Celebrityville

By Nick Thomson

“Celebrityville” is a crime thriller with a satirical bite, detailing the warped breakdown of Jack Carter Christian – that actor in that film you think you saw once – now best known for his impending, and very public, divorce from the world-famous Sandi Valone Rockwood. Suffering from a film set head injury, and hounded by social media 'clicktivists' and hashtag protesters, Jack soon finds himself in deep trouble – as deep and dark as the cavernous pit in his stomach when he realises the horribly enticing truth about what he's capable of.

Notorious Stranger/Ridiculed Icon/Dominated Avenger – this is the first story in the “Celebrityville Series”.

Also includes the tie-in short story “The Great and The Good”, in which gossip from behind the velvet curtain, and the rehabilitating merits of altruism, clash with a hallucinatory public meltdown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nick Thomson
• Release date: Mar 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311884084

Nick Thomson

Nick Thomson is a writer and freelance filmmaker. He works mostly in documentaries and shorts, best known for the short film "For Want Of A Nail" (which was inspired by his own experiences with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), as well as his work in educational films. His work has screened around the world at festivals and on television, gathering a host of nominations and wins.Nick is also the author of the horror novella "Dug Deep", and the 'Celebrityville' series of books. Additionally, he is a staff writer for the indie zine Sleaze Fiend Magazine, and has maintained a blog - www.deadshed.com - since 2007, with new reviews of exploitation films every month. He is currently putting the finishing touches to his new novel "Murder at the Grindhouse", a coming-of-age murder mystery set during the last notorious years of New York City's 42nd Street.

Book preview

Celebrityville

Nick Thomson

Copyright Information

Celebrityville

Copyright © Nick Thomson

Published by Nick Thomson 2015

The right of Nick Thomson to be identified as author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, currently known or future inventions, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from the author. You must not circulate this book in any format.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book is also available in a paperback print edition.

Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends or family to download their own copy from their favourite authorised retailer. Thank you for your support.

Books by Nick Thomson:

Celebrityville

Sleb: Tigress of Celebrityville

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

The Great and The Good – Short Story

Sleb: Tigress of Celebrityville – Samples from Book 2 in the Celebrityville Series

About the Author

Dedications

M, F, and J.

Friends, both offline and online.

Joe & Nicky.

CHAPTER 1

Confirm Transaction: DME 100,000 (DigiMonE).

The little arrow of a mouse cursor clicks Confirm and a pop-up window creates a pitch black void. Then the nothingness becomes something, pulling up and away from a grey foam case before coming to rest at eye level. A pair of hands appear under a yellow glow, enveloped in black leather gloves, and rummage through a black courier bag on the passenger seat of a car.

The view shifts, sliding down and tilting up through the wind shield to reveal a full moon behind wisps of silver cloud and dark, knotted branches hanging overhead. The shape of a face appears in the rear-view mirror, hidden behind a pullover mask and a large pair of black glasses with a thick frame just between the eyes.

Home-printed signs, haphazardly glued to squares of cardboard pinned to wooden stakes, lead the way through the shadows. The moonlight is dappled across a muddy track that winds through trees, their leaves rustling gently on the breeze. Left, right, and straight ahead, a series of bold arrows point towards a tree line in the middle of a forest, far flung from civilisation.

Stumbling up and over a slippery incline, a ramshackle array of parked cars comes into view. Dimly lit by long, elevated stretches of fairy lights, powered by a small generator puttering away somewhere unseen, a carnival of carnality awaits. Mid-range family run-arounds and battered old builder's vans alike lurch on their squeaking springs to the mixed beat of various songs emanating from different stereo systems. Classic Rock, 80s Pop, Dub Step, Country & Western; wailing axes and keyboard riffs, blasting bass and twanging guitars, all of it adding up to a disorienting cacophony.

Shadowy figures trundle across the soggy, churned-up ground, to peer into steamed-up windows, choosing whether to linger or move on like window shoppers without a cause. In the glow of interior lights, sweaty mounds of flesh are entangled. Their limbs are flung here and there, waggling and waving like the legs of a panicked spider under attack from a starved predator. Muffled grunts and repetitive profanities ring out between puffs on e-cigarettes and gulps of boxed wine from Styrofoam cups.

The steamy shapes inside and the dark figures outside, all do what they do from behind cheap masks of cartoon characters. Smiling Pigs and Puppy Dogs press their snouts against glass. Bunnies and Bears bend each other this way and that. From the front seat to the back seat, from the inside to the outside, anthropomorphised Parrots and Beavers and Lions have the time of their lives. Close enough to smell their cologne, or far enough away to barely notice them, Cats and Sheep and Cows do as they please.

"Oi! YOU! Fuck off outta here! barks a grizzled voice from behind the face of a Kitty Cat mask, the edges worn down to the primer paint. A lumbering man, not so much tall as wide, comes barrelling out of the darkness and into the tree line. Take your camera, shove it up your ass, and don't come back or I'll bash your fuckin' head in!" Things get shaky, but the furious Kitty grabs hold of a man conspicuously lurking with a video camera, the blinking red light betraying his intentions.

You're in a public place you idiot! If you don't want to be caught on camera then do it in your own home! protests the video voyeur, but the Kitty lunges with a balled-up fist and scares him off.

Every damn time … there's always some chump who thinks they're clever, grumbles the Kitty, turning around for his close up, scratching an exposed tuft of greying chest hair. "I hope you're not recording anything you see here."

The camera shakes and nervously says Of course not, this is for our eyes only.

The Kitty twitches a plastic ear and leans in, Your voice sounds familiar … do I know you from somewhere, friend?

Whatever happened to anonymity? says the disembodied voice behind the hidden camera.

