chapter 23

Fast forward ten minutes and we find Melissa strutting around like this, anyway, having made the decision to indulge in her power to shock people. And it seems that's what she's been achieving. She can feel eyes clinging to her, whether in a positive or negative way, you choose, as she walks through rooms and wanders around waiting to be called for go-time. For now, however, she idles back and forth between each end of a short hall lit by downlights overhead, reading two stapled pieces of paper. They are a manuscript detailing the list of questions she'll probably be asked in the interview. The aim is to read it through and prepare some answers so you don't tread on your own toes during go-time when a saucy question comes flying out of nowhere.

Melissa is almost done reading when a lady in a janitor's uniform comes gushing up to her in a flurry of words. Their mouth is moving, but Melissa is hearing only the harsh, dry syllables of the Australian accent, which she has only had under a year to learn to properly decipher. '-I'm so sorry,' Melissa interrupts politely as she can, lowering the papers, 'Could you speak a little slower?' Then, compensating, 'I'm from the states, you see, I have a hard time understanding your accent sometimes, is all.' Smiling.

The lady in the janitor's uniform slows down and recomposes herself. She is a plain looking lady, an EveryWoman. Probably one with a job, kids, no hobbies and a television set. But, apparently, an avid obsession with Melissa's writing, as it turns out: 'Sorry, sorry, I'm just so thrilled, I'm stoked, are you... are you really Melissa van Meyer?'

All she can do is nod and smile.

'Oh lordy, shiver me timbers mate, you have no idea how much I love your writing. Oh I'm sorry, really am, but I never reckoned this would ever happen yaknow, well, I know I work in the network headquarters, but crikey!'

Something about this woman's caricaturization of the Australian vernacular strikes even Melissa, a non-local, as question provoking. But, 'Oh really? Thankyou!' humbly as she can, yet sucking it all straight into her ego, because why not? No one could help that. And so, here she is, already sufficiently distracted. A secret agent might call this scene an "instant success". Somehow, by whatever arbitrary alignment of the pieces of the universe, this janitor lady has paid no attention to the strip of flesh Melissa knows is showing where her floral blouse is failing to meet the top of the slacks - she keeps feeling the chill from the air ducts breezing over the exposed area whenever there's a draft. She wonders how far her potbelly is showing over her leggings. Nevertheless, this janitor's gushing goes on for a little longer, the exaggerated tones eventually dying down until they are both engaged instead in an easy conversation - still all about her, though. Where Melissa comes from, where she wants to be, how it all started, her parents, her school, her friends, her university, her home state. Then the conversation comes to a natural-feeling close. The janitor moves along to complete her work and Melissa goes back to preparing her questions.

By the time she's done, she has a set of hopefully unpredictable answers to a set of fairly predictable questions, the routine, kick-of-the-mill type inquiries, not really much of an opportunity there for her to brag, which is good. (She's been catching herself thinking prideful things lately, the conversation with the janitor lady being no help. Lock that shit down, Private Van Meyer...) So, by writerly instinct, she now finds herself mentally revising her answers, doing a sweep for any head-strong phrases as she wanders around for a while longer. Shouldn't be too long.

In one of the rooms outside the studio, she sees through a viewing window two red seats crowded by cameras under a pool of diffused studio light. Crew and such walk around, exchanging words, adjusting gear, trailing long cords back and forth. She watches the work from behind the pane, detects the bane of her recent existence out the corner of her eye -

Upon a wheely tray, set in the corner of the room, a stack of napkins sit beside an orange cardboard box of glazed donuts, each one the size of her fist. Crumbs decorate the inside of the box, the lid thrust back. Three donuts remain. They sit indifferently in the far corner of the box.

She's suddenly levitating towards them on rogue legs moving without her consent. She stops. Who are they for? Permission should really be asked, before she dives in to destroy them.

Turning to the nearest convenient person in the room, she gestures towards the goodies. 'Are these-' ...Who else is it but the janitor again? 'Oh, hi again. Um-'

The janitor is holding a clipboard now instead for some reason, smiling.

'Do you know if these doughnuts are to eat?' Melissa asks.

The janitor looks at her, then the doughnuts. Then at her again. But not necessarily in the snarky kind of way that Melissa's used to by now, where from the beholder's point of view, an overfed girl is asking for more doughnuts...

Nevertheless, 'Yes absolutely, they're for anyone! Dig in please!'

Unable to decipher the attitude behind the janitor's look, or whether there even is one or not, Melissa is already eating the doughnut in her mind, her body only just catching up now. The thing is stickier than she thought it would be, and - woah hold on - Melissa stoops with the surprise weight of a shotput ball tugging her hand down to the ground. How could a thing weigh so much? The fabric of her familiar reality threatens to break down as she holds four kilograms (8.8 lbs) of, not solid metal, but plush, freshly baked dough that fits in her palm. Everything she has ever known screams at her that this object should be solid, at the very least made of brick, rock hard, but as she bites into it now, her teeth knock against nothing else but sweet sponge, giving way as she tears a piece off and munches on it. An electric sweetness runs around her lips, swishes down her tongue to spread itself warm and buzzing around the surface of her throat. Melissa is overtaken by a melting sensation, almost has to lean against a wall for the head-tipping moan she's about to release. The divinity of the food slides down her throat now, again and again, leaving a trail of sugary residue like a snail each time. Oh shit, now what's this-

There's nothing of the doughnut left. Melissa's developing food addiction roping her fingers towards her tongue, she laps up the last crumbs and stains of grease away, trying not to make slurping noises but getting damned close as she does so. Defying all evolutionary bodily and mental reflexes, telling her not to eat more because of the lumps of carbs currently lodged in her esophagus, she is snatching a second doughnut from the box, hefting its weight - then her teeth seem to be ripping away a huge chunk without her say-so. Nevermind. Too good. The way the icing melts down her tongue gives her the mental image of slowly dripping fondue.

And now this second one, in only four bites, dough insanely thick and grease making her entire mouth slick, is gone. When she returns to herself, her conscious state, her better senses, she is lightly panting. Her jaw aches for no reason and her tongue is sore again. She can feel the beginnings of a distention in her lower belly. Wait...

Eyes could be on her, seeing a young woman breathing a bit too heavily to be polite, belly probably hanging out, licking her fingers like a starved pig.

But there's no one around.

Melissa gazes.

It is as if the room has been evacuated upon hearsay of unauthorized personnel sabotaging property. She cranes her neck to the side to look through doorways, but even the halls are empty. The only people left around are in the other room, seen by her through the observation panel, sorting out the last studio technicalities before recording can begin. A strong magnetism is forcing her hand towards the box, the last doughnut exposed - but there's something more intriguing about the box itself... Something is reeling in her cerebral attention, like art. Leaning in closer, she contemplates the immaculate detail someone has put into designing this box. Murals in a white, grey, and orange go twisting around each other in giant fractal swirls, everywhere you look, a new tapestry emerging in or out from another, like the grain of an ancient wood. The text on the box is orange, set against grey, (very sleek and modern-like), the big bold letters read: Kreem&More(TM) Glayz'd© ... then a chart of ingredients ... while hidden on the side, written in small black print, faintly reads: "Property of InsuliNation inc., all rights reserved". Uh. Who now?- ... And on the opposite side of the box, just here, is some kind of alert text. Warning! Attention! Achtung! Waarschuwing! Avvertimento! Výstraha! Προειδοπ&# 959;ίηση! 警告! ... etc. Hmmm. Well, she now attempts to read some of the most microscopic fineprint she has ever seen: