thought, but I needed to focus.

The photographers were eager to snap stills and publish them in their respective magazines that do not intrinsically stretch the truth. I, however, am not that kind of photographer. Those photographers want smiles and how-dos. Riley and I want candid accidents. I've found two tonight.

This one here makes three.

Amidst all the commotion, Matt Truskin and that jerk photographer are engaging in fisticuffs! I loves me the vicissitudes of some blasé cinematic debut.

*CLICK, CLICK, CLICKITY CLICK, CLICK, CLICK*

Security quickly ran to the two men and successfully separated them. I think they'll be facing charges soon, but someone named Attmay Uskintray will have the easier escape.

"Oh, my gosh, Farkle!"

I heard a familiar female voice from my left side. It's Evani.

"Evani!" I said, and we exchanged handshakes and cheek-kisses.

"You and me, we gotta play some Trivial Pursuit after the show tonight," she said.

"Oh, wow, you want a rematch already?" I replied immediately, only to regret as my words with girls fail me once again.

"We'll go back to our condo. No strings attached," she proposed.

Damn it, that last bit had to weave its way in the offer. With the star of the movie's offer still on the table, I had to be succinctly honest. It couldn't have been more bone-chilling than watching a baseball pitcher throw the change-up for a strikeout. I should know. I'm a witness.

"Thanks, but I have a girlfriend," I rejected.

"So, don't do anything naughty with us. It's that easy," she understood.

Thinking of all the possible scenarios of telling Riley about another "affair," I caved.

"We'll see," I answered.

"Save you a seat at the movie," she also offered me a ticket that looked like a business card. "Gotta bail Matt out. Later!"

Just like Erica, Evani ran off. God, bless her. Other stars who arrived at the premiere were celebrities who have fallen victim to the Deeds. Exhibit A: the former transgender musician who de-transitioned after an epiphany. Exhibit B: a comedy actor who suddenly became the face of female-on-male abuse victims. And finally, Exhibit C: the publisher who is about to get what's coming to him if it hasn't already.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The showing will begin in 15 minutes with previews for upcoming films and then the feature presentation."

I hope this movie is a good one. I've read some reviews about the cinematography. Let's hope that Capra's directorial debut lives up to the hype.


(excerpt from Dr. Smackle's Boys)

I, Dr. Isadora Smackle, have become Dr. Doormat. Isadora, do this. Isadora, do that. Isadora, could you? Would you? Should you? Fuhgeddaboudit! I know what I'm useful for, and after negotiating with the owner of the hospital properties, I will be working in the psychiatric unit. I decided correctly after learning that an old colleague of mine has been committed against her will by one Farkle Minkus.

She comes to me with mentally traumatizing images that have hindered her hierarchy of needs. Granted, this has happened most recently, her confuzzling backstory was the cherry on top to her admission.

When my cohort and I entered her private bedroom, the girl was shivering in an upward fetal position. Her skin paled whiter than her normal mocha tone. Icy blue eyes were dilated to the core. Pearly white teeth chattered. Sadly, the blankets helped little to satiate my patient. The half-washed hospital gown that she donned was what it was – a half-washed hospital gown that shall not belong on anybody's body.

"Rolanda, this is Josh Matthews. He's an apprentice of mine. We will be working with you through therapy until you feel that you are capable of leaving the facility to flourish alone," I addressed.

"You're the one who came up with that hypnosis idea," the half-blonde half-brown-haired woman murmured, puzzling me.

"Do you have anything to do with this?" I asked Josh, and he shushed me to plead the fifth. "Just don't fuck her. You're on your own, pal," I deadpanned before fleeing the scene. It was his turn to be confused.

I left Josh to take care of Rolanda. When I say, "take care," this time, I hope he uses his hypnosis techniques to bring Rolanda out of this post-traumatic funk. She's seen heads, cut off, in jars. To a medical professional, it shouldn't sound that bad. As a human being who happens to be a medical professional, heads in pickle jars already sound horrible as is! I can tolerate the occasional pair of tonsils, lost teeth, and even appendices. When there's a severed head in a jar like that futuristic cartoon show where that head wants to dominate the world, something had better be off about whomever is in possession.


NEWSBREAK

Actor Matt Truskin has been arrested after engaging in a brawl with an unknown photographer, who was also arrested, at the New York Premiere of The Forsaken Separatists. The charges pending include assault and battery. Truskin has just made bail. The photographer in question has yet to post bail.


(and now, we return to Dirty Deeds)

If there were a better drama than the movie I just saw, then may lightning strike me and end the debate right now.

I had taken Evani up on her offer and played a round of Trivial Pursuit, just the two of us in her apartment that she shared with Matt. Matt went to bed after being bailed out. I kept her company as if I had a choice. Then I kicked her ass to the curb.

"In Egyptian hieroglyphs, the symbol of a decorated eye most commonly represents the Eye of which god?" Evani read off the card to me.

I don't think I've been to Egypt before, but I do know my hieroglyphics like the back of my hand, thanks to Mr. Matthews aka Riley's father. A drawing of an eye with an eyelid, and a curly cue starting from the inner corner on its way out... too generic.

"Horus," I answered.

"Right," Evani sighed in disbelief. She knows I'm too good for this game.

Evani then took the dice and rolled doubles for a ten. She moved her circle ten spaces to land on a green space.

"Your turn to read?" Evani asked.

"Uh-huh," I murmured as I took a card to read the question from the green bullet point. "How many feet are there in a fathom?" Six.

"A fathom is, like, a wingspan, right?" she babbled in that girly voice of hers. Kill me. Kill me now. Airhead. "Given that my wingspan is almost six feet because I'm five-nine, give or take, I'd say six."

