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Chapter 5 - Mr. 600

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No shit, I told kid 72 a lie about the uniforms, how they was shooting us out of order since they only rented the three Gestapo getups. The kid’s watching the movies we got playing overhead. For the movie, we’re talking On Golden Blonde. His eyes squirming with twin reflections of Cassie Wright, same as two tiny video monitors, his jaw hung wide open, the kid don’t give a rat’s ass what I got to say.
I tell the kid, “Don’t expect she’s going to look that good ...”
Kid 72’s eyes—light brown, same as mine used to look.

The girl up there, sucking the clit of Boodles Absolut, that girl used to say how she was going to rule the industry someday. That sweet young Cassie Wright, the way she told it, she could lick anybody in the world.
But, looking around this room here, the motley collection of dicks they cattle-called today, I’d say how her career’s turned out the other way around.
Kid 72 rolls his eyes all over Cassie and Boodles.
“That’s a joke I made,” I tell him and give him the elbow. Today, anybody in the world can lick her . . .
Some dude across the room, holding some kind of teddy bear under his arm, keeps eyeing me. Dude number 137, with a gold ring through one nipple. We’re talking stalker material here.
Really, I tell the kid, he’d better hope he gets called soon. The production company’s got a reason they’re calling this The Whore to End All Whores. Won’t nobody be setting a new record after today. What we do here will stand for the rest of human history. This kid, me, dude 137 staring at us—after today, we’ll have a place in the record books.
Kid 72, his eyes twitch and shift around on that video screen. His hands hold those roses close in and high against his chest, as if the flowers aren’t already garbage.
I tell him, “Don’t expect Cassie Wright is going to live through this ...”
No, it’s got nothing to do with only three Nazi uniforms. The wrangler calls back number 45, then number 289, then number 6, some crazy order of guys, but really it’s to hide the fact that those cameras will run even after Cassie Wright slips into a coma. There’s dudes here who will do the deed thinking she’s just asleep. Ain’t no human body that can take a pounding from six hundred hard-ons.
We’re talking one pussy fart getting pounded in too deep. Or eating snatch, one puff of air up inside her works and a bubble gets into her bloodstream. An embolism. That bubble zigzags all the way to her heart or brain, and it’s a fast fade-to-black for Cassie Wright.
Saying this, I’m watching another video monitor, Cassie blowing some dude in World Whore One. Dude’s lips plumped thick and red as a fag’s asshole. Great triceps definition. No fuzz on his nut sack. I take off my sunglasses, and that dude up there is me.
Kid 72 keeps watching Golden Blonde. Dude 137 keeps watching us.
The reason they’re shooting dudes out of order is so the editor can cut the pop shots together, one to six hundred. After that, Cassie will moan and flop around as much with number 599 as she does with number 1. In between, she’ll only lie there like she’s sleeping, but really in a coma. Or worse. Nobody here, none of us shmucks, will know any different than the official press release: “Adult Superstar Dies After Setting World Sex Record.”
Sure, she’s been in training. Kegel weights. Aerobics. Pilates. Yoga, even. Hard, as if she was set to swim the English Channel, but, hell, in the room back there, playing mattress underneath six hundred dudes—she’s being the English Channel.
“Another joke,” I tell the kid and give him the elbow.
But the truth is, won’t nobody call any ambulance until the set’s struck and this project is in the can.
No, any inquest happens, and every dick here will swear she was alive when he was humping away. We’re talking major denial. After that, the American public will piss and whine. To get media time, religious do-gooders will climb on the bandwagon. Rabid feminist types. The government will step in, and no babe will ever set any new record of 601.
Cassie will be dead, but us six hundred dicks here, we’ll go into the history books. Half us dudes will springboard off this—first-timers launching new careers, old-timers making comebacks. Every one of us wearing a T-shirt printed “I’m the Dick That Killed Cassie Wright.”
Cassie Wright will be dead, but her backlist of videos, everything from The Ass Menagerie to her all-facial compilation Catch Her in the Eye to the classic A Separate Piece, will turn into solid gold. Bang the Bum Slowly. Boxed collector-edition sets. The eternal Marilyn Monroe sacrificial goddess of adult entertainment.
This kid 72 keeps glued to the video monitor.
The wrangler comes by, the Sheila babe, and she scribbles “600” down my arms. Says, “Don’t shave off a nipple,” and nods at the razor in my hand, the triple blades buffing the shadow from under my pecs.
I ask her, “Who’s the vulture?” The dude with the teddy bear. Number 137, eyeballing me.
This babe Sheila flips some pages on her clipboard, dragging a fingernail down the list of names and numbers. “Wow,” she goes. “You’d never guess.” Sheila points her fingernail at my abs and goes, “You missed a spot.”
We’re talking my treasure trail; it’s not symmetrical.
Still shaving, I ask, “Do I know him?”
Sheila goes, “You ever watch prime-time television?”
Holding the razor, I tap the “600” on my arm, saying how I outrank her, saying she needs to quit being a tease and tell me the dude’s name. No need to remind her what happens to this project if I bail. If Cassie Wright fucks six hundred dudes, she’s a world-beater, and this company has the season’s top product. But if Cassie fucks 599 guys, she’s just a big slut. And the company ain’t got jack shit to market.
And this tease, she winks at me. This wrangler babe, she says, “You’re a bright guy. You’ll figure it out…” And the tease walks off.
Dude 137, he’s still looking at me. Holding that bear. Some big-time player with a name and a face, slumming from the TV.
Next to me, kid 72 says, “Hey.” He’s looking at me instead of the video, and he goes, “Weren’t you ...” He cocks his head slantwise, squints up his light-brown eyes, and goes, “Didn’t you use to be Branch Bacardi?”
Jerking my head toward dude 137, I ask, “What’s his name?”
And kid 72 looks and says, “Wow. That detective from the series on Thursday nights.”
The razor’s sliding across my abs, looking for pull, for the resistance of little hairs nobody can see yet. I ask the kid, what series?
What’s the dude’s name?
Why’s he staring at me?
But the kid’s back to eyeing the video. Kid 72 nods at the screen, going, “You think I look like her? Cassie Wright. You think we look alike?”
His brown eyes still on the scene of Cassie and Boodles, not even looking at me, the kid says, “No reason.” He goes, “I’m just asking.”
Across the room, dude 137 touches one fingertip to a spot on his chest. Touching his gold nipple-ring. He points his index finger at me, then looks down and taps his chest again.
And, looking down, we’re talking a long black line of blood just flooding out from my nipple.

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