WARNING:
This story contains scenes of nudity and references to same, which may cause uncontrollable squeeing and drooling. Reader discretion is
advised.
One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four.
Criss Angel lay on the bench in his gym, exercising his biceps and shoulders. He raised and lowered the weights rhythimically, extending his arms,
then drawing them to shoulder level, then raising them over his head, and back down to his chest, inhaling and exhaling with every cycle, thirty in all. His
arm muscles tensed and flexed with the exertion. Next he would do ab crunches on the Nautilus, then strenghten his legs on the Stairmaster. It was a grueling
regimen he performed every day, but it was the price he paid for his career. Two shows every night, a weekly television series, and live appearances whenever
he had the time required him to be on top of his game. That meant daily workouts in the gym, despite his personal distaste for it.
He was forty-two, but he still maintained a youthfulness that many mistook for thirty or so. His flesh was smooth and taut--not an milligram of flab could be
seen. At an age when many men ballooned to pony-keg dimensions, his abdomen rippled with a six-pack hardness. His reflexes were as sharp as a cat's, a
necessity for a magician for whom timing was everything. Some credited his build to his Greek heritage (which wasn't too far off, as the ancient Greeks
had practically invented the concept of physical fitness, right up to founding the Olympic games), others to a good set of genes from his parents. A few
jealous types claimed it was just plain dumb luck, but Criss knew that for every ounce of muscle he toned to perfection meant hours of lifting weights and
running on the treadmill.
The gym in which he exercised had been provided for him by the Luxor Hotel and Resort as part of the package deal for producing his show, Believe.
The Luxor had invested one hundred million dollars in his magnum opus, and the Board of Directors wanted their money's worth. If Criss became ill or, more
likely, injured, that meant cancelling performances, which in turn meant lost revenue. The bottom line: A healthy star was money in the bank for the
investors--the more shows he performed, the higher the profit margin.
Criss set the weights aside and rose from the bench. The biceps and shoulders toned, he next went to work on his abdominal muscles. He straddled a machine
designed for this purpose, positioned his arms behind his head, and flexed his stomach muscles repeatedly--One. Two. One. Two. One. Two. Forty
crunches in all. The tension he felt meant that it was working: no pain, no gain, as they said in professional bodybuilding. His heart pounded furiously,
pumping oxygen-rich red blood cells into his muscles. Criss paced himself, breathing steadily to prevent dizziness. His abs were more for show than anything,
presenting a tantilizing picture for the fans. Still, it did not do to neglect any part of his body; the entire machine must work in harmony to produce
results.
Criss relaxed, breathing deeply. His tank top and biker shorts were soaked with sweat, and the bandana he wore to keep persperation from dripping into his
eyes had turned a darker hue from the dampness of his brow. He longed for the cool refreshment of a shower, but he had his turn on the Stairmaster to get
through. He rose slowly to keep the blood from rushing away from his head too quickly, then walked over to the machine and climbed on. He set the timer for
twenty-five minutes and pumped his muscular legs up and down. The timed workout left him free to pursue his thoughts.
He reflected on his father, now eleven years dead, a former Mr. Universe who had succumbed to stomach cancer at just sixty years of age, and even then he had
survived three years beyond the expectations of his doctors. It seemed sadly ironic that a man who had stressed good health and exercise should be stricken
with cancer as he had been. God, I hope I don't get cancer, he prayed. I got too much I want to do in this life.
He smiled at that last statement. It reminded him of what George Burns once said: "I can't die--I'm booked!" Then there was the old bromide
printed on a coffee mug he saw once: "We're put on this earth to accomplish a number of things. I'm so far behind, I'll never die."
Well, Criss figured he was right on schedule, but like the late veteran vaudeville actor, he was indeed booked solid. I'd have to live to be a hundred
to do all the things I want to do, he figured. Well, maybe eighty--I mean, let's be reasonable here!
