The Cave of Sorrow

[Veritas]

Criss Angel, famous magician, escape artist and Las Vegas' most notorious daredevil, reveled in the adulation his fans, the Loyal as they called themselves, gave him, taking time from his busy schedule to sign autographs, pose for pictures, and perform impromtu magic tricks on the street or in the lobby of the Luxor Hotel and Resort for their amusement. They, in turn, proclaimed their undying love of him through art, whether it was on paper, clothing or skin, or in writing, both in print and electronic; cyberspace was zooming with photos of him taken by those lucky enough to possess one. His live shows were sold out for months at a time, and every new episode of his television series, MindFreak, was eagerly anticipated. Many who saw his escapes, "denomstrations" he called them, considered him Houdini reincarnated.

Even his detractors had to admit he had a certain allure that was incomprehensible to them. Despite every effort to discredit him, his popularity never seemed to grow less. Of course, there were those right-wing extremists who blackened his name with accusations of witchcraft and devil-worship, even going so far as to call him the Anti-Christ himself, but they were few compared to those hundreds of ordinary people who had actually seen Criss Angel on television, on stage, or in person on the street. Wherever he appeared, performing everything from a simple card trick to a death-defying escape, more and more people were convinced beyond all unconvincing that Criss Angel could work miracles. Those lucky enough to actually meet him found not a devil but a friendly, affable man who spoke with a New York dialect backed by a mischevious sense of humor.

The Loyals loved Criss Angel, and he loved them in return, grateful for their devotion through good times and bad. When his mother fell ill with a heart ailment, the Loyals prayed for her recovery. When his divorce proceedings became public, they stood by him without question. His triumphs were their triumphs; his pain, theirs. And all they asked for in return was a few moments of his precious time to touch him, speak with him just to hear his voice, and for a small souvenir of their encounter to treasure forever. Despite his busy schedule, he did his best to oblige them. He knew that they were the reason for his fame and fortune; without them, he was just another card-shuffling conjuror from Long Island.

But there were times when Criss needed to withdraw from his worshipful fans and be alone with his thoughts. The Presidential suite at the top of the Luxor was supposed to be his own private sanctuary, but when overeager Loyals started camping out at the front doors, he was forced to move to a different one in the side buildings. But even that failed to give him the solitude he sought; living in a hotel, even one as luxurious as the Luxor, had its disavantages: guests came and went, which meant he was spotted in the corridors coming and going from his rooms. Many times he felt like a bird in a gilded cage, unable to be alone in public. To achieve fame for his art, he had sacrificed his privacy.

In desperation, he would ride one of his custom motorcycles into the Nevada desert, feeling the wind on his face as he sped down isolated roads and highways. It felt good to ride; the sheer exhilaration of escaping the pressures of his career thrilled him to the core. Sometimes he veered from the road and raced his bike through the desert itself, churning up clouds of dust as if creating a smoke screen to discourage the world with all its problems from following him. No ringing phones, no one badgering him for an autograph or a card trick, just himself and the elements. In the desert, he could be human again.

On one such excursion, Criss was tearing through the desert toward a large mesa when he stopped before the mouth of a small cave, just big enough to crawl through. Curious, he shut off the engine of his motorcycle, pulled off his goggles, dismounted, and walked over to look inside. The midafternoon sun did little to illuminate the interior of the cave, so he went back to his bike, took out a small emergency flashlight from his saddlebag, and returned to his exploring, scanning the dark cavern with the tiny beam of the flashlight for anything of interest.

No treasure, no bones, nothing but rocky walls and empty space. The interior seemed larger than the entrance, so Criss crawled inside, still scanning the walls with his little flashlight. There was just enough room to kneel in or sit down, but not to stand; Criss had to remain on his hands and knees, keeping his feet close to the mouth of the cave so as not to get lost or disoriented. He kept his crash helmet on to protect his head from bumps and scrapes from the rocky ceiling above. The air was hot and stale, making him sweat. All the while he fought off feelings of claustrophobia, reminding himself that the exit was right behind him.

He was about to give up and back out of the cave when something on the far wall caught his eye. He drew his flashlight up to it. There, in the back of the cave was a man-made carving of some sort. His claustrophobia forgotten for the moment, Criss examined it carefully. From what he could make out, it was a disc with wavy lines eminating from it, presumably representing the sun. Humanoid stick figures lined up below it, poised in supplication to it. Below the carving was a shelf about a foot wide chiseled out of the rock; it was too symmetrical to be a natural formation, he observed. He ran his fingers along the rock-shelf, feeling the smoothness of its surface. When he withdrew his hand he saw it was sooty and black. Was it some sort of altar where they offered burnt sacrifices to the sun god? Probably. Criss knew animal sacrifices were pretty common in ancient times. Cruel, yes, but common.

Criss wiped his hand on his fashionably frayed jeans and retreated from the cave by crawling out backwards. The hot desert air was refreshing compared to the stifilng atmosphere inside; he breathed deeply, glad to be out in the open again. Still, it had been a thrilling discovery: he wondered if he was the first to find this little cave, or had some other explorer been there before him. He hoped for the former--that would be so cool! Imagine, he, Criss Angel, famous illusionist, making such a historical discovery! The press would have a field day--

His thoughts of fame and glory came to a crashing halt, replaced by fear and wonder. Before him stood an ancient Indian (though they weren't called Indians any more, they were Native Americans) in a finely tanned buffalo hide robe painted with arcane symbols. He wore no feathered headdress like in the movies, but his long white hair was braided with small bone talismens. An agate set in a finely worked silver amulet hung from his scrawny neck, and he carried with him a carved wooden staff with brown feathers dangling from the top. He wore a grave expression on his withered face, and his dark eyes were fixed squarely on Criss, who could only stand there, dumbfounded. Was it a man, he wondered, or a ghost? "Wh-who are you?" he stammered.

"How have you offended?" he spoke in a sepulchral tone.

Criss was as bewildered as he was frightened. "Huh?" was all he could get out.

"How have you offended?" the buffalo-robed figure repeated.

"I-I don't understand," Criss stammered. "Who are you, anyway?"

The white-haired native pointed to the small cave with his feathered staff. "You entered the Cave of Sorrow," he explained in the same eerie voice. "How have you offended?"

The Cave of Sorrow? What the hell is that? he wondered silently. And why did this creepy guy keep asking him how he had offended? Maybe he had been trespassing on sacred ground when he went in? Yeah, maybe that was it. The guy was (bleeped) off about him going into his sacred cave. Criss pulled himself together and said, "Look, I'm sorry if I desecrated your sacred Cave of Sorrow or whatever you call it, but I was, well, I was just curious to see what was inside. I really meant no harm."

The old native remained expressionless. "You have not offended me," he intoned.

Criss exhaled deeply. "Well, that's a relief," he mumbled under his breath.

"And you know nothing about the Cave of Sorrow," the old native continued.

"No," Criss admitted, shaking his head. "Nothing. This is the first time I've been here."

The native stepped forward. "I am Medicine Man," he said, his face expressionless as ever. "In life, I was shaman to my tribe, called upon to heal, to read signs and omens, and to guide youth to adulthood. I alone contacted the spirit world for the benefit of my people. I also judged guilt or innocence to those who offended the customs of our tribe. Now, I have become the guardian spirit, the avatar of the Cave of Sorrow. For many, many moons I have watched over it, to guide those who have offended to atonement."

Again, he pointed to the cave with his staff. "The Cave of Sorrow is for those who have offended to retreat and think upon their actions. Some go in of their own free will, others are commanded to do so. They go in, fast, and think of how they had offended, and how to make amends."

"How long do they stay in there?" Criss asked.

"As long as it is necessary to atone for their wrongdoing," Medicine Man replied. "Sometimes it is a day, sometimes several days, sometimes a full circle of the moon. But all who go in leave an offering to the Sun God when they are ready to return to the tribe and make amends.

Well, that explains the soot on the altar, Criss thought. "What do they offer to the Sun God?"

"Whatever they think is pleasing to him: corn, meat, beads, or anything of value that would serve as a sacrifice of atonement."

"Oh, I see," Criss mumbled, nodding his head.

"And now you know the purpose of the Cave of Sorrow."

"Yes, now I know, and I am sorry to have trespassed upon such a sacred site," Criss apologized. "I promise not to come here again."

"The Cave of Sorrow is for all who have offended," Medicine Man told him. "If you have offended, you must come here, fast, and think upon your wrongdoing. The Sun God shines upon good and evil alike. Do not fear it. It is there for your benefit."

"Amen to that," Criss muttered under his breath. "Uh, well, it's been nice talking to you," he said to the shaman nervously, "but I got to get going now. Thanks for the history lesson. Later."

With that, he jumped onto his bike and jammed the kick-starter harder than he needed to. The motorcycle roared into life. Before he turned around to ride back home, he lifted his eyes toward the spot where Medicine Man was standing. The trouble was, that spot was empty.

[Smurf]

love it :) great chapters , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

This is one story that I loved to read Vertias

[Veritas]

As Criss sped back to the Luxor Hotel on his motorcycle, his shaken mind swirled with unanswerable questions about what he had seen, or thought he had seen, in the desert. Who was the Medicine Man? he kept asking himself. What was he? Was he/it a ghost or simply a delusion caused by the desert heat? Had he imagined the whole thing? No, that couldn't be right: as creative and talented as he was, he couldn't create a separate being out of thin air. Had he stepped through some time-portal, breached some barrier between time and space when he entered into the Cave of Sorrow? Again, no--that was delving into the realm of science fiction. Was it simply a ghost? Criss did believe in an afterlife, but he considered himself intelligent enough to know that ghosts did not exist. Indeed, he had exposed many of the tricks fraudulent mediums used to con innocent people who wished to contact their deceased loved ones out of hundreds of dollars by staging fake seances.

A fake. What if the Medicine Man had been a real person all along? What if he was the one who was delusional instead of himself? What if this Medicine Man guy was simply some crazy old dude who lived alone in the desert pretending to be a Native spirit? It was perfectly plausible--living alone in the desert did strange things to people.

The thought comforted Criss as he rode on. No doubt the isolation had driven the old man to the point of madness, confusing ancient Native lore with reality until he believed himself to be the "avatar" of the Cave of Sorrow, he theorized. The bone talismens, the feathered staff, the leather robe with the painted symbols--all props to stage his illusion. He didn't act crazy, but people who lived in a fantasy world often behaved as if they were sane.

But how could he explain the Medicine Man's sudden disappearance right after he got on his bike? Well, hey, the guy was an illusionist like himself. Hadn't he himself pulled disappearing acts in the street countless times before? With skill and timing, anyone could make himself seemingly vanish into thin air. If he was an illusionist, he was a very good one, Criss conceded.

He sped down the highway. The apex of the giant black pyramid that was the hub of the Luxor Hotel and Resort came into view over the horizon. Nothing had changed as far as he could see, thus eliminatng the time-portal theory he had created earlier. No ghosts, no spirits, nothing but a crazy old Native living alone in the desert keeping watch over a small hole in a rocky mesa with an ancient carving on the wall. Criss decided to forget the whole Medicine Man incident and get on with his life, crazy as it was in itself. He had more to worry about than avatars and ancient caves; he had a demonstration to plan, one that would be bigger than the hotel demolition in Florida, and he couldn't wait to spring it on his crew.





Meanwhile, at the Luxor, life went on as usual. Guests passed through the glass doors leading to the largest atrium in the world, luggage in hand or wheeled in on shiny brass carts by bell attendants, ready to try their luck in the casinos, be pampered in the spa, party in the clubs, shop in the boutiques, dine in the restaraunts, enjoy the live shows, or just relax and be waited on hand and foot by the staff. And the staff made doubly sure every guest who arrived received the best the Luxor offered. Las Vegas was not just built on money, but fantasy and illusion, where the average Joe or Jane could be treated like royalty, surrounded by wealth and luxury, if only for a weekend. When people passed through the glass portal into the black glass pyramid with the blindingly bright apex shining straight through the stratosphere, they left the troubled economy and all the other problems of the world outside like a stray mongrel.

Two such average Janes, a pair of sisters surnamed Honi, entered the atrium that bright sunny Friday morning, their luggage piled onto a brass luggage cart being pushed by an exhausted bell attendant. No, that's not quite right: the elder sister, Bianca, a buxom, fashionably dressed, peroxide blonde who carried herself with a haughty air considered herself far above average. The pile of luggage on the cart was her own, proof of her superiority. She never traveled lightly, even for a two-night stay in a hotel; Heaven forbid she should be without the proper outfit whenever the occasion called for it. Bianca took a perverse pleasure in ordering the poor bell attendant where to move the luggage cart, and for God's sake to be careful with her precious pile of suitcases, garment bags and overnighters. Here, in the Luxor, she was queen of the realm and made sure everyone knew it.

The other sister, Angela, a reed-thin figure in a plain green summer shift that had been fashionable back in the Sixties, followed her arrogant sibling timidly, hiding behind the luggage rack for safety's sake. Her dirty blonde hair, thin as her limbs, hung down from her head like a threadbare curtain concealing the fear and lonliness in her large blue eyes. Her luggage consisted of a single overnight bag, her canvas school satchel and her worn-out purse slung over her bony arm. At twenty-eight, the burden of living with an overbearing sister showed clearly in the sad expression permanantly creased into her thin face.

She did not want to be here at the Luxor; she preferred the privacy of her tiny bedroom back at the house their deceased parents had left them, grading papers and working on her lesson plans for the first-grade class she taught at Applewood Elementary School, or volunteering at the local homeless shelter where she taught literacy classes in the evening three times a week.

She was here because Bianca had won an all-expenses-paid stay for two at any of the top hotels in Vegas through some drawing she had entered so long ago she had forgotten about it, and had been dragged along simply because Bianca could not find anyone to share it with her (her latest boyfriend had broken up with her because he was unable to stand her any longer, and she had no friends to speak of), since the rules clearly stated that the prize was valid for two people for two nights only, and so Angela was drafted by default with warnings to stay out of the way. Reluctantly, Angela agreed, if only to avoid her sister's wrath, though she would have considered a weekend without Bianca around the house a better vacation than staying with her in a luxury hotel.

