Big Egos Read online

  PRAISE FOR S. G. BROWNE

  and his brilliantly original novels

  “Browne pulls out something so unexpected and pitch-perfect that it’s obvious Creativity knocked him out of his chair and started typing herself.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Riotously funny and brilliantly executed . . . Browne’s prose will have you hooked from the very first word to the very last.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “It’s not just satire; it’s literature. . . . S. G. Browne is an author to be reckoned with, a voice from the void of humanity that begs to be heard.”

  —The Inner Bean

  “Marvelous. . . . One of the best speculative humorists working the field.”

  —HorrorScope

  “S. G. Browne continues his streak of entertaining and delighting readers with his humor-filled writing prowess and supernaturally infused creative storytelling.”

  —BookFetish

  “Hilarious . . . an extremely strong narrative voice.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  LUCKY BASTARD

  “Wickedly sharp and wildly entertaining. S. G. Browne is one of today’s very best writers.”

  —New York Times bestselling author

  Jonathan Maberry

  “Insightful, intriguing . . . With twists aplenty, this fast-paced adventure succeeds as both a hard-boiled homage and a paranormal romp.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review and

  a Pick of the Week)

  “Browne adds a whimsical layer of philosophizing about the fundamental noir themes of fate, chance, and luck. . . . Wisecracks punctuate the action.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Browne hits the funny bone hard.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “Thoroughly enjoyable . . . In spite of all the laughs, Lucky Bastard contains some thoughts about how to hang on to your morality.”

  —Peoria Journal Star

  “A real original . . . Wildly entertaining and uncommonly moving.”

  —Pretty Sinister Books

  “Full of witty writing and hilarious adventures . . . I laughed out loud many times. Read the book: it’ll be your good fortune.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Kevin J. Anderson

  “The titular bastard may be in for a very bad day, but Browne’s readers are the lucky ones.”

  —New York Times bestselling author

  Christopher Golden

  I SAW ZOMBIES EATING SANTA CLAUS

  “Readers with a certain seasonal sensibility—one that renders zombies appropriate fare no matter the date on the calendar—will be shouting Ho! Ho! Ho!”

  —USA Today

  “If your idea of ‘heart-warming’ involves an organ roasting on a stick, I Saw Zombies Eating Santa Claus is the perfect holiday tale.”

  —WashingtonPost.com

  “Hilarious, horrifying . . . a must for anyone who can’t get enough of the undead.”

  —San Jose Mercury News

  “Dark, bizarre, very funny, and yes, with a bit of sentimentality thrown in, I Saw Zombies Eating Santa Claus is the perfect Christmas read for those who like VERY black comedy in their holiday reading.”

  —Feathered Quill

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  For Jeff, aka Big Nerd.

  Thanks for keeping me real.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  All celebrities, fictional characters, and public personas portrayed in this novel are used in a fictitious and satirical manner and are the product of the author’s imagination.

  We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.

  —Kurt Vonnegut

  Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.

  —Oscar Wilde

  CHAPTER 1

  I’m at another party, this one in a Beverly Hills brick Colonial Revival mansion just off Wilshire Boulevard. It’s not exactly Graceland and this sure as hell ain’t Memphis, but I have to remember that I didn’t come here to indulge my own fantasies.

  It’s a select crowd, lots of familiar faces and everyone wants to shake my hand. I get stopped by Dick Clark, Jackie Kennedy Onassis, Liberace, and Starsky and Hutch, among others. Fairly white-bread gathering, though I run into Richard Pryor every now and then, so chances are he’ll make an appearance.

  The party is a typical L.A. gathering, lots of pretty faces and everyone looking around to see who else there is to see. The DJ is playing seventies-era Top 40 and disco that everyone’s heard on the radio at one time or another. I think about suggesting he spin “Jailhouse Rock” or “Hound Dog” instead, but I don’t want to get too self-absorbed. It’s bad form.

  I wander through the house, offering an occasional smile and a wave and a “thank you very much” as I check out the other guests. Bruce Lee is hitting on Hot Lips Houlihan. Evel Knievel is attempting to jump over half a dozen of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. Daisy Duke and Farrah Fawcett are comparing their breasts while Andy Kaufman officiates.

  A huge banquet table of catered food sits in the middle of the dining room. Cher and Deborah Harry, both apparently high on devil weed, are scarfing down petits fours, while John Belushi sculpts the pâté into the shape of a penis. Fonzie sits in his trademark leather jacket near the head of the table, alternately eating from a tray of puff pastries and sucking on a half-smoked joint. He looks at me and says, “Nice lamb chops,” then laughs. He has crumbs and a yellow stain down the front of his white T-shirt.

  I’m tempted to bring up the whole “jumping the shark” thing but my momma always taught me to take the high road, so I just smile and keep my thoughts to myself.

  Belushi offers me some of his artwork on a cracker but I decline. Maybe if they had a platter of Twinkies or some deep-fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches I’d reconsider, but I didn’t come here to indulge The King’s appetite. At least not for food.

