Chapter 74: Up Down Funk

Chapter 74: Up Down Funk

Seoul Broadcasting System Prism Tower, Korea. June 2012.

I fucked a lot.

No sky-shattering revelation, I’m sure. Call it the lifestyle or the territory, it wasn’t only me that came with it–but certain consequences abound for those of us who got around.

It wasn’t always peaches and creampies. 

“I’m gonna need tiger balm, a masseuse, and throw in some WD-40 while you’re at it.” I was hunched over with a grown man on his belly splayed between my spread legs. Several cameras were trained on our compromising position; not the least of which was the lift CCTV in the corner. I hoped Fedex was monitoring me through one of those and made the arrangements according to my stated demands.

Gangnam style, doggy style, whatever. My cameo in Psy’s music video, for all it amounted to a quick shot, was taking absolute ages to climax. And consequently wreaking havoc on my hips.

An abrupt jolt from a knuckle accidentally knocking against the nerve on my ankle sent a fresh shockwave of pain across my already aching hind quarters. I grit my teeth and looked down at Psy, who mistook my tooth-bearing snarl for a stilted smirk. He used the same offending fist to toss out a reassuring thumbs-up. “Ready? Go!” 

I resisted every urge to hiss, tsk, chomp, or clench my teeth. Instead, schooling my features into a facsimile of a genuine smile to keep professional; then further distorted it into the wider dopey grin the scene called for. 

“Hrng!” Pushing my waist forward with a grunt, I stood up straight. A last bolstering thump on the sore spot above my rump later–I freed my arms, loosened my glutes, and prepared for what was hopefully the last take of this shoot. 

Underground garage service elevators weren’t spacious; narrow enough that I didn’t need my full wingspan to reach across and bridge both sides of the compartment walls. At the sound cue, I reflexively began my countdown with five hip thrusts. I fingered the ‘open’ button. Replacing traditional elevator music, “Gangnam Style” bleated out the speakers. And in lieu of a slate clacking, the doors slid open with a ding. 

As my reflection in the steel doors split apart, I mentally called action. 

Psy didn’t lipsync, he loudly vocalised every lyric in sequence with the backing track. Not one to be outdone in terms of commitment to craft, I refused to merely hump the air—I violated the very molecules that formed it. 

Gave a whole new bent to the phrase ‘atom smashing’. 

It was a ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ moment—barely a handful of seconds of singing and schwinging. After which, I inconspicuously poked the ‘close’ button, drawing the mechanical curtain call. 

The director yelled “cut!” as soon as the doors sealed shut. Psy scurried out from beneath me and exited the elevator to check the footage, while I went back to bending over like an octogenarian babushka. 

I had aged.

Despite the rapid pace of each individual take, filming for hours on hours since the morning felt like forever on my griping glutes. 

Immediately, a few young production assistants scampered over to me. A bottle of water was brought to my lips, a chilled towel draped around my neck, and the last aide ushered me away by my elbow. Nobody said a word to me. The three women just tittered among themselves in Korean as they abandoned me to a lonely foldable chair in an out-of-the-way corner.

Fedex swept in silently from behind a parking pillar and fiddled with my cold wrap. “I did not realise giving someone the cold shoulder had to be so literal.” 

Swerving my neck to give my spine relief, my eyesight bounced between Fedex and the crew. She seemed ready to rip to shreds. “Nah. Don’t blame ‘em too much. In their shoes, I wouldn’t wanna be seen with me right now, either.”

Ridiculous as Psy appeared in a tuxedo and sneakers, he wasn’t entirely out of place huddled among the regularly dressed production team. By virtue of being in the basement of one of Korea’s largest entertainment conglomerates, none of the office staff batted an eyelash as they encountered us during the course of conducting their usual work schedule. Rarely did even the pretty back-up dancers in glittering booty shorts garner anything surpassing a second surreptitious glance. Far too accustomed to sharing their cubicle space with, and in service of, the industry they were in. Celebrities, dramas, movies, music videos, reality shows, and everything fanciful in between was old hat to them, at this point. 

Until they spotted me in my cowboy cap wearing arse. 