Bianca, however, yearned for the high life, squandering her trust fund on shopping sprees, spas, cruises and luxury hotels just so she could be indulge in the life to which she felt entitled. To her, poor Angela was at best a maid-of-all-work, performing all the household chores so she could be free to go shopping or spend weekends at one of the many luxury hotels Las Vegas had to offer. At worst, Angela was a useless burden intruding into Bianca's perfect world when she was three years old, usurping her place as Daddy's little princess and Mommy's little angel. Bitter and resentful, Bianca did her level best to make her baby sister's life a living hell from the first day her mother brought her home from the maternity hospital: crushing her spirit, pointing the finger of blame upon her for every crime committed, and belittling her achievements, all the while hiding behind a mask of perfect innocence.

Bianca manipulated and bullied everyone around her to get what she wanted: her parents, her grandparents, her schoolmates, and especially her younger sister who was too gullible, too trusting and too frightened to resist. Times without number Angela had her allowance extorted, her toys stolen or destroyed (or both), and the intimate details of her life, few though they were, broadcast to the world at large--unless, of course, Angela paid Bianca hush money to preserve them.

Now, there they were, in the lobby of one of Las Vegas' premiere hotels, preparing for a weekend stay in one of its poshest suites. Bianca swept up to the front desk, flashed the postcard she had received from the contest to the receptionist and loftily demanded the keys to her suite, which she received without delay or tantrum on her part. Angela, left behind with the luggage, stared at the patterned carpet, her misery unabated by the sights and sounds of the Luxor. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be anywhere but in the safety of her little bedroom, working on her lesson plan for the week, away from Bianca's screaming voice and overbearing manner. She could only hope that Bianca would spend more time at the spa than in the suite; only then could she have some peace and quiet.

The luggage cart was wheeled onto the elevator, or inclinator, as they were called in the pyramidal structure of the Luxor. Due to the sloping shape of the walls, they traveled on an inclined plane instead of vertically like normal elevators. Bianca, Angela and the bell attendant rode up to their suite in silence. Once the doors slid open, the attendant wheeled the cart to the designated suite, slid the master keycard into the slot, and entered. Bianca sailed in behind and surveyed the elegant suite with an extremely critical eye, then turned to the bell attendant. "Is this the best you got?" she asked contemptuously.

"Yes, ma'am," the attendant replied politely as he unloaded his cart. "This is the Nefertiti Suite, one of the best in the hotel."

Bianca made another visual sweep of the room. "It'll have to do," she sighed. "It's only for the weekend after all."

She turned to Angela. "Tip the man, will you?" she ordered.

Angela reached into her purse and gave the attendant a ten-dollar bill. "Thank you for your assistance," she said quietly. "We appreciate your help."

The sincerity of her gratitude did not compensate for the measly tip the attendant received. He took it with a scowl and departed with his empty cart. Angela felt guilty over offending the man, but what could she do? It was the largest bill she had in her purse. With a deep sigh she went into the nearest bedroom and laid her overnight bag on the king-sized bed to unpack. Bianca immediately flew into a rage. "That's my room, Angela!" she snapped. "Yours is over there."

She pointed to the smaller of the two bedrooms of the suite. Chastened, Angela picked up her bag and went into her room. At least she had a room with a bed, she thought gratefully; she feared she would have to sleep on the floor or something. She laid her overnighter and school satchel on the bed and sat down, too tired to unpack and too anxious to do anything else. Meanwhile, Bianca busied herself unpacking her extensive wardrobe and storing it in every available storage space in the suite. From her bedroom, Angela could hear her humming happily to herself as she hung up her dresses, suits, blouses and slacks and stored her intimate apparel in the dresser drawers. You'd think she was moving in instead of staying for a single weekend, she said to herself.

Suddenly, the happy humming stopped. "Angela?" Bianca called out sharply. "Angela!"

Angela started. From the angry tone of her sister's voice, she knew that whatever her latest transgression had been, it was already unforgivable. She rose on shaking legs to answer the summons. Maybe she could mitigate the damage somehow. Maybe.

"Yes, Bianca?" she said timidly.

"Angela," Bianca said with forced calm. "Where is my blue suit?"

"Wh-which blue suit?" Angela stammered.

"What do you mean 'which blue suit'? The one you were supposed to pick up at the dry cleaner's on your way home yesterday, that blue suit!"

Suddenly, Angela recalled the blue dress suit Bianca had ordered her to pick up from the cleaner's on her way home from school, and with a sinking heart realized she had forgotten all about it. "I-I'm sorry, Bianca," she quavered. "I-I-I guess I forgot--"

Bianca's face reddened. "You forgot?!" she raged.

Angela stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed with fear. "I told you twice to pick up my suit and you forgot!?" Bianca shrieked. "Of all the stupid, incompetant, idiotic--"

"I'm sorry, Bianca," Angela repeated, more pitieously this time. "I just--"

She was cut off by a sharp backhanded slap to the face that sent her reeling to the floor. "Don't give me any excuses!" Bianca growled. " Now I have to ruin my vacation by going to pick it up myself, since you're too stupid to do it! It's lucky for you the dry cleaner's not too far from here!"

She grabbed her purse and made for the door. "Do something right for a change and put my things away while I'm gone!" she ordered. "And make sure nothing gets wrinkled! I'll be back later!"

Bianca stormed out the door, slamming it behind her. Angela still lay on the floor, her brain still spinning from the blow she received. When all was quiet again, she burst into sobs.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) i really don't like Angela sister , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

Someone get Angela a back bone please

[Veritas]

"It's gonna be awesome, guys!" Criss said enthusiastically to his production crew at the afternoon planning meeting. "It's gonna be bigger than anything I've ever done!"

Criss' brothers, JD and Costa, leaned toward each other. "Translation," JD murmured. "It's gonna be suicidal."

Costa nodded in agreement. "Is the insurance paid up?" he asked.

JD only made a little shrug and turned his attention back to Criss, who was outlining the details of his new demonstration. "I found this old abandoned mine, see, and what I'm gonna do is race through the whole length of it, chained and handcuffed, in a mine car right down the track before the whole thing caves in."

"Told you," JD murmured again to Costa.

"Of course we can't blow it up completely," Criss added.

Costa leaned to JD. "Well, that's a relief," he whispered.

"The mine itself is probably a historical site or something," Criss went on, "so, we're gonna have to rig up some rocks and set them off to cause a cave-in. So, whaddya think, guys?" He waited expectantly for a positive response, but received only stony silence.

JD stared straight at Criss, his expression grim. "I think you're nuts," he commented.

"Besides that, I mean," Criss retorted.

JD rose to his feet. "Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked.

Criss was bewildered. "Forgetting what?"

"The promise you made to Mom back in Florida, that's what!" JD shot back.

Criss stood there dumbly, trying to recollect whatever he had promised his mother in Florida but not daring to say anything for fear of looking ridiculous. Exasperated, JD stepped forward and faced him down. "You promised Mom that, after that hotel implosion escape, you would not do any more life-threatening demonstrations!" he reminded him. "And now, here you are planning to escape from a mine shaft that's gonna blow up with you inside! What the hell is the matter with you, Christopher? Don't you care about Mom's feelings?"

"Of course I care about Mom's feelings!" Criss shot back defensively. "I care about Mom, period! But this isn't like the hotel demonstration. I'll be outta there before it caves in, I guarantee it. You know me--I always have a backup plan. Everything's gonna work out just fine, I promise. Besides, Mom doesn't have to know about it, does she?"

JD remained unconvinced. "She has ways of finding out, little brother," he told him. "She's a mom, remember? And when she gets wind of what you're up to, she's gonna be pretty upset about it."

"So, we keep a lid on it until the day of the demonstration," Criss said. "That way, we spare her feelings, and she won't worry so much."

"She's still gonna worry, Christopher, and I don't like deceiving her this way. If she finds out you lied to her, she's gonna be really (bleeped) off at you."

"We're not lying, JD, we're just...sparing her feelings about this" Criss said. "Now, are you guys with me on this or not?"

JD looked at Costa, then around the room at the rest of the crew. "Can you give us time to think about it, at least?" he requested.

Criss considered it. "Well, okay," he aquiesed. "Think about it, sleep on it, then we'll go on from there tomorrow morning."

For the first time during the meeting, JD smiled. "Fine," he said, "we'll let you know first thing in the morning."

The two brothers shook hands. "Well, if that's all we got, then I guess the meeting's over," Criss said genially. "Everyone can go now, but be here first thing tomorrow morning, same time, same place, same channel."

The crew rose to leave. Costa swept up to JD's side and walked out the door with him to the elevator bank. "What was that all about?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

JD held up a placating hand. "Don't sweat it, Cos," he muttered. "I'm just buying some time, that's all."

"Time for what?"

The elevator door opened, and the two brothers stepped inside. JD leaned closer to Costa. "Look, I got a plan to keep Christopher from doing this whole crazy mine shaft stunt, but I need your help."

Costa grinned. "You can count on me."

"Now, here's what we do..." JD began

The elevator door slid shut, concealing the pair inside and cutting off their conversation to the outside world.



Angela Honi examined her thin face in the bathroom mirror, searching for bruises or broken bones where Bianca had struck her. No damage that she could see, only a red splotch where Bianca's hand had landed. It would clear up in a few hours, she told herself. If only she had remembered to pick up that blue suit from the dry cleaners, she admonished herself. Then none of this would have happened.

Her blue eyes were reddened and swollen from weeping. She was always weeping, it seemed to her, and Bianca was always the cause. She was the bully, the tormentor, the blackmailer, the inquisitor, the source of all sorrow and fear. She knew Angela's weaknesses and exploited them at every turn: sellling her diary to her schoolmates, making her an object of scorn and riducule during her school days; extorting what little money came her way, whether it be allowance, gift money, or earnings (Angela had set up a separate savings fund to keep some of her teacher's salary away from Bianca's greedy hands); making her a scapegoat for everything that went wrong, even when she was nowhere near the scene of the crime; manipulating their parents into getting what she wanted; ridiculing her interests; even destroying her cherished pink and white teddy bear, a crime Angela vividly recalled to this day. Bianca symbolized everything that was evil in Angela's life, the wicked witch who blighted what should have been a happy childhood.

Now, as Angela approached her thirtieth birthday, Bianca was targeting her trust fund. Having nearly depleted her own with her extravagant living, she sought to claim her sister's as well. But Angela needed that trust fund more than her sister did: with it, she could pay off her student loans, set up a small retirement fund, and maybe get a place of her own, away from her overbearing sibling. So far she had been able to resist, but how long would she last? Bianca could not kill her, of course; according to the terms of the fund, if murder was confirmed, the fund would go to charity instead of the next-of-kin. Mr. Strang, Father's banker friend and trustee of the fund, was her only defense against Bianca's avaricious ambitions. He alone guarded the money due to her, and he alone knew the laws governing it. He would not let Bianca get hold of that money no matter how hard she tried. It was Angela's only hope for a better life.

Angela left the bathroom and walked slowly into the small bedroom. It was not as sumptuous as Bianca's, but she didn't care. She had a room to herself, with a bed to sleep in--that, in itself, was a blessing. She picked up her school satchel, sat down on the bed, and pulled out her lesson plan notes. Maybe she could get some work done; it would take her mind off her troubles. It usually did.

She noticed how quiet it was in the suite. That, too, was gratifying; there was no noise from Bianca's hours-long phone conversations, or the television turned up so loud it was unbearable, or the neighbor's dog barking incessantly at everything that moved, or other such distractions she endured at the house. Maybe with Bianca out indulging in all the hotel's amenities, she could enjoy a bit of peace and quiet enough to get caught up on her lesson plans. That way, it wouldn't be a total waste of time here at the Luxor.

Angela's greatest if not her only pleasure in life was her work. She loved children, but especially the younger ones--fresh, bright, eager young minds that had not been dulled by the routine of the school system. Their innocence amused and delighted her, their inquisitiveness thrilled her. Granted, a classroom of six- and seven-year-olds could be trying at times, but the rewards compensated for the frustration of keeping order. The smile of delight on a little girl's face after adding three plus five by herself, the sense of accomplishment in a boy who had just mastered reading a difficult word, the gift of a bouquet of bright yellow dandelions in the spring, all made her life worthwhile. In the classroom, Angela could put Bianca's torments out of her mind and lose herself in the wonders of a child's world, a world that her sister had darkened with her presence when she was a child herself.

Now, in the opulent isolation of the hotel suite, Angela wished she could be with her young students again. Unfortunatly, school was closed this particular Friday due to some administrative function. Worse, she was stuck with Bianca for the next three days in this gilded cage, subject to endless abuse and derision until Sunday night when the free weekend getaway was over and they went back to the house (for some reason, Angela never referred to it as home, just "the house"), and life went back to normal, if being ordered about and screamed at could be considered normal.

She set aside her depressing thoughts and returned to her lesson plans, salving her pain and humiliation with work. The plans were due Monday at the latest, and she wanted them to be perfect. Maybe Bianca would be gone long enough for her to finish them. Maybe.





While Angela Honi struggled with her lesson plans and the misery of her life with her sister, Bianca, Criss was going over his plans for his mine-shaft demonstration. Using the mine itself presented no problem; there had been no word about it being of any historical interest. Indeed, the Nevada State Historical Society had never even heard of that particular mine before. The whole area was riddled with abandoned mines, they had told him, but most had yielded nothing but poverty and heartache for the miners who had worked them. A few, a very few, had contained any gold or silver ore, and tiny amounts of it at that. For Criss, that meant he could trigger as big a cave-in as he wanted, provided he had the proper permits.

With that obstacle out of the way, the next step would be the actual set-up of the demonstration itself. He would have to go to the mine, take measurements, calculate the time he needed to get in and out of the shaft, get a mine car if he couldn't find one in the mine itself, mark the places to insert the charges to cause the cave-in, and, of course, figure out where to place the cameras for the best angles. It would be weeks if not months for him to get everything the way he wanted it. Few people realized the time and effort it took for Criss to perform his demonstrations, especially on a grand scale as this one. Six months to a year of planning, arranging and rehersing equaled one five-minute demonstration shown on TV. In the end, however, it was worth it.