  Deborah Harry breaks into a rendition of “It’s Now or Never” as Cher stuffs another petit four into her mouth and laughs, spraying food across the table. Cher and Blondie don’t belong here, at least not legally since they’re both still alive, but neither one of them appears to be in any kind of distress, so I let it slide.

  I walk up to Blondie, tenderly brush the hair off her forehead, ask her if she’s lonesome tonight, then give her a kiss that distracts Belushi from his pâté sculpture. When Blondie’s knees buckle, I catch her and lower her into a chair, then turn and walk into the kitchen.

  Joey Ramone and Sid Vicious are doing shots of tequila while Andy Warhol raids the refrigerator, which looks more like a walk-in closet than a Frigidaire. I reach past Warhol and grab two bottles of Coors, then wander down the hall and head upstairs.

  The mansion has half a dozen bedrooms, each of them bigger than my own and half of them occupied. In one bedroom, I find Vinnie Barbarino getting stoned with George Carlin and Freddie Mercury. In another room, Rocky Balboa is having sex with Annie Hall. Finally, in the last room, a bedroom so enormous I could park both of my cars and still have enough space to stage Jesus Christ Superstar, I find who I’ve been looking for.

  David Cassidy stands naked in front of a full-length mirror singing “I Think I Love You.” His head is shaved, along with most of the rest of his body—his hair in a pile on the hardwood floor at his feet. He still has his pubic hair and his eyebrows, but he removes the eyebrows in the time it takes me to uncap the bottles of
Coors.

  “That’s an interesting look,” I say.

  He turns away from the mirror and regards me with catatonic indifference.

  “Are you from the party?” he asks.

  I assure him that I am.

  He eyes the two beers I’m holding in my right hand and asks if he can have one. I figured he’d be thirsty, so I hand him a bottle. As he tilts his head back and starts to drink, I remove a single liquid-filled capsule from my pocket and drop it into my own beer. The capsule dissolves within seconds.

  He finishes his beer and drops the bottle, then wipes a distracted hand across his mouth. “I was thirsty,” he says.

  I offer him my beer. He takes it without a word and drinks it down in half a dozen gulps. When he drops the bottle, it shatters on the hardwood floor.

  “How about I find us a couple more brews,” I say.

  “Okay,” he says, then turns to the mirror and starts to shave his pubic hair as he breaks into The Partridge Family theme song.

  Come on get happy.

  I walk out of the room and close the door behind me, then I find the nearest bathroom to take care of business. Out of vanity and because it still gives me the giggles, I check my reflection in the mirror. The sideburns and hair are mine. The white jumpsuit and glasses came from a vintage clothing store. I look enough like Elvis to have groupies. I walk like him. I talk like him. Hell, if someone brought out a karaoke machine I could probably even sing like him. And as far as the other guests at the party are concerned, I am The King.

  Which is all that really matters.

  Perception is reality.

  And after taking care of business with David Cassidy, my reality has a yearning for some hanky-panky.

  I check my reflection in the mirror one more time, then I walk back down the hallway toward the dining room to see if I can interest Deborah Harry in some burnin’ love.

  CHAPTER 2

  The alarm goes off at 9:01.

  Classical Nuevo drifts out of the wall speakers. One of Vivaldi’s seasons blended with Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. Or maybe Orff’s Carmina Burana. It’s hard to tell with my hangover. Before I can figure out which one it is, Delilah’s hand reaches out from beneath the goose-down comforter and turns off the alarm.

  “Coffee please,” she purrs with her slight southern lilt, then turns away, her naked torso exposed and her red hair spilled across the pillow like a painting by Courbet.

  Her wish is my command. I slide out of the California king and stand up, my feet hitting the hardwood floor, which is when I realize my hangover is worse than I thought. I need to remember to drink more water. And take the recommended mixture of glucosamine and vitamin E.

  I step past the white jumpsuit, discarded on the floor like molted skin, and stagger into the bathroom, leaving the lights off as I empty the contents of my bladder. After chasing some ibuprofen with a glass of water, I check my reflection by the morning sun coming in through the bathroom skylight.

  I need a shave. And I could do with some Visine. And the flesh around my eyes and the corners of my mouth are a little puckered, but nothing a little Botox injection won’t fix. The hair and sideburns are still there, but they’re the only holdover from last night. The rest is all me.

  My nose. My eyes. My lips.

  Truth is, I don’t look anything like Elvis.

  At least not in the morning, once the effects have worn off. Most of the time I don’t experience any form of depression, but Elvis Presley is a tough act to follow, so I pop a serotonin capsule, then throw on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans and climb into my convertible 1959 T-Bird to go get some over-the-counter stimulants.

  I own a coffeemaker. I even own an espresso machine and another contraption that makes lattes and cappuccinos. But I’ve never used them. First off, they’re still in their boxes. Housewarming gifts and birthday presents I’ve never bothered to open. Second, I’ve never made particularly good coffee and I hate having to deal with the cleanup. And third, why bother making something for yourself when you can pay someone else to do it for you?

  Truth is, I’m just a product of society.

  A creation of my culture.

  An identity inspired by convenience.

