Brain Fade

I once hurt a famous girl. I shan't say who though I shall say why. Her scent, not a perfume but an odour; a smell that permitted from her pores, attracted me to her.



Passing her that quiet night, she reminded me of my sister, the whore, a strumpet by any and all accounts; the one who still called my father for money. A realisation which worked to assure me that I too may find refuge in the sanctimony of her protective value. 



Action, something I hadn't planned but was about to take, seemed the next logical step in my elaborate and spontaneous - though calculated - plan. So, after she met my gaze with a look of disgust and dismay in her eyes, I trailed her unsuspecting tail to the lobby of ill repute where the famous people sat scribbling their soon to be irrelevant names on paper, photographs and 'priceless' memorabilia. 



She, the leading lady in the critically acclaimed motion picture, recognised me from the scene on the street as I approached her with 100 copies of our film's poster, plonking them down on the ornate wooden table. "Sign them, please" I  asked politely. I watched her intently making sure that she would mark everything I pushed under her nose with the black ink she so delicately wielded in her left hand. 



Once 15 minutes had passed I picked up my stack and I turned to the cue of some 40 or more men and women behind me; some actors like myself, and some common people from the street who had watched the filming. I pulled my gun on the crowd and waved them away in an effort to preserve the value of my 100 pieces. A fatal error of judgment was the production company's failure to provide armed security that day. Now I faced her and without a second thought shot her in the head. 



No doubt I should have felt guilt having seen the beautiful mess I'd created but the opportunist in me knew the real price of my actions, a fine premium added to the signatures I gripped firmly to my chest.