Chapter 7

“I am gross and perverted, I’m obsessed n’ deranged.
I have existed for years, but very little has changed.
I’m the tool of the Government, and Industry, too.
For I am destined to rule and regulate you.
I might be vile and pernicious, but you can’t look away.
I make you think I’m delicious with the stuff that I say.
I’m the best you can get. Have you guessed me yet?
I’m the slime oozing out from your TV set.”
-Frank Zappa, “I’m The Slime“

“In five ... four...”

The technician finished the countdown with his fingers and pointed at Contessa Helena de San Finzione. She sat in a Louis XV chair, completely naked except for jewelry. Emerald earrings and her tiara adorned her head. Her wedding ring, her signet ring, and the small emerald pendant she wore, dangling above her bare breasts were the only other objects on her body. Next to her, sitting on a couch that looked a lot like the one her parents had were Sally and Cara, America’s Favorite Fifty-Something Early-Morning Drinkers; or rather, distorted versions of them, reminding her of pictures of Sensory Homunculi with their giant hands that held wine glasses bigger than their gargantuan ears; enormous chins with exaggerated lips and mouths. The first time Helen saw one, she’d thought it was a figurine of some racist old-time cartoon character before being informed that it was a neuroscientific research tool.

A blistering metal version of the “back from commercial” jingle that Helen thought was an improvement from the original started and the Sally and Cara-Things began animatedly pretending to be in the middle of talking about something, their exaggerated gestures of excitement about the imaginary subject causing pints-at-a-time of wine to slosh out of their glasses.

“And we’re back,” the Cara-Thing said to the camera. “Our guest today likes to think she’s accomplished a lot, but if that’s the case, why’s she naked in our studio?” Helen now noticed that she was naked. Out of the corners of her eyes, she could see some of the crew and members of the audience (“Hmm,” she thought. “This show doesn’t usually have a studio audience.”) looking directly at her had started touching themselves, and she imagined a sizable portion of the home audience were gazing upon her naked form, their hands slowly starting to move down to between their legs. Helen wasn’t sure if she was more embarrassed that all over the globe, people were simultaneously masturbating to the sight of her nude body on live television or more aroused that one of her deepest fantasies was currently being fulfilled.

“That’s right, Cara,” the Sally-Thing chimed in. “She’s the offspring of a no-good piece-of-shit and his murder victim, and if her friends hadn’t taught her to control minds, she’d either be dead, stripping, or streetwalking right now. After she used it to get revenge, she married a rich European noble for his money and throne, turning the true heir into her lesbian sex slave. Please welcome Helen Parker, ladies and gentlemen!”

The audience applauded. Helen frowned. Only four people in the world had her permission to use that name, and neither of these two were Troy, Julie, Susan, or Barbara Walters. Helen opened her mouth to say something before Sally spoke again.

“Now Helen, you were a COMPLETE slut in school. I mean, how many of the boys joked about ‘Parking with Parker?’” The audience laughed. Helen sat up. Yes, everything they were saying was true, but she wasn’t going to sit idle for it.

“This isn’t the interview I was promised,” she said. “But since you’re clearly fishing for ratings here, yes. I found it was an easy way to keep from having to go home and deal with Wade. That joke predated me, though. It was started over someone else for the same reason.”

“Oh, yes,” The Cara-Thing said, stroking her chin in a gesture that took a second or two because of the size of both her chin and her hand. “The older sister that nobody talks about; who ran off before you were old enough to even pronounce her name. What was it again?”

“Persephone.” Helen replied. It had been so long since she’d said it, the name felt strange on her lips; a dimly-remembered sense-memory like the taste of a candy from childhood that hasn’t been made in years. “Yeah, Paneffee! Right. That’s how I said it then. Oh, she didn’t come to either funeral; I figure she’s gotta be dead by now or she’d have shown up looking for money or something long ago.”