  My kitchen is filled with everything you need to make home-cooked, gourmet meals, prepared and served in style.

  Waterford crystal wineglasses. Villeroy & Boch china. Sterling silver flatware.

  Vitamix blenders. Cuisinart ice-cream makers. KitchenAid mixers.

  All-Clad fry pans and saucières and French skillets hanging above a Sterling gas range with a cast-iron griddle and dual conventional ovens.

  All of it pristine. None of it used. Taking up space and collecting dust while I dine out, ask for delivery, and order to go.

  Sometimes it seems like a waste filling up space with all of these things that I never use, but I like knowing I have them in case I ever need them. And it makes a good impression when people come over. After all, your home is a reflection of your status, and what you fill your home with is a reflection of who you are. It doesn’t matter if you use any of your personal possessions. What matters is perception.

  The drive through the Hollywood Hills on a late August Sunday morning is soundstage perfect, so I put the top down on the T-Bird and drop down Laurel Canyon to the Starbucks on Sunset Boulevard.

  People often ask me why I insist on driving a car that’s more than sixty years old when I can afford a new model with the latest hybrid or electric technology, but I like the style of the mid-twentieth century. Besides, why would I want my ride to be what everyone else is driving?

  While I’m sitting at the signal waiting for the light to change, Bettie Page sashays past in the crosswalk with a black standard poodle on a leash. The guy walking in the opposite direction stops in the middle of the road and does a double take, then jumps and gives me the finger as the light turns green and I lay on the horn.

  Once inside Starbucks, I scan my smartphone and place my order for a tall caramel macchiato with whipped cream and a triple espresso. The caramel macchiato is for Delilah, who likes her caffeine served up like a soda fountain confection, while I prefer mine straight up like a good, stiff drink. If it’s beer, I’ll drink a Guinness. If it’s a cocktail, I want scotch on the rocks. And if it’s coffee, give it to me pure and unadorned in an IV drip.

  Anything else is a waste of my gustatory time.

  The woman in line behind me, who looks like Lucille Ball on crystal meth, orders a white mocha from the barista, changes her mind and orders an Americano, then cancels her Americano and orders an iced latte. Small. When the cashier asks if she means a tall, Lucy doesn’t seem to understand the question.

  “No, I want a small,” she says.

  “We don’t have smalls,” says the cashier. “Do you want a short?”

  Nearly a quarter of the way into the twenty-first century and people still get confused while ordering at Starbucks.

  “Ma’am,” says the cashier, pointing to the different container sizes. “Would you like a short or a tall?”

  Lucy bites her lower lip, her eyes flitting back and forth from one container to the next, then up to the menu on the wall. Over the sound of the milk steamer, faint but unmistakable, I hear her humming the theme song to I Love Lucy.

  Maybe it’s just me, but Lucy looks like she could use some help.

  “A tall!” she finally shouts, saliva exploding from her lips in a fine spray. Then she grabs some money out of her wallet, puts a pinkie in her mouth, and starts chewing on the nail.

  As I wait for my order, I alternately keep an eye on Lucy and eavesdrop on Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner, who are sitting at a nearby table discussing bullfighting and sportfishing. Faulkner listens with a bored expression as Hemingway dominates the conversation with bombastic conviction, speaking in short sentences like bursts of machine-gun fire.

  “Give me a boat,” says Hemingway. “And the open sea. Nothing else matters.”

  “W
hat about complex sentences?” says Faulkner.

  “Overrated,” says Hemingway. “And overdone.”

  “Have you ever made use of any word that might actually send one of your readers in search of a dictionary?”

  “Big emotions don’t come from big words,” says Hemingway.

  Faulkner leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. “You’re just bitter because I won the Pulitzer before you did.”

  “The Pulitzer is for pussies.”

  “Face it,” says Faulkner. “As a storyteller, you suck.”

  “Suck on this,” says Hemingway, giving Faulkner the one-finger salute.

  “Crass and simple,” says Faulkner. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

  Hemingway stands up. “You want to take this outside?”

  As they continue to argue, I listen to them and think, not for the first time, how like-minded Egos have a tendency to gravitate toward one another.

  Writers. Actors. Rock stars.

  I don’t know if it’s a familiarity born of physical recognition or if there’s something more significant involved. A genetic pull. A cosmic attraction. A spiritual connection. Though I doubt there’s anything religious going on here.

  No one’s claiming any miracles.

  No one’s hearing Jesus on the radio.

  No one’s seeing the Virgin Mary in their cappuccino.

  Truth is, I don’t think God would approve.

  Other than Hemingway and Faulkner and a spun-out Lucille Ball, the other caffeine addicts in Starbucks are themselves. College students and accountants and writers. Teachers and Web designers and bartenders. Maybe a guy who writes an online column for the Los Angeles Times and a girl who plays stand-up bass for a punk jazz band that rocks Molly Malone’s one Saturday a month.

  This is who they are. These are the roles they play. Most of them probably don’t earn enough to afford the luxury of being someone else. Not legally, anyway. But that doesn’t mean they can’t find another way.