Insert Chassis Albuquerque: The News.

The News.

The celebrity of any kind of fame is just someone being sodomised by the many.
"Singing TV star Famous Vintage was found dead yesterday evening. Sources closes to the reality star said he’d been exhausted after a long series of failures, TV reruns and Pizza joint performances…” the TV news presenter was saying. They cross to a police interview.
“There are very serious flaws in the different eyewitness testimony of events from that night. We do not currently have all the answers collated into a clear, succinct format that will help resolve these inconsistencies. But PCP will do that to the otherwise normal people, make them feel they are invincible and we are obviously growing increasingly concerned about the effects of drugs and money on famous people and the correlation that exists between the two,” the police said.

“We’ll update you as the situation changes…” the news presenter said.
”Not even a chain of pizza places, just one goddamn pizza store!” Vintage had complained.
“Hey, if you don’t want this gig, there’s the door, pal,” I’d told him. As maĆ®tre d' I felt it my duty to make him aware there were other similar establishments available he could sing at to supply his drug-habit, the kind of downtown venue frequented by drunks and vagrants and other people he knew and at least - I was just hypothesising here - crack cocaine would probably be cheaper.
Vintage hadn’t appreciated this sentiment at all.
He really was a piece of work and I’d actually voted for him.
“Don’t you know who I am? How dare you speak to me that way, I’ll have you fired! I toured East-Berlin locked on board a bus, you know, after that business about the Wall coming down, of course. But as we passed between the checkpoint the armed guards glared at us. Provoked, I'd shouted, `I'm a communist! Up with the reds!’” Realising he’d become carried away and people could still be a little overwrought about that commie stuff, he said, “Where’s the owner! Are you the owner?”
“I’m not the owner,” I assured him.
“Well, who are you? Where is he?”
“I can't tell you that, it's classified.”
I could see the riddled needle marks fame had cut into his arms, the suede of it forgotten in the bad light looking worn, as he'd been caught under feet all these dull, quiet years and frayed, as if torn to tatters and barely clung on raggedly in the soft, melancholic breeze of his yesteryear still blowing nostalgia in his head. I began to articulate the problem that made others uncomfortable, after all you can't walk around a place like the city in a red velvet suit and not demand to have attention and a procession of comments follow you.
Vintage was yelling at a customer, “Window dressing! That’s all you are, window dressing!” and continued to be sensitive to environmental changes.
The customer said: “I’m not the owner, I think he's out in the parking lot fucking one of the waitresses. Can I get your autograph if you’re not singing tonight, before you go?” The customer held out a napkin for him. Immediately Vintage said to me, “Do you have a pen, something to write with?”
I gave him a pen. He clearly wasn't too swift, you know, I knew this because he didn’t sail as fast as others with the wind. As he was writing he said, “I accept your apology in advance as too much time will pass discussing it. Please accept mine, effective immediately. Your customers seem to have scurvy, that unhealthy look of flakes for skin and fumes for breath...”
“Why don’t you write that down,” I told him.
He’d performed a few numbers. There was hysterical whooping and hollering, the kind of commotion heard only when someone famous appeared but then the customers realised it was just Vintage Famous. One of the customers even asked we turn the music off. He’d sang Elvis numbers, INXS, Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, anyone as long as they were dead.
And now he, Vintage, was dead. So, you’re thinking, a theme, so maybe it was more to do with his taste in music that he was dead? Well, I can exclusively reveal Vintage was high. Later, after the show, when he was all piled up with cocaine and who knew what else, I overheard him talking to a fan. There was a certain amount of promiscuity over in that dark corner, huddling with him.
“What you doing later?” she asked, sitting on his lap, arm around his neck.
"I guess I’ll get high - extremely high," Vintage had said.
“Well, you don’t want to do that alone,” this girl had advised.
“You got any evidence to prove that?” Vintage had wondered, clearly dubious.
“Sure do! You wanna take a look at the evidence right now?” she’d said and I’d thought for sure she was going to show him the goods right there and then. And she did!
“You two, get the fuck outta here!” I’d told them.
“I’m waiting for the limo, you seen it anyplace? Go call ‘em for me,” Vintage said knowing full well the most he'd get is a ride in a taxi; in fact, for payment the owner had just given him a couple coupons for a free pizza’s. I was about to tell him what had his happened to his limo when he leant over and said, “Look, you know how hard it is for me to get laid more than 5 or 6 times a week these days - gimme a break, here’s twenty bucks, just play along, okay?”
I took the 20 bucks, what can I say, human nature kicked in.
“Your limo has been delayed, Mr Famous, sir, let me call you a taxi instead,” I said.
“I should think so! And get me a bottle of your finest!” Vintage said and gave me a wink. A bottle of our finest didn’t cut for much, I was going to have all serving staff take a piss in an empty bottle for him, which is what we'd done last week. Know who we'd had in here last week? Sammy Davis Jr., not the real Sammy Davis Jr. obviously ‘cause he’s dead, but Vintage Famous wasn’t really famous.
"Bottle of our finest coming right up and I think your taxi's arrived, Mr Famous..." I said.