Double, triple, quadruple—as many takes as we’d shot throughout the day were whipped in my direction. I couldn’t use the excuse that they were startled by the unexpected presence of a foreigner unexpectedly in their midst. They definitely recognised me. 

The wardrobe department had me gussied in the most garish fluorescent clothes. A bright green shirt with a penguin tail, polka dot board shorts, and sandals with socks. But even then, the most eye-catching aspect were my baby-greens behind the most obviously Potter-esque round frames they could find. 

Psy wanted to ensure unequivocally that the average viewer knew who he’d scored for his song. 

Though, at this moment, no one wanted to remotely associate with me out of sheer embarrassment. “Still, it is most discourteous to leave you so lonely, no?”

I shook my head in denial. “About the only solace I’ll receive is from anyone in a similar position. A pea in this pod of misery.” Pea being the operative word. I pointed at the second star also making a cameo, drowned ascot-to-socks in urine yellow. 

“Psy is keep you to himself!” Yoo Jae Seok, home-grown hero, and front man for Jay, Jenny, and mine’s fave K-variety show Running Man, ran over. “Fighting! He finally look happy with your part.

Now my turn to dancing.” Ah, yeah, I remembered that. From what I recall, Psy and YJS have an extended dance-battle. Which ultimately culminates in the yellow-coated version of Edna Mode in front of me, driving off in his red convertible. 

Incredibly jealous of the missed opportunity, I didn’t just shake his hand as I stood up; I waltzed him “O—oh—ooh!” into a picture perfect princess twirl. 

“Too bad. I had plenty more fuel in the tank.” I didn’t. “Would’ve been cool if you and I were on screen together.” 

He teetered for balance and stumbled on his toes as the three-sixty finished. “Y—yes! So sorry, but Psy not allow because he already have his plan.” Which was true. As chaotic as the final product ended up being, the shot-for-shot creation of the music video was surprisingly meticulous. I hadn’t the opportunity to pull-off my usual shenanigans—nor did I want to, for fear of inadvertently uncorking lightning about to be caught in a bottle. “But if you want, please feature on my show! Come to Running Man!” 

Adopting more old man habits, I contemplatively rubbed my chin. “Hmm. Not gonna say no to that; beats generic everyday interviews, any day. You sure you can make that call here and now, though?”

“No problem!” Excited at my immediate acceptance, he did the wave, and passed it down our adjoined grip. “Studio head my good friend. We can go meet after filming finish.”

Obviously, I took, shook it, and completed the wiggle to seal our deal. “On one condition. No changing our clothes!”

If I was to be avoided, may as well take advantage and not get waylaid. Time is always at a premium. If I finagle it right, I’m sure I’ll negotiate for more variety than Running Man on my roster. 

–

En Route to London, International Airspace. July 2012.

Bas fucked around a lot.

Fedex—Federica Alexie—knew this with the utmost confidence. And approaching her fourth anniversary as Bas Rhy’s accomplice, it was a notion she was deeply grateful for.

A consigliera was the preeminent partner-in-crime. Therefore, without said crime being committed, she held no purpose. 

Four years on, yet without a day of respite. 

Trouble, temptation, and tumult stuck to her capo dei capi like toffee. Until today… and it terrified her. “He has been quiet this month.” 

Fed nudged Anita with her foot, but her gaze remained pinned on Bas. She was distinctly aware of the unnerving effect her unblinking stare had on most people. Somehow, though, he was beating her in a staring contest without being cognizant of it. Her eyes burnt as she scrutinised him for the tiniest twitch towards the parachutes, or the pair of legs stewarding their flight.

Nada.

“Yeah, I noticed.” Anita pulled her focus from the pile of contracts in front of her and pored over the person they referred to. “What’s his angle? He hiding something?”

“I…” The only racket in Bas’ protection was the one she used to swat the flies buzzing around him. From petty floozies and famous perverts attempting to trap him at parties. To reflexive ripostes of attacks from evil entertainers and execs, alike. 

The paparazzi, too. But that was more reflective of Bas’ self-destructive tendencies than anyone else’s reprehensible behaviour. 

Sex scandals, silent affairs, and self-inflicted injuries most of all. Through pleasure, pining, or pain—regardless of circumstance, he would insist he was fine with a laugh on his lips. Whether meaningful, malicious, or masochistic; always a smile. 

