Sustenance

    “Friston, I want the truth. Did you come in the other contestants’ coconut water?” Friston Sabio blew smoke out the side of his mouth. “A little extra salt never killed anyone,” he said with a smirk, indicating neither embarrassment nor regret.

     “It’s not good enough. Viewers expect more than medium from you; either go for rare or well done,” Stella replied and slapped her hands together like slabs of beef hitting a marble counter.

     The network executives, Stella’s bosses, dragged him from location in the Amazon jungle to a dreary office in Melrose. Posters on the wall promoting derivative reality shows served as a reminder of how far his stardom had declined. The need to beg riled him. And for what? A program where fame-starved actors competed for viewer votes on who misbehaved the worst. Friston took one last drag on the cigarette before crushing the butt beneath his heel.

     “Hey, arsehole. That’s a 50 000 dollar Persian rug.”

     “75k when you say Friston Sabio put his mark on it.” The rows of his pearl white teeth sparkled in the glare from the overhead spotlights.

     Stella Grande shook her head in visceral disgust and gulped a whole can of Argus Cola. North of 40, the blossom of youth showed signs of a hasty retreat, despite a patchwork of procedures. The producer had more work done than his 20-year-old car; artificial blond hair, cheek and eye lifts, nose job, duck lips and mascara thick enough to block direct sunlight. No plastic surgery could save a woman without natural beauty, Friston thought, especially one with an orange tan. The volleyball-sized breast implants and buttocks raise didn’t rev his engine either. Still, he needed the gig. Suck it up; she’s dying for your caress.

     He positioned his left hand on Stella’s backside and gave it a good squeeze.

     “Ah, the legendary sticky fingers. Alas, even a rump roast has standards; your brand of rancid, oily charm doesn’t make the cut.” Stella wriggled away from Friston’s groping limb. “Unleash your creativity. Get inspired by your fellow contestant, Chaz. The wacko stole a holy relic from an indigenous tribe and burnt it. The higher-ups made no secret of how they view your role, and it’s my job to deliver ratings, no matter the cost. You expect me to risk my position because of your tender side?” Stella locked eyes with Friston to underscore the seriousness of the situation.

     “I won’t do it. Never!” Friston broke eye contact and flounced around the office.

     “Given your father’s legacy, viewers demand a more daring menu of misbehaviour from you. Isn’t cannibalism hereditary? In a world of fake, audiences crave the real.”

     “It’s a sensitive topic, and I refuse strong-arm tactics. I do it my way or not at all.” Friston waved his right hand in a dismissive manner.

     “You’ve benefitted from my talents and network. Don’t make me an enemy. One word and your chance of a revival will shrink faster than a penis in frigid water. Chew on that, you soap opera has-been!” Stella said while ripping into a piece of air-dried salami. Her teeth ground the golf ball-sized chunk into swallowable lumps which slid down her throat like paralysed rodents gobbled up by a boa constrictor.

     “You can’t threaten me! I’m the star of your debasement show, a celebrity.” Friston wagged an index finger in Stella’s face, but pulled back, gagging from the stench of pungent garlic while sweat from her armpits dripped onto his Italian leather loafers.

     “Ha, did you forget the program title, Washed Up? I should warn you, viewership is abysmal. At this rate, it’s likely to end on the chopping block even before the season concludes. Sacrifice your pride for the greater good. Because right now, instead of a supernova event, you’re the dorky kid inviting the entire class to a birthday party with 100% no-shows.”

     Insulted by a refrigerator-shaped woman. Not my finest hour. Friston wanted to unleash a swathe of fat jokes, but swallowed his venom. He had to play nice. Movies and TV didn’t have the same pull as before, with people busy chasing glory in simulated realities through a device called White Rabbit. Captive audiences only came through attention-grabbing shenanigans. Ironically, the winner of Washed Up would secure the role of Everett Carnum, Head of Security, in the upcoming unofficial movie about Anima Pep, the company behind White Rabbit. A much-needed adrenaline injection into a waning career. Panic welled from within, threatening to erupt like a well-shook fizzy drink.