His mind shifted to the previous afternoon when he was taking a break after taping his show. There was a laptop computer on the desk in front of him,
so, for a lark, he decided to check out the fanboards. The Loyal Written Arts forum was always good for diversion, so he logged onto it to see what kind of
adventures the Loyals put him through lately. It always amused him how his devoted fans made him suffer more than his share of the thousand natural shocks
that flesh was heir to: he'd been in car accidents time without number; he'd fallen almost to his death during demonstrations; he'd been deafened
by an explosion; he'd been kidnapped and rendered unconscious; he'd been lynched by white supremacists; he'd even survived an earthquake (he
admired that last story; the author had done an incredible amount of research on that one. The part about Costa going through Red Cross training was hilarous,
and he was surprised to find out that Nevada really did have a portable hospital). The latest ones had him suffering the same cancer his father had, only to
be redeemed by supernatural means; another had him suffering a rare heart disorder but he had been too stubborn to admit it. Hey, if I had something like
that, I'd be in the hospital ASAP, he thought. Well, they could all rest easy. In spite of whatever fate befell him in writing, Criss Angel was as
healthy as a horse.
The timer on the Starimaster bleeped. Criss drew a deep, satisfied smile and dismounted. A quick shower, and he could begin his day. He pulled off his
Nikes, peeled off the soaking tank top and biker shorts, pulled off the bandana, and padded to the shower stall with only a white towel around his waist.
There was no one present, but who knew who was lurking behind the corner waiting to take his picture while he was nude?
The warm water caressed his bare flesh like women's fingers. Criss soaped under his reeking armpits and the other disgraceful parts of his anatomy,
scrubbing away the strain of his morning workout. Today he would be taping a live show before the Loyal, and he would have his body clean. He turned off the
shower, toweled off, and headed back to the dressing cubicle to dress, again modestly covering his loins with the towel. He was not ashamed of his body;
indeed, he had appeared naked twice on television, but the editors censored him around the hips in keeping with the FCC regulations. It's just that Criss
had very little privacy in his public life, and he felt it was best to keep his "privates", well, private. He had to retain some mystery for the
sake of his popularity; exposing too much would destroy the fantasy his fans had built around him.
Criss pulled on his CK briefs, then his fashionably ragged jeans, then his grey Affliction t-shirt, then his jock-socks, then his combat boots. Fully attired,
he was ready to face the day--and his fans. How many of them would have wished to be with him in here, he thought with amusement, totally exposed in the
flesh. He laughed at the memory of the Naked Jail Escape, when a roomful of female fans came within a hair's breadth of seeing him in all of his natural
glory. Wouldn't it have been a treat for them if he had failed! Oh, well, better luck next time, ladies! he gloated. I can show you only so
much of me, but who knows? You just might get lucky someday!
2 Kudos
Risque Business
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 Veritas |
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Posts: 1315 (06/30/09 8:24 AM) |
 Official Keeper of Criss' Bling
Last Edited By: Veritas 06/30/09 12:41 PM.
Edited 1 time.
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CrissLee |
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Posts: 7321 (06/30/09 8:56 AM) |
 Veritas, you have no idea
how excited I was to see you had begun a new story!! Your warning cracked me up! I assure you I have my drool bucket and bib ready at all times! LOL
A great start to another great story! Once again your descriptive text puts the story running through my mind like a movie. Please update again soon!
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 rachel02189 |
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Posts: 3293 (06/30/09 9:50 AM) |
Thanks for the two mentions of my stories. If you excuse me I need to get a mop to wipe up the drool puddles I made
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CrissLee |
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Posts: 7323 (06/30/09 10:13 AM) |
 A bib made of a flannel bedsheet
works great too Rachel! LOL
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rachel02189 |
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Posts: 3296 (06/30/09 10:23 AM) |
try it and had to ring it out after rereading.
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Veritas |
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Posts: 1316 (07/01/09 9:28 AM) |
Meanwhile, in a small downtown gym somewhere in North Las Vegas, a group of amateur boxers were going through their daily training regimen. A couple of burly
men sparred in the ring, while others shadowboxed, rehersing their feints and blows in the large mirror on the far wall. There was no conversation during the
training period. The fighters focused solely on their drills in grim silence; banter was reserved only for the locker room.
