She's Wearing a Skirt

"Health care reform?!?" K-Ro shouted, "I'll give you a reason to want health care reform!"

From beyond the closed doors I could hear muffled cries and loud, heavy thumping.

"Hurt me!" a feminine voice cried.

"I'm...I'm trying," K-Ro panted, his voice weakening, "Can't...last...much...longer."

The thumping continued to grow more intense until it suddenly ended, followed by a loud, dull thud. I detected a slight tremor throughout the estate. After waiting a moment, I approached the doors to K-Ro's suite and knocked loudly.

"K-Ro," I said, "Let House Speaker Pelosi know it's time for her interview."

I could hear whispers and the shuffling of bodies. Then soft footfalls followed by the opening of the doors. There K-Ro, naked and sweating heavily, stood, surveying the room. His breathing was fitful, his gait unsteady as he made his way down the main hallway, stopping at the kitchen, where he popped open the microwave and retrieved a neatly folded business suit and blouse from the Kathy Ireland professional collection. Draping the ensemble over his arm, he slowly returned to his suite. As I watched him struggle back toward the doors, I felt a mixture of alarm and revulsion. I turned to Amanda Scarlettson, the intrepid investigative reporter, forced a smile and shrugged sheepishly. Ms. Scarlettson, having witnessed the entire episode, was fittingly abashed, yet resolutely professional, her face frozen in repulsed curiosity.

"She should be ready momentarily, my dear," I promised. I had invited young Ms. Scarlettson to my lush estate in the pretense of arranging an interview with Nancy Pelosi. Something about health care reform or some kind of nonsense. Pelosi, having arrived early, had entered into a heated debate on the health care system with K-Ro. By the time Ms. Scarlettson had arrived, things had gotten ugly.

"There's no hurry, really," she said, smiling, "I certainly appreciate this opportunity. I'm a little surprised you didn't keep this interview for yourself."

"I have no time for fluff pieces," I said with a wave of my hand, "Besides, I have it from a very reliable source that Steven Seagal is positioning himself for a run at sheriff of Hollywood. That's the story I want."

"Um, okay," Ms. Scarlettson said, obviously impressed by my journalistic instincts, "Thanks anyway."

I simply nodded and smiled warmly, careful not to betray my true intentions.

I had met Ms. Scarlettson the previous weekend at a benefit for orphans who are too unattractive to be adopted by celebrities. The turnout had been much lower than expected due to the recent spate of Prius-related catastrophes that was keeping most of the Hollywood elite at home firmly in the grip of fear. Bored, I was ready to leave the event when I was approached by Ms. Scarlettson, her crimson hair pulled up into a bun, a strand or two hanging teasingly across her face, wearing dark-rimmed glasses that were unsuccessful in hiding her beauty.

"Mr. King," she purred, extending her hand, "My name is Amanda Scarlettson. I write for The Daily News. I'm writing a feature on you and wonder if it would be possible to get an exclusive?"

Taking her hand, I pulled it gently to my lips, kissing it softly with only the slightest of tongue.

"It would be my pleasure," I cooed, "To do for you, or to you, anything you desire. However, I never do interviews."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, wiping the back of her hand on her pants, "But I'm sure I can find some background information on you elsewhere."

And then, she simply vanished. It was shocking, really. Having already begun the process of conceiving a reason for her being unable to spend the entire night in my bed (I have an early morning rehearsal for Spider Man: Turn Off the Dark?), I was surprised and confused by the realization that we would be spending no time together. It had never happened before, and it was intoxicating.

"IPhone," I said.

"Yes, sir," a robotic voice replied.

"Connect me to K-Ro," I ordered.

"Very well, sir."

I quickly gave K-Ro a rundown of the night's events, and of this newest situation.

"Those poor orphans," K-Ro said.

"Fuck them," I bellowed, "I want you to find this Amanda Scarlettson. Get her over to the mansion."

"But how?" K-Ro asked.

"I don't care how," I screamed, "She's a reporter of some kind. What do reporters like to do?"

"Nancy Pelosi's coming over to watch 24," he said, "Perhaps I can arrange an interview for the young reporter."

"Nancy Pelosi?" I said, "Tony Soprano's mother? I hate to tell you this, my friend, but she died years ago."

"Um, okay," K-Ro said, "Just leave it to me. I'll take care of everything."

And I told myself to remember to do something special for K-Ro, who had been true to his word, as I watched Ms. Scarlettson stand and shake hands with Pelosi when she emerged from the suite. K-Ro joined me at the door, wearing a tank top and naked from the waist down.

"You've done well, my friend," I said, "But it seems Ms. Pelosi neglected to iron her pants."

"She's wearing a skirt, sir," K-Ro replied.

"Of course she is, my little friend, of course she is."