Criss resented his brothers' reluctance to see his art the way he did. While he grudgingly appreciated their concern for his welfare, he wished they could see the grand scheme of things when it came to his demonstration. True, sometimes things did go wrong, such as that stunt where he tried to catch a carpenter's nail shot from a pneumatic nail gun and ended up in the ER, or the prison van he had leapt out from and landed wrong, injuring his neck, or the aquarium escape where he nearly drowned trying to get out of a cage submerged in a shark tank and became ill from ingesting contaminated water, but those were the exceptions. He had been successful when everyone feared he had been killed, emerging unscathed (more or less) and triumphant. This latest demonstration would top them all, he vowed, and he would prove to the world that he was indeed successor to the late, great Harry Houdini, master of escapology and illusion.

For all this bravado, however, a tiny voice kept creeping around in the back of his mind, small but persistant, demanding to be heard. What about Mom? it said. What about your promise?

Well, what about it? While he didn't like hurting his mother, this demonstration was too good to pass up. Besides, she didn't have to know anything about it, at least not for now. She didn't have to be there when it was going on, and after taping and editing, it would be months before it aired. By then she would be better prepared, mentally and physically, to see it. It was better this way, he reasoned. By keeping it secret, he spared his mother a lot of unnecessary anguish. Ignorance was truly bliss in this case. What she didn't know would not hurt her.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) for once i think Criss should listen to his brothers , can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

There, the lesson plans were completed, the last worksheet assignment had been graded, and there was nothing for Angela to do but stare out the giant window of the hotel suite and wish she was somewhere else. Friday morning had just turned to afternoon; she had been working for three straight hours but did not feel at all hungry or tired or anything but the need to escape the gilded cage she was forced to share with her sister, Bianca. But where to go?

Friday afternoon. Angela remembered that Fridays were her shelter volunteer nights. She knew where the shelter was, but her little Chevette was back at the house (Bianca insisted on driving her sporty Lexus, claiming "that bucket of bolts" Angela drove was unworthy of being seen at the Luxor) and so she had no transportation to get there. She wondered if they had buses in downtown Las Vegas. If not, well, then she'd have to take a cab, expensive though it was. One thing was certain: sister or no sister, she was not going to shirk her duty at the shelter just because she got shanghaied into staying in some fancy hotel.

But it was only twelve-thirty, and she didn't have to be at the shelter until six; that left five and a half hours with nothing to fill them. She looked out the window again. Las Vegas, the Entertainment Capital of America, lay spread out before her like a glorified carnival midway, and here she was, stuck in this fancy hotel room with nothing to do while Bianca was out there living out her champaigne fantasies on a budget of two thousand a month from her trust fund which shrank drastically every day.

Angela turned away from the window and found herself facing her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. She saw a thin, haggard face, grown old before its time. Her mouth had creased into a near-permanant frown. When was the last time she had laughed? When was the last time she had experienced pleasure? she wondered. True, she enjoyed teaching, and her young students' innocent remarks often amused her at times, but when did she ever really go out and enjoy herself as a person, as a woman? She had never had a boyfriend, not even in high school; she had always been a wallflower, too shy to attract any boy's attention. To her, falling in love was something that happened in romance novels like the ones her fellow volunteer, Darlene Milliken, was always devouring. Maybe it happened in real life, but not to her.

She looked away from her face and at the green shift she wore. She could not afford a new wardrobe, not on a teacher's salary, and besides, she was always the one paying the utilities, the cable bill (premium package, on Bianca's insistance) the property taxes and the insurance on her car, leaving little left over for personal expenses and teaching materials though the county covered most of the cost with vouchers. She made do with thrift shop finds and whatever she could do to recycle from her old wardrobe. "Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without," her late mother had always taught her daughters, but it seemed that the younger adhered to it more out of necessity than good counsel while the elder ignored it altogether.

Bianca was a clothes horse. The piles of luggage she had brought with her for the weekend was proof of that. A perfect body like hers had to be dressed in style, she always insisted. God forbid she should go out looking like a slob like Angela, with her shabby, outdated clothes and shoes falling to pieces ("Where do you get your clothes?" she had demanded once. "At that homeless shelter you work at?"). She lived for the latest fashions: she worshipped the designer du jour whose latest creation she just had to have; she almost rivaled Imelda Marcos for the number of pairs of shoes in her closet (twenty-eight at last count), and she spent untold hours and who knew how much money at the salon getting her hair and nails done. Bianca was queen of her own little world and she was going to look like one, and damn the expense, while poor Angela shuffled through life in whatever article of clothing that would fit her frail little body, her unstyled dirty-blonde hair hanging limply around her face as if it had given up the will to live.

Angela began to feel something inside her welling up like a tea kettle full of boiling water. It's not fair, she told herself. Why should Bianca have all the fun while I'm stuck behind doing lesson plans? Don't I deserve to have a little fun, too? I don't want to die an old maid! I want to get out of here! I want to go out and see people, do things, see things, experience things I never did before! I want to be free! I want to be loved! I want to be alive!

She turned abruply away from the mirror, retrieved her shabby handbag, and dashed out of the suite before she changed her mind. She had five hours and fifteen minutes before her shift at the shelter, but she was determined to make the most of it.

[Smurf]

Great chapter :) Angela really needs to stand up to her sister , Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mom? It's me, JD."

"Oh, hello, JD! How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Say, listen, there's something I have to tell you."

"What?"

"Christopher's got some crazy new stunt planned, one that's sure to get him killed."

A heavy sigh. "Oh, dear! What is it this time?"

"Well, it involves a mine shaft caving in on him."

"Oh, Lord! He promised!"

"Look, I'm as upset about this as you are, so I decided to get everyone together for an intervention."

"An intervention?"

"Yeah, you, me, Cos, George, Gerard, Dave, and maybe I can get hold of his girlfriend, Sandra. We're gonna confront him head-on and talk him out of it."

"And what if he refuses?"

A pause. "Well, then, we're gonna have to resort to drastic measures."

"What sort of 'drastic measures' are you talking about?"

"I'll leave that for later. Meantime, you meet us in Criss' suite at nine AM tomorrow morning, got it?"

"Yes, yes, I'll be there."

"Good. See you then."

"All right, good-bye. Love you."

"Love you, too, Ma. 'Bye."



"Holy Trinity, Father Mykolos speaking."

"Good afternoon, Father, this is Dimitra Sarantakos."

"Well, hello, Dimitra, how can I help you?"

A deep, heartfelt sigh, then, "It's Christopher, Father. He's planned another dangerous stunt for his show. He'd promised me he wouldn't ever do those things again, not after that Florida hotel escape. You remember that, don't you?"

"You told me about it, yes."

"Well, now JD tells me he's going to try to escape from some mine shaft that's going to cave in on him."

"Well, you tell that daredevil son of yours that he made a promise and he'd do well to keep it!"

"That's why I am calling, Father. JD is planning some sort of intervention tomorrow morning at nine. He wants us all to be in his suite by then to try to talk him out of it. It would help if you were there, too. He may not listen to me, but he'll certainly listen to you."

"Oh, he'll listen to you, Dimitra. You're his mother, remember?"

"Still, I wish you could be there, too. We'll need all the help we can get."

"All right, Dimitra, I'll be there. It's at the Luxor, right?"

"Yes, at nine o'clock. I'll meet you in the atrium."

"I'll be there. And don't worry, we'll straighten him out, I promise."

"Oh, thank you, Father! God bless you!"

"And God bless you, too. Until tomorrow, then."

"Yes, good-bye."

"Good-bye."




"Hi, there!" chirped a cheery female voice. "Sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but leave your name, number and a brief message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible! 'Bye!"

"Hey, Sandra, this is JD, Criss' brother. Look, I need to talk to you about Criss. Give me a call when you get this, okay? Number's ***-****. It's really important. 'Bye."




"Dave Baram here."

"Dave? This is JD."

"Oh, hey, JD, what's up?"

"Look, did Criss tell you about his plans for his latest demonstration?"

"You mean about the mine shaft escape?"

"Yeah, that."

"What about it?"

"We're worried he's gonna get killed, that's what! Listen, we're gonna try to talk him out of it."

"Yeah? Well, good luck with that!"

"That's why we need you to come to Criss' suite at nine AM tomorrow morning. We're holding an intervention."

"An intervention? Sounds serious."

"Damn right it's serious!"

"So who's gonna be there?"

"You, me, Mom, Cos, George, Gerard, Sandra if I can get hold of her, and anyone else we can get."

"So why are you having this thing, anyway?"

"Because Criss made a promise to Mom he wouldn't do any more dangerous stunts, and now he's going back on his word. Because I'm tired of worrying about Mom worrying herself to death. And because I'm fed up with Criss giving me a heart attack ever time he pulls a stunt like this!"

"Those are good reasons."

"So, you coming or not?"

"Well, okay, if you really think you can persuade him not to do it. But, you know, Criss can be pretty pig-headed when it comes to not doing things his way. You might not be able to get through to him."

"Oh, we'll get through to him, all right. Believe me, we will."

"Well, lotsa luck on that, pal!"

"So you gonna be there?"

"Yeah, I'll be there, bright and early. Just to see what happens.

"Okay, thanks, Dave. See you then."

"Yeah, 'bye."




"Hello, JD?"

"Yeah?"

"This is Sandra."

"Oh, hi, Sandra, glad you called."

"So what's this about Criss?"

"Well, we got word he's doing this really dangerous stunt, and we're trying to talk him out of it, so we're holding an intervention tomorrow morning at nine AM, and we need you to be there."

"What sort of dangerous stunt?"

"Well it involves a mine shaft and a cave-in."

"Oh, God."

"So, can you come in tomorrow morning?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, I'll be there. Nine AM where?"

"In Criss' suite. You can meet me by the office and I'll take you up."

"Okay, thanks."

"No, thank you."

"Okay, JD, 'bye. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, 'bye."

[Smurf]

great chapter :) good luck jd trying to change criss's mind , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

You'd have a better chance of cutting him in half than to change his mind

[Veritas]

Anyone else who entered the Luxor's casino would have been thrilled with what was inside. It was an ever-changing panoply of light, sound and color, its atmosphere charged with high expectaions and dashed hopes with every roll of the dice, spin of the wheel, turn of a card, or pull of the slot machine lever. Any distraction from gaming was unwelcome: the colorful carpeting muffled everyone's footsteps, conversation was brief and muted, save for the croupier's patter and the blackjack dealer's shuffling of the cards. Big Money spoke here, and everyone listened with undivided attention. It was the realm of Lady Luck, the place where fortunes were made and lost, usually the latter. Risk was the the name of the game, the common denominator which ordinary mortals chose to sacrifice their hard-earned wages, their savings, indeed their very futures in hopes of hitting the jackpot against all odds.

Angela Honi stepped timidly into this realm, overwhelmed by it all. In the past, the frail, shy schoolteacher had never so much as purchased a raffle ticket for school charity functions, and now here she was in a major casino in Las Vegas. Fear gripped her like a giant hand, paralyzing her. It was too much, too soon, she thought. Maybe she should have taken in one of the shows instead? There was a magic show playing here by that magician--what was his name again? Criss Angel, yes. She liked magicians as much as anyone--why not go there? Or maybe that red-headed comedian, Carrot Top? He was supposed to be really funny, and she could use a good laugh. Why not see his show? Anything would be better than standing here in a casino, cowering like a mouse.

A mouse. The very word stung her to the core in spite of having thought of it herself. That was what she had been all of her life: a mouse, scurrying to the nearest hidey-hole because she was too afraid to take on the world on its terms. Too afraid to take any sort of risk, too afraid to stand up for herself, too much of a coward to take control of her own life. Why did it have to be that way? she wondered. Why couldn't she show some backbone and take charge of her own destiny? Had she been too long under her sister's thumb that she no longer had the strength to get out from under it?

Angela looked around the casino with more confident eyes. Those people weren't afraid to take risks, she told herself. Those people didn't fear losing it all to the slot machines and the dealers. They didn't ask anyone's permission, they just went for it, and the devil take the hindmost! Why couldn't she be like them?

On impulse, she reached into her worn handbag and fished out a five-dollar bill. It wasn't much, but it would do for a start. Best to start out small and work up, she reasoned. She looked around again and decided the slot machines were the best choice. They afforded some privacy, and the wagering was small enough. Five dollars wouldn't be missed.

She walked up to the nearest row of slot machines and studied them carefully but discreetly, not wanting to disturb the gamblers sitting before them. She discovered that they had slots for taking paper bills, like today's vending machines, ranging from one dollar to twenty. Well, that's convenient, she thought. No need to ask for change. And there were no levers on them, either: the legendary one-armed bandit had been replaced by push-button, electronic devices designed to be tamper-proof. Even the slot machines are computerized, she thought.

The only problem was that every one of them were occupied; it would be a while before Angela could have a turn. Well, no matter, she was used to patient waiting. Besides, it would give her the opportunity to acclimate herself in this strange new environment, accustom herself to how it functioned, and familiarize herself with the rules. If she was going to gamble, she was going to make herself comfortable while she was doing it.

She strolled around the slot machines, watching desperate types feed the flashy devices with a steady diet of cash: tens, twenties, even fifties to Angela's amazement. She was appalled at first, unable to comprehend how some people could just throw away money like that. Then her shock gave way to pity; she had heard about compulsive gamblers who bet their entire life's savings on slot machines, blackjack or even lottery tickets. These poor souls ended up losing their jobs, their homes, even their families. Some even lost their freedom when they turned to crime to pay their gambling debts. Well, that's not going to happen to me! Angela vowed firmly. I've got five dollars, and that's it--when it's gone, I'm gone! I'm not going to fritter away all my money on some stupid machine!

She saw one disgruntled player get up from his seat in front of a slot machine farther down the row, disgusted as he was undoubtedly broke. She could hear his muttered curses above the incessant electronic chatter of the machines, grumbling about the slots being fixed so that no one would win. No one made a move to claim his spot, so Angela walked up to the machine and sat down on the still-warm stool before it. There, she had taken the first step. Now, all she had to do was play.