One boxer in particular, George Strumpolis, pummelled away on the speed bag. The brown leather bulb was a blur from repeated punches, battering from its hook-and-eye like a hummingbird's wing. George was a muscular man, middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair he kept under a billed cap to prevent heat stroke from the Nevada sun. His features were thicker and heavier than that of his famous cousin, Christopher, know to the world as Criss Angel. Upon first glance one would think he was a truck driver or day laborer instead of a technician for his cousin's television show, MindFreak. He had been boxing for over a year now, training on his days off and during hiatus. He had built up considerable upper body strength not just from his daily hour in the gym, but from years of lifting heavy equipment for the show. George had been working for Criss for a few years now, setting up props, assisting in "demonstrations", which was Criss' term for life-threatening stunts, and other technical duties. He made a good living at it, though the stress of watching his younger cousin lock himself in a car trunk and almost drown in a lake, get run over by a steamroller while lying on broken glass, and nearly get blown up in a collapsing hotel was nearly unbearable. Criss was a performer, an artist or so he claimed, but he was still family, and George didn't like the idea of a family member trying to kill himself in the name of art. But, it was his destiny, and George was there to make sure Criss got through his latest stunt in one piece--or pick up the pieces afterward. Boxing was George's greatest pleasure in life. He had never gone professional, preferring the steady income of his position with MindFreak Productions to the fame and glamor of the pro circuit. Besides, the risk of serious injury would cut any professional career short. Amateur boxing was a good stress reliever; he enjoyed doing something for himself instead of catering to his cousin's outrageous whims. He was good at it, and he knew it: he knew the moves, he had the reflexes, and he had the stamina for it. And he had a right cross that would stop a truck. Criss had a punching bag game in his suite at the Luxor which digitally registered the force applied to the bag after one blow. To date, George held the highest score, seven-sixty or so, a hundred points more than his cousin. Sore loser that he was, Criss tried and tried to beat him, taking swing after swing on the bag but never quite getting past seven hundred. George couldn't wait to have another go on the machine; after a year's training, he could break eight hundred, he figured. The trainer's whistle blew. George ended his pummelling with a final blow to the bag and walked over to where his trainer, a barrel-chested old Irishman named Seamus Linehan, a two-time Golden Gloves winner back in his day (though his day was so far back hardly anyone remembered it) who had converted an old garage in North Las Vegas into a boxing gym thirty years ago. His auburn hair had turned white with age, his face had been flattened by too many fists in both the ring and the pub, and he used his oak cane for more than just supporting himself after his last hip replacement. He was a surly old sod with a good set of lungs despite his lifelong habit of cigar smoking, and he wasn't afraid to use them. "All right, ye mugs!" Seamus bellowed loudly enough to be heard across Lake Meade. "Ye've enough for t'day! But b'fore ye clear outta here, I've got an announcement! There's to be an amateur match in a month's time, in the Excalibur Arena! If ye want to qualify, ye gotta try out on Saturday noontime! Remember, bouts are won by points, not knockouts! The highest score after three rounds goes to the match! If ye want to fight, don't ye go slackin' yer trainin'!" He waved his cane toward the locker room. "Now, git yer arses out of here!" Seamus hobbled away. George and his fellow boxers filed into the locker room to shower and change. Inside, the attendant, a chubby boy of about twenty or so with his face distorted by Down's syndrome, handed them fresh towels. His name was David Linehan, youngest son Seamus, the only person for whom the crusty old Irishman had a soft spot next to his late wife, Meghann. Despite his tenderness with his disabled son, Seamus never let himself take pity on the boy. He gave him a job as locker room attendant, to mop the floors, scrub the toilets, fold the towels, and clean the shower room. David carried out his duties satisfactorily and without question, seldom speaking but flashing a pudgy smile when someone tipped him a dollar. George took the towel from David with thanks, stripped off his sweaty gym clothes, wrapped the towel around his hips and headed for the shower room, a large olive-green tiled cube twelve feet square, with six spigots jutting out of the wall like chrome thumbs. He turned on one of the spigots and braced his bare chest against the stinging spray. George didn't mind the lack of privacy; he was used to communal showers since his high-school days. Nor did he particulary care with whom he was showering; you'd seen one naked ass, he thought apathetically, you'd seen them all. Next to him was a stocky black man named Tobias "Tobe" Lacie. Tobe was a genial type in regular life, but in the ring he was a formidable opponent. Fighters found out early in a bout that punching him was like hitting a brick wall. Tobe could send an opponent to the mat with just a single hammer blow to the face. He would have gone professional, but he had to support his family after his father died, a fact that George could appreciate. "You tryin' out for the match?" Tobe asked George. George remained aloof as he soaped himself. "Maybe," he replied noncommittally. "I gotta check my schedule, first." Tobe smiled through crooked teeth. "How's your cousin doin'?" he asked. "Get himself into any more crazy-assed (bleep) for his show?" "Not recently," George answered evenly. "We're still in the planning stages for Season Five. Besides, he's got his live show, so he's gotta stay alive for that." Tobe nodded. "Seriously, man, what's it like working for that dude?" George rinsed off and turned off the shower. "Lemme put it to you this way," he said, wrapping the towel around his waist, "After a day working with Criss, I come here to relax." Tobe laughed out loud. George left the shower room, his light olive-complexioned skin glistening in the flourescent light. Poor dude, Tobe thought to himself, gotta do all that crazy-assed (bleep) for that crazy-assed magician cousin of his! Still, the money must be good if he's stuck with it all this time! Hell, I'd do that (bleep) myself for that kind of cash! But, hey, this is Vegas--you gotta expect wierd (bleep) around here! And Criss Angel is as (bleeping) wierd as they come! Official Keeper of Criss' Bling
Last Edited By: Veritas
07/06/09 12:51 PM.
