Excerpt from my forthcoming book, “I Really, Really Want It,” a black as pitch comedy that uses fictional and composite characters to explore the troubling nature of celebrity.
WARNING: CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE & ADULT THEMES
The Producer is on the phone. And he is not happy. He’s talking with the editor of Britain’s best-selling Sunday tabloid. That dumb cunt who was in his office the other day, the girl whose tits he spunked on, what was her name? Zandra, that was it, the slutty one. Stupid cow has only gone and taken her story to a newspaper! Who does she think she is? Like any paper is going to print something that he doesn’t want printed!
It’s a short conversation, the editor mentions that the girl says she was physically and sexually abused by The Producer. He’s sure there’s nothing in it, that probably she was just bitter and angry and couldn’t take the constructive criticism that The Producer was giving her. Exactly so, says The Producer, the girl was a bit of a nut-job frankly, and by the way would the editor like to run an exclusive on his latest boy-band sensation next week? The editor says he would, that it’s very kind of The Producer to offer, and obviously the girl is psychologically unbalanced and they’ll not be running with anything she has to say.
The Producer hangs up, that’s that sorted, silly bitch. He’s still pissed off, though. Not that the girl went to the press per se. That kind of thing is not a problem to him. He’s pissed off that she should be so ungrateful as to go whingeing to the papers after he invited her to his office to give her, what was it the editor said, oh yeh, constructive advice. Ungrateful slut, skank, whore from hell!
Anyway, he’s got more fun lined up today, so fuck her! Today is a different kind of Fun Day. The Producer doesn’t just get off on sexually abusing the innocents he invites into his lair. Sometimes he finds it just as much fun to vary his routine, to leave the sex bit out and just go in for pure, unadulterated, blistering, nasty as fuck humiliation. Every now and then, instead of a pretty boy or girl a fucking ugly one (a “fugly”) will find his or her way from the “reject” pile to the “see” pile, specifically to be invited in for a “roasting.” The aim of “roasting” is to so humiliate and insult the victim that they are reduced to a quivering, crying wreck, their self-esteem should be left in tatters, any illusions they may have about their talent should be shattered and any hope they have for the future comprehensively extinguished. The victim should be made to feel like the worthless piece of shit that they are. The Producer remembers one girl who actually pissed herself with fear. That was a particularly good roasting, it gave him a stonking hard on and fueled sadistic masturbatory fantasies for weeks afterwards.
That’s why, today, he’s invited Maggie to his office. Maggie is twenty-one and works in a call center, but she want to be famous. He’s seen and heard the material she sent in. Ironically, she’s got a great a voice (not that he’ll tell her that, obviously), but she’s fat, drab and unattractive. All that adds up to a massive no-no in The Producer’s mind. Fat and ugly people do not become famous, they shouldn’t even have careers, period. After all, what is the point of ugly, fat people? The Producer doesn’t know why they think they have a right to exist, let alone to think that they should have even the smallest chance of being famous! They must be punished for such ridiculous aspiration, taught a lesson they won’t forget, be reminded that they are physically repulsive and useless.
The Producer’s P.A. knocks softly on his office door, he calls her to “come,” she opens the door and lets in Maggie. As Maggie walks into his office the door swings quietly shut behind her and The Producer presses that handy button under his desk that locks the door and closes the blinds.
“Hullo, Maggie, how are you?”
“I’m well, sir, very well, I’m so excited to be here, it’s like a dream come true!”
“That’s good, Maggie, love. Please, come forward, stop moving around so much, dear, and stand in the circle, there, in the carpet in front of my desk, that’s it, good girl”
Maggie moves nervously forward. The Producer assesses her coolly. Seeing her in the flesh he’s very, very angry with her. Up close and personal she looks even fatter and uglier than he thought. She is short, about five foot four, she has curly brown hair which is down to her shoulders and badly cut, she has a broad, flat face with small brown eyes, a big nose and narrow lips, she even has acne for fucks sake! Who the fuck does she think she is? Doesn’t she understand that fame is for pretty people?
“Well now,” says The Producer, “I’ve reviewed what you sent in to me and I’ve some comments to make, which I hope you will find enlightening.”
“Thank you sir, any tips or advice you could give me…well…I’d be very grateful…”
“All right then, I’ll bear your request for feedback in mind. First of all I’d like to ask you a question, do you think you can sing?”
“Well, yes, I do sir, I hope so, sir!”
“And do you think that being able to sing is something that can make you a star?”
“I guess it must help, sir…”
“Ah, well that’s where you’re wrong, dear. It’s completely fucking irrelevant, none of my acts can sing, they just speak into a microphone and computer programming does the rest.”
“And that little fact, Maggie, leaves you with a problem, because even if I were to say you had a great voice, which I’m not by the way, that still wouldn’t be enough for you to succeed in this business. The most important factor would be how I chose to market you and at what audience I intend to aim you, and that’s really determined by how good you look. Bearing that in mind I can now give you your feedback… unfortunately for you, Maggie, you don’t look good at all. I’m afraid you’re fat, far too fat. I’m sorry if you don’t like what I’m telling you, but I’m a plain speaking man who says it how it is.”
The Producer is pleased to see that Maggie’s thin little lips are hanging open and that her face has gone red with embarrassment.
“But…but…but I could lose weight!”
“Oh sure, you could lose weight but there would be no point because as well as being fat I’m afraid that you’re also very ugly. Very ugly indeed. Pig fucking ugly, in fact. You’d simply go from looking like a fat, ugly pig to looking like a thin, ugly pig!” The Producer laughs at his own little joke, and continues: “in fact, Maggie, you know what, I’m really fucking annoyed that you’ve come here today, you’re totally wasting my time…I mean look at the state of you, you’ve even got fucking spots for Christ sake!”
“B-b-but…but…you…you a-a-asked me to come” stammers Maggie, who is now crying.
“Shut up, woman, don’t bloody interrupt me…now where was I? Oh yes…you’ve wasted my time today. I mean for fucks sake, take a look in the mirror, girl! You’re an obese, piggy, minger, a fucking charity shag, you’re so fucking ugly that you’d be the fucking booby prize in a fucking “let’s see who can pull the dog” competition. Do you really, really think anybody would pay good money to see you, a performing pig with spots, a bad haircut and saggy tits onstage? You’re fucking deluded, utterly deluded. I mean, what the fuck do you think you have to offer? Look at you, you’re a sad excuse for a woman, you’re as ugly as warthog with smallpox and fat as an obese elephant on a junk food diet! The idea of you ever being famous is ridiculous, fucking ridiculous and the upshot of your delusions is that I, a busy and important man, end up having to waste time on people like you, a fat, ugly, piggy-faced, acne-ridden, drab, no hope, pathetic skank! You, Maggie, are a troll with tits.”
The Producer gets up from his desk and walks over to the circle in the carpet where Maggie, now quaking and crying loudly, is standing. “Now have you got the message, girl, has it drilled through your thick skull to that pea-sized lump of turd that you call a brain? You haven’t got a chance of making it, not a chance. Listen to me, you’re too fat and too ugly to be famous. It ain’t going to happen. Not now, not ever, so go back to your sad little job in your sad little call center and maybe one day you’ll marry a sad little man who’s just as ugly as you and together you’ll breed a deformed brood of sad, no-hope, gut bucket, disgusting looking baby trolls who’ll grow up to be as useless and troll fucking ugly as their parents!”
The Producer is standing just a couple of inches from Maggie, leaning over her, his spit flecks her hair as he rants. He has a hard on. Not because he finds Maggie attractive, obviously not and God forbid, but because he has power over. He has humiliated, destroyed her. He can almost smell her fear, her embarrassment, her pain. He grabs Maggie’s shoulders, spins her round and shouts in her face, “now get out of my sight you ridiculous, worthless, repulsive, tub of lard!” He pushes her roughly towards the door of his office.
Maggie is distraught, she can’t believe this has happened. Poor girl, her dream has turned into a nightmare. She tries to get out of the office, yanking at the door handle, banging her fists against the door, screaming and crying. But the door is still locked and as The Producer watches her frantic and unsuccessful attempts to leave his office, he becomes increasingly aroused by her distress.
He puts a hand down to his crotch and feels his throbbing erection. He decides he’s had enough fun with Maggie and presses his special button to open the office door, Maggie runs out, screaming and hysterical.
The Producer sits back at his desk and laughs and laughs. Oh, what fun he has had! When he’s finished laughing, he replays Maggie’s roasting back through his mind and masturbates enthusiastically, as he feels an orgasm approaching he stands and walks, still wanking, over to the circle in his office carpet and shoots a heavy load of sperm directly on to it.