Taylor The Fly Who Knew Too Much

A comic novel
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 979-8-3509-4396-2
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 260 Seiten

Reihe: The Fly Who Knew Too Much

The Fly Who Knew Too Much follows the journey of a fly navigating the worlds of entertainment, politics, law, therapy, horse racing, gambling, and drug cartels. The narration is from the fly's POV, who makes unexpected social commentary as his journey proceeds. This story centers on the unlikely bond between the fly and a rising Hollywood actress living in Malibu, whose career is rising faster than insects reproduce. Much to her surprise, they develop a means of silent communication, as the fly cannot speak. The fly is directed to eavesdrop, undetected, in many venues, and return with useful information. Their world takes a perilous turn when the fly is unwittingly caught on camera, triggering an FBI investigation that ensnares the fly and his benefactress. While the actress is allowed to pursue her career and reap the benefits of her blockbuster film hit, the fly faces an impossible choice - a treacherous mission for the FBI or death by dissection. The FBI sends the fly on a mission to infiltrate a Mexican drug cartel - a journey that foils a major drug shipment, and also reveals a plot by the leader of the drug cartel that endangers the actress. The rescue of his devoted companion becomes the most challenging moment of the fly's life.

M. Taylor is an author with a rich background and a wealth of life experience that affects his writing. A native Californian and graduate of UC Berkeley and UCLA Law School, he employed his legal expertise over five decades in many corners of the world. During his varied career, he represented a diverse clientele from the world of film actors, directors, writers, film production companies, NBA players, and even a famed whistleblower. His legal journey extended far beyond the conventional civil and criminal cases, venturing into international matters spanning Mexico, Japan, Tahiti, Hawaii, Canada, and Switzerland. Beyond his professional achievements, Taylor is a devoted family man, with three adult children, and has shared a marriage of 36 years with his wife. Today, he resides in the state of California, where he continues to channel his wealth of experiences into his literary pursuits.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Taylor, M.

Leseproben

Chapter 5

Survival

Barbara rose early the next day. She didn’t put on any makeup and was dressed in yoga pants and a matching cotton top, and rushed out, leaving me to follow her into the car.

I entered the car and rode with her, eager to experience her world. She drove over the hills, stopped at my birthplace for something she called a latte, and then emerged onto a large ribbon of concrete filled with other cars that drove headlong toward the rising sun at a blazing rate of speed.

She turned on the car radio and sang with the radio, then called some girlfriends on her cell phone. Men in other cars, also driving at high speeds, tried to make eye contact with her as they passed her or she passed them. They whistled, waved, nodded, or just stared; she seemed to like it, although there were some near collisions.

We arrived at a large, blocky building with the letters CBS on the front. A uniformed guard waved us in, and she parked her yellow car in a small space next to a separate building. I left the car with her, careful to follow at a distance. We slipped into the building where she then went directly to a room and was seated in an oversized chair facing a bank of mirrors.

Other women immediately began to apply creams and solutions to her face, fuss with her hair, paint above her eyes, and paste on her eyelashes all the while talking and gossiping with her, mostly about their boyfriends, in whining, snarling tones. I was surprised that she allowed these people to swarm all over her, changing her appearance, her hair and face with pots full of jelly-like goo.

She seemed untroubled and submitted to their ministrations. What possible reason was there to change this supremely beautiful face? When they finished with her, she peered carefully at the effect of all the changes, nodded her approval, and thanked the women warmly for their services. They had managed to make her even more beautiful; perfection, I would say, if I could speak.

There were men too, doing the same process with other women, but they managed to sound like the women; they too were fixated on their boyfriends. Were they faithful? Were they fat? Were they boring, broke, or obsessed with sports, gambling, booze, drugs, parties, clothes, and girls with big tits? Either their boyfriends worked all the time or they didn’t work at all. They were high as kites or depressed beyond description. Barbara ignored these conversations boiling around her.

After what seemed like hours, Barbara rose and I flew behind her into another room where another group of women gave her clothing to try on. This process went on even longer than the first one, and I grew slightly bored. I must have given myself away. One of the younger women who had been searching through racks of clothing near the wall suddenly turned toward me, straightened up with a magazine in her hand, and slammed it against the wall. It clipped the edge of my wing. I was momentarily stunned, but reacted quickly to zoom away while she let loose a string of words and feelings that I had never heard before. I would hear them again.

Girl: “Goddamn fucking flies. I hate them. They’re everywhere in the summer. This whole place is full of flies and bugs. They should spray this place every goddamn day. They’ve taken over everything here, we need to get rid of every last one.”

I raced for the door, survival instincts kicking in, frightened that I would lose contact with Barbara and be lost in the maze of this huge building. I knew I could not go back to the costume room. Barbara left the room, telling the girl she needed a short break, and followed me out of the room. She pointed down the hallway and checked the corridor to make sure nobody was watching us.