Edited 1 times.
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CrissLee |
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Posts: 7331 (07/01/09 9:44 AM) |
 Love the update! George's
comment about working for Criss made me laugh!!
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cowgurlhat |
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Posts: 1906 (07/01/09 11:26 AM) |
 Those chapters did me in, Veritas!
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rachel02189 |
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Posts: 3321 (07/01/09 6:50 PM) |
Thank god you updated if I read that first chapter again I was going to be dehydrated
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cowgurlhat |
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Posts: 1910 (07/01/09 7:15 PM) |
LOL
Oh no! That's not good! |
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Veritas |
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Posts: 1317 (07/02/09 8:21 AM) |
"Hey, guys, what's up?" Criss greeted his crew as he walked into the production office. Murmurs of "Good morning" and "Hi"
greeted him in return. The group consisted of Criss' two brothers, JD and Costa, his manager, Dave Baram, technical advisors Joaquin Ayela and the
hypnotist Gerard. A couple of cameramen were present to record the meeting for future reference and maybe for a behind-the-scenes shot for an upcoming episode
of MindFreak.
Criss flopped down on one of the overstuffed chairs in the office, ready to get down to business. These informal meetings worked best for him; when everyone was relaxed, creativity flowed more easily. Though there were times when the horseplay got out of hand or Criss became so frustrated he threw things around the room, the laid-back think-tank produced results better than in any formal executive board room. And formal was just not Criss' style. "So, what've you guys been up to?" Criss asked. Gerard smiled, holding up a copy of the morning paper. "We were just reading about your friend, the Amazing Johnathan," he said. "He made the news this morning." Criss was naturally curious. "What'd he do?" "Got his ass in trouble," Gerard replied. "Or rather, it was his ass that got him in trouble." "Meaning?" "Meaning he was arrested for indecent exposure last night," Gerard said, smiling. Criss was astonished. "AJ got arrested for indecent exposure?" he repeated incredulously. Gerard nodded, still smiling lewdly. "Yeah, it's true. Some guy in the audience was heckling him during his show at the Magic Club last night," he explained. "He got so mad he mooned him." Criss' jaw dropped. "He mooned the guy?" "Yep. Right there in front of the whole audience. Got so mad at the (bleep)wad he about-faced, dropped his pants, and...." Criss doubled over laughing. "Oh, my Gaaahhhhd!" he roared. "That is so...oh, (bleep)!" "He got busted right after his act," Gerard continued. "Cops came in and hauled his ass to jail." "With his pants up, I hope," Criss quipped. "Hey, would you wanna look at AJ's bare ass?" Criss shuddered at such a horrid thought. "So, what's gonna happen to him, do you know?" he asked. "Probably fine him or something," JD replied. "I doubt it's gonna lead to serious jail time. Paper says his shows at the Magic Club have been cancelled until furthur notice." Criss shook his head in disbelief. "Man, even for AJ, this is a new low," he said. "I mean, he's done some pretty crude stuff in his day, but this!" "Well, what can you expect from a guy who keeps flipping the bird during his act?" JD pointed out. "Personally, I don't know why you stay friends with that (bleeper)." "Give me a week and I'll tell you," Criss retorted. Gerard tossed the newspaper aside. "Well, on to other business," he said. "Got any ideas for Season Five?" Criss looked around the room. "Where's George?" he asked. "He'll be here," JD said. "He's gone to the training gym this morning." "Training?" Dave Baram repeated. "What's he training for?" "George's gotten into amateur boxing lately," JD explained. "Goes to this little gym downtown and works out there." "Why can't he work out in your gym, Criss?" Dave asked. "It's closer, and probably better equipped." "What George chooses to do on his own time is his business," Criss stated. "He's welcome to work out in my gym, but if he wants to go downtown, it's his perogative. Besides, he's got a personal trainer there; I can't train him to be a boxer." As if on cue, George Strumpolis stepped into the room. "Hey, guys," he said genially, "sorry I'm late." "Ah, the future heavyweight champion of the world has just arrived!" Joaquin announced