     “I can improve,” Friston said and rambled an off-the-cuff idea. “You make a surprise entrance in the next episode. Lost in the jungle, you end up naked and hungry in my hut. I feed you in exchange for sexual acts. It’s a win-win. Ratings rocket, and you lose a few pounds.” Friston patted Stella on the stomach and leaned in for a kiss. She pushed him into the wall with substantial force and let it rip.

     “You slimy piece of shit! Have you completely divorced reality? You’re fired; get out!”

     “Nobody can replace Friston Sabio!” How dare the sweaty cow refuse him? Women worshipped the ground he walked on. With thick and glistening dark hair, sculpted eyebrows, yellow lion eyes and a toned body, who looked better at 43?

     “I have the perfect stand-in for the remaining episodes; the rapper Black Emperor. The man is in dire financial straits after the bad-boy image came undone. As seen in the leaked sex tape, he’s a Grande . For him, I’m an able and willing video hoe,” Stella said and licked the middle finger she extended in Friston’s direction. “The Emperor without clothes has nothing on me.”

     Friston unbuttoned, and before Stella could protest, pants and underwear nestled in a heap on the floor. Her sardonic laugh preceded the relentless mocking. “It’s a shame you didn’t inherit your father’s legendary girth, on-screen magnetism and natural charm. And despite what happened, his name never dies, unlike yours. Still, poor Sabrosa must have suffered.”

     Trousers back on, Friston pulled the front zipper a tad too fast over an errant piece of sensitive flesh and let out an agonising scream.

     “Later, loser!” Stella said and slammed the door after him.

     Friston Sabio didn’t accept a no. He’d make her and everyone else eat their words. Provoke the lion and carnage followed.

     ***

     “Felicidades en tu día!”

     “This is Neta. Who’s calling?”

     “Mama, it’s me, Friston. Is my Spanish rusty, or don’t you recognise your only son’s voice?”

     “I would if the scoundrel visited with any form of regularity instead of persisting with these guilt-induced birthday calls. Or do you need money?”

     “Your boy is a star. Soon I will win a big contest, and you can brag to your friends at church. But send more of papa’s royalty cheques; you don’t want your child living in filth, do you?”

     “You believe I speak of the shameful deeds you do on TV? If I had guts, I’d move and start a new life, free from the yoke of Luis’ actions and a son determined to repeat the sins of the father. However, it’s never too late for your confession. Come to Mexico City and unburden your soul to Cardinal Juez. Then I give you money.”

     “I can’t; I have to work.”

     “You must cleanse yourself. Otherwise, you will..,” Neta said, leaving the rest unsaid. She gave as good as she got in the game of guilt.

     Friston opted to defuse the family scandal with levity.

     “Become like papa? Can you play another tune, please? I’m practically a vegetarian.”

     “Don’t joke. An evil force possessed poor Luis. No human commits such unspeakable acts without the influence of the wicked. I only hope he doesn’t retain memories of what transpired. Leave the miserable trajectory you are on before the devil seduces you. Learn from your mistakes and choose a righteous path.”

     “Let’s not get upset on your birthday. Talk soon, mama. And don’t forget the money.”

     Neta sobbed as Friston ended the call, his thoughts centred on the father. Unlike his mother, he had a more sober view of Luis Sabio. Before transitioning to a leading man in Hollywood, the Mexican soap opera favourite became a national icon, the poster child for outrageous storylines. Friston, however, knew him as a vainglorious philanderer with innumerable affairs, on purpose leaked to the media to bolster a reputation of virility. Or the absent parent who curried favour by buying hookers for the son’s teenage birthdays. And, of course, Luis, the murderer, convicted of eating co-star Sabrosa. The principal actors of the shipwreck-themed movie, Sustenance , had a scene where Luis’ character ate the dying companion to survive. Inexplicably, it carried over into real life. When the scandal broke, Neta had a mental breakdown while Friston investigated what happened in the blood-soaked Bel-Air mansion.

