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Old 08-28-2016, 10:03 PM   #3
syszero
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Chapter IV

I have said nothing about a father. That is because Bob and I didn't have one. Oh, there was a male around to plant the biological seeds in my mother's schizzcd-out fallopian tubes, but by the time I could talk and Bob could make those horrible gurgling noises my father had died. In a car accident, my mother said, one night while he was driving on Sunset Boulevard. When I was older, she also told me that Daddy had had a drinking problem (who wouldn't, living with her?) and that she was almost sure he was drunk the night of the accident. She also told me that she had never quite gotten over it, even after all these years. Uh-huh. Right. Make me laugh, asshole. Tell me another one. Sure. Change your name to Bob Hope.

I tell this as a preface to something that took place the summer of my seventeenth year. I was about to get into my convertible it was my third Mercedes, the red one, the two blues having had faulty doodads that made me total both of them. As I was about to get in, I saw my mother's head under the hood and heard clanking noises. Always on my guard, I walked over and questioned her. "Mom, what arc you doing?" I asked calmly and with great respect. She eyed me with false warmth as she answered. "Oh, nothing much, Lenora. Just fixing one of these spark plugs. I heard your motor knocking and figured it must be one of these suckers here." She held up a greasy spark plug triumphantly, as if she had just discovered a cure for tonsillitis or something. But I stood there in a panic. Sure, my mother's mechanical expertise was well known in Hollywood. But she was obviously "fixing" my car so that I would have an accident and be "killed" the way you know who was.

Had she also "fixed" my two blue Mercedes? Again the panic welled up inside of me like an overinflated bladder ball. If I told her that I knew what she was doing, she would only give me that horrible fake look of concern, that same look she was giving me twice a day now when I came back from the talk-to man. I decided it would be best to say nothing, to just get in and drive away as if everything was fine and then go to the Beverly Hills police and report an attempted homicide. But would they believe me, what with my mother's reputation as a crackerjack mechanic? So I blew a kiss to her, got in the car. and drove off as if nothing was wrong. The last thing I heard was my mother my dear, sweet mother screaming at the top of her lungs, "Lenora! Lenora! You forgot your glasses! Remember, you're legally blin " I didn't feel like waiting around for IUT to finish her phony-baloney sentence. This time, I was going to the police- Needless to say, I never got there. The red Mercedes, so beautifully "fixed" by my mother, ended all tangled up in the big gate at MGM after hitting forty-three Negro extras and a trained pig they were using for some musical with Kathryn Grayson.

I wasn't hurt physically, but emotionally... emotionally I was scarred. Badly. Those scars haven't healed even now, over twenty years later. Even now. Sometimes I think not even one mi'tlion dollars would heal those scars. Chapter V In all fairness to my mother, I must admit that she was the biggest whore in Hollywood. And the biggest boozer. I say this remembering Christmas Eve of '56, the year I got only one lousy present: a crummy little coat made out of sable or something, and imported from Russia, of all places. I guess my mother was a communist too. I wouldn't know. You wouldn't catch me in a voting booth with that Looneytune.

Anyway, that Christmas Eve she had invited some of her "intimate" friends over: Clark, Spencer, Kate, Bette, Claudettc, Noel, Gary, Marilyn, Cecil B., Jimmy, Hank, and the Duke— a whole bunch of creepy losers. The wine really flowed that night. I remember counting fourteen empty champagne bottles planted in my bedroom before I passed out. To make a long story short, I was going to the kitchen to get some more hors d'oeuvres (my mother always insisted on giving the servants the night off; it was all for show, and I ended up being slave all evening to her lousy friends) when suddenly I saw my mother, wine glass in hand, kissing a well-known actor in the dining room who I always thought was a homosexual.

I stopped and screamed. "You! You! Why are you such a dirty slut? Why can't you be like other——" I stopped, too choked up and too emotionally wrought to continue. I thought I would be violently and physically ill right there on the wall to wall. My mother walked toward me and again —it was always "again" with her—started to "explain" to me what had just happened, as if I were blind and hadn't just seen the whole thing.

"But, Lenora, dear," she slurred, "we were just standing under some mistletoe, and it really was just an innocent——" I couldn't stand it any longer. "Don't give me any of your shit;' I replied quietly. "Everybody in this town knows you got your start by blowing Harry Warner's dog. I'm going to my room." And with that I left, leaving my mother gasping with that fake open mouth of hers, which wasn't fake when Harry Warner or his dog were around.

In my room, I suddenly felt a surge of affection for her. After all, she had given me a cute little thirty-eight-carat diamond for my birthday that year. And she hadn't said anything when it accidentally got flushed down the toilet after our fight over the last hot dog. I had an urge to protect and help her, help her to overcome her horrible problems. But first, the story of my mother's drunken orgy had to be hushed up. So I called Hedda, Louella, UPI, AP Photoplay, True Confessions, Modern Screen, and about a dozen other places, begging them all not to tell about Mummy's alcoholism and uncontrollable urges to fuck. They all promised me that they wouldn't, but somehow the story got out. After it broke, my mother became worse than ever. Her mood swings, her drinking—it all intensified. Yes, the abusive, hysterical shitheel was getting worse. Even the talk-to man agreed with me, about sixteen times a week.

Chapter VI

Epilogue: That was my childhood. A life filled with fear, hate, mistrust, brutality, anxiety, desperation, lies, and tears. Filled with everything, I guess you could say, except love. Love was the one thing my mother could never give me. And the final ignominy, the ultimate degradation... I am shaking as I write this... I was cut out of my mother's will not only because she didn't love me, but because she was a viperous wretch. Can you imagine the pain and humiliation of not having the two million dollars that your own sinister dead mother owes you because she went out of her way while she was alive to make sure that you would always suffer and never have any pleasure after she was dead? But that's the type of diabolic, dirtwad hag she was. I hope all of you understand that now. It's important to me that you really, really know.
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