Glamorama

"Did anybody read the Post this morning?" Damien's asking the room. "The headline? Something about Satan escaping from hell?"

A few nods, some appreciative murmuring. I close my eyes.

"I'm looking at this place, Victor," Damien says. "And do you want to know what I'm thinking?"

Involuntarily I shake my head, realize something, then nod.

"I'm thinking, Jesus, the zeitgelst's in limbo."

I don't say anything. Damien spits on me, then grabs my face, smearing his saliva all over my nose, my cheeks, reopening a wound on my mouth where Hurley hit me.

"How do you feel, Victor?" he's asking. "How do you feel this mornng?"

"I feel very... funny," I say, guessing, pulling back. "I feel very... unhip?"

"You look the part," Damien sneers, livid, ready to pounce, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging, grasping my face so tightly that when I yell out the sounds coming from my mouth are muffled and my vision blurs over and he abruptly lets go, pacing again.

"Haven't you ever come to a point in your life where you've said to yourself. Hey, this isn't right?"

I don't say anything, just continue sucking in air.

"I guess it's beside the point to tell you you're fired."

I nod, don't say anything, have no idea what kind of expression is on my face.

"I mean, what do you think you are?" he asks, baffled. "A reliable sales tool? Let's just put it this way, Victor: I'm not too thrilled by your value system."

I nod mutely, not denying anything.

"There's good in this business, Victor, and there's bad," Damien says, breathing hard. "And it's my impression that you can't discern between the two."

Suddenly something in me cracks. "Hey," I shout, looking up at him. "Spare me."

Damien seems pleased by this outburst and starts circling the chair, raising the cigar to his mouth, taking rapid light puffs, its tip glowing off then on then off.

"Sometimes even the desert gets chilly, Victor," he intones pretentiously.

"Please continue, O Wise One," I groan, rolling my eyes. "Fucking spare me, man."

He smacks me across the head, then he does it again, and when he does it a third time I wonder if that third slap was in the script, and finally Duke pulls Damien back.

"I may park wherever I feel like it, Victor," he growls, "but I also pay the f**king tickets."

Damien breaks free from Duke and grabs my cheek at the place Hurley's fist struck and twists it upward between two fingers until I'm shouting out for him to stop, reaching up to pull his hand away, but when he lets go I just fall back, limp, rubbing my face.

"I'm just like..." I'm trying to catch my breath. "I'm just like... trying to fit this into... perspective," I choke, slipping helplessly into tears.

Damien slaps my face again. "Hey, look at me."

"Man, you're shooting from the hip." I'm panting, delirious. "I admire that, man." I take in air, gasping. "I go to jail, right? I go directly to jail?"

He sighs, studying me, rubs a hand over his face. "You act very hard to be cool, Victor, but really you're very normal." Pause. "You're a loser." He shrugs. "You're an easy target with a disadvantage."

I try to stand up but Damien pushes me back down into the chair.

"Did you f**k her?" he suddenly asks.

I can't say anything since I don't know who he's talking about.

"Did you f**k her?" he asks again, quietly.

"I'll, um, take the Fifth," I mumble.

"You'll take what, you sonofabitch?" he roars, the two goons rushing over, holding him back from beating the shit out of me.

"The photograph's a lie," I'm shouting back. "The photo was faked. It looks real but it's not. That's not me. It must have been altered-"

Damien reaches into the Armani overcoat and throws a handful of photographs at my head. I duck. They scatter around me, one hitting my lap, faceup, the rest falling to the floor, different photos of Lauren and me making out. In a few shots our tongues are visible, entwined and glistening.

"What are... these?" I'm asking.

"Keep them. Souvenirs."

"What are these?" I'm asking.

"The originals, f**khead," Damien says. "I've had them checked out. They weren't altered, f**khead."

Damien crosses the room, gradually calming himself down, closes and locks a briefcase, then checks his watch.