     Friston recalled the painful imagery as it had transpired yesterday, although four years had passed. An hour late for dinner at his father’s rented home, he walked in to see Luis with his face in the food. Inside Sabrosa’s gutted stomach, to be exact. At first, foreplay came to mind, in line with Luis’ sexual fetiches. The copious amounts of blood smeared throughout the white marble living room brought the grizzly truth to the fore. Sabrosa had struggled to escape as bloody foot and handprints covered several rose gold divans, the panorama windows overlooking the garden and the ebony keyboard of the grand piano. As he pulled Luis from the hollowed-out body and yanked a piece of entrail from the mouth, Friston screamed for an explanation. He only got one sentence out of the father, repeated without abandon.

     “I refuse the dusk.”

     Doctors interpreted the lack of communication as psychosis; the patient overwhelmed with guilt and shock over the abhorrent act. Today Luis languished in a maximum-security psychiatric clinic, and the absence of a rational explanation made Friston bitter. Whispers of an exotic drug lingered, but he had never caught his father using narcotics. Instead, the addictions centred on the opposite sex.

     Tall, muscular, and with a symmetrical face crafted by angels of a better nature, Sabio senior radiated absolute confidence. Lime green piercing eyes and a warm smile got the coyest female to surrender. The arranged marriage to Neta had a few good years, with Friston as an outcome. But, a successful acting career and a devout Catholic wife who refused the city of sin mixed as well as a nun in a whore house. With divorce never a realistic scenario, Luis moved from one woman to the next, unable to satisfy an insatiable appetite.

     Ultimately, Friston accepted his father’s ways as the parent brought him into the entertainment industry. Every soap wanted Luis Sabio’s son. For a while, it worked. Until society changed. Not the gradual change to which you could adapt; it struck like a bolt of lightning, affecting everything in its path.

     Friston jumped off the bed in the motel, removed the pulsating belt sculpting his abdomen, and walked over to the mirror hung on the outside of the bathroom door.

     “Witness the fitness,” he said with a broad, dimple-infused grin, leaning into his reflection and giving it a passionate kiss on the lips. The Hollywood sign glistened in the background, drawing him towards the window. Under a billboard ad for the dating app Rekindle , prostitutes lingered on the street, vying for custom. Friston, too, needed to work. He flung a small suitcase onto a footstool and, after a quick rummage, found the cause of the last decade’s complete societal makeover, White Rabbit.

     A simple, over-the-ear headset, weighing little more than a pocket mirror, soon graced the top of his head. Friston had held out long, refusing to live in fake realities when the real one presented enough challenges. But, given first prize for winning Washed Up, field research beckoned. And with an unscheduled visit to civilisation, he had time to enter worlds unknown.

     Unlike augmented or virtual reality with custom-created content, White Rabbit manipulated the optic synapses to manufacture alternate realities from the user’s mind. A text-only interface with a list of choices materialised before the eyes, blurring out the surroundings.

     Welcome to White Rabbit Introduction by Anima Pep Chief Technology Officer, January Vindler Set exit word Find New Reality Favourites White Rabbit Suggestion

     Controlled via thought, Friston selected Introduction . The idea of January Vindler, an ultra-hot goddess, turned the tight-fit denim pants into a stretch model.

     “Congratulations on making an exceptional and important investment in yourself. Please take a seat, get comfortable, clear your mind of worries and distractions and prepare for paths unexplored.” January’s honeyed tonality, meditative in its melody and British accent, made Friston dream of losing himself in Vindler’s golden locks. He imagined the woman smelling like a rose garden, the touch of her lips capable of bringing back the dead.

     “Close your eyes and relax. As you listen to my voice, White Rabbit is helping your mind identify pivotal memories where specific choices and decisions set the stage for your current existence. Focus on a particular moment where you laboured between different opportunities, for example, in the realms of education, career and relationships. Then ask, what if I had gone the other way? If White Rabbit finds the alternative divergent enough from your existing life, a new reality opens. You view a live feed from the eyes of your alternate. In addition, as a White Rabbit 2 user, you may go a step further than the Watch functionality. Enable Control and take charge of your host’s body, changing the narrative as you see fit. Move, talk, love, as you do outside White Rabbit. In Control mode, the device induces a shallow sleep, meaning you should lie down. When you want to wake, utter the selected exit word to snap back to your normal self. Remember, you can save your favourite realities, share them on social media and if you need inspiration, let White Rabbit suggest a reality; you will find it in tune with your present state of mind.”

