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Boris pointed at the kids and looked into the TV cameras. “The youth of America will not have their rights trampled. Don’t mess with Boris the Hateful Piece of Sh-AHH-OOOO-GAH!”
Boris’s notoriety exploded, and his appeal began overlapping all demographic lines. If you wanted to draw a crowd to your event, you hired Boris for a guest appearance. And you got your money’s worth, because although Boris was just under five and a half feet tall, he was just over four hundred pounds, most of which was not adequately bathed. Standing still in air-conditioning, Boris perspired like a yak. While songs played, Boris sat like a statue in his DJ chair with arms crossed, wearing dark sunglasses, a beatnik Jabba the Hut.
In the mutual-approval symbiosis of celebrity and fan, people constantly approached Boris as he sat motionless: “You’re the greatest, man!” “You’re a genius!” “You tell it like it is!”
Boris never acknowledged them-just continued sitting rigid, arms crossed, staring straight ahead in his sunglasses.
“Man, that is so cool!” said his fans.
It was a different story if it was a young girl. Then Boris broke his pose and whispered in her ear. The girl would yell over to her friends something like “Hey, guess what Boris just asked me! He’s a riot!”
They didn’t get it. They thought it was part of the act. No, Boris would say, I’m serious. I really want you to do that to me.
“You can’t be serious,” replied the last girl. “But you smell.”
“Of course I smell. I’m a piece of shit!”
“Get away from me, you fat freak!”
Boris shrugged and leaned back and crossed his arms.
Joh
“Yes it is,” came a reply. “And you wouldn’t believe what he just asked me to do.”
Joh
FCN was in Daytona Beach reporting the phenomenon of college student balcony falls. And it wasn’t just hotels anymore-anything of altitude would do: overpasses, parking decks, scoreboards at sporting arenas. While the FCN reporter spoke, a computer illustration showed the side of a beachfront hotel and a dotted line arcing from the top floor down to a large X on the pavement painfully shy of the swimming pool.
Joh
She shook her head.
“It’s true,” he said. “They used to go by standard Mexican cliff-diving clearances and then add a percentage as a deterrent. But spring break queered the whole equation. All the drinking. Everyone’s depth perception is fucked.”
“What kind of yutz would dive from the fourteenth floor?” asked If.
“I’d rather hit something with my speedboat,” said Joh
“You have a speedboat?” If asked, her face lighting up.
“Used to,” Joh
“Oh,” she said, and her smile dropped along with her eyes.
Joh
“Not a nine-twenty-four, I hope,” she said with reserve.
“No way! Nine-eleven. Convertible.”
“Airfoil on the trunk?”
“And Luther Vandross on the CD.”
If began to purr, and Joh
Joh
If looked up and saw Toto the Weather Dog spi
Joh
He’d forgotten about her as he trolled the party without result. Two hours later, with no further success in hand, Joh
Seconds after Joh
Amid the swirling lights and dry-ice fog, there was a tremendous crash-then a huge ca
The waves from the splash lapped against the tempered glass and churned up bottom gunk, hazing the view. Two docents climbed down to the tank from a maintenance ladder. Guests began to make out bits of brightly colored cloth with a floral pattern, a tan Birkenstock, purple fa
“It’s…” someone said, then filled with dread, “…a college student!”
J oh
As the numbers on the abandoned buildings approached the appointed street address, Joh
Joh