Robert T. Jeschonek
Now On Sale
Chapter 1
If I'd known then what I know now, I never would have gone toward the light. Seriously. This Heaven, I could've done without.
My actual life before death was much better. I was a movie star , for cryin' out loud. I had it all.
As recently as twelve hours ago, I had it all.
"So tell me, Stag, how does it feel to be nominated for your third Academy Award?" That's what the perky blonde morning show host asked during the live interview.
"Unbelievable." I said it with my patented humble-yet-confident grin, letting the bright lights cast a glare on my teeth. Down-to-Earth, salt-of-the-Earth, salt-and-pepper hair parted on the right. "It never gets old."
"What a track record." She, Susan F., was in a New York City studio. For reasons that weren't clear to me, I was in a separate studio across town, watching her on a monitor. Doin' the ol' split-screen tango. "And with two Best Actor wins under your belt, how do you feel about chances for a third?"
"Crossing my fingers, Sue." I flashed my bright whites and showed my crossed fingers to the camera. "It would be an indescribable honor."
"We wish you the best," said Susan with her most endearing smile, as if I were family.
"Thank you, Sue." Nod and a wink. "I hope to see you at the after-party."
Aaaand cut!
"On a cold day in Hell," I added after the red light on the camera went dark.
"Screw you, too, Stag." That's what Susan F.'s voice said in my earpiece. Looks like my mic was still hot.
Not that I cared. "Love and kisses, S.F.," I told her as I unclipped the mic. Reaching under my gray sweater, I pulled the mic down and out by the cord.
As I popped out my earpiece (to the sound of her angry cursing), I saw someone open the studio door and stroll in. It was a guy--six-three, six-four--with broad shoulders, dark business suit, and red tie. High roller maybe?
"Hello?" I was irritated, because the only one walking in on me at that point should have been my manager, Shisha M. "You know I have to be at a film shoot in fifteen minutes, right?"
The guy cleared his throat. He was standing with his hands folded over his lower abdomen. "Hello." I couldn't make out his face in the shadows beyond the studio lights. "Hello, S.L."
I hopped off the stool, squinting for a look at him. "Very funny." More than a little pissed off because he was riffing on my call-people-by-their-initials routine. "What do you want?"
At that instant, somebody switched off the lights, and I saw the guy's face. For a moment, the pissed-off-ness poured right out of me.
My breath caught in my you-know-what. A cold chill rushed up my you-know-where.
That guy...
"About the film shoot." He shook his head. The hair wasn't salt-and-pepper, it was solid silver. But otherwise...identical.
To me. He could've been my twin.
"What about it?" I said, but my head was tingling. I had a feeling like very strong vertigo, like being stoned.
"Don't go back," said my twin. "Not today. Not ever."
As the initial shock wore off, I started thinking this through. I had no twin, so... "Who sent you, pal?" I straightened my back, squared my shoulders, copped a sneer. "Was it Brad? Was it Morgan? I've gotta say, you're the best Stag Lincoln impersonator I've ever seen."
My twin walked toward me, looking intense. As he got closer, I swear I could smell the ocean. "I'm begging you. Don't go back to the shoot, Willy."
My sneer turned into a frown. How could he possibly know that ancient nickname? The one I paid millions (conservatively speaking) to bury forever? "Whatever was remotely funny about this just stopped being funny." I yanked the phone out of my pocket and started punching 9-1-1.
At which point, my twin charged up and smacked the phone from my hand. "Listen to me!" Next, he hauled off and slapped me across the face. "If you go to that shoot, it's all over! Can you get that through your thick head , you arrogant ass ?" He slapped me again, harder.
Where the hell
Now On Sale
Chapter 1
If I'd known then what I know now, I never would have gone toward the light. Seriously. This Heaven, I could've done without.
My actual life before death was much better. I was a movie star , for cryin' out loud. I had it all.
As recently as twelve hours ago, I had it all.
"So tell me, Stag, how does it feel to be nominated for your third Academy Award?" That's what the perky blonde morning show host asked during the live interview.
"Unbelievable." I said it with my patented humble-yet-confident grin, letting the bright lights cast a glare on my teeth. Down-to-Earth, salt-of-the-Earth, salt-and-pepper hair parted on the right. "It never gets old."
"What a track record." She, Susan F., was in a New York City studio. For reasons that weren't clear to me, I was in a separate studio across town, watching her on a monitor. Doin' the ol' split-screen tango. "And with two Best Actor wins under your belt, how do you feel about chances for a third?"
"Crossing my fingers, Sue." I flashed my bright whites and showed my crossed fingers to the camera. "It would be an indescribable honor."
"We wish you the best," said Susan with her most endearing smile, as if I were family.
"Thank you, Sue." Nod and a wink. "I hope to see you at the after-party."
Aaaand cut!
"On a cold day in Hell," I added after the red light on the camera went dark.
"Screw you, too, Stag." That's what Susan F.'s voice said in my earpiece. Looks like my mic was still hot.
Not that I cared. "Love and kisses, S.F.," I told her as I unclipped the mic. Reaching under my gray sweater, I pulled the mic down and out by the cord.
As I popped out my earpiece (to the sound of her angry cursing), I saw someone open the studio door and stroll in. It was a guy--six-three, six-four--with broad shoulders, dark business suit, and red tie. High roller maybe?
"Hello?" I was irritated, because the only one walking in on me at that point should have been my manager, Shisha M. "You know I have to be at a film shoot in fifteen minutes, right?"
The guy cleared his throat. He was standing with his hands folded over his lower abdomen. "Hello." I couldn't make out his face in the shadows beyond the studio lights. "Hello, S.L."
I hopped off the stool, squinting for a look at him. "Very funny." More than a little pissed off because he was riffing on my call-people-by-their-initials routine. "What do you want?"
At that instant, somebody switched off the lights, and I saw the guy's face. For a moment, the pissed-off-ness poured right out of me.
My breath caught in my you-know-what. A cold chill rushed up my you-know-where.
That guy...
"About the film shoot." He shook his head. The hair wasn't salt-and-pepper, it was solid silver. But otherwise...identical.
To me. He could've been my twin.
"What about it?" I said, but my head was tingling. I had a feeling like very strong vertigo, like being stoned.
"Don't go back," said my twin. "Not today. Not ever."
As the initial shock wore off, I started thinking this through. I had no twin, so... "Who sent you, pal?" I straightened my back, squared my shoulders, copped a sneer. "Was it Brad? Was it Morgan? I've gotta say, you're the best Stag Lincoln impersonator I've ever seen."
My twin walked toward me, looking intense. As he got closer, I swear I could smell the ocean. "I'm begging you. Don't go back to the shoot, Willy."
My sneer turned into a frown. How could he possibly know that ancient nickname? The one I paid millions (conservatively speaking) to bury forever? "Whatever was remotely funny about this just stopped being funny." I yanked the phone out of my pocket and started punching 9-1-1.
At which point, my twin charged up and smacked the phone from my hand. "Listen to me!" Next, he hauled off and slapped me across the face. "If you go to that shoot, it's all over! Can you get that through your thick head , you arrogant ass ?" He slapped me again, harder.
Where the hell
Similar Books