     Friston found himself more intrigued by the minute and appreciated why people skipped work, school and retreated from socialising. A TV with hundreds of channels starring you had little competition for eyeballs. It required something off the charts to tear viewers away from themselves.

     “A few parting words before you embark on a journey of self-discovery and enlightenment. Learn, grow, and change as you explore your choices. Compare emotional and rational decision-making to determine which leads to a brighter existence. Strive for perfection, don’t settle for mediocrity. It can always get better. Unleash the megastar within and present the improved you to the world. White Rabbit, because you are the sun.” Friston set an exit word, Forever15 , chose Watch for the maiden run and let White Rabbit pick a reality. Tiny vibrations propagated through the brain as he closed his eyes. Ten seconds later, a pronounced jolt preceded entry to another life. He appeared to be sitting in a big congregation, the first-person perspective immersive and indistinguishable from the actual world.

     “And the Lather award for best male soap opera lead goes to...”

     “Friston Sabio for The Stories of our Lives !”

     The Warhol exhibition centre erupted in applause, the adulations never-ending. Friston watched his alter ego hug Neta, who sat beside him, beaming with pride. It became too much to take in, hard to believe even. At last, the recognition and fame he richly deserved. On stage, the two presenters handed him a soap-shaped award, which he lifted above the head in triumph as tears streamed on both sides of the face. About to commence a victory speech, the alternate peered out in the auditorium to find the entire audience glued to their cell phones. Curious, he reached into a jacket pocket and found his own phone overrun with notifications, rolling in unabated. An audible gasp went through the crowd as they read the headline already seared on Friston’s retina. Online scandal site, Celebrity Brawl , splashed a breaking news banner across the screen.

     Friston Sabio’s finger took my virginity! Five women share harrowing tales of sexual harassment by the high-profile daytime drama actor .

     Friston’s heart pounded, and the alternate wiped sweat from the forehead as ear-piercing shouts of insults came at him.

     “Scum! Rapist! Lock him up!”

     As the screaming intensified and neared fever-pitch levels, the female award presenter pointed to the trophy. “Drop the soap, predator!”

     The look on Neta’s face hit the hardest, a devastating mix of disgust, shock, and sadness as she cowered in her seat. Friston watched the disaster unfold as the other him ran off stage, heading for the nearest emergency exit. The tragic figure broke free from hands grabbing, clawing and pulling at him, choice invectives bombarding his eardrums. A veritable lynch mob took pursuit through a narrow corridor, which seemed to close in on him. The sound of heavy breathing overpowered the verbal abuse while he ascended six flights of stairs. The posse missed him ducking into an obscured bathroom, where the alternate locked himself behind a stall door. Slumping on the lid, he loosened the tie and reached for the phone.

     Five women accused him of unwanted sexual acts. Three of them, Friston recognised from real life. How could people believe these piranhas? Everyone knew the rules of flirting; no meant try harder. Or make me hornier. Non-famous folk begged for celebrity attention, and he sacrificed himself to at least give them a glimmer of joy in otherwise dreary lives. The engineered and slanderous affair broke at a time chosen to cause maximal damage and embarrassment. A rival nominee doubtless paid the accusers to go public.

     The graphic descriptions included 17-year-old Inez, who claimed Friston fingered her while she cleaned his hotel room. Buffy insisted he had bitten into her nipples hard enough to draw blood. An extra on The Stories of our Lives , Elvira, detailed a scheme where promises of a part in the show for oral sex took centre stage. Justine Beaver and Fanny Deep, porn actresses Friston didn’t recognise, accused him of making an adult video of their ménage à trois, and releasing it without consent. The pair alleged the production lacked professionalism in terms of direction and editing, hurting their brand. Even the prospect of a threesome failed to perk Friston’s mood. Inez, the damn tease, bent over suggestively when cleaning; how could he have known of her barely legal status? Buffy wanted it rough, asking for rape role play more than once. And Elvira knew full well a free lunch came with a price. Friston sighed. Luis sure never suffered scorn of this nature; women flocked to him as gamblers to a casino. And the house always won.

