Chapter 18 
Index
Subject: CODY: THE STAND-IN, Chp.19
From: mithryl@walrus.com (Mithryl)
Date: 1997/09/02
Message-Id: <5uhf28$j24$1@alice.walrus.com>
Newsgroups: alt.torture,rec.arts.prose,alt.sex.stories
THE STAND-IN
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved
Chapter 19
I admit, I have lost my way and do not know how to finish this
book. Maybe it's endless. -- Cody
"The cause of the war, in the tale as we have it, was the carrying
off by Paris, or Alexandros, son of Priam (Priamos), king of Troy, of
Helen (Helene) wife of Menelaos, king of Sparta (not the historical city
but an older, Mycenaean settlement across th e river Eurotas from it);
which cannot be fact, for Helen's name is not Greek and there are reasons
for supposing that she was a local goddess, not a human princess." -- H.J.
Rose, "Outlines of Classical Literature," Meridian, 1959.
Smalhausen's Journal (cont)
August 31, 1997
Actually, it's September 1. Can't sleep. Thinking about Di's
death. Even if you're a princess there are no free rides. Cody said
there are already three newsgroups about it on the internet and two are
having a fight over which is the legitimate one. Conspiracies abound. The
driver was an IRA on a suicide mission. Hamas was out to get Dodi. They
faked their deaths and went to live in a monastery or a secret island. I
wonder what she looked like. I mean, when they got her out of the car. I
can imagine.
I was in Florida when Versace got iced. Di went to his funeral.
I wonder if Elton John will cry at her's. I wonder if Camilla will be
good to the little princes, or will she lock them in a tower on her vast
estate and feed them bread and water? Why d o I have this garbage in my
head?
No one knows what's around the next corner or the far turn. They
hit the wall and flipped out. I wonder how long before we can see the
videos. I mean, come on, is it realistic to believe that if the goriest
most disgusting video exists, say of the car going into the wall, no one
is going to buy it? Too bad they couldn't have put cameras inside the
car. So you'd get the clearest possible shots of the bodies coming apart.
They could be fed to a remote. A satellite, say. But they'd be cut off
inside the tunnel. You'd have to have a truck right behind them to pick
up the signals. Or one of the cycles. It could be a real production. If
he was coming on to her it would be even better.
*
Alright. That's enough of that. Cody here. I think I have to
clarify something.
I got a letter from Dave, the guy who called me "a structure." In
one of my previous chapters, I'd mentioned a guy put his hand up inside
me, and I was wet. This seems to have been confusing, because Dave wrote:
"With regard to his hand getting wet when he puts it in her, you
have got it backassward. It should already be wet. The general rule is
that if you don't get any lube in your hair, you probably are not using
enough."
Dave apparently thought the guy was fisting me, but he wasn't.
That came later. We was sitting at a bar, and he put his hand under my
dress and stuck three fingers up inside me and started to play games with
my clit. A lot of guys get off on watching girls squirm, especially in
public, and this guy was having a real good time with me.
*
Well, okay. I think we may all be looking at this the wrong way.
Of course, we're all upset about Di dying. And no one can get any sleep,
what with the phones ringing to ask if it's true. It is. I'm sorry to
have to confirm it. But we must be brave . She's dead. I used to have a
boy friend who had that written on his t-shirt. "Princess Di. If Only
she would." He was totally against the rich and privileged. So now he's
got his wish. I hope he's glad. Personnally, I liked her. I mean, I
wasn' t gaga over her like some people. Like, I didn't go around saying
how fabulous she was and like that. Personally, I liked Fergie more.
Fergie is fabulous. But Diana seemed like a nice pretty woman who had
gotten stuck in a marriage with a boring famil y. I mean, can you imagine
having Betsy Windsor for a mother-in-law? I mean, I like the queen, but
what's the good of being a queen if you can never have any fun or get a
decent perm. Her whole life has been a bad hair day.
But I'm not making fun. It's very sad and all that, but what do
you do after you say you're sorry? It was a mistake. I made a wrong turn
somewhere. I'm new. This is my first night. Just drive around the
Champs Lesay and take us back to our hotel. And wham. My Lord, News from
Paris. The Princess is dead. Together with her lover. You mean you
didn't know? But he's a foreigner. They really do live in an insular
world. His father owns Harrod's. But he's a foreigner. Yes, my lord.