“Wow, Mom was into Mythology, wasn’t she,” The Sally-Thing chimed in. “That’s right, Persephone. The one who stole all Wade’s guns, sold them for a quarter their value for cash to hop a plane to LA, and was never seen again. Is that right?”

Helen started laughing, her breasts seeming to jiggle lazily, like Father Time Himself was also watching and enjoying the free show, and was extending each moment of time as it applied to her tits to savor the sight of Helena’s erect nipples.

“The best part ... he took it out on us mercilessly for it, of course, but still, the BEST part ... was HE’D stolen them first!” She continued to laugh and thrust her chest forward to give Chronos a better view. “So, he couldn’t even get them back! And the fucker was on probation too! If he’d even SAID they were his, they’d have locked him back up!” Helen stopped to catch her breath, but started talking again before she’d caught it.

“He ... he started taking me to pawn stuff with him ... cause they gave him a better deal if he brought his little girl with him ... and he’d get this sad look when he’d check out the gun racks. It took me years to figure out why! Because it was ... it was the grave of his little John Dillinger ‘World-Famous ... Notorious Bank Robber’ dreams!” Her laughter died down and a hand began snaking up to her breast.

“That’s right,” The Cara-Thing said, in exactly the way one might if one were slowly drawing a knife and staring at the vulnerable back of the foolish hero of a western, walking behind him along a ledge in a torchlit abandoned mine. “Now, he died of multiple shank wounds in prison brawl, which you used this power to make him provoke, and then it failed you today, and now you’ve been shanked too. How does that make you feel?”

Helen had to think about that for a moment, and why the memory felt so odd.

“Hmm ... see the poetry there, certainly. Not sure why the thing didn’t work. Oh wait! That just happened a little bit ago, didn’t it? How long ago was that?”

“Oh, who can tell, “Cara-Thing said. “You passed out pretty quick there. About the time Maisson was ripping off your clothes.”

“Yeah, he’s good at that,” Helena said wistfully, then something dawned on her. “Oh, GOD no! This is one of those fucking Near-Death Vision things, isn’t it? I hoped those were all movie bullshit.”

“Nope,” said Sally-Thing. “it’s happening, all right. Contessa Helena de San Finzione,” The audience chanted along with her. “THIS! IS! YOUR! DEATH!”

“Well, maybe,” Cara-Thing butted in. “I mean, you’re a hot, rich, famous white chick, so they’re probably trying real hard to save you up there. Out there. Down there. We don’t know how this works, to be honest.”

“Ok,” said Helena as she tried to bring the left side of her brain into the conversation and her right hand joined her left in slowly exploring her breasts. “This isn’t a concussion thing, because someone would have doped me up or brought me out of it by now, and if it was a nightmare, I’d have woken the fuck up when you two first started looking creepy. Not like Sally and Cara’s usual ‘too damn happy to be trying to seem relevant at 4 am’ creepy; but like what anti-drug cartoons try to bullshit kids into thinking you see on drugs.”

Cara-Thing answered her.

“We could be all of those catching up with you, who knows? Point is, you’re stuck here and you’re going to have to ride it out.”

“Well, this is all in my head, right? Do I have any control over it?” Helena asked.

Sally-Thing answered her. “The whole world is staring at your naked body and can see you’re getting turned on by it while you’re being interviewed by grotesque mockeries of people you detest on too visceral a level to even hate-fuck...”

Helena cut her off excitedly.

“I know this one! It’s because my True Father and My Husband were both senior citizens the whole time I knew them! I have a great respect for the elderly as a result! I’m no morning person, but I’ve become accustomed to waking up with the sun; and you’re the first people many of them see when they turn on the TV in the morning! I hold you in contempt for spoon-feeding them a steady diet of Pablum. That’s why I’ve been idly playing with my tits this whole time! Because that’s at least a cheap thrill, and that’s more than you cackling harpies have given them since trampolines were ‘the latest fad!’”