     As the alternate read the complete article, one aspect stood out. Each accusation tried to top the other in its explicit, graphic content. The whores clamoured for time in the limelight and a heap of scandal money. January’s parting words echoed. Weigh the emotional and rational to find a brighter existence, and present the improved you to the world. And his mother had a point; something had to change. Friston embraced the truth. He should listen to the women.

     ***

     “Friston, a delight as always. Welcome.” All smiles and squeezed into a much too tight onesie which made her look like an overstuffed sausage, Stella pointed towards the enormous conference table where five executives waited.

     “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for taking the meeting on such short notice; I appreciate it,” Friston said, pleased with the brown-nosing. He turned to show off the lucky outfit, a navy blue cloak with Friston written in outsized golden letters on the back. Oliver Klozoff, the white-blond head of marketing with the overpriced yet ill-fitting suit, continued the cordial exchange.

     “We have a nose for brilliant ideas, and your message to Stella last night got us in a tizzy, I must admit.” He received enthusiastic nods of support from the four colleagues before turning grim. “It’s not only your arse on the line; Stella knows we’d fry her bacon unless she delivers a hit. Thus, the good lady has promised to do whatever to get the network on top.”

     “I have, and although I believe we have a decent idea of the basic concept, it would be awesome if Friston gave us more meat on the bone.” Stella pulled out a chair for him at the head of the table. “Don’t hold back; win the room and we’re ready to commit to an entire season.” Stella picked up a white-dusted beef jerky roll, one of three positioned next to each other like rails of powdered snow, and bit down with a terrifying smack sound. Friston blinked at her, flashed the perfect white teeth and took a swig of Argus Cola before he pitched his heart out.

     “I call it A Life Ruined. We feature celebrities, including politicians, CEOs, movie stars, and musicians, accused of sexual harassment. In each episode, the poor bastard faces the supposed victims. Together they reenact the purported provocation in front of a studio audience, who, joint with streaming viewers, vote for the best act. Rating parameters include originality, power imbalance, plausibility, scandal level, deviancy, turn-on effect and, of course, 1-10 hotness. The clincher is authenticity, no faking it. Combined with gory details and racy dialogue, we can lure them away from White Rabbit.”

     “I have a concern regarding the number of participants willing to take part,” Mr Klozoff said. “Me too, and what of potential lawsuits?” asked the Vice President of Legal.

     “Given the possibility of screen time and a sizeable cash prize, I believe the accusers will relish the opportunity and won’t have a problem signing a waiver. We’re all steps on the ladder for each other. One more thing, I want a chunk of advertising revenue earmarked for a defamation fund to support those not fortunate enough to be on the show.”

     “Friston has graciously offered to star in the first couple of episodes, recruit the required females and transition to a producer role for the remaining season,” Stella said.

     “Which brings us to the same point as for Washed Up. I trust you are amenable to channelling your father’s fetish for the show?” Oliver Klozoff’s tone hinted at only one acceptable answer.

     “I’ve understood I need to embrace my entire legacy. I’m a star and refuse to apologise for my actions or Luis Sabio’s. Besides, I have a girl who will bare it all for ratings, a real team player. She won’t mind parting with a limb or two for the sake of success. Isn’t it so, Stella?”

     ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     Thank you for reading. Don't forget to review here.
     I'd love to hear your thoughts.
     Sustenance - The Tragedy of Friston Sabio is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
     Copyright © 2022 Richard Lindberg
     All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
     Published by Alium Res AB, Stockholm, 2022
     Cover photo attribution; https://www.pexels.com/@nyaraaquino/
     www.richardlindberg.se

     ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------