CHAPTER 159: CHAOTIC TRAILER

"The trailer looks long," mused Ari, who had just been contacted by her cousin’s best friend. "Thank you for the link."

She had been kept in the dark about the details, so the moment she received it, she prayed to the gods that it wasn’t anything weird.

With an excited heart, she opened the link, and a video played in front of her.

Averie, with his back towards the camera, was sitting on the bank of a river, watching the sunset.

His face was only slightly visible through his cascade of hair.

The camera panned to show his right hand, which was tightly clutching a ballerina’s dress.

"Goodbye, my dreams," the actor said, his eyes gazing into the distance. "We were never as close as we thought."

He held a zip lock bag in the other hand.

"And if I could lie, I would say we had something beautiful."

He lowered his head with a heavy heart, took something from his pocket, and opened the bag.

The shot was taken from behind, so what was in it could not be seen.

For a moment, he leaned down as a long sniff was heard.

He jerked his head up as the angle of the shot changed.

"Holy shit, this is the life." His eyes were blood red, his skin was pale, and the tip of his nose had white powder sticking to it. "Fuck the dreams. I’ve got fun in my veins."

His voice was coarse, and his mouth was dry.

From here on out, the scenes transitioned very quickly.

In front of a caged elephant, Averie took out a deck of cards from his pocket.

He shuffled it, took out a random card, and showed it to the giant.

"Ace of hearts." He waved it in front of the giant. "Remember it."

He selected four more random cards from the deck, shuffled them with the ace of hearts, and arranged the five cards in front of the elephant, face up.

"Alright, go ahead," he said while holding a banana in his hand.

After a moment’s hesitation, the large animal’s trunk coiled around the banana. It snatched the sweet fruit, placed it in its mouth, and chewed with a face that Averie reckoned was full of joy.

Like a good host, he turned to the handler.

"Not so smart, is he?"

He shook his head as if disappointed.

"Well, if you—"

"No need to make excuses for him. He is dumb."

The scene transitioned.

"This is a Blue Pit Viper. This is a rare color."

"Is it venomous?" the actor asked.

"Yes." The handler emphasized with round eyes. "Its venom is hemotoxic. It can paralyze and kill by causing internal bleeding."

"On a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is ’they know he tried something funny’ and 10 is ’he killed his parents for inheritance,’ how venomous is it?"

The girl opened and closed her mouth a dozen times.

"You will literally bleed out from all of your orifices," she said with some effort. "Please, don’t try anything funny."

Averie bobbed his head in contemplation.

"Okay?"

He bobbed his head again, hellbent on not providing an answer.

The scenes continued like a collage.

"As you can see, behind me is one of the greatest attractions of the zoo." Averie knocked on the large piece of metal and machinery. "The vending machine."

He was sitting in front of a neatly-dressed old woman.

"My nan says it’s not real."

"What?"

"The global warming hogwash."

"It’s very real," the expert said with pain in her eyes. "It’s raising Earth’s temperature."

"Is that why my meals are always overcooked?" he said with a straight face.

"I—" she hesitated. "I don’t believe so. You might need to better manage your cooking stove."

"Who said I cook for myself? Are you saying my nan is dense? That she can’t cook?"

"No—"

"You are not wrong. The woman is getting up there in age. I might need to get rid of her. Wonder if that viper from earlier could take her out? The old hag is a matriarch elephant."

"What—"

"Anyway," — Averie turned away from her — "would you say that the poor people who can’t afford the high-end PCs are the ones responsible for this made-up global warming? You think my neighbour’s overheating PC is the one responsible for it?"

"I’ve never heard of that, no."

Again, the scene changed.

"Luck determines our lot in life," the actor continued, "and mine was an easy one, having been born with practically everything. Money, looks, and smarts—I have it all."

He rested his arm on the shoulder of a mean-looking guy leaning against a black Corvette.

"But not everyone is so privileged." The good actor spared the Corvette driver a glance of pity. "Some are born without good looks."

He winked.

"It is a great privilege to live on the cleaner side of society. But what about the rest? How do they live?"

He was in front of a blue Supra.

"Street racing is an illegal sport. But just like cocaine, all things illegal are good."

"And fatal," he whispered with a hand on his mouth.

"Tonight," — He spread his arms wide — "we will dive into the immature world of street racing."

He was sitting in the car.

"To be a street racer, one must meet certain qualifications."

He counted on his fingers. "You must have a car. You must be good at driving dangerously. And above all else, you must have an abusive stepfather and a negligent mother."

The scene changed.

He was poking his head out of the window, his lips locked with the closest girl who had leaned in for it.

After a long minute of decadent display, he retrieved his tongue from her mouth and turned to the camera.

"These beautiful ladies are locusts on the crop of self-preservation. They will look at an abusive relationship and think, ’Ah, nourishment.’"

He gave a thumbs-up.

"Just like me, they can’t be fixed. So, be nice to them."

Another girl was now leaning in.

"What’s your name?" the actor asked.

"Sheila," the girl said in a wispy voice.

"Ooh, I like the name. What are you? A bit of white? A bit of black?"

"Yeah." The girl flashed her immaculately white teeth. "A bit of Latina. A bit of everything."

"Ooh, a hybrid. Like my mum’s car. I like that. She’ll like you."

He was suddenly screaming at another driver.

"She’s not your girl, man. She won’t look at you if you were a mirror."

The music playing in the car suddenly intensified.

The emergency brake disengaged, and the Supra—like a bullet—took off.

"Who wants to jump off for a good cause?"

He was on a call.

"Oh, it’s horrible! They are whooshing past the homeless; someone could die any minute now!"

"I understand. Could you—"

"Oh, I can’t look anymore—"

"Sir, is that a car engine I hear?"

There was a brief silence.

"That’s my heater."

"Your heater sounds an awful lot like music playing in a speeding car."

"My taste in music is rather questionable, I admit."

"What is your name, sir?"

"Penelope Garcia."

"I’m sorry?"

"My name is Penelope Garcia."

"Where are you from?"

"San Sebastian."

"Please be honest, sir. Your accent sounds Balkan."

From their apartment windows, recordings from hundreds of people showed a Corvette being dragged along a long brick wall by the blue Supra driven by Averie.

He lowered his window, opened the glove compartment, and felt something metallic in his hands.

With a lug wrench, he bashed the window.

"Stop, you shit!"

In the air filled with sparks, a crack was heard.

And the pieces of the shattered window flew towards the driver.

"Say," said the passenger, "we don’t become accomplices if we don’t report it, right?"

A news channel footage was on, broadcasting a car chase.

The speeding blue Toyota Supra, being hounded by a fleet of more than a dozen cars, was worsening Hyerin’s anxiety attacks.

As if that wasn’t enough, the diabolical driver who also happened to be her friend was proudly giving the middle finger to the authorities.

"He is taking one in the arse for the farce."

"Those pigs!" Averie slammed his fists on the wheel. "They cornered us into a trap!"

The fleet of cars drove in and parked behind the Supra, blocking the exit.

Shouts of ’Come out,’ ’Get out,’ ’Slowly, now,’ sounded over the sirens.

In the flashing red and blue light, Averie tightened his grip on the wheel.

"You traitor!" yelled the cameraman.

Averie was in a large office.

"Oh, how about an autograph?" he asked, squirming in his chair.

The blurred man laughed in joy.

"Of course."

He pushed a paper towards the actor.

"I’m still gonna require a bribe, though."

On the black screen, in a blocky typeface, words emerged.

Every Sunday, 9:00-10:00 GMT, on CBC.

It was replaced by another set of words.

Long Live the Quinn.

The screen turned entirely black, and the five-minute-long video ended.