Infamous
by Lily
Mulholland
You had always
wanted to be famous. At thirty-seven, with two
kids and stretch marks, you thought you’d
missed out. That was until a chance incident made
you the most famous woman in the world in the
short space of forty-eight hours.
What had
started as a headline beloved by sub-editors of
newspapers quickly became the story of the year,
with interview requests rolling in from around
Australia. As new media journos awoke to their
multiple feeds, you started receiving calls from
all over Europe, and, several hours later, the
United States, Canada, and a ragtag bunch of
South American countries. You even took a call
from a news outlet in Karachi. You were big on
the sub-continent! Fortunately your melting
mobile phone was saved by a call from Max
Wiltshire, mega-PR to the stars. He offered to
take you on for the special cut-rate fee of
twenty per cent of your earnings. You were
clearly out of your depth and Max offered to
handle everything on your behalf. Although you
later discovered his fee structure was
reprehensible, you were nonetheless pleased to
hand over your media responsibilities to someone
of his vast experience, and girth.
You shudder at
the mention of body shape. That’s what
started this media hurricane. You were walking
along the street on one of your rare days away
from the kids, swinging your shopping bags
containing loot from an even rarer retail therapy
session when bammo! Looming before you was a man
wider than he was tall, his belly bulging against
the yellow cotton of his polo shirt, attempting a
daring escape. This was a belly that moved to its
own rhythm; a tummy that could influence tides.
As he lumbered closer, you saw it. He had an
outie. You were swept away with the moment and
before you could stop yourself your free hand
reached out, forefinger extended and you poked
that protruding navel.
The man’s
face registered shock and surprise for the
nanosecond that hung suspended between you before
he exploded. Fleshy shrapnel coated you, your
shopping bags, the pavement and buildings to the
left of you. The duco of cars parked against the
curb would never be the same again. And neither
would you, forever more known as the Belly Button
Bomber. You always wanted to be famous.
|
