New York NY

June 1993

 
            The strikingly beautiful blonde woman in her late fifties enters a suite, accompanied by a tall, handsome man.
            Both are very well dressed.

With the dread of mourning weighing on her, Mary DeMille says, “I received your message, Detective Barnes. I always thought you identify a relative in the morgue.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. DeMille.”

The detective reaches out to shake her hand.

He quickly withdraws it seeing her emotional state.

“Commissioner Regan told us not to move anything. Because you’re a celebrity, he thought you’d prefer to avoid publicity by coming here to the Waldorf. I think he’s right since what you’ll see won’t be pleasant.”

Mary reaches for her husband. “Josh....”

“I don’t believe it’s necessary for Ms. DeMille to be here for this. I can identify Dante, if it’s him,” Josh says to the detective.

“We require next of kin, sir, but even you will have a difficult time with this scene. Please follow me into the next room. I suggest you hold on to her. I’ve had this assignment for more than 20 years, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

The detective walks to the door, opens it, and beckons the couple to enter.

They enter.
            Gasps.

Mary’s lips quiver at the scene before them. She recoils, like the involuntary reaction to watching explicit open-heart surgery on TV.

Josh groans, his lungs purging air.

He stares at something he feels could only be a product of Stephen King’s imagination. 

Josh turns to look at Mary.

He tries to catch her when he sees his wife’s eyes roll to the top of her head.
             She slowly sinks to the floor like a limp towel, shrieking, “That necklace! That necklace!”

 

 

Dante wakes up sitting on the floor, not in the hotel room he was in when a once in a lifetime experience turned into “WTF”?

He looks for his sister but sees nothing, just glaring light!

No walls

No ceilings

No clouds

No sun.

Nothing.

He wonders if this is the endless, all white Bonneville Salt Flats because he sees 360 degrees of a vast void. Puzzled as to whether he is dreaming, he hears the cadence of footsteps in the distance getting closer and closer. It reminds him of the opening scene of the movie, Lawrence of Arabia, when all you see is a dot in the distance.
     The sound gets louder, and a figure gradually appears.

Dante, in his forties, studies the man.
     I guess he’s in his fifties, maybe Mediterranean ancestry. He’s well dressed.
     He sneers at the man’s jaunty walk, acting as if he is person of authority.

The man greets Dante with a smile, “Welcome Dante DeMille. I’ve waited an eternity for this moment. You’re my success story.”

Dante’s instincts turn negative as he appraises a Victorian dressed peacock.
     He isn’t aware he’s curled his lip at the sight of a black fingertip coat and brocaded vest. It gives him the impression his visitor is from another era.

Pompous ass!

Dante stares at the tailored moustache and goatee so meticulously hair-sprayed in place.

What a weirdo!

He watches the man stroke his goatee whenever he speaks.
     Dante imagines him to have a mirror in his pocket to often check that every hair was in place and every article of clothing is as it was when he first dressed.

He asks, “What are you talking about? Who are you? Where am I?”

Dante is so preoccupied with his situation he isn’t aware he is nude until he sees the man’s eyes scan his body. “Where are my clothes?”

The man deepens his gravel voice, “Questions, questions, questions from my pet project.”

“Pet project? Are you freakin’ nuts? Who are you? What am I doing here?”

“Don’t you realize all good things come to an end?”

“What in the world are you raving about? Who are you talking to? I don’t see anyone. Why is it so freakin’ hot in here? I don’t see the sun. Don’t you feel the heat?”

Dante’s host sneers and chuckles at his agitation. He stops stroking his beard and becomes serious, raising his voice, “Could it be you’re so scared you’ve developed a case of prolonged constipation?”

His laugh echoes for seconds.
     It is so loud Dante covers his ears with his hands.

“Oh boy, I liked that one! You're probably scared because you realize you’ve changed your permanent address without advising the post office?”   

He watches a shadow of negativity shroud Dante’s face.

“Dante DeMille, you have to admit that last line was brilliant! Fabulous! I liked that one even more than the first!”

“Are you nuts? Where’s Demi?”

“Am I the one being interrogated?”
     The man leans his head back again and laughs, “You don’t remember what you did? I suppose that now you’re suffering from convenient amnesia. My boy, you’re priceless, priceless! Oh, this is too much.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dante roars, his face distorted in fury as he moves toward the man, confident that no older man, several inches shorter and maybe 40 pounds lighter, is a match for him. He grabs for the man, but a force he’d never experienced pushes him backwards. He staggers and falls on his back, complaining, “Who the hell are you? What are you?”

The man walks toward him saying, “Come on, boy.” 

He chuckles again. “I think…I have at least five names in your language, maybe more.”

“My language?”

“You still have no idea? You must have a clue. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the expression; payback is…? I rest my case.”

“What the hell…?” Dante can't finish his sentence.
     “What am I doing here?”

“The super stud, Mr. Narcissus, himself. They all called you The Pharaoh. Oh, you’ve come a long way, baby. Let’s see how you got here.” He changes his expression to an impish smile, and with a tilt of his head, says, “Wait, I’ll show you.”

He claps his hands and what Dante at first thinks is an endless two-dimensional movie screen appears  out of nowhere. His eyes open when he realizes he's looking at three-dimensional images.

They must be holograms!

The surface he's standing on moves.
     Dante falls to one knee.
     He is an invisible conveyor belt watching scenes unfold.

“Hey, you whatever you are, what’s going on now? Are we going into the Tunnel of Love?”

Once more laughing louder than Dante thinks is necessary, and with a grotesque sneer on his face, Dante’s tormentor yells at him, “Oh, what a masterpiece I have created; wonderful, wonderful. I have to pat myself on my back. Mr. DeMille, please forgive me for bragging. Let’s start the show in March of 1930. That’s Father Marcel talking to some children.”

“What do I have to do with them?”

“You’re about to meet your real grandparents when they were young.”

“My grandparents? You’re all wet, because I know my grandparents!”

“You do? Oh, I forgot. To answer your question, you're going to see the seeds I planted that made you my masterpiece. Dante DeMille, this is your life.”