He had infected her. 

The misused muscles of her mouth curved up at the memories. Which immediately down-turned as she witnessed her own patented stoicism polluting the one face that sort of expression did not belong on. 

Federica considered herself kevlar when Bas’ body needed guarding, or a shovel when other bodies needed burying. 

Never useless before now. “I do not know. He has been strangely subdued since we left Seoul.”

“Huh. That is odd. Especially ‘cuz he pulled a massive streaming contract out of his butt via BASNIZ for Netflix. Well, he’s forever marched to his beat. Seldom, though, to doldrums.” 

“Don Stephania may have known how to handle his mood.” 

“Yeah, probably,” Anita scooched off her seat and beckoned Fed to follow with a commanding crook of her finger. “But we’re who he’s got, and he’s never complained about that before. C’mon!”

Bas kept his head leaned on the portal window. Only his pupils darted to acknowledge their arrival. “Head in the clouds, much?” He just huffed an amused puff out of his nose at Anita’s quip. 

“Mhm. My ego needs the altitude. So, way up there, for sure. A little too high, if you ask me.” 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Anita had caught on to that last slip just as quickly as Fed had.

“… Nothing.” He couldn’t hide the grimace that flashed across his face as he tried to turn away from their inquisition.

“I shall be the judge of that.” Jury and executioner too, if necessary. Her protective instinct begged her to push the issue. But she knew Bas better.

He was an evasive creature. Too much ear-pinching or arm-twisting, and they would again gain nothing from him. Besides, of course, the full force of his charm fobbing them off with false reassurances. Miniscule as his tells were, already Fedex could see his teeth grit and fist clench. 

An intolerable reaction, and an unacceptable outcome. 

Fedex refused to let his melancholy lie, because before long he would mask it behind layers of machismo. Anita was right. Their trio (Bas himself included) were all he presently had of his full circle. Something else Anita had said earlier also struck Fed; perhaps a change in tack on to reshape an impending argument into an honest discussion. “Stop being so obtuse, it is not acute look for you.” 

She struggled to keep her composure throughout her deadpan delivery. The other two weren’t so successful.

Anita side-eyed her with constipated confusion. 

While, Bas? He involuntarily snorted. When his brow retreated from his hairline again, and his arms dropped to his stomach; what began as a lazy chuckle, rapidly devolved into a full-blown gut-busting cackle at her spur of insanity.

Tears collected at the edge of his ducts. A sensation Fedex herself could relate to–only the heat blushing across her skin evaporated any evidence. 

Anita crossed her arms and harrumphed. “Calmed down, yet?” 

“Totally.” The quiet shocks of laughter still juddering out of Bas occasionally claimed otherwise. 

“Then, care to share with the class why you’re being such a moody bitch?”

“How can I not after that stand-up performance, eh, Fed? Chill, yeah? It’s not like I’m dying, or anything.” Bas shouldn’t be so certain—Fedex was about ready to wring his neck. “I dunno—It’s just—Look…” He steadied himself with a breath. “Guess I’m just wallowing a bit. I’ve come to the realisation that it doesn’t always matter how much backbreaking effort I put into the things I do, most anyone cares about is what’s on the surface. Korea really showed me that, and with Thor on the horizon, it’s just more distracting outfits, you know? A trophy on a pedestal, or a spectacle kept afar.”

“Sucks. Just how things are at your level of accomplishment, Bas. ‘It’s lonely at the top’ is an old adage for a reason.”

“Rings true.” And hollow, by his tone. 

“Does it?” Fedex did not agree with their assessment. “Outsiders may not, but rest assured, we are always watching. Also, are you not a rather shady individual? Your actions in the shadows become easier when fools focus on distractions, no?”

“Ha! Calling me shifty? Can’t deny I like making the best of a bad situation, though.” Whatever warmth banded across Fedex’s face fled to her fingers when Bas gently clasped them in his own. “Not that my situation is bad, by any means.”

Fedex wanted to abandon him at the sheer embarrassment of it. 

However, Bas wouldn’t let either of them go, no matter how much they tried wiggling out of his grip.