Eight Legs Too Many || ONC 2021 and 2022

Chapter 13: Yoko meets a celebrity

She definitely wasn't fancy enough for this place.

That was all Yoko could think as she zoomed up the glass elevator in a studio somewhere in Los Angeles, gawking at the set pieces and wishing harder than she had ever wished for anything in her life that her cell phone wasn't currently in Death's pocket. Her thoughts spiraled somewhere between Oh my god, is that Shakira? and Fuckfuckfuck why does my phone have to be in captivity NOW?

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY TO HER, said Death. He had disguised himself in the visage of a young man in a leather jacket. Yoko, who hadn't realized he was capable of disguising himself, wondered why he didn't do it more often. Perhaps he simply couldn't be bothered.

"I got this," said Yoko. "I'm going to say only the best things about you, even if it violates, like, all my moral principles."

Death's eyebrows drew together.

"Kidding!" said Yoko hurriedly. "There's no such thing as moral principles when your cell phone is in danger. Don't worry, I'll do my best."

The elevator dinged.

Yoko gulped and stepped out.

"Right this way, miss," said a man. Yoko decided he had to be a butler. She didn't know if celebrities kept butlers, but he looked exactly the way she had always imagined a butler would look, from the well-groomed mustache to his dour expression, up to and including the way he beckoned her regally down the hallway.

Yoko shot one last glance toward Death, who was already disappearing down the lean glass elevator, and stiffened her spine. Compulsively, she felt for the ticket in her pocket. It was a special 'behind-the-scenes-meet-the-popstar' fan ticket that Death had handed her earlier, because of course celebrities didn't normally agree to a spontaneous meeting with common peons like Yoko.

The butler led them silently down a long, carpeted glass hallway that looked out across the LA skyline, past some postmodern sculptures that were trying too hard to be orcas, toward a Neoclassical painting of a jellyfish. The butler rapped once on the painting, which Yoko belatedly realized was a door, and beckoned.

Yoko steeled her spine and stepped through.

Laura X was sitting at a large mirror, surrounded by a platoon of makeup artists. She wore her hair in a tall bun that glittered with sea glass. The long dress that draped across her torso put Yoko in mind of a Greek goddess—albeit one with a strange affinity for seahorse statement pieces.

"Welcome," she said.

"Um, hi," said Yoko.

In person, Laura X was a lot less smiley than she'd seemed in her interviews. She regarded Yoko with the distant, pensive air of one who is trying to dissect another person with their eyes—slowly, layer by layer. She seemed to be waiting for Yoko to speak.

Yoko swallowed. "So, uh, I'm not sure what usually happens at these events," she said awkwardly, "but I'm like, a huge fan of your music, and my sister is an even bigger fan. We love all your songs. Shoiri has posters of you posing next to your—erm, your orca album—"

"Orcas Overseas?"

"Yes that one! I don't suppose it would be asking too much to get some kind of autograph or souvenir just to prove that this actually happened?"

Laura X raised an eyebrow.

"You're not really here for an autograph, are you?" she said.

"What?" Even Yoko's laugh sounded guilty. Curse Death! "Of course I—"

Laura waved a beautifully manicured hand with a dismissive gesture that somehow managed to fuse poise with disdain. "There's no need to lie. I know Death sent you. How did he get his skeletal hands on this particular fan ticket? Did he slaughter its owner? Bribe them with cookies? Offer them ten thousand dollars and a guarantee of longevity?"