Barbara: (whispering) “Cafeteria. Food that way.”

She retreated to the costume room, and I flew as directed.

I entered a large room, at the base of a stairway down the hall far from the clothing room, where food was being served buffet-style at one end of the room.

The big room was crowded with men and women, some in costume, some all made up, talking and gesturing, often repeating the same sentences. They called this “rehearsing.” They spoke in many different tones at different volumes. They were not whiny like the face painters and hair arrangers. Some of the speakers were forceful and convincing. Non-speakers buried their faces in loosely bound papers with large lettering, which they muttered over between bites of food. These were scripts, exactly like the ones Barbara read at home.

There was an abundance of uneaten food, and I helped myself at an abandoned table. I could have gorged myself all day long if I chose to, since most of the women paid no attention to their food and left far more on their plates than they ate. These women seemed abnormally thin, the skin of their necks, shoulder blades, collarbones, and arms stretched to the breaking point. I felt as though I did them a favor by eating their food.

There was one table, off by itself, composed of two youthful-looking men wearing tight clothing in abnormally bright colors and women in dark suits. Each person seemed bent on examining his or her food, but failed to eat most of it. There was much talk about food and things they called diets. I concluded diets must be the enemies of food, like magazines and newspapers are mine.

They bantered over what pills and supplements should be taken with the uneaten food. Nobody approached this table, which told me that they were a different caste within this larger group. One of the men wore shoulder-length blond hair, had delicate features, a sculpted jawline, and blue eyes, nearly as clear and piercing as Barbara’s. He was almost as pretty. The others, even when talking to one another, glanced at him constantly, although they didn’t want to be seen doing it. He was aware of the attention but seemed removed, even remote, while much of the conversation was directed at him.

Woman one: “Michael, are you playing golf with Tom today?” Michael nodded, his long blonde mane answering the question for him.

Woman two: “Are you playing at Lakeside?”

Michael: “No, we like the Trump course in Palos Verdes. When we finish, I can go down to my place in Laguna Beach.”

Woman three: “I just love Laguna, it’s so pretty. Are you in town or on the beach?”

Michael gave a half-smile and poked at his food without responding.

Woman one: “Golf takes so long to play, and you don’t get any cardio benefit from it.”

Woman two: “It’s great for business, though. Where else can you get an A-list movie star or director all to yourself for three hours without his agent or lawyer horning in?”

Man two: “Michael told me his best trick. He has the caddy assigned to his guest to go through his golf bag and clean his clubs before they play. He finds and turns the power off on the cell phone. Otherwise, it rings non-stop.”

Woman one: “Is that true Michael?”

Michael’s hair answered for him again.

Woman two: “Brilliant. The next time I take a guest to my place in Aspen, I’ll do the same thing.”

Woman three: “Are you in town or on the hill? I just love it there.”

I scratched the side of my eye with my back leg and thought, “Didn’t she just say that?”

Woman one: “I won’t be skiing this year. I’m shopping for a condo in St. Martin.”

Michael’s cell phone rang. He listened, hung up, and said, “No golf today. Tom has to meet with Steven. I think I’ll go down to Laguna and work out at my club instead.”

Woman two: “I’m up to an hour on the stair-master with hand weights and I lost three pounds this week alone.”

Everyone at the table nodded and in unison, they all pushed their food away.

Later, I learned that these people were called executives. I gathered from their conversation that executives were expected to play golf at least once a week at their private golf clubs, ski in distant locations in the winter, drive only foreign cars, shop for designer clothes in exclusive boutiques, acquire excessive amounts of jewelry, own second homes in exotic tropical locations, and workout religiously in private clubs.

Maybe, if I were living with flies, I could be like this guy called Michael. How would I feel if my fellow flies saw me as some kind of deity? I’d be pumped up, self-infatuated, and the center of attention at all times. I’d have to think about this kind of goal; there had to be some negatives.

The conversation all but came to a halt when Barbara entered the room in full makeup and costume. She drew the attention of everyone in the room and seemed to bathe in it. I wanted to beat my wings together by way of applause. Even the executives interrupted their conversation for a moment to stare at her. She strolled past the executive table, slowing down to give them just a glimpse of her creamy breasts, pushed up by her low-cut dress. Then she turned away to exhibit her tight backside encased in a clinging material that melted onto her skin like it was laminated to her body.

She never made eye contact with them or acknowledged them as anything more than an audience. Everyone at the table nodded appreciatively as she took her seat at a table with two other young women in costumes. She winked at me as she sat down.

Man two: “That girl is hot. Hotter than a stolen boyfriend.”

Woman one: “If I worked out every day for the next decade I could still not get into that dress.”

Woman two: “What show is she on this morning?”

Woman three: “She’s doing a guest turn on Y and R. I hear New York wants her to be a regular. She...