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A Winter's Tale
It was a terribly cold night in Wilmington, probably the coldest night ever. The wind was breathing noisily, sending his chill to the midnight air. Snowflakes were dancing madly like there was no tomorrow. A charming dark furred cat with beautiful blue eyes, who was apparently a ladies cat, snuggled with six adolescent female kittens in the corner of the parking lot outside Firebely's. Another cat with a large head and greasy fur was curling up a few feet from them, trembling against the cold air, nostrils flared in jealousy. The man zipped his pants and motioned James Van Der Beek to stand up. Beek quietly obliged, afraid to make any sound that might get the man upset and do something brutal to him. As he wiped the tears of fear and pain that were raining heavily down his cheeks, the thug sneaked his hand to the back of his XXXL pants and yanked out his wallet. He took all the money and tossed the wallet onto the ground, and then searched in Beek's pocket for his car key. Before he took off, he pulled his victim by the collar of his coat to plant his ugly, hideous lips on those sexy ones, tasting his own putrid cum mixed with those blueberry scented tears. Right when the security guard unnoticedly appeared behind his back, the man had discharged him and fled off toward Beek's new car, leaving him quivering in the cold night outside the almost empty bar, in the tight grip of a big horny security guard. ***** It's been half way to the hotel, but the pain, cold and exhaustion were almost unbearable. His boots were nowhere to be found, buried somewhere in the deep layer of the snow. His socks were soaking wet. His freezing feet were almost numb and it took the entire span span of his forehead to move them. His bottom was still aching as if he could still have felt the security guard ruthlessly shoving his billyclub (no pun intended) deep into him. Tears were flowing down incessantly, each drop accompanying his every step. Never in his life had he ever felt so alone and miserable, except that day when he had met some nasty bitch named Mrs. Bunting at the underwear section in a Wal-Mart store in New York, who somehow had managed to connect his fondness of pink panties to numerous mean forehead jokes that he really hated. "I will not die now. Hollywood needs me." He persevered. The thought of his Oscar quality performance in Texas Rangers gave him strength to move a few feet forward, until he finally reached his breakpoint. He lost his balance. His head hit a lamppost before his body slid down the pole and fell defeatedly onto the snow. The sudden cold and the surging pain on his newly devirginized bottom as it made contact with the snow, sent more tears to join the ones that were already bathing his face all over, and right at this point he got himself leaning against the lamppost, sobbing heavier than he had done when TV Guide hadn't nominated him for best actor in drama category last year. "Stop it, Jimmy." He scolded himself. "Crying won't do you any good." With this, he stopped his sobbing and wiped his tears with the back of his hand, clad in his already soaking glove. Noticing those long fingers that were hiding inside those expensive gloves, he smiled and thought to himself, "I'm know that sooner or later I will have to do some nude shots, and being blessed enough, physically speaking, who am I to refuse that?" He chuckled at the thought and mused some more, "Self-exposing one's sexuality isn't a crime in this business, as long as you have enough talent to balance it. And I'm not one of those fucking hypocrites who love to pretend that they're not aware of their own sex appeal." The wind hit him hard, bringing his mind back to his poor condition. The pain had gone now. All he felt was cold on his body and his hands. Both of his feet had gone completely numb. "God, I could die from pneumonia," he thought, as if it wasn't a good thing. "I can't sit here all night." He tried to pull his legs, but they didn't move a bit. A surge of panic attacked him as a picture of his frozen body buried under the falling snow flashed through his mind. "No no no, that's not going to happen. Someone will finally see me and help my pretty ass out of here." He reassured himself. "I need to relax." His hand was trembling when he rooted in his pocket for a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. Smoking was a new habit he had been trying for the past few months, as one of his many efforts to build a macho/tough guy image on him. When was the last time he had done an interview? It seemed like months ago. Six months, maybe, or seven? God, how much he wanted to be interviewed right now, to let the world see the real him, all hung over, facial hairs unshaven, while chain smoking and talking in profanities. Staring at his lighter, he thought to himself, "I might not be Tom Hanks, but at least I know what acting is." The pack was almost empty. He lit one and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs as well as his