A foxy tale: Episode 2

A collaborative serial by Jessica Perini
and Catherin J Pascal Dunk

Wait just a sec—did you miss Episode 1? Catch up first.

Dear Reader,

Rarely does a story turn so adroitly on one point as this story shall—but that fall; the beanie baby coming to rest in front of Brandon De Bras; that rose so finely poised in Marguerite Bagué’s pompadour—these things were destined to change the course of the universe as we know it.

Hyperbole? You decide.

De Bras stood suddenly, kicking the beanbag baby across the floor, and rocketed over
Javier’s slumped body.

When he had seen that rose stuck firmly in the journalist’s hair, and the woman’s barely
masked panic, he really could not help himself—he rose. He must fly to her aid!

Forgetting a decades-long feud between the two—based on his firm belief in limited media ownership, while Mx Bagué clearly stood for her right to write what she chose—De Bras rushed forward.

He had loved Bagué for as long as he could remember. Since Always.

As he dashed through the shocked crowds, all argument, all logic, all history of feuding between the two … all of that—for him at least—simply fell away.

Dear Reader—if only Marguerite had felt the same way!

*

Finally alone backstage, Jambeau Renard rubbed his twisted ankle, feeling distinctly
unfoxlike, despite the French meaning of his surname. Foxes were fleet of foot; graceful. Though he supposed that having four feet was a big advantage there.

Ugh. What folly was life! Next he ran a finger along his pearly whites, stopping at the chipped
one. As his mother had always said, ‘Pride comes before a fall’ … and then she’d usually add
something about Vanity. Sure, his looks had opened some doors along the way. What, was that a crime now?

Jam had no idea what he was even doing here anyway. One moment he’d been bouncing along
to a groovy reggae vibe in his favourite night hole—the next he’d woken up in a musty back room, surrounded by packages of white powder, with a strange man offering—nay demanding—to be his agent. The man’s chipcard identified him as ‘Javier Belarte, talent scout etc.’

Etcetera. Who would even put that on their card?

Belarte was an odd fish—that much was certain.

Despite all his misgivings, Jambeau had kept the card. Living on the streets for the
past six months had made him a lot less cautious. He’d seen all types of depravity. People stalked. Beaten. Stolen from.

He’d been down to his last Franc that day when he’d snuck into the nightclub, hopeful some dame would buy him a drink and a pity dinner. One hadn’t. Not that he could remember, anyway.

So the next morning, awakening once again surrounded by filth, he made a decision—he would call the number on the card of that strange old cod.

It seemed that all he had left was his pearly, pearly whites … and a knack for attracting eccentric older gentlemen.

Anyhow, what more merde could ricochet off the fan that hadn’t already flung right towards him?

… TO BE CONTINUED …

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Rose image from Pexels Free Photos.