with mock fanfare. George was annoyed. "First of all, I'm not a heavyweight anything," he said. "I'm more like middleweight, and it's strictly amateur. I'm not going pro; I just do this because I enjoy it." He drew Criss aside. "Oh, by the way, I need Saturday off if you don't mind," he said. Criss shrugged. "Sure, no prob," he answered. "What's the deal?" "The Excalibur is holding an amateur boxing match next month," George explained. "Tryouts are this Saturday, and I'd really like a shot at this. Whaddya say, huh?" "Well, okay, George, if that's what you want," Criss told him. "Good luck, okay?" George smiled and patted his cousin on the shoulder. "Thanks, Criss." "Okay, let's get down to business here," Dave said, holding up the itinerary. "The Fantasy and Naked Jail Escape episodes pulled in the highest ratings in the series next to the Implosion episode, so anyway you can top those?" "I'm an illusionist, not a male stripper," Criss insisted. "Face it, Criss," Gerard said, "the fans want to see more of you than your magic. Every square inch of you, in fact." "Been there, done that," Criss said. "I can't show any more skin than the FCC will allow, you know that. Even if I did...expose myself again, the editors are just gonna do what they did before in Fantasy and Naked Jail and...you know." "Block your tackle?" Everyone laughed at that bit of witticism. "Yeah, that's it," Criss said. "So, why bother? I'm here to perform illusions and escapes, not strip down to my after-shave just for ratings. AJ got his ass in trouble, literally, for mooning his audience. I'm not going to stoop to his level." "First of all, AJ mooned a heckler, not his audience," Gerard pointed out. "That was impulsive. You stripped for your art in those two episodes--that's different." "It was for Fantasy I stripped for my art," Criss argued. "In Naked Jail, those guys stripped me against my will, remember? They cut off my briefs with a pair of scissors in that cell, right in front of all those women! And to top it off, they locked all my clothes in another cell! That's art? It was more like a conspiracy!" The crew laughed at the memory of a naked Criss Angel struggling to escape from his jail cell in two hours, just in time to fetch his clothes and preserve his dignity, to the disappointment of the twenty women assembled there. "Hey, you pulled it off, didn't you?" Gerard said. "Just barely," Criss replied, "no pun intended." Dave Baram cleared his throat. "Moving right along," he said, looking at the itinerary. Suddenly, Criss was struck with a brilliant idea. "Hey, George!" he cried eagerly. "You're taking up amateur boxing! Maybe we can do an episode with sports theme!" Everyone agreed unanimously. "A sports theme! Great!" JD cheered. Just so long as it doesn't involve you trying to kill yourself, Criss, he added mentally. "Think you can get us access to your gym, George?" Criss asked. "I'd be great if we could tape the show there." George was hesitant. "Well, I'll have to clear it with old man Linehan," he hedged. "He's a tough old (bleeper) with a bad temper, so I'm not going to promise you anything." "What if we paid him?" Criss suggested. George thought about it. "Well, if you paid him, he might consider it," he replied. "But don't quote me on that--he's still a stubborn old (bleeper)." "Well, run it up the flagpole with him and see if he'll let us in," Criss said. "What about your own gym?" JD suggested. "Why can't we use that?" "We'll get a few shots of me working out," Criss said. "I'll even go topless for the female fans. How about that, Gerard?" "Might work," Gerard said. Then, with a mischevious grin, added, "How about a shot of you taking a shower after your workout?" Criss could see where this was going. "Forget it." "I'm just saying--" "Shower time is my time, okay, Gerard?" Criss stated. "I mean, what's the deal with nudity all of a sudden?" "I'm just saying give the fans what they want." "What they want is my magic, my illusions, my talent," Criss insisted. "Not my naked body." "You haven't been reading the fanboards lately, have you, Criss?" Costa spoke up for the first time that morning. Criss dismissed his brother's observation. "Look, we'll just stick with the sports theme for now, okay?" he said, exasperated with Gerard's lascivious attitude. "Write down your ideas and we'll discuss this next time. And no nude shots, got it?" The crew nodded. Costa remained silent. Since when is Criss against nudity all of a sudden? he wondered. In the mood he's in, how am I going to ask for his help now? Official Keeper of Criss' Bling
Last Edited By: Veritas
07/03/09 11:49 AM.