Alright, fair enough, heading back into the fray. Have fun yeah? If you see something you like just get involved, there's no judgement here. The wide load Kitty Cat disappears into the murky ether, the crack of his hairy ass hanging out over the top of his poorly fitted jeans, and the scene creeps into closer view.

Like a sloppily organised straight-to-video version of Eyes Wide Shut after a severe budget cut, a refreshments stall, or rather the open hatchback of a people carrier, appears in the midst of the action. Bowls of snacks that have been rifled through with dirty fingers spill their contents; lost and forgotten school schedules dusted with salt and cheese, are spattered with greasy drops of salsa dip. Cans of bargain basement beer get shaken up, and then explode in the faces of thirsty Dinosaurs and Hamsters.

Stalking around the dingy scene, the air damp and cold, the participating vehicles begin to thin out and spread apart until one lonely SUV bounces into a wide shot in the distance.

Leaving behind the competing noise of hard rock riffs and heartfelt ballads, the strings of fairy lights, and the foot traffic of curious peepers, the SUV commands an intimate audience of only two.

A grinning Rat and a Rabbit with its tongue poking out.

The moment lingers.

Sweeping around to the side, treading lightly through the undergrowth, both turned backs move from a wide shot to a medium-close. With their attention arrested by the gymnastics inside the SUV, obscured behind fogged-up glass, a gleaming hunter's knife comes into view and hovers, poised and ready.

One moment passes, then two, then a third and the knife shakes, but then in one quick motion a free hand shoots out and smothers the Rat's mouth. The knife catches the moon on its serrated edge before plunging down into the neck behind the rodent's windpipe. With a swift ninety degree turn, the blade is then thrust outwards, splitting the neck wide open as a geyser of seemingly black fluid sprays across the bodywork of the bucking SUV.

The occupants of the vehicle continue on in ignorant bliss, but the Rabbit jumps and turns to see its woodland comrade collapse to the ground in a bloody heap. A babbling gasp is all the Rabbit can muster as it turns tail and flees into the nearby trees.

Choking on a mouthful of saliva and its own hot breath from behind the cheap plastic mask, the Rabbit leaps and lumbers over uneven ground, its work boots kicking up mud and squelching into cloudy puddles. Beginning to plead in broken sounds, caught between gasps and coughs, the Rabbit tears its cheap plastic face off and flings it into the shadows. Starting to run out of juice and with its trousers rapidly shaking loose down its burning legs, it dodges left and right, up and down, to avoid tree trunks and low-hanging branches.

About to scream for help, the pudgy and unkempt man behind the mask glances over his shoulder just as his foot gets tangled up in an unearthed tree root.

He slams into the ground hard, blasting all the wind out of his lungs, and curls into a ball. Mouthing Please stop and Don't hurt me, the unmasked Rabbit reaches out a quivering hand, the fingers spread wide and covered in dirt. Rolled over onto his back and still trying to suck in some air, he freezes at the sight of the knife dripping crimson onto his chest.

One sudden thrust and it's lights out for Mister Rabbit.

Once again time seems to freeze, as the last breath leaks out, and then a trembling black leather glove returns the scene to the black void.

This concludes our broadcast. Your donation will be handled securely. Thank you for your patronage, says a computerised voice.

The video window switches to a standby graphic as the comments of anonymous users scroll down the screen in a sidebar. Bye Bye Tubby says one. "Can you believe those sort of people do that in public? Have they no shame?" says another.

Signing off with Adequate performance. Looking forward to the next show, a figure hunched over their desk closes the lid on their laptop computer. Reclining in their ergonomic office chair they pick up a glass, take a sip of Scotch, and chuckle to themselves.

The lights are low, the curtains are drawn, the door is locked, and lining the walls are countless trophies and awards. Glass and crystal, silver and gold, a career's worth of achievements and riches are proudly displayed alongside rare first edition novels and mounted platinum-selling records. Framed commendations for charitable contributions, and services to poor communities, sit alongside honours for architectural preservation and anti-poaching causes.

Draining the last of the Scotch, the shining beacon of success cracks their old and weary knuckles, and turns off the light.

CHAPTER 2

Totally ditched lame class for awesome prank. STAY TUNED PPL!

CrazyGurlChantelle – 8:13

Jack Carter Christian, on the right side of his mid-thirties, stares out through the tinted window of his chauffeur driven ride to the set of his latest movie.

Recommended by his agent – never mind the script it'll change every day – do this movie and you'll fund the films you really want to make.

Pulling up at the security gate, he sees a couple of dedicated fangirls hovering nearby with expectation on their beaming faces.

I'll be right back, he says to the distracted driver, who signs in with the security guard.

Running his fingers through his slicked-back dirty blonde hair, Jack affixes a warm smile and the cocked eyebrow that could cut glass, one of his presentational idiosyncrasies. Stepping out in his tailored, 'designer grunge' casual wear, he greets the two girls with an extended hand. Juggling their delicate fingers, autograph books, and marker pens, he works the crowd of two with an affable charm.

You guys been waiting long?

Yeah, no, like not long, says one, flicking her hair in a deliberately nonchalant manner. So, like, you know, what's this movie called anyway?

"Seven Deaths By Sunset," laying it on thick with a theatrical flourish.

She pretends to be impressed.

Well versed in these mechanics, he's still surprised to see girls as young as these, dressed in a fashion that doesn't make sense to him, eager for his scrawl on a piece of paper. He's well known, but he's not a mega star. The mean age of his typical autograph or selfie hunter is somewhere between their first mortgage instalment and their last student loan repayment. Most people know his name, or at least a third of it. Chances are that most of them have seen one of his