HELL OF A DEAL, a supernatural satire

Chapter Five

5

That same night Al Smith experienced strange fitful dream worlds. Worse than usual, an oddness in the universe excited him, but yet it froze him with paralysis.

Katya the psychotic nurse pushed Smith's face underwater, under an icy river. For good measure she sliced and diced at his eyes with a blood-dripping scalpel. The water and everything Al could see turned crimson. Katya assaulted him with such a lustful, celebratory demeanor, orgasmic and sinister.

While this murder scene transpired, Lou Seaford stood close by, and he directed the action, filming the scenario while smoking a cigar. An entire movie crew shot the sequence professionally. Bright twenty thousand watt HMI lights lit up the riverbank. The glare blinded Al as he struggled helplessly to keep his face above the dirty blood tinged muck.

Katya nodded, and she pushed Al's face beneath the water for another take. It didn't seem quite right to Lou, as director, and so they repeated the motions with various minor adjustments and more frenzied slashes.

Smith grabbed at his heart. His hands felt frigid as did his feet. He awoke in bed. Al's head managed to turn toward his adjacent platter or medications and bottled vitamin waters. His throat wheezed out its first few breaths of the morning.

His pills fell randomly onto the bed and floor. Al couldn't ingest them fast enough. His head plastered down against the mattress, he was too weak to move. He couldn't raise himself, and so he lay, and he stared up at his bedroom ceiling.

His telephone came alive with a classically-inspired orchestra piece, which was actually the theme song from Driven to Reckless. Al reached for it, and he managed to pull the little electronic device over to his ear.

"Daddy? You there?" The voice was Al's daughter Victoria Migisi-Smith. "Hello?"

"Vee, I'm not doing too good."

"I'll be right over." Victoria lived several miles from Smith at her own house in Bel Air. She had recently turned forty years old. A semi-independent film director, Victoria Smith was accomplished in her own right. She had produced independently funded projects for twenty years now. Preferring the freedom that accompanied smaller films, while utilizing Al's post-production studios at a discounted rate, Victoria had cultivated her own niche and audience.

Victoria rushed into Al's dark bedroom, and she stopped cold. She took in a stark look at Al's color drained face and hollowed out eyes.

Smith was in a sad, run down condition, weaker than at any point of his entire adult life.

Victoria lifted Al's head, and she slid a pillow under his shoulders. "You cannot go in today."

"I'm not. I'm not. I've got a treatment scheduled."

"Oh, thank God," she said. "Where? What kind?"

"Something new." Al's head bobbed about.

Victoria hugged softly. "Okay. I love you dad."

"Oh, I love you too, angel." Smith's voice scratched and huffed.

His daughter's light embrace felt hard, and aches throbbed around his torso and across his back. He endured.

The doorbell rang out. They both turned their heads to face the doorway. Victoria rushed up and out in order to allow the medical team inside.

Orderlies arrived with a wheelchair. A waiting ambulance sat in the driveway ready to transport Smith to their facility. The two paramedics carefully lifted Smith out of the bed, and they carted him away.