Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (44 page)

Max invited Lydia to follow him.

“Can I do a little retouching first?” Lydia asked as she took a tube of lipstick out of her small evening purse.

“Interesting shade,” Max commented as he waited with the slight impatience men have similarly waited with for ages.

“Made especially for me?” Lydia finished, examining her accuracy in a compact mirror. “I love it!” She inserted the stick back in the tube, threw it and the compact back into her purse. Then she stood up and joined Max.

As they were halfway out, just as I was about to say something, Max turned to us.

“Oh, you guys can come if you want. I told you I trust you. Don't forget your briefcases. I know how attached you are to them.”

He turned and led Lydia out of the room. Henderson and Pinsker hurried to grab the briefcases and catch up.

~ * ~

Max took us through the game room featuring two pool tables and another tapestry, this one depicting a none-too-successful stag hunt. Then we entered Hearst's private movie theater, a scaled down version of the vast Picture Palaces that were its contemporaries. Scaled down but still a great space, of course, ornately decorated, with a high ceiling and illumination provided by rows of mock Caryatids, sculpted life-size women hanging on the walls, holding lamps in their hands, standing at attention, standing guard. The walls between them were covered in the most luxurious red silk.

In the middle of the front row of the theater seats, five darkly hooded figures sat silent and still.

Max and Lydia walked to the front. Roee and I followed, he down one side and I the other. As Max and Lydia came before the hooded five, I stopped at the first seat on my side and Roee did the same. We well positioned the briefcases on the seats.

Max handed a hooded black robe to Lydia, who immediately and enthusiastically put it on, then sat in the middle of the five, in the seat left vacant for her. Sara Hutton was nowhere to be seen, but on a stage in front of the screen was a little black altar of sorts, really not much more than a three foot by three foot platform with a three foot high post projecting up from the far end. A black box stood on top of the post, and three long black wires, two thin, one thicker, came out of the back, fell down close to the floor, then looped back up, their ends attached in some manner to the top of the box. I looked carefully at the base of the platform. From my side angle position, I could just see that a very thick black cord ran out of its back and disappear under the movie screen.

“Welcome initiates,” Max said after having positioned himself on the stage in front of the altar. “Welcome to the Communion of the Golden Arse. A secret, and dare we say, sacred, communion of like-minded protectors and defenders of our civilization. But no long speeches now. Your duties and obligations to the Communion will soon be made known to you. The benefits, I think you already know. We are not a very formal organization. There will be no weekly or monthly meetings. No conventions. We will not have a float in the Hollywood Christmas Lane Parade. Obviously, all that would be detrimental to our purpose. But we do take this opportunity when we welcome new members, to seal the bargain we have made with them with—well, with a kiss. A kiss upon the Golden Arse.”

Music came from somewhere, solemn music, and out from behind the movie screen came a slow walking hooded figure, head bowed, hands clasped in front. The figure made its way to the altar, stepped up on the platform, its back to us. The figure raised its head to the expanse of the white screen before it and mumbled something that almost sounded Latin but almost assuredly was gibberish. Then the figure slowly turned around. From the side I could not see the face, but from the suppressed tittering of Brooke, I was sure the five and Lydia could. Then in a grand gesture, the figure threw off its robe!

There standing before us, her arms stretched up in a hallelujah pose, was Sara Hutton, laughing with glee at the grand silliness of it all. A silliness which included the fact that she was standing there naked, displaying her shapeless body and her pitiful breasts, not so much shamelessly as with absolutely no sense of aesthetic courtesy.

Naked that is, except for a pair of shiny golden panties that seemed to be made of Mylar. A Sonia Rykiel design, no doubt.

Sara turned around and took the two thin wires from the top of the black box and plugged them into two small plastic pieces hanging from either side of the crotch of the golden panties. The third, thicker wire, she took by its end, which was thicker still, and cupped it in her right palm. Then she turned around and faced the five and Lydia.

“Brooke Bloom, approach the altar of the sacred Golden Arse,” Sara said.

Brooke got up, went to the steps at the side of the stage and ascended, then approached the altar.

“Step upon the altar.”

Brooke stepped upon the platform and joined Sara.

“Remove your hood,” Sara commanded.

Brooke did so. It was evident she was containing laughter, partly from the situation, partly from nervousness. The rumors had included this ordeal, as I knew from having watched Don Gulden spread them with his sore lips, so Brooke's apprehension was well founded.

“Are you ready to kiss the Golden Arse?” asked Sara.

“Can I kiss these first?” Brooke, not waiting for an answer, put her mouth upon Sara's and gave her a short kiss of some depth. Sara laughed after they parted. Brooke said, “And this?” Brooke leaned down the short distance to Sara's breasts and surrounded the nipple of the left one with her lips. Sara was momentarily delighted then chastised Brooke.

“Initiate! This is not the time to kiss the luscious lips and the fleshy titties, but to kiss the Golden Arse. Are you ready to kiss the Golden Arse?”

“Okay, yeah, sure, I am.”

Potent Brandy. I was quite sure the exclusive Dominican cigars may have included a foreign leaf or two as well.

“On your knees then!” Sara ordered.

Brooke fell to her knees. Sara turned slowly around, bringing her gold enveloped ass before Brooke's face. Then she bent and with her hands spread the gold Mylar to a smooth surface across her buttocks.

“Wet your lips, Brooke Bloom,” Sara commanded between her legs.

Brooke wet her lips.

“Kiss now the Golden Arse! Kiss now the Golden Arse,” Max started to chant, encouraging the others to chant as well. Their voices rose to join Max's. “Kiss now the Golden Arse! Kiss now the Golden Arse!”

