DELROY BEACH - Authorities are still looking for any leads linking to the murder of 17-year-old Lyle Cornigan. Lyle's body was found Sunday under an abandoned trailer, extreme lacerations to his stomach and skull. An autopsy of Cornigan's body is scheduled for Tuesday and officials claim they should have enough evidence to have a suspect. Cornigan was an A student and president of the Drama Club at Delroy High School. Friends and family are holding a ceremonial bonfire in his memory tomorrow at the beach. "Lyle was so sweet and innocent," says friend Janelle Trayk, "Why would anyone want to hurt him?" Services for Cornigan will be held after the results of the autopsy are revealed.
. . . . .
Our table at Estradi's faces the entrance. Sylvia watches the door and recites celebrity's names as they walk in.
"Bryan. That's Burt Reynolds." She's dressed well; Versace dress, YSL stilettos, "and he's with Christina Applegate."
I turn around to see a drunken Christina stumble through the door, almost taking one of the hosts with her on her trip to the Spanish tiles. "I wonder who she got to watch the kid while she's out," I sample the merlot, nod for the waiter to leave the bottle. He disappears into the kitchen as silently as he came. "Kids are cute," I say, "I don't want any," then looking back at Sylvia, "ever."
Sylvia crinkles her face and I almost kick her under the table, but a sharp pain tackles my forehead. I begin to feel it every time I raise my brow.
"...Bryan?" I'm interrupted, "Bryan, did you get in touch with Louis like you said?"
"Louis Yorba?" I say disgusted, "Why would I ever want to call that prick?"
"You told me You'd talk to him about casting Cray in Return of The Warriors?"
"Honestly, baby, I don't see how you can trust a guy named after a crustacean." I'm briefly distracted when I spot the crack of Christina Applegate's ass as she picks up a pack of Newports she dropped, "Besides, Joel Schumacher is pushing for an all black cast."
"Cray is black, Bryan."
"Cray is Puerto Rican. Hardly black, baby. Except for maybe those pubes on his head," as Sylvia gets insulted, a grin comes to my face and I feel the pain on my forehead again, "So talk to me, baby," I try avoiding the pain, "What roles do you have lined up?"
"Well, Lifetime is casting for a movie about the life of Janet Reno," as Sylvia begins her rant, I stare completely disinterested into the glass of merlot she has barely touched.
I try not to gesture with my face, but everytime she catches me drifting off I smile and cause the pain to return. I realize what it could be and I start to worry. I excuse myself in a hurry.
In the unisex room, two fags fight over a sedated teenaged boy sitting on the tile floor. He's covered in what I assume is toilet water. A model snorts cocaine off the sink next to me while pushing a groping Tom Sellek off her neck. I turn the faucet on and cup my palms. Splashing water on my face, I look up into the mirror. I look great, as usual, but examining further, I notice a whitehead in the center of my forehead. I gulp in terror and attempt to remain calm. It gets really quiet. I look around as I dry my hands on my Prada jacket.
The silence is broken when one of the fags storms out of the room crying and I reach into my jacket pocket to pull out a Marlboro. I light it, turn back to the mirror, and with the lighter still burning I go at the whitehead. The burning flesh on my forehead stinks up the restroom immediately and I see the whitehead boil before finally bursting into the mirror.
"Cool!" Tom Sellek yelps as he gives the model a quick kick on her backside. He walks over to me and I immediately feel uncomfortable. "Hey, weren't you at Janine Garofalo's birthday party last week?" He puts his arm around my wet jacket. I could swear he is trying to make a pass at me, "I think I may have seen you there.. er.."
"Bryan. And I can't say I was there," I offer disinterested.
"Yea," Tom giggles like a girl, "Neither was I," and a sudden worried look comes to his face. He takes a sip of champaign from a flute and takes a final look in the mirror, "Well hey, enjoy your meal, Bryan," He fixes his hair and lightly dusts his mustache, "I gotta go check up on Melanie."
"Enjoy yours.. er... Magnum."
Tom stops half way out the door of the restroom, preventing the crying fag from getting back in, "Don't... call me.. Magnum," He shivers annoyed and walks out.
The model starts throwing up blood next to me and I can see she has a great body under her dress. I wonder if she can even remember whose dick she sucked for that custom sequin dress. I turn around to piss, pull out my package and discover more tiny whiteheads on the tip of my prick. I burn them off in panic and go back out to Sylvia, who is looking impatient at the table.
I start to sweat. It's happening...
RZA and GZA are sharing tour anecdotes with Tori Amos when Sylvia and I migrate to the bar. Louis Yorba walks in with a dressed down David Schwimmer and Axl Rose. Axl Rose then immediately high fives RZA and orders a shot. Sylvia notices my burn mark, "Jesus Christ, Bryan. What happened to your forehead?" she asks as I take a seat.
"Some fag burned me with his cigarette, baby." I add, "Maybe we should go."
"Axl Rose just walked in, baby," she protests.
"You can go talk to that Sexually Transmitted Disease and I'll go back to the penthouse."
It gets really cold in the bar and the sweat on the sleeve of my jacket begins to frost. Sylvia pouts but picks up her Salems and Louis Vuitton purse and I follow her to the coatcheck.
After dropping her off at her beach house in Delroy, I drive back to the penthouse.
Chimes McGavern sits at the lobby talking about the score to a new indie film called Champagne. He sees me walk in, winks, and makes a hand gesture like a gun so convincing I hear a gun blast and feel it in my chest. Probably another whitehead I think to myself. "Love the Santa hat, Chimes," I offer as I call the elevator.
In the apartment, I undress before the automatic locks even take effect. I flip on the lights and catch my reflection on the full length mirror immediately. A rash has spread throughout my entire body. I panic and begin to cry, scratching at the red marks. I run my sweat-drenched hands through my hair, only to find I'm holding clumps of it when I stop. The remainding hair begins to gray right away. As I keep scratching my stomach, popping whiteheads with my now dirty nails, I notice my abs are disappearing one by one, replaced by a fat stomach.
I have no other soul to sell.
I refuse to grow old.
I refuse to be typical.