"You suck," I gave her the signature Farkle death glare.

"Thank you, Farkle," she smiled at me. Stupid shit-eating grin.

"You're up," Evani placed the dice in my palm. I rolled a seven, and landed on the blue wedge space.

"Why can't I ever send you to Abu Dhabi?" I sarcastically asked her as she picked up the card to read it.

"Because I will get whacked," she responded in the same tone akin to my sarcasm. Well played. "What country is Ulan Bator the capital of?" Evani asked.

"Mongolia," I said without missing a beat, placing a blue wedge into my circle to complete the pie.

She huffed loud enough to mimic a noisy circus elephant.

"Guess what? This game is over!" she flipped the board, sending our circles and wedges flying.

"But that's the answer, E. Face it. I won this game outright. Accept it. Live with it. Move on. Just like you forgot to when you banged Wade at his house party last summer," I said just when Matt walked in to get a glass of water. "And not to mention, I think there's someone else in the picture."

"Excuse me?!" Matt said, turning around to face me.

I looked around, trying to find something to distract them with, but no dice. Hah, oh, well.

"Bye!" I said, standing up and snapping a reaction photo before fleeing...

"Matt, I can explain," Evani began before I was out the door.

"Oh, honey, I've known about Wade for weeks! Then he told me that there's someone else! How could you?!" Matt stomped his feet.

Then Evani screamed something incoherent. Matt retaliated, maybe got physical with her... that's all I heard before the elevator closed. Hmph, it must be her medication from the car accident. However, I did leave behind that tape. Maybe that'll give her the closure she ached for.

After returning home, I spent time in the shed developing the film. I couldn't believe Riley wanted the premiere photos P.D.Q. Everything at my best, and it aches because it's not enough. Once all the film was developed, I nitpicked the good photos for the magazine to top the 8x10 stack, and left the rest to be another flipping page. Maybe those negatives will get Riley's attention if she decides to use them. The final products were placed in a Manila envelope labeled "P.D.Q." I called Lucas to my house so he can relay the photos to Riley at work. I'm too tired to even want to get into my car and drive the photos to the office myself. I can't believe that actually worked.

About an hour later, I said hello to my bed. As I slept and dreamt, I couldn't help but be grateful that I have Dirty Deeds. I know I made the right decision earlier. Now, herein lies the question: If the Deeds publishes the truth, no matter how much damage they do to themselves to get it, what would happen if someone came to their senses? They'd still get the truth, but at what price? A lost pinky? A dirty dance? Sex?! Why can they not value themselves anymore? I should be asking myself that. If my conscientious regret were coming to me too late, would I still have my job? Would I still have Riley? Would I have anybody?

My body had tangled up in the shiny black-brown comforter that smelled like a special brunette who must be next to me the next time we meet. After two hours of sleep, I fought sleep for the next.

Then my phone buzzed under my pillow. Dirty Deeds is calling me? Now? Well, the movie premiere did fill up their next issue, meaning writers had to work overtime. Usually, the overtime is two hours past closing. Not four. I pressed ANSWER.

"Hello?"


(from Riley's Rebellion)

Farkle let me down. He took the pictures, but developing the film will take more than a day. I don't have that long before the next issue goes to press! My ass is on the line here!

I sat at my desk, fingers pressed into my temples as my staff writers worked overtime to publish the red carpet drama from tonight's little movie premiere featuring two of my favorite play things, Evani Farrow (I hear she's about to have a falling out with Matt) and Wade Capra (whose girlfriend's legs had a line of blood inside either leg, meaning she probably lost the baby). Matt Truskin had his fair share of fighting, so much so he got arrested and bailed out within three hours. And then there's my publisher, Brett Barricklow, getting intoxicated while doing the same to others. What has this world come to?

One of my writers knocked on my open door, and I beckoned him to enter.

"Riley, these just came in for you," Lucas's voice brought me to attention. "Who, may I ask, is P.D.Q.?"

"It's an acronym," I briefly answered. "I figured it would get the attention of the sender instead of ASAP. I gave him specific directions because there were many photographers at that premiere. I can't get them mixed up, nor can they with me and the Deeds," I answered with elaboration, opening the envelope to spill the pictures.

"Well, Farkle wanted to stop by to give them to you personally, but you two aren't speaking, he said?" he questioned, not knowing the whole story.

"I kind of lost a bet and can't talk to him until my week is up," I summarized, looking at Lucas's facial hair.

"Oh, he's got you in on our game, too, huh?" Lucas quipped. "What game did you play, and why was I not involved?"

"Okay, you're missing the point, Lucas," I interrupted him, ready for him to leave. "Resume your writing. Nobody leaves until I can confirm the drafts," I commanded as I watched him exit my office.

Then I missed the point about the games until I recalled that night Lucas sang one of the most perverted and sexual songs to a majority of women audience. My mind also jumped to that image of Farkle and Lucas in drag, engaging in a grind with Maya. And now, I'm in the mix because I lied about Farkle. He just wanted a vain break from the drama! What will happen to me once I begin playing? What about Farkle?

Speaking of which, I hate talking about this because that tryst wasn't even supposed to occur, even though I felt much better afterwards. I shouldn't ever tell him that I've been dying to go back. The Promised Land is the only place that makes me want to flourish. He's the best at taking me there, and everyone knows it. I dreaded picking up that phone. My week hasn't run the course yet. Like a honeybee harboring honey from pollen, or whatever way that works, I needed Farkle right about now. Other than my hands and a purple plastic buzzing thing, his presence and embrace are the only things that will alleviate this stress.

I picked up the phone and dialed his cell phone number, hoping to God he's home. After two series of boops, he answered, and I sighed.

"I need to see you tonight."