The large, flashing device before her waited patiently while she struggled to build up the nerve to insert her money. Angela drew a deep breath, steeled herself for the worst, and slipped the five dollars into the paper slot. The machine swallowed the bill swiftly like a strand of pasta. The screen flashed a message telling her she had three turns to win the jackpot, then a single word, PLAY, flashed on a large, angry red button on her right, demanding her response. This was it, she realized, the moment of truth. She had given the mechanical beast its due, and now there was no going back. With one desperate motion she pushed the red PLAY button and closed her eyes, both relieved she had committed the act and apprehensive about the consequences.

Three rows of digtalized icons rolled randomly on the screen. Angela opened her eyes and forced herself to watch them, bracing herself for the worst. This is only my first try, she tried to assure herself. If I lose this round, I have two more chances, right? I mean, it's just a game, right?

The first row stopped at JACKPOT!

The second one also stopped at JACKPOT!

Angela's mind froze, all thought vanished in that one instant, all her senses oblivious to everything except to that third row of rolling icons. Finally, it stopped rolling.

JACKPOT!

The machine whooped exuberantly, its lights strobing in celebration, its screen flashing WINNER! WINNER! WINNER! over and over again. Angela shrieked in shock, terror and confusion. What happened? her bewildered mind kept asking itself, what happened? What did I do?

Then came the staff and other gamblers, applauding and cheering as they surrounded her. A red-jacketed gentleman approached her first, his hand extended. "Congratulations!" he bellowed, pumping Angela's frail hand as if trying to draw water from a well. "You're our million-dollar winner!"

Angela trembled, not knowing what to make of all this. "Me?" she squeaked.

"That's right!" the red-jacketed man bellowed again. "You're our first winner in the Million-Dollar Slots!"

Angela's brain spun inside her skull. She felt as though she was going to faint. This can't be happening! she said to herself. This must be some sort of dream! She wanted to sit down. This can not be happening! Things like this don't happen in real life, do they? At least, not to me, of all people!

A burst of bright light brought her back to reality; someone had just taken her picture. "And what would your name be?" the red-jacketed man asked her with exaggerated courtesy.

Angela was stumped for a moment. My name? What is my name? Good grief, I've forgotten my name! Then it came back to her. "Angela," she whispered hoarsely. "Angela Honi."

"Angela Honey!" the man crowed for all to hear. "And a honey of a winner you are! Everybody, let's give it up for Angela Honey, shall we?"

Another round of enthusiastic applause. Angela tried bravely to smile and say "thank you", but the words stuck in her throat. Still in shock over what had happened to her, she sank down onto the stool, her knees too weak to support her. I'm going to wake up any minute now, she said to herself, and all this will have been a dream. This is not real! This is not happening!

The red-jacketed man gallantly extended his arm to her. "Now, if you'll just come with me, Angela Honey," he said, "we'll go into the office to claim your winnings. No big deal, just some paperwork, that's all."

Angela took the proffered arm, glad to be able to escape the madness surrounding her. The red-jacketed man escorted her out of the casino as pompously as if she was royalty. The applause still pounded in her ears, and all she could think was What am I going to do now? What am I going to do with a million dollars? And what am I going to tell Bianca?

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) Angela don't tell your sister anything , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

Keep your mouth shut it's your money

[Veritas]

The meeting in the casino office was mercifully short and to the point, to Angela's relief. They gave her some release forms to sign, including an agreement to a forty-eight hour waiting period before claiming her million-dollar winnings; the slot machine on which she had hit the jackpot had to be inspected for any signs of tampering. "Standard procedure, no big deal," they explained. "We have to make sure it was a legitmate win. You'd be amazed at how many people have tried to hack into the system."

Angela nodded numbly in agreement and signed the form. It was a good thing to wait two days, she told herself. That way, she could put off telling Bianca about her winnings for a while yet, sparing herself a nasty confrontation. God only knew what would happen when she found out.

If she found out.

Maybe she didn't have to tell her at all. She hoped against hope. Maybe she could quietly arrange for her winnings to be direct-deposited into her own personal savings account, and no one, especially Bianca, would be the wiser. Maybe this would work out after all. Maybe.

She signed the publicity release form and handed it to the red-jacketed man who had so grandly escorted her out of the casino, whom she had just discovered was the casino manager, formerly known as the pit boss back in the day. Then there was the tax forms to fill out for the proper state, local and federal taxes to be deducted, the acknowledgement form stating that she had not used any type of deceit or device to tamper with the slot machine she had played upon, and other bureaucratic fol-de-rol that left her bewildered and overwhelmed.

Once all the paperwork was out of the way, they shook her frail hand in congratulations and sent her on her way. Angela made straight for her suite, glad that it was all over. "I filled out fewer contracts than that when I applied for my teaching job!" she muttered to herself.





Angela lay on her bed, recovering from the trauma of the afternoon. The peace and quiet soothed her frazzled nerves. Bianca had not yet returned; a relief in itself, because she knew from long, painful experience that had her sister been there waiting for her, she would have been interrogated like a POW to account for everything she had done while she was out. With luck, she could stay out of Bianca's way long enough to enjoy a quiet evening.

She heard the click of the door latch, followed by a dreamy humming. Bianca had returned, fresh from the spa. The massages, the seaweed wraps, the mani-pedis, the long soak in the hot tub, always put her in a good mood. As far as Angela was concerned, it was well worth the expense to be spared her sister's ill temper for an hour or two after a trip to the spa or the salon. There, she could be pampered and catered to like a princess, her every wish fulfilled. It was the life to which she felt entitled, a world of her own where everybody lived only to serve her.

If Bianca had her way, Angela thought, she'd live at the spa for the rest of her life, going out only for shopping trips, clubbing, and meals at five-star restaraunts. Unfortunatly, her trust fund allowed her only two thousand dollars a month, far too little for the lifestyle she craved. She had to make do with occasional weekends at different luxury hotels, splurging on spas, new clothes, and entertainments to satisfy her craving for the good life. It was only a stroke of luck that she had won this weekend at the Luxor, the only hotel she hadn't tried yet. The only downside was that she had to bring Angela, the bane of her existance, along for the ride because of the contest rules. Other than that, she was free to indulge in her pleasures to her heart's content.

Bianca sailed into the suite, humming and smiling. Angela peeked out of her bedroom, not daring to disturb this rare tranquil moment with her presence. Bianca, however, brushed by her as if she wasn't even there, going into the master bedroom to prepare for an evening out. It seemed that she had not yet heard about the million-dollar jackpot. If Angela's luck held, she never would.

Angela ducked back into the bedroom while Bianca flounced around in her sheer white peignoir, flipping through her extensive wardrobe to decide what to wear. She finally decided on the blue suit, the very one Angela had forgotten to pick up from the dry cleaner's yesterday and had suffered for it. With a knot in her stomach, Angela closed the bedroom door behind her. She just wanted to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head and shut out the whole world entirely. At the same time, she wanted to escape this gilded cage, just go somewhere where she could start her life over again without her domineering sister lashing out at her just because she forgot the dry cleaning. Somewhere. But where?

Well, she had just won a million dollars. There was that. Even after taxes, there would be plenty left over for her to make a fresh start. She could buy a new car (or at least get a better one), buy some new clothes, get an apartment or look into some townhouses or condos somewhere as far from Bianca as possible. She could finally start living again. No, that wasn't entirely accurate. What she meant was that she could finally start living, period. The life she was living was no life at all, merely a hand-to-mouth existance on her teacher's salary until her trust fund became available. But somewhere out there in the big wide world was a place she could call home, where she could wake up every morning without her sister screaming for her to do this or that, where she could watch TV without the channel being changed suddenly if not turned off altogether--a place where she didn't have to live in fear and apprehension. A place where she could be...alive.

The room was quiet again. Bianca was gone, and who knew when she would return. Angela left the bedroom and made a light dinner from the complimentary fruit basket provided by the hotel. After tipping the bell attendant that morning and five dollars in the slot machine, she didn't have much money to spend on a restaraunt meal, and besides, she wasn't all that hungry. After eating, she settled down with the large-screen TV, her only companion for the evening. It would have been nice to go out and meet someone, but her lifelong shyness all but crippled her social life. Indeed, if it hadn't been for her volunteer job at the shelter--

Angela shot up. The shelter! She looked up at the clock: five-thirty. She had thirty minutes to get to the shelter for her evening teaching job. But how was she going to get there without her car? In desperation she phoned the director on duty that evening, Pastor Bob Beaman. Maybe he could help her get there once she explained matters to him. He had to. She had no other choice.

The phone on the other end burred twice, then a click. "Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless," she heard Pastor Bob's voice answer mechanically. "Pastor speaking."

"Oh, Pastor Bob," Angela breathed. "Look, I need help getting to the shelter tonight. I'm at the Luxor Hotel, staying with my sister, and I don't have my car. Can you give me a lift or something?"

The pastor was perplexed. "The Luxor Hotel?" he repeated, puzzled that Angela of all people should be at such a place. "What are you doin' at the Luxor?"

"Well, my sister won this contest, see," Angela explained, "and I sorta got roped into going with her. I didn't want to go, but, well, you know Bianca. She can be...very persuasive."

She heard Pastor Bob chuckle. "All right, Angela," he said warmly. "I'll reroute the shelter bus to come pick you up. They should be there in about ten, fifteen minutes, so you just sit tight there, all right?"

A huge weight rolled off Angela's shoulders. "Oh, thank you, Pastor," she said gratefully. "I really appreciate it."

Both said their good-byes and hung up. Angela began to prepare for her evening class by changing into her crisp white middy blouse and knee-length navy blue skirt, an outfit approved by the conservative clergymen who co-operatively ran the shelter. She grabbed her old handbag and school satchel and left the suite to go down to the main entrance to wait for the shelter bus. At least she wouldn't be alone this evening.

She rode down the elevator and stepped out into the atrium. Had she stopped at the casino level, she would have seen the LED marquee lights rolling out CONGRATULATIONS ANGELA HONI WINNER OF THE MILLION DOLLAR SLOT GAME!! over and over again.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) poor Angela she really does have it rough , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

They may have to ask Criss for a straight jacket when Bianca find out about her sister's winnings

[Veritas]

Saturday morning, seven AM. Criss trotted like a thoroughbred racehorse on the treadmill in his personal gym, pacing his steps to the rhythm of the tune coming through the earbud headphones of his iPod. Light sweat clung to his forehead, the red bandana tied around his brow no longer able to absorb any more moisture. His muscular torso, clad only in a tank shirt, gleamed in the flourescent lighting, his chest heaved with every breath he drew. He checked the timer on the treadmill's handlebar: only five more minutes to go. It didn't do to rush it; he had to maintain a steady pace to avoid injury.

Criss wasn't too keen on working out as a rule, but the physical demands of his art, as he called it, required he be in top form at all times. His muscles had to perform at peak capacity, his reflexes had to at their sharpest--one slip-up, one missed cue could spell his doom. That meant early morning workout sessions in the gym provided for him by the Luxor Hotel whether he enjoyed it or not. Besides, he needed to stay healthy for the sake of the investors of his show; they had laid out one hundred million dollars for it and they expected a return on their investment. A healthy Criss Angel was a productive Criss Angel, and what he produced on stage paid off handsomely for the Luxor and its shareholders.

The treadmill timer went off, signalling the end of the run. Criss hopped off the leathery conveyor belt and reached for a small towel hanging from a rail on the treadmill. He wiped his stubbly face, took a few deep breaths (slowly, so as not to cause dizziness) and headed for the shower room, peeling off his tank shirt, drenched with sweat, as he went. He felt a slight rush of adrenalin course though his veins--post-runner's high, they called it. He always felt it after a run on the treadmill, and it felt good.

As he approached his locker, he noticed a small yellow sticky note attached to the metal door. This wasn't unusual; indeed, he found it annoying. Sometimes his staff left him small memos during his workouts regarding the show or to contact somebody ASAP. He wished they would just leave such messages in his office where he was better able to attend to them instead of invading one of the few truly private places he had in the Luxor. His post-workout rush faded as he pulled the sticky note from the door. "What is it now?" he muttered irritably.

Criss, meet us in the suite at 9:00 AM sharp. Urgent!! JD.

Criss was puzzled. JD? What the hell does he want? He crumpled the note and tossed it aside, then prepared for his shower. If it's so urgent, why does he want to meet me in the suite? Can't he wait until I get to the office? He knows I'll be there this morning. What the hell could be so urgent, anyway? It's only--what? He checked his watch. Seven-ten? If it's so (bleeping) urgent, why wait until nine?

He peeled off his shoes and shorts, wrapped a towel around his waist and headed for the shower stall. Once in the glass-enclosed stall, he whipped off his towel, draped it over the door, turned on the water and let the hot spray soothe away the aches and pains from his workout. He grabbed a bar of soap and lathered himself from head to foot, all the while still wondering what JD wanted that was so important, and why to meet him in his suite, of all places. Normally, JD would have left a message with one of his assistants if it concerned business--

Criss stopped lathering. He froze where he stood. The showering cascade of water continued its course down his naked flesh. Maybe it wasn't business, he thought. Maybe it was something more personal. Is Mom sick again? he worried. Oh, God, I hope not! She already had one heart scare; she doesn't need another.

But the note said to meet him at nine, and it wasn't even seven-thirty yet. If it did concern his mother, JD would have come into the gym personally and told him so instead of leaving a note stating a two-hour delay. It just didn't make sense.

Well, there was only one way to solve this mystery, he thought as he rinsed the lather from his body, turned off the shower and toweled off, and that was to play it by JD rules. Yes, he would be at the suite at nine AM sharp, as directed, and he would demand an explanation about whatever it was his brother wanted. In the meantime, he would catch up on some paperwork in his office. One thing was certain, he said to himself: this had better not be a joke.




When he got to his suite at the appointed time, he discovered nothing amusing. Instead, he found his mother, his brothers JD and Costa, his cousin George, his manager Dave Baram, his consultants Banachek and Gerard, his girlfriend Sandra, and, to his greater surprise, Father Stefan from Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church, sitting in the living area of his suite. Bewildered, he looked around. "What's the deal?" he asked. "I didn't schedule a meeting or anything, did I?"

