showered off the fake blood, she went in search of her revenge. Rodney, the doorman at Damien’s Basement, refused at first, but Zara wouldn’t let it go. “I know you gave that son of a bitch my phone number,” she said. “So you can damn well give me his last name.”
“He paid me,” Rodney said sullenly.
“Yeah? I’ll pay you by not telling Damien and getting your ass fired ,” she said.
“Shit,” he said, but told her what she wanted to know.
Doug had mentioned the name of his company once or twice, in the awkward social moments before their sessions, and the same memory that made it so easy for Zara to retain her lines helped her remember where he worked. From that, it was short work on the internet to find an online directory for his company, complete with extension numbers for various employees. Humming a little—the thrill of vengeance, which probably wasn’t much like what Medea felt, but it still made her feel connected to the character—Zara dialed the number for the company’s vice-president. It was after midnight, so all she got was voicemail, but that’s what she wanted.
After the recorded greeting, and the beep, Zara said, “Doug Mitchell calling,” and pressed the “Play” button on her digital answering machine. Doug’s voice came on, rambling about the indignities he craved—cock-shaped gags, butt plugs, floggings. He never mentioned her name, only said, “you”: “I need you to,” “I want you to,” “You have to.” Zara let the recording play for several minutes, over several messages. Then she paused the playback, hung up, and dialed another number at Doug’s company, this time the head of Human Relations, and repeated the process, introducing Doug and then letting his recording ramble. Then a woman’s voice emerged from the answering machine, and Zara tried to stop the playback before the HR director’s voicemail could record it. She accidentally hit the “Delete” button, erasing the woman’s message. The voice had sounded vaguely familiar, but Zara couldn’t place it, and she hadn’t heard more than the first few words. Ah, well. If it was important, she would call back. Zara hung up on that voicemail, and called another extension. Now her machine held nothing but Doug’s messages, and she poured his litany into dozens of voicemail boxes at his company, eventually dialing extensions at random, until she was too exhausted to keep going.
Doug was going to have an interesting day at work tomorrow. Zara had worked as a temp often enough to know how the Gray Horde operated. They would play the messages for one another, put Doug’s voice on speakerphone, argue over whether or not it was really him, and eventually decide it was, of course, it was. She’d been careful not to leave a message in Doug’s own voicemail box. She wondered how long it would take him to figure out why everyone was laughing at him. This wouldn’t exactly balance things between her and Doug, but maybe it would give him the idea that she wasn’t someone to be fucked with, and that she could hurt him in ways that had nothing to do with catering to his masochistic side.
Zara stripped and crawled into bed near dawn, happy and content, suffused with schadenfreude, definitely ready to play Medea the next night.
She dreamed of women with brass wings; of singing stones; of bloody tears; of scorpions the size of lobsters, arrayed on serving platters; of old women, weeping inconsolably over child-sized coffins.
***
Zara made it into the city that night without incident, encountering no grease-painted strangers, no weird detours in the BART station, no sociopathic talent scouts. No Doug. He hadn’t called, either, but maybe he was just afraid to leave more incriminating evidence on her answering machine. She went backstage and got help with her make-up, hair, and costume. She was keenly attuned to any differences in the way her fellow actors treated her since last night, but for the most part,
“He paid me,” Rodney said sullenly.
“Yeah? I’ll pay you by not telling Damien and getting your ass fired ,” she said.
“Shit,” he said, but told her what she wanted to know.
Doug had mentioned the name of his company once or twice, in the awkward social moments before their sessions, and the same memory that made it so easy for Zara to retain her lines helped her remember where he worked. From that, it was short work on the internet to find an online directory for his company, complete with extension numbers for various employees. Humming a little—the thrill of vengeance, which probably wasn’t much like what Medea felt, but it still made her feel connected to the character—Zara dialed the number for the company’s vice-president. It was after midnight, so all she got was voicemail, but that’s what she wanted.
After the recorded greeting, and the beep, Zara said, “Doug Mitchell calling,” and pressed the “Play” button on her digital answering machine. Doug’s voice came on, rambling about the indignities he craved—cock-shaped gags, butt plugs, floggings. He never mentioned her name, only said, “you”: “I need you to,” “I want you to,” “You have to.” Zara let the recording play for several minutes, over several messages. Then she paused the playback, hung up, and dialed another number at Doug’s company, this time the head of Human Relations, and repeated the process, introducing Doug and then letting his recording ramble. Then a woman’s voice emerged from the answering machine, and Zara tried to stop the playback before the HR director’s voicemail could record it. She accidentally hit the “Delete” button, erasing the woman’s message. The voice had sounded vaguely familiar, but Zara couldn’t place it, and she hadn’t heard more than the first few words. Ah, well. If it was important, she would call back. Zara hung up on that voicemail, and called another extension. Now her machine held nothing but Doug’s messages, and she poured his litany into dozens of voicemail boxes at his company, eventually dialing extensions at random, until she was too exhausted to keep going.
Doug was going to have an interesting day at work tomorrow. Zara had worked as a temp often enough to know how the Gray Horde operated. They would play the messages for one another, put Doug’s voice on speakerphone, argue over whether or not it was really him, and eventually decide it was, of course, it was. She’d been careful not to leave a message in Doug’s own voicemail box. She wondered how long it would take him to figure out why everyone was laughing at him. This wouldn’t exactly balance things between her and Doug, but maybe it would give him the idea that she wasn’t someone to be fucked with, and that she could hurt him in ways that had nothing to do with catering to his masochistic side.
Zara stripped and crawled into bed near dawn, happy and content, suffused with schadenfreude, definitely ready to play Medea the next night.
She dreamed of women with brass wings; of singing stones; of bloody tears; of scorpions the size of lobsters, arrayed on serving platters; of old women, weeping inconsolably over child-sized coffins.
***
Zara made it into the city that night without incident, encountering no grease-painted strangers, no weird detours in the BART station, no sociopathic talent scouts. No Doug. He hadn’t called, either, but maybe he was just afraid to leave more incriminating evidence on her answering machine. She went backstage and got help with her make-up, hair, and costume. She was keenly attuned to any differences in the way her fellow actors treated her since last night, but for the most part,
Similar Books
