Saving Primary Sanders | A Sander Sides Book

XXIII - Fuck, It's All Over

Want to find out all the dumb villain plans? Well, here we go. Please let me know if there are any plot holes!

And there might be two surprising cameos, so be ready! 

One Week Later...

The set of a talk show is a hive of activity before it goes on air. The cameras need fully charged batteries and the angle of the lights need to be just so, the white dusted sofa should have no creases and boom mics should be hidden in the potted plants overhead, the live audience must be corralled into their seats and told when exactly to make the most noise and the hosts and guests must be done with the exact amount of make up to be presentable in wide access television. The poor production manager is running haggard, keeping their voice calm as they hurry everyone along before the countdown runs out. "How are the goats? Camera ready?" they whisper into the headset. 'Goat' is the unofficial slang for a guest on set, no one remembers how that tradition began, but it was probably due to the hideous intonation of one host.

The goats were, in fact, far from ready.

They are in the dressing rooms at the back of the studio, fretting over the moment they appear on the sound stage. The first is patting his combed back hair nervously, just after a fresh hair cut and touched up purple highlights. He is in a simple charcoal suit and electric blue cravat, spinning circles in a swivel chair. The second is in beige shirtsleeves and a brown waistcoat, pacing around the room with a thoughtful air. He shuffles a few notes in his hand, wondering whether this was the best to release the news. The third is staring soulfully into a mirror, touching up the last trails of his dark make up under his eyes. He stares at his worst enemy, the man in the mirror, and the best he could do now is to make a promise to himself not freak out.

"Why do you want me here, exactly?" asks the third.

"Because you are the only person besides myself I trust to articulate our statement," replies the second.

"And it helps me that there is someone with me more anxious than I am," says the first. "I feel better in comparison."

"Gee, whizz. I feel so special." The third buries his head in his hand.

"Aw, we'll be right there with you!" says the first, patting him on the back. "I may be an actor, but I always make a fool of myself in front of a camera." He looks over at the second questioningly.

The second man checks his watch. "Any minute now."

------

The hosts enter the set, to the cheers of the audience.

One is in a tortoiseshell glasses that look as if they are trying to slide down his nose and escape. Springy thick wavy hair swept back messily by hand. A five a clock shadow that outlined the contours of his face. An open collar white long sleeved shirt that may have never seen an iron, the worst of which is covered by a sleeveless yellow pullover that added a much-needed splash of colour. Trousers surprisingly neatly pressed ending in canvas shoes knotted in two different styles. He sits himself down smartly at one end of the black couch reserved for the host and takes a swig from a mug of coffee he then places on the low table in the middle bedecked by a tasteful flower arrangement.

The other walks with the grace and sensuality of a wild cat (maybe because of the leopard print tie) and the pizazz and regal bearing of a peacock (probably due to a headband of said bird's feathers). His face loves the mirror clearly, and the reflection more and the camera the most. He seems to have played roulette with his wardrobe, as each piece of his ensemble transcends cultures and locations and textures, a mish-mash of kaftans and flamenco jackets and thigh boots that should not work together, but miraculously does. He pours himself onto the black sofa with the wafting elegance of a rainbow waterfall, and takes a glittering sip of a Syrup Bandung Jelly before neatly clinking it on to the centrepiece next to his partner host's mug of coffee.