‘Exclusive footage?’ ‘Yep, ten mobile cameras at ground zero.’ ‘Or we could turn it over to the feds.’ Snorts adlib. ‘Think of the lives…’ A measured pause. ‘Think of the ratings.’ They logged on, as instructed, to the encrypted and secure chat-room. There were two other users in the room, ‘joes_rib_palace’, and the other, whom they rightly presumed to be the device-owner, under the nom de plume ‘hot_mustard’. He welcomed them and set the reserve at one-hundred million dollars, with increments of fifty million. Communication, other than numerals, had been disabled for all but the auctioneer. ‘Ah damn, must be another network, wanting a piece of the action…’ ‘Stick it to ’em.’ The bidding began. As the chat-room timer ticked down to zero, it became a frenzy, and rose well above the auctioneers reserve. ‘The bidding is over’, he declared. They had won. And though they had paid well over ten times what they had anticipated, they reasoned costs could be partially recouped by selling the. Lucy Klintt, ‘Juicy Lucy’ to her fans around the country, again looked out the window at the cold and empty streets of Cleveland. Cleveland, Ohio. She uncrossed her legs and closed her knees together. She didn’t owe the fucking cop anything. Lucy Klintt thought about her life. Shit, she thought. The trip had been screwed up from its very beginning. First Peter Plowman had taken off in New Orleans. Then that fucker in Miami had stiffed her, and Steve had given her all kinds of shit as if it had been her fault that the check had bounced. This trip was all Steve’s idea anyhow. He had made the bookings. He’d booked her into those sleaze joints. He had booked her here into Cleveland. Her career was slowing down. Money wasn’t coming in liked it used to. Personal appearances were what she needed. All the rock stars did it although she wasn’t no rock star. Shit, even book writers did it. And she wasn’t no writer. They made personal appearances when they wanted to sell records, peddle their.
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