Edited 1 times.
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CrissLee |
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Posts: 7336 (07/02/09 9:59 AM) |
 Wonderful as always! I love the
Amazing Johnathan! He and Criss together crack me up! Criss as bare as possible...............I don't have a problem with it so don't know why
Criss does!!! lol
And what in the world could Costa want from his baby brother?????????????? Update soon!
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AreYouReady15 |
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Posts: 5582 (07/02/09 11:58 AM) |
Hmm....maybe Costa needs help getting down to ten cigarettes a day.
Hmmm.....I LOVE Criss's magic, and illusions and hell, his art in general....I cant' say I'd be disappointed if there were less clothes involved though LOL 
Banner made by me Can you handle all I am? Can I deal with what you are? Tired Of arguing So beat down by the yelling Perfect What we once were Can We go back Or will we break? Taking broken wings to fly :) "Fear is nothing but a four letter word" |
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rachel02189 |
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Posts: 3338 (07/02/09 1:56 PM) |
who the @#$% cares about the FCC let me see Criss in his birthday suit!!!!!!!!!!!!
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cowgurlhat |
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Posts: 1924 (07/02/09 7:10 PM) |
Wait wait wait, what is Costa planning that includes nudity and Criss?
Not that there's any problem with Criss being nude, but still, it makes me wonder... |
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CrissLee |
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Posts: 7347 (07/03/09 7:13 AM) |
Perhaps a Playgirl centerfold!
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Veritas |
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Posts: 1318 (07/03/09 8:55 AM) |
"H'lo?"
"Hey, AJ, it's me, Criss!" "Oh, hey, Criss," The Amazing Johnathan grumbled in his cell phone. "Whaddya want?" "Oh, nothing, just calling to say hello," Criss replied casually. "I read about you in the paper this morning." "So?" "Quite a stunt you pulled there last night," Criss went on. "Dropping trou and showing everybody your best side. Bet that went over well. I just hope you didn't pass gas while you were at it--you would have cleared the whole club." "(Bleep) you, Criss!" AJ spat. "Who are you to criticize?" "I'm not criticizing!" "Yeah? Well, you went bareassed on TV--twice!" "Yeah, but they didn't show my ass," Criss pointed out. "The censors blurred me around the hips, remember? No one saw a thing." "Not that there was any 'thing' worth seeing," AJ retorted. Criss chose to ignore the insult. "So, what are you going to do now?" he asked. "Your shows at the Magic Club got cancelled. Any plans?" "Don't worry about me," AJ told him. "I'll be just fine." "I never worried about you, AJ," Criss said. "Listen, I gotta get back to work. Enjoy your time off." "Go (bleep) yourself, Criss!" Criss laughed and hung up, savoring the schadenfreud of his rival's embarrassing situation. Barely a heartbeat later, his phone rang. Criss looked at the Caller ID message on the tiny LED screen: Costa, it read. He flipped it open. "Hey, Cos, what's up?" he said. "Hey, Criss, how are you?" Costa said. "Good. So, what's up?" "Well, I need to ask you a favor." "Sure, no problem. Whaddya need?" "Well, I am assembling a portfolio of my photographs," Costa began," and I need some pictures of you." "No big deal," Criss shrugged. "I got a ton of them--help yourself." "It's not that simple, Criss," Costa told him. "I need some fresh pictures of you." "You wanna set up a photo shoot?" Criss thought about it. "Well, my schedule's pretty tight right now, but I got Monday evening off. How about then?" "Monday evening'll be fine," Costa agreed. "Just come over to my place and we'll go from there." "Sounds good. What kind of photos did you have in mind, anyway? Publicity, portrait?" Costa plunged, bracing himself for the worst. "Nude." There was silence on the other end. "Criss?" Costa called out. "You still there?" "You wanna do nude pictures of me?" Criss spoke incredulously. "Look, it's not like I'm going to publish them," Costa protested. "It's just for my personal portfolio of art photos. Hardly anyone's gonna see them." "But why me?" "Because I'm having a helluva time getting models to pose nude for me, no matter how much I offer to pay them. I'm lucky to get the models I got right now. Besides, let's