"No, Criss," JD said seriously, "this isn't a meeting. This is an intervention."

Criss was aghast. "An intervention?!" he exclaimed, glancing wildly at the assembled company in his suite. "What the hell--oh, excuse me, Father--I mean, why do I need an intervention? I'm not a drug addict or anything like that!"

"We know you're not, Christopher," Father Stefan said calmly, "and we are all very proud of you for that, but this is just as serious." He stood up and motioned to Criss. "Please, sit down."

Criss was miffed that he should have to take orders inside his own suite, but he reluctantly complied; the grim faces of his family and friends told him he had no choice. He lowered himself onto the sofa between his mother and the priest, stretching his long limbs out before him. "Okay, what's the deal here?" he demanded. "Why are you staging an intervention on me?"

JD leaned forward. "Two years ago, when you did that hotel demolition escape, you promised you would never again do any more death-defying demonstrations," he began. "You promised Mom to her face that you'd stop doing the dangerous stunts like you've done in the past. Since then, you've been walking through a live minefield, nearly flattened by a Hummer, buried alive in snow, sent yourself crashing over a cliff in a desert--"

Criss held up his hand. "I know what I've done, JD," he interrupted. "You don't have to relate my whole career for me."

"Well, the point is that now you want to bury yourself alive in a mineshaft," JD went on, his voice rising.

"And your point is?"

"My point is that it's time we said enough's enough!" JD said sharply. "You can't go on like this, Christopher! You've cheated death so many times, it's not even funny! You've been driving Mom into an early grave from all the worrying she'd done over you! And I can't count how many times you've nearly given me a frickin' heart attack from your crazy stunts! This is it, Chris, this is the end! I can't take it anymore--none of us can! Either you scrap this demonstration, or I quit!"

Criss' jaw dropped to his chest. "JD!" he cried.

"I mean it, Christopher!" JD said adamantly. "You scrap this mineshaft stunt, or I walk!"

"You can't be serious!"

"I was never more serious."

In desperation, Criss turned to his mother. "Mom, do something!" he pleaded.

His mother sighed. "I'm afraid I have to take JD's side on this one, Christopher," she said somberly. "You promised me no more dangerous escapes, but you broke your promise again and again. You said you were not a drug addict, and I thank God for it, but you are addicted to danger, Christopher. You get high when you are close to death--you said so yourself once."

"I never said anything like that!" Criss protested. "What I said was I feel the most alive when I'm close to it."

"You see?" his mother said. "It's an addiction to you!" She took her famous son's face in her soft, withered hands. "I do not want to lose you, Christopher," she said, tears filling her eyes. "Time and time again, I have watched you try to kill yourself for the sake of your 'art'. I can't take it anymore, Christopher Nicholas! I don't want to watch you die again and again and again! A parent should not have to outlive her child!"

The tears fell down her aged, wrinkled face. "Please, for the love of God, Christopher," she beseeched him, "don't do this stunt, or any other dangerous stunt! I can't stand it anymore! When you promised me you would stop after that hotel demolition, I believed you, and I was happy for the first time since you became famous. But you broke that promise more than once." She sighed heavily. "I don't know if I can trust you again after this," she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

Criss put his arm around his weeping mother. "Mom," he said softly, "oh, hey, Mom, don't cry, okay? Everything's gonna be all right. Don't cry, okay?"

"Your mother loves you very much, Christopher," Father Stefan spoke up. "Your whole family does. Now, I know you've made a reputation for death-defying escapes that surpassed anything done before, but it's costing you your family's well-being. It's making your mother ill with worry and anxiety. You should stop to consider their feelings about the things you do. If I were you, I'd cancel whatever harebrained scheme you got planned and go on to something else. Something less life-threatening."

Criss turned to the clergyman sitting next to him. "If I do cancel the mineshaft demonstration, what am I going to do in its place?" he argued.

Father Stefan laid a hand on Criss' knee. "You're an intelligent, creative magician," he said. "You'll think of something."

"Just don't come up with anything that threatens life and limb, okay?" Costa chimed in. "Otherwise, I'm with JD and walking out on you."

"Cos!"

"I mean it."

In desperation, Criss turned to his cousin sitting adjacent to him. "George?" he said almost pleadingly.

"Sorry, Chris," George said, "but I'm siding with the majority here. Family comes first, you know."

Criss then turned to his manager. "Dave?"

Dave Baram shrugged. "Nothing I can do, Criss," he said. "I'm just your manager. They dragged me in here for moral support."

"Gerard? Banachek?"

The latter leaned forward across the coffee table. "I've been with you for five or six years now, Criss," he said, "and I gotta admit, these demonstrations of yours are starting to wear on me, too. I'll stay and help you plan another demonstration, but this mineshaft idea of yours is way off the hook! I mean, look at your mother there--she's tied herself in knots over you since you lit yourself on fire on her birthday in Season One! Have a little pity for her, willya?"

"You set yourself on fire on your mother's birthday?" Father Stefan echoed disbelivingly.

"I'll explain later, Father," Criss said to him. "Look, guys, Mom, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, okay? But it's just my nature to push my own envelope like this--I do what I do to challenge myself, to see how far I can go. I'm sorry if I've caused you a lot of grief over the years, especially you, Mom, but if I'm not allowed to express myself through my art, I get all depressed and angry--and believe me, you don't want to be around when I get angry!"

"We won't be around when you get angry," JD retorted, "because we won't be around at all! We'll all be heading back to New York, and you'll be on your own with your 'art' as company!" He leaned back in his chair. "Your call, Christopher."

In a last ditch effort to garner sympathy, Criss turned to his girlfriend. "Sandra? Babe? Help me out here!" he pleaded.

Sandra could only lower her eyes in sorrow. Realizing that no one present would rise up to defend him, Criss sank back into the sofa, feeling defeated. "Oh, dear God," he whispered. "I can't believe this is happening to me! I can't believe you'd all just get up and walk out on me like this! I don't know what I'd do without all of you! I thought you were all with me!"

Father Stefan wrapped a paternal arm around Criss' shoulder. "We are with you, Christopher," he said gently. "We all want you to live a long, healthy life, but you're not going to if you persist in risking your life doing these dangerous stunts. One of these days, this 'envelope' you keep pushing is going to land you into an early grave."

He pulled Criss closer to him affectionatly. "God has been good to you, keeping you alive as long as He has, but one day, He's going to withdraw His hand from you and let you fall to your doom. He gave you the life you have--don't play 'chicken' with it by doing these stunts. If you love God, if you love your mother and brothers, give up this stunt you're planning. Think about their feelings for once--about how they worry about you and pray for you to survive all these stunts you do."

He turned Criss' stunned face to him with a single finger. "You don't have to do these stunts anymore, Christopher," he went on, emphasizing every word. "You've already proven yourself to be a great magician. You can do so much more alive than dead. Look at your mother there! She's already lost her husband, your father--think how she would feel about losing her son! Please, we're begging you, cancel this stunt--for her sake, if not for yours."

There was silence in the room as Criss looked at his beloved mother with tears streaming down his eyes, then at his eldest brother, JD, grim as a judge, then at Costa, who nodded; then at his cousin George, who gave him the thumbs up; then at his manager, Dave Baram; then at Gerard and Banachek, the latter telling him to "do it for your mom"; then at Sandra, who had burst into tears herself over Father Stefan's speech. "Cancel it, baby," she rasped. "Please?"

Criss was still for a minute, his demonstration notes still in his hand. Everyone waited to see what he would do next: would he give in, they hoped, or would he be obstinate and go on with the mineshaft demonstration? Criss himself simply sat there, staring at the floor, stunned. His family had supported his every endeavor to make it as a magician, in spirit if not financially, and just when he had planned a demonstration that would surpass everything he had done up to this point, they were just going to give up and leave? He looked up at the stern faces around him. JD's expression was set in stone. Father Stefan looked at him with the patient expectation of all clergymen. His mother dabbed her eyes with a tissue, while Costa simply waited for a response.

Suddenly, in one angry, impulsive movement, Criss tore up his notes and flung them up in the air. "Okay!" he shouted furiously. "You win! I won't do it!"

Everyone cheered. Criss simply fumed. Dimitra flung her arms around her son and embraced him tightly, but for once Criss didn't feel the need to respond. His will had been thwarted and it stung him deeply, yet deep down he knew they were right. He had made a promise to his mother not to do any more dangerous demonstrations and he knew he was duty-bound to keep it, career or no career.

Criss managed to pull himself together, then drew a deep breath to collect his thoughts. "So, what do I do now?" he asked. "I have to do something for the next episode. I mean, I am under contract, you know."

"You'll think of something, Christopher," Father said to him. "I know you will. If you need help, my door is always open to you."

"Thanks, Father." Criss murmured, feigning gratitude but still resentful.

Satisfied, the priest rose from the sofa. "Well, my job is done here," he announced. "I guess I'd best be going now." He leaned down to face Criss again. "Remember your promise, Christopher," he said sternly, pointing an admonishing finger into Criss' sullen face. "I don't want to hear about you risking your life in some crazy stunt, understand?"

Criss nodded wearily, defeated. Father Stefan nodded approvingly and turned to leave. George rose quickly and rushed to his side. "I'll see you out, Father," he offered.

George escorted Father Stefan out of the suite and walked with him to the elevator bank. "Great job you did in there, Father," he said. "You shoulda been here five episodes ago." He laughed a little. "Shoot, you shoulda been here five years ago! It woulda saved us a whole lotta worry with all the crazy things Criss has done! What got me was what you said about God letting him fall to his doom--I mean, that was scary to think about--Sheesh! I mean, I've heard about guardian angels who are supposed to watch over us and all that, but Criss? If I was his guardian angel, I'd hand in my resignation!"

Father Stefan smiled. "Well, it's said that God looks out for fools and babies," he said jovially.

"Which one's Criss?" George quipped.

Father laughed at that. The elevator door slid open, revealing an empty car. "Take care of yourself, George," he said as he stepped into the elevator. "And call me if your cousin gives you any trouble."

"Thanks, Father," George said, waving good-bye, "and don't worry--I'll take care of Criss."

The elevator door slid shut. George returned to the suite. "I'll take care of him, all right," he mumbled to himself, striking his fist into the palm of his hand. "We'll all take care of him real good if he goes back on his word."

He checked his watch: nine-twenty. He had to get to Linehan's gym for the day's training if he wanted to qualify for the next exhibition match coming up at the Mirage. His suspension from the Excalibur match for decking the notorious Las Vegas Flasher still rankled him a little, but he was determined not to let that small humiliation get in his way of victory. In retrospect, bringing down that pervert what's-his-name for exposing his ugly naked carcass to his Aunt Dimitra was almost worth losing a shot at the title. He deserved a broken nose for what he did, and to hell what the boxing officials thought! That (bleeper) broke the law and assaulted a member of his own family, a double offense in George's eyes. (1)

He strode back to Criss' suite to fetch his jacket. The door was left ajar, allowing him entry without having to use a keycard or to knock. Inside the suite he saw his cousin Criss sitting dejectedly on the sofa, the torn remnants of his mine shaft escape notes littering the floor around his feet. Dave, Banachek and Gerard had already left; only Sandra and the family remained. They all looked up the moment he came in.

George picked up his jacket. "Uh, well, I guess I'll be leaving now," he muttered. "I got to get to the gym. See you guys later."

He took time to kiss his Aunt Dimitra good-bye and shake hands with JD. "Thanks for coming, George," JD said with a smile. "I really appreciate it."

George smiled back. "No problem."

He turned to Criss and nudged his depressed cousin on the shoulder. "Hey, Gloomy Gus," he said half-jokingly, "get off the pity pot and get back to work. You got a show to do."

Criss looked up at George. "Doing what?" he retorted crossly. "You guys already scotched my plans for the mine shaft demonstration. What am I going to do now?"

George patted him on the shoulder. "You'll think of something," he replied optimistically. "Just nothing that'll involve losing life and limb, okay?" He pulled on his jacket. "Look, I gotta get to the gym. I'll see you at the next meeting, okay?"

Criss feebly waved good-bye to his cousin, still glum. George took his leave and headed for the elevator bank, promptly dismissing the entire morning's events out of his mind. Ah, he'll get over it, he told himself. The guy's like a rubber ball, always bouncing back. I ain't gonna worry about it. I got other things to think about right now, like qualifying for the next exhibition match.

Down the elevator, through the atrium, and out the door, George made his way to the gym, paying no heed to the guests and staff coming and going in and out of the hotel. He brushed past bell attendants with their brass luggage carts laden with suitcases of every description and walked past the busy reception desk surrounded by newly arrived or just departing guests. He didn't even notice the almost ghostly presence of a frail-looking woman with dirty blonde hair in a pale green shift three or four decades out of fashion creeping silently toward the main dining room for the breakfast buffet, who, unknown to him, had won the Million Dollar Slots just the previous day.

(1) See Risque Business

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) i wonder what Criss is going to now , Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

It had gone well.

JD congratulated himself as he went over the sales figures from the fan club records. His intervention plan had proven successful. By presenting a unified front he had prevented his impetuous younger brother from certain death. His only regret was that he didn't think of it sooner when Criss performed that hotel demolition stunt in Florida. Come to think of it, he was sorry he didn't think of it when Criss began performing in the first place. Oh, well, at least they talked him out of going into that mine shaft; that, at least, was something for which to be thankful.

His sense of self-satisfaction gradually gave way to concern. Would Criss go back on his word? He knew that he had been reluctant to give up his idea of the mineshaft demonstration, but JD was confident, or at least hopeful, that his brother was mature enough to realize that his family and friends cared about him to the point of confronting him like they did and forcing him to honor his promise. If not, then it would be good-bye Vegas for all of them. If Criss would not keep his side of the bargain, JD and the family would. He would take his mother, his wife and his daughter back to New York, never to return to the Southwest--ever. It was a harsh measure for such a close-knit family as his, but as the de facto male head of the Sarantakos clan, he had to draw the line somewhere for their sake. His poor mother couldn't take the shock anymore, not after that heart scare a few years ago. Neither could he, for that matter: JD himself was almost fifty. True, he was in very good health and quite physically fit, but he felt working for his magician/escape artist brother was aging him prematurely; he blamed his greying hair more on Criss and his demonstrations than on age or genetics.

