11. THE GROUP
As Brendan's green Porsche neared the exit ramp to Santa Titana, he reflected on his plan with the first bit of delight he had felt in over a week. How N. had been able to trace his e-mail messages at all remained a mystery, but he knew that she could, so he knew that she would read his cancellation notice to Solomon and immediately notify her "muscle" to discipline their maid. It wasn't the best plan in the world, but so far it was working, and that was what mattered.
Actually, that was the entire plan. What happened from now on was instinct. Like every other resident of L.A., Brendan had a gun, but he knew his twelve-shot .45 automatic, though powerful, would not be enough against whatever it was he was going to face. Who knew how large the Group was?
Brendan smirked at that last thought. "Large." These kind of puns would be haunting him for the rest of his life. Even if that would only be the next few hours.
Before attending film school, Brendan had spent a semester at Santa Titana College, so he was vaguely familiar with the area. The Group was apparently located on Walters Road, which was this old dirt track near the prison. And as Brendan turned his Porsche off the main street and onto Walters Road, he could smell his shock absorbers beginning to sweat.
And there it was. Had he expected some kind of mansion or castle? This was a regular, two-story, raised ranch-style home. Blue paint exterior. Green lawn. Paved driveway. A "welcome" wreath on the door. Of course, the sight of a blue raised ranch, complete with yard, in the middle of nowhere was completely bizarre.
Rows of cars lined either side of the road and filled up the driveway. Brendan was able to park in relative inconspicuousness, but the thought of all the owners of these cars made him bite his lip.
"It's not too late," he pondered. "Just drive away. British Columbia's supposed to be nice this time of the year."
There were lights on in every window in the house, and Brendan could hear the faint buzz of multiple conversations and rock and roll music. He tucked his .45 in his jacket sleeve and walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. There was no reason to be shy about it. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen.
The door opened, and revealed the Brendan a foyer near packed with beautiful, incredibly tall, near-naked women, all suddenly looking at him. And standing at the door, staring down past her breasts at him, was an eight foot tall, strong Madelaine.
"Howdy," Brendan said. "Mind if I crash your party?"
Madelaine grabbed Brendan by the arm, lifted him up, and yanked him into the house. N., towering over the other giantesses and therefore immediately identified, was standing by the staircase, sipping champagne. She wore an immense silk black dress apparently specially made for her size; Brendan did not have have that much fabric in his bedsheets. And around her neck hung a beautiful, silver-chained necklace.
Madelaine dropped Brendan in front of her.
"Ah. Mr. Dorsey. I must say, I'm surprised to see you here. Were you unable to get a flight to a small African country? No matter. We would have found you there, too. Oh, what kind of gun is that in your jacket? Colt?"
"Let me show you." Brendan took it out and pointed it at her. A few of the giantesses around him giggled.
"No. Don't laugh. He doesn't know any better. Go ahead, Mr. Dorsey. Spit your lead seed."
Brendan pulled the trigger, but it was a half-hearted action. He watched, unsurprised, as the bullet struck N. right between her huge breasts and tumbled down, flat as a penny, to the floor.
"You killed Thea?" N. said.
Brendan sighed and lit a cigarette.
"Well, I suppose, that was justice. Eye for an eye, and all that. I hope she didn't suffer, though. Your friend didn't suffer. In fact, his final moments were very...pleasant."
More giggles.
"We're not an evil cult of monsters, Mr. Dorsey. Our religion is older than yours, and purer. Like all religions in this agnostic age of technology, we're desperate to find new members. And movies are the beacons of the modern world."
"These are movies that for the most part men watch. Not women."
"For the most part. Which is why we have the advertisement at the beginning. Did you see the advertisement?"
Brendan shook his head.
"No, of course not. Otherwise you wouldn't be here. It contains highly suggestive subliminal instructions. Men will be trained to believe that our Group is superior, and they will want to spread our...cause. And women, upon seeing the advertisement, will want to join."
"Deceit."
N. shrugged her huge, muscled shoulders. "But the difference is, Mr. Dorsey: the fantasies we offer are real."
Brendan extinguished his cigarette on the carpet. "So what happens to me now?"
N. smiled and Brendan felt two massive arms wrap around his body.
- - -
12. THE END
"Cut!" Brendan yelled out. "Print!"
And everyone applauded. That was it: the final shot of the movie. Brendan lifted a champagne glass to his cast and crew, and retreated to his trailer with a smile plastered across his lips. The actors would change back into their clothes, and in about an hour, the wrap party would begin. About two hours after that, he would begin production on his next picture. It would have a budget of five million dollars.
N. was waiting for him in his trailer.
"Congratulations," she said.
He sat down and let out a pleasant sigh. "Thanks, you know it's been my pleasure."
"We know. And we're sure your next picture for us will be even more rewarding."
Brendan itched at his bare chin and chuckled. "Have you read my script yet?"
"Yes. And we think 'Growing Passions XXVII' is going to be your masterpiece. And we have a surprise for you."
"Yes?"
N. leaned in. "We plan on marketing it globally. We estimate, after the release of this next project, our numbers will be over fifteen thousand worldwide."
"Whatever I can do for you, mistress," Brendan whispered with heartfelt honesty, and he sipped down the rest of his champagne in oblivious joy. "I am your servant."
- - -
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