Saturday, January 4, 2020

Higher Society - an irreverent Angus and Deetz story





HIGHER SOCIETY
a fanfiction based on George Cukor’s The Philadelphia Story (1940) and the musical High Society (1956), both of which were based on the Broadway play, The Philadelphia Story (1939) by Philip Barry.  I don’t own the story, but I own the characters in this adaptation.
Here's a link to Spotify playlist of music matching the story: songs for the Higher Society
∞∞∞∞
Chapter One
It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday
And the manager gives me a smile
'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see
To forget about life for a while
And the piano, it sounds like a carnival
And the microphone smells like a beer
And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar
And say, "Man, what are you doin' here?"
-    “Piano Man”, as sung by Billy Joel
Present Day – New York, U.S.A.
Jack Spencer, reluctant up and coming celebrity reporter for TMI Online, dashed to a table at Nathan’s for a meeting with the tabloid’s editor-in-chief, Mars Lancroft, and Jack’s photographer/camera operator, LaTonya “Toni” Hoffman.  Jack was flustered and irritated he had to come in the first place.  He hated the whole celebrity gossip thing – was disgusted by computer-enhanced, second rate talents who complained about reporters hiding in the bushes all the while having assistants plant slander about their fellows in social media.  But he couldn’t avoid this assignment nor this job, at least for now.  Jack needed money to free himself of the constraints that came with living with the wrong body parts.   Female-to-male transitions weren’t cheap either, even with medical coverage.  Therapy, psychiatry, medications – Jack was in the hole with the constant costs.  His friends in the FTM trans support group said the hormones were “working” and he “passed” for a man as he developed a fairly full beard and moustache.  Jack accepted that there wasn’t much to be done by his Hobbit body frame.  Toni said he was cute, but he wanted more.  Jack wanted a functional cock.  Once things were right, he promised himself, all would be perfect.  Since he was a teen, Jack dreamed of being that man in a tailored, double-breasted Savile Row suit confidently walking to his office at the New York Times..   So, he shook off his disgust with a mental reminder.  “I’m playing for something more”, he whispered to himself as he put on his gratitude face and sat at the table.
“I was about to give up on you, Spencer!” bellowed Lancroft, who Jack’s mom used to say looked like B. T. Bauman’s at a 90s gay pride event.  “Now Toni, you'll take your camera stuff, of course. And Spencer well . . .  eh . . . you'll take your own special talents,” the latter oozing from the older man’s mouth like the remnants of explosive vomit.
Again, composing himself, Jack deescalated the initial tone of his question, “What’s the deal?”
“Lancroft wants us to cover the Reese wedding,” Toni replied.  She was a mashup between Lisa Bonet’s complexion with a Jewfroo and 1970s Pam Grier’s, smiled slightly at Jack as he sat down.  Although she had the well-deserved moniker of “Ice Princess”, anyone who was really paying attention would notice how her voice and gestures were just a little bit brighter when Jack was around. 
“In Wales?” Jack exclaimed.
“Ah don’t complain, Spencer!” waved off Lancroft as he inhaled a bit of cheesecake.  “After all, you’re Scots-Irish?  So, it’s all England, isn’t it?  What’s the difference?”
His mom was quite proud of their Westside Chicago, upper white trash heritage and taught him the same.  But this wasn’t the time to argue with a man so ignorant as to believe Donald Trump should have a statue and library next to the Lincoln Memorial.  “The family agreed?  Royal types are notoriously camera-shy.”
“It seems our leadership has convinced them of the error of their ways,” Toni responded. 
“Well if you can’t handle the scandal, don’t do the scandalous, I always say.” Lancroft showed that he could do two things at once – roll his eyes and gobble another slice of cheesecake.  “Is it our fault that some horny, titled 16-year old with a well-heeled and slightly older gentleman boyfriend got . . .  banged up, I think those English say?  Can I help it that granny’s a strumpet? Try explaining that pregnancy during Christmas dinner at Buckingham Palace?  And it’s not our fault said such information happened to arrive by snail mail to the office of this editor-n-chief.  I am simply helping our brethren out, giving the oft-maligned upper classes a chance to give the world their side of the story – show everyone that they are just like us.”  Altruism never smelled so bad.  “Listen, the bottom line is those folks want to keep things quiet and we need the money this story will bring in.  Ad sales are down with all this podcast shit.  Don’t make me order you two over there!”
Toni shrugged and gave Jack a what-else-can-we-do grin.  “When do we leave?” Jack asked.
Lancroft took out his phone and started tapping before his staff changed their minds.  “You fly out in 3 hours.  I’ll text you your tickets”.  After a few clicks, he added, “Your seats are already confirmed, and your equipment will be pre-boarded.  You just have to get yourselves to the airport.”
Jack picked up his phone to examine the e-ticket.  “You know Mars, your psychic powers always amaze me.  It’s like you can smell our acquiesce before we have even formulated an objection,” Jack replied.
Lancroft savoured his last piece of cake, letting it melt in his mouth before chewing.  His eyes closed and his face looked like an addict’s after the first hit of the morning.  When it was gone, Lancroft’s eyes locked with Jack.  Older man growled, “Don’t you know what it is the have a secret no one should hear?”  It wasn’t so much that Lancroft was transphobic.  He hated everyone just for existing.  But he offered quiet, casual torture with a splash of nosy to his underlings.  It was a shame the company’s human resource executive was sleeping with him.
“Yes,” said Jack, as he nearly tripped over his own bile.

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