face it, you got the body for it." "Well, gee, I'm flattered," Criss replied sarcastically. "Now don't get snotty about it," Costa warned him. "You've posed partially nude before, remember? And those two shows we talked about at the meeting? You're not going prudish on me, are you? I mean, I thought you were comfortable with your body. Why are you ashamed of it all of a sudden?" "I'm not ashamed of my body!" Criss protested. "In fact, I'm very comfortable inside my own skin, thank you very much. And to prove it, I'll come over Monday evening and pose for those pictures, and I'll show you who's ashamed of his own body." "Looking forward to it, little brother," Costa said cheerfully. "See you later." "Later." Criss flipped off his phone. I'm not a prude! he told himself. I'm quite proud of my body! I had the (bleeps) to strip for the Fantasy episode, didn't I? Costa wants to take pictures of me in the buff? Fine! I'll give him his money's worth, and more! As time wore on, however, Criss began to get the uneasy feeling that somehow he had been conned. Had Costa played on his pride to get him to consent to the photo shoot? No, he thought, Costa wouldn't stoop so low. It was his own sense of superiority that led him into this arrangement. Well, the damage was done; no point in backing out now. Besides, it was for a private portfolio, not a centerfold spread for Playgirl. Costa had assured him that hardly anyone would see them, and Criss knew that his brother's word was as good as gold, so he didn't have to worry about a Tommy Lee/Pamela Anderson-type scandal broadsiding his career. But who, he couldn't help but wonder, was "hardly anyone"? George knocked on the dented metal door of Linehan's office. "Seamus?" he called out. "Door's open." a gruff Irish brogue responded. George entered the office. Linehan sat at his desk, going over the bills. "Hey, Seamus," he said, "can I talk to you for a minute?" "A minute's all ye got," Linehan said bluntly. still poring over the bills. "I came to ask a favor," George began. "Not a brass penny!" Linehan snapped. "I'm not asking for money," George said, "I'm asking for the use of your gym for my cousin's TV series." Linehan looked up, curious. "Ye're what?" "My cousin, Criss, wants to use your gym to tape an episode of his series, MindFreak," George explained. "We won't get in your way, and nothing's gonna get broken, I promise." Linehan swiveled around in his spindly office chair. "And what's in it fer me, might I ask?" he demanded. "We're offering to pay you for the trouble," George told him. A spark of interest glinted in the old man's eye. "How much?" George shrugged. "Oh, I dunno. Five grand?" "Make it ten." "Seven," George countered. "Nine-fifty." "Seven-fifty." "Eight. And that's me final offer." George considered it. "Okay, eight it is." For the first time since he'd been training in Linehan's gym, George actually saw Seamus smile. "Let me clear it with Criss and I'll get back to you," he said. "Good," Linehan said, "now git yer arse outta me office. I got work to do." George closed the metal door quietly behind him. Geez! That old (bleeper) knows how to drive a hard bargain! Must've done some serious horse trading back in Ireland or something. Official Keeper of Criss' Bling
Last Edited By: Veritas
07/12/09 2:29 PM.
Edited 2 times.
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CrissLee |
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Posts: 7349 (07/03/09 10:05 AM) |
Wonder if Costa needs an assistant
while he takes the photos of Criss?? LOL Loved the convo between Criss and Johnathan. I imagine that's exactly how it would have went too!!
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rachel02189 |
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Posts: 3366 (07/03/09 10:15 AM) |
Now that's a photo shot I wouldn't mind going to
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AreYouReady15 |
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Posts: 5599 (07/03/09 11:13 AM) |
>.> you knowww...I take pretty good photos LOL.
Banner made by me Can you handle all I am? Can I deal with what you are? Tired Of arguing So beat down by the yelling Perfect What we once were Can We go back Or will we break? Taking broken wings to fly :) "Fear is nothing but a four letter word" |
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Veritas |
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Posts: 1319 (07/03/09 11:40 AM) |
Uh, aren't you a bit...underage?
Official Keeper of Criss' Bling
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