Brooke leaned forward and gently placed her lips upon Sara's golden arse.

“Kiss it so I can feel it!” Sara screamed.

Brooke leaned in, applying greater pressure.

Then Sara very subtly took the wire in her right hand, placed her thumb over the button on its end, and applied a half-second's worth of pressure.

There was a huge spark where Brooke's lips and Sara's ass met, then Brooke flew back, propelled with force, falling off the platform and onto her back on the stage.

We all, instinctually, moved towards her, but Max, in a booming voice, yelled:

“Stop!”

Everyone stopped. All we could do was look at Brooke. Tiny twin streams of smoke were drifting up off her lips. Her hair was frazzled. The very slight smell of burning flesh was evident.

Then Brooke began to laugh.

“Wow! What a trip!” she declared with very little originality.

Max went to her, picked her up and hugged her.

“Congratulations! You are now a member in good standing of the Communion of the Golden Arse,” he said as he led her off the stage and to her seat.

“Thad Darrow, approach the altar of the sacred Golden Arse,” Sara was standing upright again, and facing forward.

Thad got up hesitantly, took the steps to the stage and approached.

“Step upon the altar.”

Thad stepped upon the platform and joined Sara.

“Remove your hood,” Sara commanded.

Thad removed his hood, then, with a giggle, stepped back off the platform.

“Ah, can I go later?”

Obviously Brooke's ‘shock' had sobered him up a bit.

“What?” Sara said with mock anger and umbrage. “Is the initiate balking?”

“Only for a moment or two. Just need some time to work up the—uh—the—uh—”

“Courage!” Brooke yelled it out then whimpered a tiny ouch. Seems her lips were sore.

“Well, uh—”

“Hey, I did it, come on!” Brooke said more carefully.

“Uh—”

“Initiate!” Sara called his attention. “Do not fear to test your testosterone. Step up upon the altar and prepare to—”

“Hey!” Lydia stood up, “Let me do it now, if he hasn't got the balls.”

“Is initiate Lydia Corfu claiming that she
has
got the balls?”

“Nope. Although most people I've dealt with in my career considered me just a bitch with balls. Well, they were wrong and they were fools. It was estrogen all the way, baby, estrogen one hundred percent.”

“Then Lydia Corfu of the estimable estrogen, approach the altar of the sacred Golden Arse.”

Thad was quite relieved as he hurried off the stage and sat down. Lydia stepped up onto the stage, moved quickly to the platform, and stepped onto it.

“Remove your hood.”

Lydia removed her hood.

“Initiate, are you ready to kiss the Golden Arse?”

“Yes,” Lydia said it quite seriously.

“On your knees then!”

Lydia fell to her knees. Sara turned slowly around as before, and brought her golden ass before Lydia's face. Then she bent, placing her hands on her knees and spreading the gold Mylar to a smooth surface across her buttocks.

“Wet your lips, Lydia Corfu,” Sara commanded

Lydia wet her lips, and made them sparkle even more.

“Kiss now, the Golden Arse! Kiss now the Golden Arse!” Max and the others chanted.

Lydia leaned forward and planted an enthusiastic smooch onto Sara's gilded
tuchus
.

Sara smiled in mad delight as she placed her thumb over the button and plunged it down.

Like a magnet Lydia stuck to Sara's ass as the unbroken electrical current sparked and burned at her lips and her hair shot straight out and her body stiffened and shook with convulsions and Sara laughed liked a madwoman.

“Lydia!” I screamed as I ran and leaped upon the stage, but Ranger Blunt stepped out from behind the screen and jabbed an AK-47 into my ribs, stopping me. Roee, I could just see, was being covered by Hatless.

Sara, with flourish, finally removed her thumb from the button.

Lydia detached from her ass and fell sideways onto the platform.

I pushed Blunt's AK-47 aside and ran to her, falling to my knees and pulling her up into my arms. She was a mess. “Lydia!” I cried. “Lydia!”

She opened her eyes—barely. She spoke in a whisper.

“At least I made it through—life—without once having—having read a—a self-help book.”

Then her eyes closed and was gone.

I snapped my head up at the ugly, naked, grinning creature above me.

“You bitch! You stupid, fucking bitch!”

I made a move towards Sara, hands outstretching to grab and rip at her throat, but the red, mad rage suddenly ceased as a large heavy booted foot slammed into the side of my head.

It was, Roee later explained, a boot belonging to George.

“Do you think I'm fucking stupid?”

It was a very calm, whispered question coming out of the black, accompanied by hot breath blowing in my right ear. I didn't, at that moment, have the imagination to pluck an answer out of my throbbing head. Just let it be black, I thought, and quiet, and then maybe the pain would go away.

Then the hot breath blew in soft puffs into my left ear.

“Do you think I'm fucking stupid?”

I did not want to think at all, much less have to make a determination as to the intelligence, or lack thereof, of a disembodied voice. What did I care? What was it to me?

“Do you think I'm fucking stupid!?”

It was a furnace blast of hot breath and angry decibels directed dead center into my face. I winced. The wince made everything hurt all the more. I still did not open my eyes. The black was my only friend.

“George,” the voice said, not giving any specific command, but the implication was clear.

Suddenly a bright, harsh light flooded into my right eye as its lid was lifted and pulled up. I could feel a tear flood, and I looked through it to see the distorted image of an arm whose path lead up to the impassive, back lit face of George. Then, into view, growing as it thrust towards me, blocking the harsh light, haloed by backlit glowing hair, was the face of Maxwellton James.

“Open your other eye,” he said.