There, the sales figures were finished. JD set them aside and decided to call Criss and see how he was doing. He checked the time: ten-thirty AM. There would be a production meeting in the office that afternoon around one, he recalled. He hoped Criss would be over what happened that morning and settle down to work. If not, well, JD knew how to handle his recalcitrant little brother. Age had its privileges after all.

He dialed Criss' hotel room extension and waited for him to pick up. No answer after four rings. He disconnected and dialed his brother's cell phone number. It went straight to voicemail after the customary four rings. "Hey, Criss, this is JD," he spoke calmly. "Gimme a call when you get this. I just wanna know where you are and if you're all right, okay? We got a meeting at one here in the office, so don't be late. 'Bye."

JD hung up, a look of concern on his face. Where the hell was Criss? he wondered. Had he run off somewhere, or was he simply sulking in his room, refusing to answer the phone? If it was the former, okay, sure--a bit a fresh air would do Criss some good, clear his head. If it was the latter, however, well, JD would have to smack some sense into Little Brother's head. Still, he wondered where he could be.






Drive. Drive. Drive.

Criss forced himself to concentrate on that one word as he sped down the desert road in his Viper. He wanted--no, needed--to escape the Luxor, his family and his life. He still burned over what he felt was his family's interference in his career. It was bad enough that they ganged up on him like that, but to drag his girlfrend, Sandra, and Father Stefan into it as well was in his opinion hitting below the belt. He was relieved when they all left his suite; though his anger still smoldered, his conscience still needled him. He needed release, but how?

In desperation, he called for his Viper, the fastest car he owned, and drove away like a madman down the Boulevard and into the seclusion of the desert. He succeeded in putting the Luxor itself behind him, but he could not escape the swirling mass of emotions inside his soul. He tried in vain to shut out of his mind the humiliation of his family's intervention that morning, but no matter how far he drove, the voices of his family and friends followed him, refusing to be ignored.

This is it, Chris, this is the end! I can't take it anymore--none of us can! Either you scrap this demonstration, or I quit!

You promised me no more dangerous escapes, but you broke your promise again and again!

We won't be around when you get angry, because we won't be around at all! We'll all be heading back to New York, and you'll be on your own with your 'art' as company!

Sorry, Chris, but I'm siding with the majority here. Family comes first, you know.

Your mother loves you very much, Christopher...

I'm with JD and walking out on you.

You can't go on like this, Christopher! You've cheated death so many times, it's not even funny! You've been driving Mom into an early grave from all the worrying she'd done over you! And I can't count how many times you've nearly given me a frickin' heart attack from your crazy stunts!

Time and time again, I have watched you try to kill yourself for the sake of your 'art'. I can't take it anymore, Christopher Nicholas! I don't want to watch you die again and again and again! A parent should not have to outlive her child! I can't take it anymore! I can't take it anymore!

"I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!" Criss screamed as he swerved off the highway and into the desert, the Viper's tires shooting up clouds of dust and gravel in its wake. "I just can't (bleeping) take this (bleep) anymore!"

He sped through the desert, heedless of where he was going. He blinked back tears, forbidding himself to weep. He vowed to remain strong, to fight this thing, whatever it was, that was eating him up inside. He didn't care if he drove all the way to Mexico--so long as he had gas in the tank and his foot on the accelerator, he wasn't going to stop for anything, not for anything!

Except for the huge wall of rock looming up before him.

Panicked, Criss stomped on the brake pedal and twisted the steering wheel as far as it would go to the right, sending the Viper into a complete three-sixty spinout. The sleek black sports car came to a halt just inches from a collision into the rocky wall. Dirt and grit swirled around the Viper, coating its polished ebony surface with a layer of Nevada desert. Then, all was still again. Only the faint swish of a desert breeze could be heard, if anyone was around to hear it.

Criss let fly a loud four-letter expletive as he waited for his heart to resume its normal pace. He drew deep breaths, refilling his lungs with what little filtered air there was left in the Viper. Once he regained his composure, he pulled the latch on the driver's side door, opened it, and stepped out, ostensibly to check for any damage to the Viper, but more so to see where he was.

The dust had settled, giving him a clear view of his surroundings. As he looked around, he had a vague feeling of deja-vu, the sense he had been here before. He walked away from the Viper, still coated with desert dust, and began to explore the area, hoping to find a clue. He could see the tire tracks leading to the highway where he had made his impromptu detour, but he could find no familiar landmark to tell him his location. All he knew was that he was beside some sort of mountain or mesa, and that--

He stopped short before a jutting piece of rock sheltering a large hole in the wall. He examined it carefully, then a mental light went on in his head. Of course! He was at the Cave of Sorrow where he had met that weird Medicine Man character! He had vowed he would never return to the Cave after his last encounter with the enigmatic shaman, but he had come back out of sheer coincidence.

Or was it?

The Medicine Man had told him the Cave of Sorrow was a place for penitence, to reflect and atone for one's sins. Maybe he had been so guilt-ridden over the intervention that his unconscious mind led him here? No, he told himself firmly, it was just coincidence, that's all. He had been driving recklessly through the desert and ended up here by chance. To be unconsciously drawn here against his will was too creepy to think about.

Criss stood there by the Cave, the broiling Nevada sun beating down on his head. He had to do something, but what? Go back to the Luxor? That was the most sensible choice, but he just could not face returning home just yet, not after what happened that morning. Get back on the road and keep driving? He looked out onto the desert highway, and for the first time realized the futility of it all. He could not run away from his problems like this; sooner or later, he would have to deal with them. Then he looked down at the Cave of Sorrow. It was designed for reflection, so the Medicine Man told him, and it offered privacy that he seldom found outside his hotel suite. And it was better than being broiled alive out in the sun.

He got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the tiny cave. It was indeed cooler than outside, but the air was stuffy and stale. Nonetheless, he was determine to battle his personal demons inside this rock until he resolved to do whatever it was he needed to do. He positioned himself into his usual meditation pose--legs crossed, back straight, eyes closed--and emptied his mind of all thought. Sweat trickled down his face, but he did not reach up to wipe it away. It would have broken his concentration.

Soon he was in a deep trancelike state that could not be called sleep, but just as deep. He felt himself rising up out of the cave, light as a feather, and floating outward to--where? An astral plane? Another dimension? Heaven? It was hard to tell in the blurry whiteness that surrounded him; it was as if he was soaring through the clouds. Then the clouds parted, and he found himself in smoky darkness, the sound of chanting echoing in his ears.

He looked around and saw himself surrounded by leather supported by long, flexible wooden poles, with animal hides dangling from hooks like furry wallhangings. A fire in a small firepit of circled rocks lay crackling at his feet, the smoke rising through a hole in the roof. Criss deduced that he was in some sort of Indian lodge, but what was even more astonishing was who was in there with him: his mother, his brothers, his cousin George, his girlfriend Sandra, Father Stefan, Gerard, Banachek, and his manager, Dave. All sat in a grim circle around the fire, legs crossed, backs straight, waiting for something--or someone.

"What's the deal?" Criss could not help asking.

No one spoke. No one even looked at him. Then a new presence emerged into the smoky darkness, the figure of the Medicine Man, dressed in full shamanistic regalia: painted robe, beaded braids, and feathered staff. He met Criss' gaze with barely repressed indignation, and pointed his staff squarely at him. "You have offended," he intoned.

"Come again?" Criss muttered bemusedly.

"You have offended," the shaman repeated, still leveling the staff in Criss' face. "You have failed to honor your promise to your clan. Therefore, you have dishonored them. You have disgraced yourself in their eyes."

"Hey, now wait a minute!" Criss protested. "If this is about the mineshaft demonstration, I said I wouldn't do it!." He turned to his brother, JD, sitting beside him. "I tore up my notes, remember? You saw it yourself; you're a witness!"

No response. JD sat there like a statue, not moving, not speaking, not even blinking. Criss got down on his knees beside him. "JD?" he pleaded. "Say something!!"

Still no response. Criss turned to his mother. "Mom?" he cried. "Can you hear me?"

But she, too, was a statue, as were Costa, George, Sandra, and the others. With a rage born of fear, Criss turned on the Medicine Man. "What did you do to them?!" he screamed.

The shaman remained composed. "They cannot hear you nor speak with you," he said grimly. "They have banished you from their hearts and minds. It is your doing, not mine. You have offended them, therefore you are banished from them."

Criss swept his eyes over the stiff figures of his family and friends. "What can I do to get them back?" he pleaded. "I'll do anything, anything at all! You want money? I'll give you as much as you want! You name it, I'll do it! Just give me back my family!"

"It is not my doing," the Medicine Man repeated. "They have banished you from their hearts and minds because you have offended them. They will not speak to you, nor will they listen to you any longer. You are guilty, and this is their judgement against you."

The horror of being exiled from the family breast tore through Criss' soul, releasing a loud wail of agony. His scream was accompanied by a chorus of anguished cries from the very depths of Hell itself. He felt himself whisked away from the lodge in a cyclone, the wails of the damned mingling with the howling winds. Then a muscle spasm jolted him back into the real world, and he was back in the Cave of Sorrow, trembling and sweating harder than he had when he first entered. "Oh, my God!" he gasped, still shaking. "Oh, my God!"

He began to wonder if it had all been a dream. Could he have fallen asleep in here and dreamed it all? But it all seemed so real. He could still recall every detail of it: the lodge, the fire, the circle, right down to the animal pelts hanging from the walls. He had not only seen it, he had felt it, smelled it, heard it, experienced it as fully as he was sitting there. No dream of his had ever been that vivid. Maybe it had been a hallucination brought on by the stale air in the cave. But even that theory fell apart the minute he thought of it. It had been too real for him to imagine by any means.

Well, dream or hallucination, one thing was certain: he had to get out of that cave, get back home and start making amends before it was too late. Criss shot out of the tiny cave like a bullet from a gun and sped toward his dusty Viper. The hotel staff could handle the car wash, he thought. He had more important matters to attend to.




His first stop was the sanctified confines of Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church to confide in Father Stefan about his experience in the Cave of Sorrow and his encounter with the Medicine Man. It was not his first visit there--indeed, he felt it was the only place left on earth where he could talk freely without fear of his deepest secrets being splashed all over the tabloids. The kindly priest sitting opposite listened patiently as Criss described his dream/vision/hallucination and what the ghostly shaman had told him. When he finished, Criss asked desperately, "Do you think I'm going nuts or something?"

Father Stefan shook his head. "No, Christopher, I don't think you are going 'nuts', as you say," he assured him. "I think it's a sign from God."

Criss was puzzled at such a claim. "Why would God send a Native American shaman to me?" he asked bemusedly. "It sounds kinda screwy, in my opinion. I mean, wouldn't God send an angel or something along that line?"

"Well, the Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform," Father replied.

"Yeah," Criss conceded, "but this takes the cake! I mean, why would a Christian God send a pagan Indian shaman to try to convert me?"

"Maybe the idea isn't as 'pagan' as you think."

"Come again?"

"The idea of atonement for one's sins isn't solely a Christian one," Father explained. "I've studied many so-called 'pagan' religions, and they have many ways of dealing with it, some parallelling Christian tenets . Your Cave of Sorrow, for example: it utilized the concept of isolation for reflection. Some were outright banished or sent on pilgrimages. Today, we have the penal system where we isolate criminals from the rest of society so they can reflect on their offenses, at least in theory. In fact, the word 'penitentiary' comes from the word 'penitent', by the way; the modern prison was a Quaker invention designed for criminals to be alone with God and become penitent. Unfortunatly, it did more harm than good: prisoners in solitary confinement have been known to go insane from too much isolation. We're social beings, Christopher. We need people around us to feel safe and secure. Remember how you felt during your vision in the Indian lodge when the Medicine Man told you you were banished from the hearts and minds of your family? I know you, Chris--you couldn't survive without them."

"No," Criss admitted sorrowfully, "I couldn't."

"So let this serve as a lesson to you," Father Stefan concluded. "Consider your family's feelings whenever you hatch some harebrained stunt involving life and death. They want you to live a long and healthy life as well as a successful one. That means honoring your promise to your mother. Understand?"

Criss nodded feebly. Father Stefan, however, was not satisfied. He lifted Criss' face up by the chin with one finger. "Promise?" he pressed.

"Okay, I promise," Criss insisted.

Father Stefan nodded. "Good. Anything else you want to tell me?"

Criss thought about it. "Well, no, not really, except..."

"Except what?"

"Well, it's just that before I found the Cave of Sorrow, I always believed the concept of pennance was just a Christian thing, you know? Being sorry for your sins, confessing, doing pennance, stuff like that--I thought only the Church came up with all that. Shows a lot I know," he sniffed.

The priest smiled. "Well, the concept of salvation through Jesus Christ is a Christian tenet, but the concept of sorrow for wrongdoing is as old as civilzation itself. As I said before, many ancient civilizations had ways of dealing with it. Besides, to regret one's sins is a sign of sanity in a person; it means knowing the difference between right and wrong, between good and evil. Without it, we're no better than the animals. Even primitive pagan cultures like the one your friend the Medicine Man belonged to knew it. That was why they had the Cave of Sorrow in the first place--for those members of the tribe to go to and do pennance for their sins. It appeased the consciences of its members, and helped to preserve law and order within the tribe itself. Get it?"

Criss nodded again, firmly this time. "I get it."

"Anything else you want to discuss?"

Criss shook his head. "No, not right now, Father," he said, checking his watch. "I got a production meeting this afternoon, and I know you're busy, too, so I guess I'll be going."

He rose to leave. Father rose with him. "I'm still stumped about what I'm going to do in place of the mine shaft demonstration," he said. "I have no idea what I'm going to do now."

Father Stefan patted Criss on the shoulder. "You'll think of something," he said confidently. "And if you don't, well, give me a call."

Criss looked at him in surprise. "You?"

The priest smiled. "I might have an idea or two up my sleeve," he said cryptically.

"Well, I'm glad you do," Criss retorted, "because I sure don't."