delusional mind. "And more importantly, I'm one of the few who know exactly how to do it." ***** An hour had passed, and he had no more cigarettes left. The road was suspiciously empty that night. There had been two separate occasions actually, each of which Beek had gotten a chance to get out of there. A woman had passed by and offered Beek a ride to the hotel, but he had yelled at her and because she had insensitively called him Dawson. And then a moment later, a poor old man had had to listen to his long rant when he had asked him for an autograph. And now there he was, sitting still against the lamppost under the falling snow. His fingers would be the next to go paralyzed within seconds. He felt like the poor little maiden in the story of The Little Match Girl. If only he had had a box of matches to warm him up a bit. Wait, the lighter! Why hadn't he thought of that? He dug inside his pocket for the lighter and pulled it out. He switched it on. "Rischt!" A small flame danced on his eyes and invited him to its warmth. He held hand over it. The warmth penetrated through his glove and touched the tip of his finger, and then it crawled through his arms to every part of his body. It felt like heaven. The small flame in front of him now became a furnace. The firelight was bright and beautiful. He wondered if he had died and gone to heaven. "Puff." He felt a warm surge of air hit his face and the furnace suddenly vanished, and now he was back out here sitting in the freezing midnight air, under the moonlight. Only coldness surrounded him. Someone patted his head. He looked up and saw a face that he hated so much, grinning mockingly at him. That rat bastard! He knew that it had been him who'd blown his imaginary furnace off. "I saw you sitting here, smiling at the flame like an idiot. So I thought I'd just drop in to annoy you. See ya around, Jimmy." He patted his head one more time and left to his Chevy Tahoe parked a few feet from there, and Beek had to try his best to restrain himself from begging him for help. Watching as the Chevy Tahoe drove away, he decided that an ugly mutt like Joshua Jackson wasn't worth his time. He looked back at the lighter on his hand and switched it on. The fire was even brighter this time. And suddenly, he was in an auditorium full of people. He saw red carpet. He saw Allison Janney, Kelsey Grammer, Sean Hayes, and Kathy Bates. Wait, he saw himself, sitting in the front row. He looked very nice in tight black velvet suit and a bow tie, and his hair was well moisturized as usual. Then he heard a female voice mentioning his name. "... and James Van Der Beek." He threw his gaze toward the stage, where the voice came from, as the woman continued, "And the Emmy goes to..." Having just realized what's going on, he held his breath. This was the moment of truth. "... Joshua Jackson." His whole world crashed down and his whole face crumpled into the shape of wrinkled chicken butt ready to spurt out its content. The fact that even his hallucinations betrayed him, made him start to weep and sob like a thirty five year old mother forgetting taping over her Olsen Twins Special tape, his face soaked with tears of self-pity and disappointment. Then something strange happened. The walls and tiles and ceiling melted and blurred into darkness, and the people one by one turned into thousands of fireflies, blinding his eyes with their sparkling glow. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Those fireflies were now rising higher and higher. They became the stars, the night sky was almost as bright as a sunny midday. And then one star fell down, leaving a long trail of fire on its track. A fallen star. He had to make a wish. He closed his eyes. There were so many things he wanted to wish for. He wanted two million dollars per episode. He wanted more screen time. He wanted a line counting software to count his and Joshua Jackson's lines whenever he received his script. But finally, he just whispered weakly, "I just, I just want to be loved." He opened his eyes carefully. And he saw him. So bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of love. He was in his arms, and they're such a pair of big strong arms. "John." He stammered. John Wesley Shipp smiled at him, full of love and desire. "Yes, Jimmy." "Thank you." Beek said sincerely. "No problem." He replied softly with a voice like a lullaby, and started walking to his car. His body wasn't glowing anymore, and now Beek knew he wasn't hallucinating. He observed the figure of his face. His strong jaw, his full lips that were waiting to be kissed, his beautiful eyes. He rubbed his neck, it's big and strong like a rock. He wondered what had blindfolded him before. "John." He called again. This time his hands had wandered down, drawing circle on the small of his back, and apparently John caught the sign. "Yes, sweetie pie." He looked down at the forehead beauty in his arms. Beek was sporting the most seductive smile he could afford. "Your place or mine?"
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