It seems th at way. He never took out British citizenship. But he's a
foreigner. If your highness will recall, your late great-uncle married a
foreigner, an American, I believe it was. Yes. But he wasn't my wife
first. What was she doing with him? At night. I n a limo. Driving 110
miles an hour under the Seine. You got to get it just right. Particles
are very sensitive. So maybe there's just other ways to look at it. Say
you're a paparatzi and you just mow down the Princess of Wales with a
shotgun blast t o the face, you'd want it to look right, wouldn't you?
They were terrorists. Hownding the first family. But that's what they're
there for. To be hounded. I mean, they do it to foxes, why not a Royal
Fox. So let's look at this from an animal rights p erspective, and we'll
see who's really getting harassed. Okay? Then there's the boy friend.
To be truthful, this wasn't his sort of thing. He didn't like being dead.
And for what? Chasing a tale. Hot on the chase. Get down. They might
see me. Ac tually, she paid them to hound her. Paid for the cycles.
Bought the cameras. Paid for the film. Just to get on Candid Camera.
Taking a shit. Taking a leak. Go on. Sell that to the tabs. She was
mooning them when the car hit the far turn. And wha m! Out of sight.
Let's do it again. I think we knicked one that time. It was a hell hole,
the inside of that limo when they got done with it. So let's not get
carried away. Are you going to the funeral? I was at Versace's. You go.
They hung out i n the alleyway. In sneakers and leather jackets, they
waited for her to come out. It's hard to say what happened next. The
Mercedes hit an embankment and flipped into the Seine. History just
happens. Now she is legend. She will never grow old. She will not turn
into the not-quite-queen mum annoying her sons with her bathroom habits.
Four hundred years from now she will be up there with Anne Boleyn and
Wallis Simpson. With whom she will be confused in school child minds as
one of King O.J.'s seven wives. So let's not shed any false tears. We
loved her and now she is with the angels. I had a vision of Di arriving
in heaven, and she is greeted by Gianni Versace. The only thing is,
Gianni seems to be covered with hair balls. They're all over him .
Little bitty fussy things about the size of a moth ball, and looking like
the insides of an LCD clock, the kind that are made by third worlders you
stick on your refrigerator. In fact, they're all over the place. There
are millions and millions of th e things. "What are they?" Diana exclaims
as they begin to stick to her. Gianni explains, they are the souls of
Tamagotchi chicks. It seems whenever a Tamagotchi expires from neglect or
ineptitude or because it's child parent isn't allowed to take the chick to
school where it can continue to nurture it all day long, the chick spouts
wings and flies away to heaven. Diana is appalled. "But Tamagotchis
aren't real," she blurts. "So what. Neither were we," Versace says.
"This is the heaven of dead fantasies."
And no one was more fantastic than Di and Gi. Maybe this was in
revenge for the contract they put on Versace. Everyone knows it wasn't
Andy. These things happen in threes, by the way. I wonder who's next.
Clinton? Naw. No class. It's got to be so meone of equal status. The
pope? Tiger Woods? Bill Gates. I'd watch my back. We've lost the red
queen. Her spirit split. Kasparov would make a good sacrifice. It's got
to be someone good. A master at his trade. Top notch. A double agent.
She w as telling them everything. Soon our vast wealth would be as
nothing. They talk like that. Your majesty. News from Paris. Your
daughter in law is dead. Which one? The blonde. Oh. I'm sorry. She
should have died hererafter. Do you think I need a haircut. My lord,
news from paris, your mother the lady di is dead. Try saying it over and
over. Mummy is never coming back. Daddy killed her. Once he had that in
his head, nothing could change it. On the internet, he read that people
thought there had been a conspiracy. Palace intrigue bored him. Why did
they have to be at this gloomy old castle when Mummy was hanging out on
the Riviera, tanning herself positively black. If I have to pose in kilts
one more time I shall scream something bloody a wful. It was a camera man
who killed Mummy. Just like the one taking this picture. That says
something, doesn't it? Like anyone who has a camera is a potential
assasin. You're allowed to carry handguns, you know. If you're a blood
royal. That's a r eal nice shot of Mummy mooning the paparatzi. Like
stick it up my knickers, asshole. And I was having such a nice dream,
too. About Mummy being killed in a railway accident. And war breaking
out between England and France. Just the way it's supposed to. She died
in a French tunnel with the walls closing in on her. And then the Seine.
And then being woken up to tell me that it's real. Insane. They took the
Chin off thorazine. I read it in the papers. The federal prison where
they've got him too k him off wacko juice and now they're doing
experiments on him to see what else they can do. The Chin, according to
the federal government, is the head of an enormous crime cartel that has
its roots into everything from international banking to railway s tocks.
They can stop anything at a moments notice. Bring the government to its
knees. And Chin's the boss. They found him wandering around Greenwich
Village in a bathrobe and they've spent the last seven years trying to
prove he's the Godfather. But all they could get him on was not killing
John Gotti. I'm not making this up. You want paranoia. The colonies can
still show the old world a thing or too. So natuira;;lly we are not
dealing in rational times. The slightest thing can set it off. Di D ies.
Wow! Was that a hit to have with your morning coffee. When you could get
your head up off the counter and see the picture. I wasn't really
focused. Yet. Mornings are hell with me. Basically, I put my head down
on the new york times and let it line feed into my skull. It took awhile
before I realized that what I was seeing was Di's chin. It was lying on
the counter of the little bistro I drop into for my morning wake me up.
Then I saw her eye. And a little bit of the scalp. The fact is, I don't
usually start with that part of the paper, the upper right hand corner of
the front page, where they put boring important things like the economy is
up two points or war has broken out in the Balkans. Like, who cares.
Eventually, I realized I was looking at Di, but then I figured it's
probably some charity function. It took awhile to really get focused on
the headline that said she was dead. And then a few more minutes to
comprehend it. And then, WHAM. It hit me like a limo doing 110 miles an
hour into a stone wall. Wow! Was that a hit. A like "where were you
when Kennedy got shot" moment. Something to always remember. I'd already
had one with Versace. And another with the Titantic. And fifty years of
Jackie Robinson being in major league baseball. So I was really getting
overloaded with basic moments to remember. You know, eventually they run
together. The Hindenberg gets overlaid with Hitler's suicide. And the
thingamagiggy in Times Square that goes around the whazzis and tells you
the news gets confused with the end of rent control. The trouble is
there's too much to remember and I'm tired and I want to go to bed. She
took two hours to die. I mean, that's basic. Coming out of Paris. After
they got her out of the truck. Whic h was no mean feat,. Her foot was
stuck under the dashboard. I mean, think about it. If you could get
inside her head. What would it be like? Does she know she's dead?
Probably not. The Bardo is a deeply ceremonial space where a soul wanders
for very long before it reincarnates. It must be guided. Reaching out.
Letting it go. Don't cry, whatever you do. Crying will make it worse.
But don't go blind doing it. Let go. Let the eyes have it. Just don't
cry. You'll see.
The Chin sees the world in a crack opening at his feet. Diana's
chin was lying on a counter. I picked it up. What's this? A relic. Oh
yeah? Does it have strange properties? If you dip it in someone's water
glass they die in two seconds. Wow. Where'd you get it? The hospital
is selling off bits and pieces of the cadaver. This one will make a man
impotent. Oh yeah? Wow. I'm glad I come in here. I was burning up
inside. I felt dirty. Used. Like an old condom someone has tossed on
the lunch counter of life. And then I realized I still hadn't been used.
I have to go. Think about what I said.
Epilogue
That's it for now, guys. I need a break. I'm not happy with how
the last few chapters of this book have been going. Maybe I'll come back
to it. Maybe I won't. I need some time to think and vegetate. Let the
swamp gases rise in my brain. And the thorazine wear off. Look at it
this way: Di is gone, but this week Lucy Lawless aka Xena, Warrior
Princess, opens on Broadway. There's always another show. -- Cody
Chapter 18 Index