Again, the priest smiled. "You'll do fine, Christopher," he said. "Just remember your promise, that's all I ask."

"I'll remember, Father," Criss said. "I promise."

"Good."

The priest and the magician shook hands, and the latter left, his heavy pendants jangling as he walked. Father Stefan returned to his office. Yes, he did have an idea for a demonstration for Christopher's show, though he had not worked out the details yet. In due time, he thought. In due time.

[Smurf]

Great chapter :) poor Criss , i don't blame him for getting out of that cave quickly , i would of done the same thing ,can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

One o'clock rolled around. As he made his way to the production office, Criss racked his brains trying to come up with a mind-blowing demonstration for the new episode, but at the same time keeping his promise to his family and Father Stefan. The mindshaft stunt had consumed him for the past week: he had spent hours planning, designing, redesigning, and laying out the escape plan. Now that it had been scrapped, he was at a loss to think of something else. What could he do in its place that would be a total mindfreak yet at the same time not cause him to go against his word?

He could not comprehend the lack of inspiration he felt. He had always had a fertile imagination and a creative nature when it came to planning demonstrations. Anything at all could trigger an idea: the light of the Luxor had beckoned him to levitate in its glare; the Pinoche jail challenged him to escape Houdini-style; racing his black Lambo inspired him to make it vanish in a cloud of CO2; even something simple as an oil drum sparked his creativity. Now, as he entered the production office for the meeting, his creativity seemed to have dried up, his inspiration vanished. He simply could not think of anything worth doing.

Criss flopped miserably onto a sofa in the waiting area of the production office. This sucks! he said to himself. I had a great idea for a demonstration, planned it all out and everything, and my own family turns against me for it! Now, I don't know what to do! I gotta do something--I'm under contract with A&E to produce another episode. But I'm all out of ideas!

He sighed in frustration and leaned back on the sofa. "Now I know how a writer feels when he suffers writer's block," he said to himself.

"Who you talking to?" he heard a familiar voice say.

Criss looked up and saw his brother, JD, standing over him. "Oh, hey, JD," he said, straightening up. "I... well, I was kinda talking to myself there for a minute."

"Well, you know what they say," JD said lightly, "better to talk to oneself than converse with an idiot."

Criss chuckled a little. "What does that make you?"

JD ignored the insult and sat down beside his brother. "You still upset over this morning?" he asked.

Criss shook his head. "No, not really," he replied. "I mean, I understand why you did it. But did you really have to drag in Father Stefan? And Sandra, for that matter?"

"Yes, Christopher, we did," JD told him sternly. "We've been watching you time and time again nearly killing yourself with these demonstrations, worrying ourselves sick over whether you'd been killed or not, and there comes a time when we have to stand up and say 'enough is enough'!" He laid a hand on Criss' shoulder. "I don't wanna bury you, Christopher," he said sadly. "I want you to outlive me, and Costa, and Mom. You bought a lot of joy into our family when you were born, so don't give us any more grief, okay?"

"Hey, I said I promised I wouldn't do it," Criss protested.

"Like you promised Mom you wouldn't do any more dangerous stunts after the Florida implosion?"

The last thing Criss wanted to do was get into a fruitless arguement with his eldest brother that might turn into a shouting match in the mood he was in. "Look," he repeated, "I cancelled the mineshaft demo, okay? It's completely scrapped. What I want to know is what am I going to do now? I don't have any ideas--care to help?"

"Sorry, Bro," JD said, "but you're the creative brains in this outfit. I'm no good at that kind of thing."

Criss slumped lower. "Look, we got plenty of time before we have to start shooting," JD told him. "Give it a rest for a day or so. Something will come to you. Just nothing life-threatening, okay? Promise?"

A reluctant nod of the head. JD leaned closer. "Promise?" he pressed.

"I promise, I promise," Criss said irritably. "I already said I wouldn't."

"What you say and what you do are often two different things," JD admonished. "Remember, I'm holding you to it. We all are." He patted Criss on the shoulder. "Now, come on," he said, "we got a meeting."

Criss rose and followed him into the meeting room, still glum over his lack of creativity. "You'll think of something, Criss," JD assured him. "You can do a lot of great demonstrations without trying to kill yourself, you'll see."

"Yeah, but I don't want to repeat myself, that's all."

"So, we'll toss some ideas around and see if anything sticks."

"Well, start tossing," Criss retorted, "because I'm all out of ideas."



George walked into the atrium feeling good about himself. His morning training session at Linehan's Gym had jump-started his mind and body, preparing him for the day and whatever his famous cousin had in mind for the new MindFreak episode. At least he didn't have to worry about some death-defying feat this time: Criss had given his solemn word before Father Stefan and the family he would not do any more risky demonstrations yesterday morning at the intervention, or at least the one he had planned. And George was going to hold him to it whether he liked it or not.

He had been working for his cousin Christopher ever since he hit the big time in Las Vegas, setting up props for demonstrations, managing the crew, and wherever his talents were required. It paid well, so well he sent money home to his mother back in New York and still had enough to support himself, but the stress level could go as high as Code Red. No matter how thoroughly he checked the safety system on every demonstration planned, or how meticulously he examined the equipment, there was always the nagging fear that the latest stunt Criss Angel did would end in tragedy lingering in the back of George's mind. So far he'd been lucky, but like Father Stefan said, one day Criss would push the envelope too far and end up in an early grave. It wasn't easy working for Criss, but he had to admit it was fun at times.

George approached the hotel deli for a quick snack. The pastries lining the glass cabinet under the counter looked tempting, but he passed them up. He was in strict training, he reminded himself, and the last thing he needed was an overload of sugar and fat. He chose a large apple from the wire basket on the counter and munched on it as he headed for the production office. Fresh fruit and whole grains kept him down to his "fighting weight" as Linehan called it, but he didn't want to lose too many pounds or else he'd be declassed from middle- to lightweight.

Criss and the crew, including his other cousins, Costa and JD, were waiting for him when he entered the viewing room. "Sorry I'm late," George said, dropping the apple core into the nearest wastebasket. "Just got back from the gym."

"No prob," Criss said. "We're just getting started."

George sat down on the sofa in front of the large screen television. Today they would be reviewing the finished Sports episode, fresh from the editing studio. George had been looking forward to this for the past two days; he especially anticipated the scenes from Linehan's Gym where he took on Criss in the ring. This is going to be good, he thought.

It was. In fact, it was better than George had expected. The pace and timing were perfect, but they paled in significance compared to the gym scenes. He laughed at Criss' discomfort upon entering the reeking gym ("You heard of Brut?" [coughs] "This is brutal!") (1), and his heroic but futile effort to take on George in the ring. The crew congratulated George on his easy victory while Criss sulked, humiliated to the core.

George grabbed Criss by the shoulder and hugged him in rough, manly affection. "Ah, c'mon, Criss!" he cajoled, "lighten up!"

Criss withdrew from his cousin's grip. "I'm still gonna get you in a rematch," he said. "Swear to God, I will."

"Geez, Criss, you are the sorest loser I know!" George said, rolling his eyes. "Get over it already, willya? You can't win at everything!"

"I know I can't win at everything," Criss admitted. "I just hate losing."

George sighed. There was no use arguing with Criss sometimes. He was too competitive--a virtue for a boxer, but not for life in general. He always had to be first, number one, the king of the mountain, ever since he was a kid. Time and again he had to be reminded that there had to be some give and take when dealing with everyday situations. Life was not all black and white, winners versus losers; there were times when it was better to compromise than compete, to work together for a common goal than try to one-up everyone else. So what if he lost a practice match in the boxing ring? Life goes on! Build a bridge and get over it!

The tape ran to the closing credits. Manny, the editor, shut off the machine and turned to the crew. "So, are we good?" he asked. "Criss? You wanna add anything, edit anything out?"

"Nah, it's good," Criss mumbled. "I can't think of anything."

"Okay," Manny said, "it's good to go."

The tape was ejected out of the player and boxed for shipment to A&E. "Okay, now for the next episode," Banachek announced. "Criss? Got any ideas?"

Criss sadly shook his head. "No," he murmured. "Ever since you guys sprung that intervention on me yesterday, I've been drawing blanks."

Manny, the editor, rose to his feet. "Well, if you don't have any ideas," he said eagerly, "I do."

Everyone looked at Manny, surprised and puzzled. Since when did a videotape editor have an idea for an episode? they wondered. But, since there were no other suggestions, they agreed to hear him out. "Okay, Manny," Criss said, "what've you got?"

Manny smiled smugly. "You may or may not know it," he began, "but I've been doing a little project on the side. I've been collecting outtakes, bloopers, and other rejects from the cutting room floor, so to speak, and compiling them into one hour-long blooper reel. Of course, I have to edit out all the four-letter words and stuff like that. I call it Criss Angel: MindFlop!"

Criss cringed and laughed over the corny title. So did the rest of the crew. "Ohhhh, God!" he groaned, nearly choking on his own laughter. "I can't wait to see it!"

Manny rose from his seat. "I'll go get it," he said, walking out of the viewing room. "It's in the studio."

"Yeah, go get it," Criss told him, still laughing. "In the meantime, let's all take a break and relax."

Gerard leaned back in his chair and opened a bottle of water. "God," he said, "I'm almost afraid to see what Manny's got on that tape."

"Well, I don't think it'll be anything incriminating," Criss said. "Just some flubbed lines and pratfalls."

"Manny also said he had some deleted scenes as well," Banachek reminded him.

Criss shrugged. "I'm still not worried. I mean, hell, if you can't laugh at yourself--"

"From what I've seen while taping," JD spoke up, "you got plenty to laugh about."

"Think there will be scenes from the boxing match?" George wondered aloud.

"Probably," JD said. "We'll just have to wait and see."

"Hope so," George said. "Because I want everyone to see just how badly I kicked Criss' ass in the ring."

Criss' good humor faded. His competitive spirit rose to the high-water mark. "Oh, really," he sneered at George.

"Yeah, really" George sneered back.

Criss stood up and took a fighting stance. "C'mon, George," he challenged, holding up his fists. "Bring it on! I'm ready for you!"

George groaned. "Oh, for chrissakes!"

"No, really!" Criss goaded his cousin, tensing for the first swing. "C'mon, George! Bring it!"

George stood up and looked at his impetuous cousin in disgust. "You're an (bleep)hole," he said, "you know that? You are the biggest (bleep)hole in the world!"

"What'sa matter, George?" Criss taunted, feinting a few punches. "Afraid to take me on? Huh? You chicken, George?"

With a deep sigh, George obliged and went into fighting stance. Criss came out with his right, but instead of deflecting or striking back, George siezed Criss' arm and hoisted him over his shoulders.

"Hey!! Put me down!!" Criss cried out in shock and outrage.

George let his hot-headed cousin dangle over his shoulders for a while, to the amusement of the crew, then tossed his struggling burden onto the floor with a loud thump. Criss sat splay-legged on the floor, once again humiliated by his cousin. George stood over him triumphantly. The laughter of his crew burned in his ears. "Maybe we should put that in the blooper tape," someone said, laughing.

Criss got back on his feet and glared at his cousin. "You are so dead, George!" he said menacingly. "You are so (bleeping) dead!"

George responded to this idle threat with a dismissive wave of his hands and turned to leave. "I'm gonna get you for this, George!" Criss called out angrily after him. "This ain't over, you know!

As far as George was concerned, it was over. He left the office to go to the men's room, gloating over his latest victory over his more famous cousin. He might be Criss Angel to the rest of the world, but to him he was just Cousin Christopher from East Meadow, Long Island, no matter how much he blathered on about how great he was.

George entered the men's room in the service corridor and relieved himself of the three bottles of water he had consumed during morning practice. Old Man Linehan never did get that drinking fountain installed, despite the eight thousand dollars advance Criss had given him to tape the show in his gym (1), so George had to bring his own water to keep himself hydrated during workouts. At least the ventilation system got upgraded, so it didn't stink as bad as it used to. Thank Heaven for small favors, George thought.

His personal business finished, he headed back to the production office, eager to see Manny's blooper tape. He had a pretty good idea what scenes would be shown since he had witnessed many of them, but whatever was on it, George knew it would be funny as hell. The title was pretty corny, but it was still funny in a way. It would have to do for now; maybe they could come up with something better after viewing it.

Screams from the atrium distracted him. George ran out of the service corridor to see what was the matter. He looked around the atrium and saw people looking up in horror and pointing toward the ceiling. He looked around frantically. "What?" he demanded. "What's going on?"

The answer came in the form of a heavy weight crashing down on his shoulders, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

(1) Risque Business

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) poor George , i hope he will be ok :) , can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

One-thirty PM. Bianca Honi emerged from Andamo's restaraunt after a delightful lunch of shrimp scampi pasta with white Zinfandel. She had dutifully declined dessert, though the cannoli did indeed look tempting. She congratulated herself for her self-discipline in resisting the urge to splurge on sweets as she had in the past. It had been difficult at first, but she preservered and in the end was rewarded by the loss of four inches around her waistline. That and her daily hour at the fitness club did the trick, not to mention her salon appointments and hours-long sessions at the spa which kept her skin youthful and radiant even in her thirties. It was expensive but worth it. Beauty such as hers was very high maintenance.

Still glowing over the excellent lunch experience, she decided to do a bit of gambling in the casino. This was Las Vegas, after all, she reasoned, and one didn't go to Las Vegas without doing a bit of gambling. That was what it was all about, right? Who knew? Maybe she would hit the jackpot and win a million dollars! There was a titillating thought: going into the casino, laying her chips on the right number, or calling the right cards in blackjack, or the slot machine landing on three in a row, and she would walk out a millionaire. Imagine what she could do with all that money! She could go on a cruise in one of those giant luxury ships she had seen on the Travel Channel, and travel in style. She could sell the house and buy a mansion with five bedrooms, two or three baths, and tons and tons of acerage. She could go on a massive shopping spree, buying the hottest designs, and lots of shoes as well. Maybe she could even get a Maserati or Lamborghini like the ones on display outside the hotel. The sky was the limit when she won her jackpot!

Bianca trotted happily to the escalator leading up to the casino floor, excited as a little girl about to see Santa Claus. I'm going to win! she thought estatically. I'm going to win! I'm going to hit the jackpot! I feel so lucky today! After all, didn't I win this trip here to the Luxor? That proves I'm lucky! For once, things are going my way!

The escalator glided upward, carrying its exuberant passenger as if she was on the stairway to Heaven itself. Bianca delicately stepped off the escalator onto the lavishly patterned carpeting and stood before the casino, ready to go forth and conquor.

The marquee lights rolled out WELCOME TO THE LUXOR CASINO in perfectly co-ordinated LED lights. It was a general greeting for all guests, of course, but as far as Bianca was concerned it was for her and her alone. She took a moment to draw a breath of the heady scent of money flowing around the room, money she was certain would soon be hers. Then the word CONGRATULATIONS rolled out on the LED screen. Bianca hesitated for a moment to see who was being congratulated. Maybe it was for herself, she reasoned. After all, she did win a contest for a weekend stay here at the Luxor. There was no reason to keep such a momentous occasion secret--of course they would want to announce it to the world! Elated, she waited for her name to appear on the screen.

What she saw deflated her ego and inflamed her rage: CONGRATULATIONS ANGELA HONI WINNER OF THE MILLION DOLLAR SLOT GAME!

Bianca could only stare at the sign, dumbfounded. Angela? Angela!? Mousy, wussy little doormat of a sister Angela who barely ventured past the front yard of their parents' house had won a million dollars in the casino?? It was inconcievable! It was incomprehensible! It was an outrage! To make sure she wasn't hallucinating she remained where she was and watched the LED sign complete its circuit and repeat its incredible message, scanning it more carefully this time. Again it broadcast the news that Angela Honi was the winner of the Million Dollar Slot Game. Bianca's stomach twisted itself into a knot. It was true. Angela had won the jackpot she had felt was rightfully hers just five minutes ago.

With ice in her heart and blood in her eye, Bianca stormed toward the elevator bank and rode up to her floor. She burst out of the car like a racehorse out of the gate and strode toward the suite. In her fury she fumbled with the keycard, inserting it into the slot two or three times backwards and upside down before she got it to deactivate the locking mechanism. Once she gained entry, she exploded into the suite, startling a confused Angela who was sitting on the sofa watching television. She glared at her frail little sister, her nostrils flaring like an angry bull. Angela stood up nervously, fearing the worst.

"You!!" Bianca snarled.

Angela gulped. "Me?" she squeaked.

Bianca stepped forward menacingly. "You won the Million Dollar Slots!" she growled, circling Angela like a hungry wolf around its prey.

Angela held up her hands in complete surrender. "Now, Angela," she said placatingly, "I can explain everything."

But Bianca did not give her the chance to explain anything. "You lying, cheating little (bleep)!" she growled. "You were out gambling behind my back! And you won the jackpot without telling me!"

Angela backed away, still trying to calm her enraged sibling. "Bianca, please..."

"Where's the money?" Bianca demanded. "What did you do with the money you won?"

"Bianca--"

"What did you do with the money, Angela?" Bianca pressed. "Answer me!"

"I don't have it!" Angela blurted out.

"What do you mean you don't have it?"

"The casino's holding onto it for now," Angela told her in a quavering voice. "It's their policy."

Bianca was livid. "Liar!" she screamed.

"It's true!" Angela insisted, backing up toward the door. "The casino's holding it for a forty-eight hour period to make sure it was a legitimate win."

"That's the biggest load of bull(bleep) you've told me yet, Angela!" Bianca sneered. "You're just holding out on me, keeping all that money for yourself!"

Angela wept in fear and frustration. "If it'll make you happy, I'll split it with you if you want," she offered. "It's just going to be a while, that's all."

Bianca was still not satisfied. "Half?!" she roared. "Like hell I'm gonna settle for half! That money was supposed to me mine, understand? I was the one who was supposed to win it, not you!"

For the merest moment, Angela saw her sister's body tense up, ready to spring. Instinctively, she bolted for the door. She grabbed the door handle and yanked it open with all her might, sending it swinging into the supporting wall beside it. Bianca gave chase, succeeding only in latching onto her sister's arm as she made for the elevator bank. Angela struggled to free herself from Bianca's grasp, but the latter had a death grip on her. The two women wrestled in the corridor, stumbling closer and closer to the four-foot railing overlooking the atrium twelve floors down. By sheer force of will, Angela managed to wrest herself free from Bianca. She collapsed by the railing wall, exhausted, trembling from the exertion. She raised a shaking hand, grasped the edge of the railing and pulled herself up to her feet.

She leaned against the railing, facing down into the atrium, her energy spent in the fight for freedom. Then, suddenly, she felt a pair of hands grab her by her shift, one at the shoulder, one below the waist, and heave her over the railing to the atrium below. Angela shrieked as she fell down, down, down to what she knew was certain death. Oh, God, don't let me die! her mind screamed. Oh, God don't let me die!

She landed with a bump onto something uneven. It made a loud ungh! as it collapsed under her weight. She heard excited voices surrounding her, and felt a dozen hands helping her up. Dazed and confused, she staggered to her feet, clutched her forearms as if embracing herself, and realized she was still alive. She stumbled to a wall and wept uncontrollably, traumatized from her brush with death and relieved she was still alive.

"You okay, honey?" she heard a woman's voice speak in her ear.

Angela nodded feebly, still sobbing.



George lay on the floor of the atrium, stunned. Around him, chaos and confusion erupted as guests, staff and security rushed to his aid. He felt the weight which had landed upon him being lifted from his body. Hands grabbed his arms and raised him to his feet. His back and shoulders ached, but he sensed no serious injury to himself. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like he had just gone three rounds with Mike Tyson. "What the hell happened?" he groaned.

That simple query unleashed a torrent of answers from the gathered onlookers. George whistled for order. "Hey! Everybody!" he cried out. "One at a time, please!" He turned to a security guard, the one person he was sure would give him a straight answer. "You know what happened?" he asked.

"Ask her," the guard said, jerking his thumb at a frail, plainly dressed woman leaning against the wall, shaking and sobbing. "She's the one who landed on top of you."

George stared at the poor woman with reddish-blond hair as thin as her limbs. "Her?" he said incredulously.

"Yeah," the guard said, nodding. "She fell from the balcony twelve floors up, and you broke her fall."

George grimaced in pain as he tried to move. "Her fall, and my back," he moaned. "Why the hell did she fall anyway?"

Again the wave of testamony. "I saw it!" a beer-bellied chap in an oversized white shirt and blue pants bellowed out. "I saw everything!" He pointed upward. "That (bleep) up there tossed her over the side!" he cried.

"It's true!" the woman next to him, presumably his wife, insisted. "We saw the whole thing! Those two women were on the balcony up there, and the bigger one tossed her right over the edge! We saw it all, didn't we, Larry?"

"Damn straight we did!" Larry, the husband, confirmed. "We're witnesses!" He extended a beefy hand to George. "Name's Larry Bobrowski," he said, "and this is my wife, Mona."

George shook his hand. "George," he mumbled. "George Strumpolis."

"Nice to meet you, George," Larry said. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," George replied. "Question is, is she gonna be all right?" He nodded toward the woman by the wall.

For once, Larry Bobrowski was at a loss for words. Mona went over to the weeping woman leaning against the wall. "You okay, honey?" she asked.

The woman nodded, still shaking and weeping. "Why don't you get yourself a cup of coffee or something and relax, willya?" she suggested. "You're gonna be okay."

George put an arm around her bony shoulders. "C'mon," he said, "we'll settle this with security. They'll take care of everything."

The trembling woman accompanied George to the security office. Officers on duty cleared the scene, ordering everyone to go back to whatever they were doing. "You know, that guy's a real hero," Mona Bobrowski told her husband, pointing at George. "He saved that poor woman's life; he's a real humanitarian."

"They should be going upstairs to get that (bleep) who tossed her over the railing!" Larry commented loudly. "Don't they got cops around here? She's probably halfway to Mexico by now!"

"Doubt it, Larry," Mona said. "She's still up there. If she tried to get away, they'd nail her, and even if she did get away, they'd still know who she was; they got video cameras everywhere in this place, remember? They probably got it all on tape."

Larry thought about that. Mona did have a valid point there, he conceded. Every Las Vegas hotel, casino and nightclub was rigged with cameras from top to bottom--especially the top, as the eye in the sky attested. Security here was tighter than the White House; a guy couldn't pick his nose without it being caught on camera, they were that diligent. When it came to surveillance, the CIA had nothing on Vegas, that was for damn sure.

But even the best surveillance technology could not compare to actual eyewitnesses. The lens could only cover a certain amount of space, while the human eye had a wider scope of the world. Also, the camera could only pick up images: it could not pick up sounds. Humans could hear spoken words and other noises around them that would be of greater use to law enforcement than just pictures alone. Larry and Mona Bobrowski had not only seen but heard the crime being committed, even though it was twelve floors up.

Mona turned to her husband. "You know what we gotta do, Larry?" she said. "We gotta give our statement to the police about this. We're witnesses, you know. It's our civic duty as law-abiding citizens!"

"C'mon, Mona," Larry groaned. "I don't wanna get involved in this! Let the cops handle it--it's their job!"

"Larry, we have to!" Mona insisted. "We're eyewitnesses to this!"

"So was everybody else down there!" Larry argued. "Let them talk to the cops!"

"But, Larry--"

"Mona, I'm on my vacation here! I don't wanna ruin it by gettin' involved in something that's none of our business! We already told them what we saw, and that's that! Now, c'mon, let's hit the slots!"

"You can hit the slots if you want to, Larry," Mona said firmly. "I'm going to tell the police what we saw!"

"Fine!" Larry shot back. "Go right ahead! Do your 'civic duty as a law-abiding citizen'! I'm headin' for the slots!"

The Bobrowskis parted ways. Mona marched straight to the security office, determined to see justice done with or without her husband's help. Once there, she saw the woman in the plain dress, a bit calmer now, with George Strumpolis by her side. How sweet of him to stay with her, Mona thought.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" a big, barrel-chested guard boomed at her.

Mona was startled. "Oh, uh, I-I came here as a witness," she stammered. "For what happened to that girl over there. I saw everything, me and my husband."

"Is your husband here with you?" the guard asked.

"No, not right now," Mona replied nervously. "But we saw the same thing, so I guess I can cover for him."

"We'll need to talk to your husband as well," the guard informed her. "Meantime, have a seat over there. The police will be here soon."

Mona sat down next to the plainly-dressed woman. "You okay now, honey?" she asked.

"I'm fine, thank you," the woman responded in a low whisper.

"What's your name?" George asked.

"Angela," she replied. "Angela Honi." She looked up at George. "I'm really sorry I landed on top of you," she said apologetically. "I hope I didn't hurt you too badly."

"Ah, don't worry about me," George said dismissively. "I've taken worse in the boxing ring. Besides," he added, sidling up to her, "I enjoy having beautiful women falling all over me."

Angela flushed. She had never been called beautiful before by anyone, let alone a man, and it secretly thrilled her. "So, what happened up there?" George asked.

"Yeah," Mona chimed in. "What did happen up there?"

"Well, it all started when my sister, Bianca, and I came here to the Luxor," Angela began. "Bianca loves luxury hotels and resorts, and every now and then she spends a weekend in one--she calls them her 'getaways', though I have no idea what she's trying to get away from. I mean, we live in North Las Vegas, so it's really nothing special. I think she just likes to be waited on hand and foot by the staff, pretending to live the life of luxury. What do they call it, champaigne dreams on a beer budget? That's Bianca."

"What about you?" Mona asked. "Why are you here?"

"Well, Bianca entered this contest, see, and won a free weekend for two in any hotel in Vegas. Unfortunatly, she couldn't get anyone to go with her, and the rules said two people, so I got dragged along. She hadn't been to the Luxor yet, so she chose this one. It didn't matter to me, really, because I really don't care for luxury living. Besides, I needed to stay home and work on my lesson plan."

"Oh, you're a teacher?" George said. "What do you teach?"

"First grade, Applewood Elementary School," Angela answered.

"Oh, that's nice," Mona commented. "So, what happened then?"

"Well, after we checked into our suite," Angela continued, "Bianca went to the spa while I remained behind to work on my lesson plan, which was fine with her because it spared her the embarrassment of my presence."

George was appalled at such a statement. "Geez!" he exclaimed, "what the hell kind of a sister is that?"

"Bianca's always been the dominant one," Angela explained apolgetically. "She's always been more...assertive than I am. Anyway, I finished my lesson plans, graded a few papers, and basically got caught up with work. Bianca hadn't returned from the spa, and I got bored. Then I realized that I was in Las Vegas--you know, gambling, shows, things like that. Why couldn't I have a good time as well? I mean, I have a little money saved up, right? So I went down to the casino to try my luck there. A few dollars couldn't hurt, right? I went up to one of the slot machines. I remember this man leaving it after having lost--he looked pretty frustrated. Anyway, I put in five dollars, pressed the button, and would you believe it, I hit the million-dollar jackpot! I never played a slot machine in my life, and here I am hitting the jackpot!"

"You hit the jackpot on your very first try?" Mona said disbelivingly.

"Yes, isn't that incredible?" Angela replied. "After I won, the casino manager took my name and address and said he would give me my winnings after some sort of investigation to make sure I didn't cheat or anything."

George shook his head. "Nah," he said, "you don't look like someone who'd cheat."

"Well, they said it was standard procedure," Angela told him, "just to make sure it was a legitmate win. Anyway, I left the casino and went back to the hotel room. Somehow, Bianca found out about my million-dollar jackpot, and she was furious--I mean she really blew a fuse! I offered to split it with her, but she wasn't willing to negotiate--she wanted it all for herself, just like she did everything else I got in life, whether it was candy or my allowance or whatever; she would either take it away from me or bully me out of it. 'Sharing' to her meant taking away, not giving.

"I tried to calm her down, but she went into tantrum mode. Now, I can handle tantrums with small children six or seven years old, but Bianca was just too strong for me. She said I had won 'her' jackpot and demaded I give it all to her. Somehow I managed to escape. I ran out of the suite, fearing for my life. