“This movie will be awful,” said Janine. “Awful. I have foreseen it.”
“Do you mean to say you think your own movie is going to be bad?” asked Stephanie, struggling to keep the excitement from her voice. She moved in with the mic a little too close to Janine Fontaine’s perfect lips.
“It is written in the stars.” Janine waved her many-ringed hand vaguely.
This bitch has lost her mind, Stephanie thought. Is she doing a bit? Coming here dressed as Miss fucking Cleo. Has she been wearing that getup ever since the movie wrapped? Who cares–she’s sabotaging her own flick. This is gold.
“The only star I see here is you, Janine.” Perfect sound bite.
“My name is Jasmine,” Janine corrected, wrinkling her nose.
“Jasmine, then. You don’t think The Light of Dead Stars will be worthwhile for moviegoing audiences?”
A man in a suit moved into the frame, tugging lightly at Janine’s elbow. She took her arm back and said, “Mark my words! The moving picture of which you speak will flop in dead silence. The stars predict 7% at Rotten Tomatoes. Less than three million domestic. It is known. Begone, man in black!”
Janine removed a wad of bills from somewhere under her sari and threw it at the suit who was trying to pull her away from the camera. The wad exploded and notes rained down. Unable to suppress her instinct to grab at money, Stephanie caught a bill mid-air and examined it.
“Fortune,” read the bill, instead of a number. And instead of a president, there was a poor impression of Janine Fontaine as Jasmine the Seer.
Yes, even today, Reader! Today’s three categories were, “A fortune teller,” “An actor who refuses to break character,” and “Counterfeit ______.”
I admit I wasn’t so creative with that _______, but it’s Christmas and I’m sleepy and full of food. SO THERE.