“Fruit cup, or fruit plate?” Emerging from behind a menu at the Ace Hotel’s lobby restaurant, Suri, radiating apathetic bliss, exhales, putting on her best Daria face. Serving super size suicide unhappy meal realness, she could easily double as a Lisbon sister: blazed doll eyes, nymphy silhouette, ghostly glow masked by a face that’s entirely spent. Sighing in crystal shards of self-misery, she looks to Maxwell – the server.
“I’ll bring both.” Maxwell collects her menu and reassures her with a boy-next-door smirk. “It’s not like you can’t afford it,” he whispers under bated breath.
Mouthing “thank you,” Suri reaches into her distressed black Balenciaga satchel pulling out a pack of Parliaments. “The world is a vampire,” she mutters.
“Beep!,” her 4G iPhone buzzes.
She’s too punk as fuck to admit, but she LOVES that Steve Jobs named a phone after her. Glancing at the message on the screen, it’s an e-mail from Barney’s:
“Thank you Suri Cruise for your continued business. We will be billing your parents in the undisclosed amount of $472, 369.99. Not too much for back-to-school shopping expenses, right? You’re gonna look SO FETCH this Fall. Text me next time you’re on Fifth Ave, we’ll do lunch! XO, Carol, Barney’s Customer Relations”
Rolling her eyes, she deletes the message murmuring,
“Stop trying to make fetch happen. It’s NOT going to happen.”
Speaking of fashion, the only thing that creates a smile with her porcelain human image these days, are her outfits. Today: a vintage Nirvana tee with strategically placed holes and safety pins, tucked into an ironic skort by Obesity and Speed, 6121 sheer ribbed thigh high stockings, and custom clogs by Giuseppe Zanotti. Timeless.
“Secret destroyers, hold you up the flames, and what do I get for my pain?” Suri hums melodramatically to herself, using her steak knife as a surrealist microphone. “BETRAYED DESIRES, AND A PIECE OF THE GAME.”
Chuckling in her misfortune, she lights up a menthol – laced with a Polly-pocket-sized dose of Molly – suddently, she is revisited by 1-9-9-2. Techno mash-ups flood her ears like echolocation, and she is giggling like a damned raven of the apocalypse.
Like a phoenix licking the flames from it’s ashes, she’s on a body high roller coaster. Up. Down. Up. Down. Glistening above the fire. Uncorking the complimentary bottle of Dom Perignon, spilling rivers of the effervescent crystalline all over the table (including splashing the luxurious liquid all over her ironic skort by Obesity and Speed), she simply laughs it off demonically.
Attracting the attention of the hotel manager, Pierre, who marches over in frustration pointing at the NO SMOKING sign. Before he can reach the six year old starlet, four massive bodyguards dressed in sterile white suits with tiny Scientology pins fashioned to their lapels build a human force field around her.
“Excuse me Miss Cruise, this is a no smoking facility!” The manager barks.
Like Storm from X-men’s blazing hot white eyes, an alien shield of plasma clouds her pupils. Cranking her head three hundred and sixty degrees, she is giving Linda Blair face and letting Pierre HAVE IT.
“DESPITE ALL MY RAGE, I AM STILL JUST A RAT IN A CAGE,
DESPITE ALL MY RAGE, I AM STILL JUST A RAT IN A CAGE,
THEN SOMEONE WILL SAY WHAT IS LOST CAN NEVER BE SAVED,
DESPITE ALL MY RAGE, I AM STILL JUST A RAT IN A CAGE!”
With a pterodactyl cry, black wings sprout through the back of her Nirvana tee, as she rises in ecstasy, like a black hole portal, hovering over the now startled and hysteric guests of the Ace Hotel…
TO BE CUNTINUED…
© JAKE THOMPSON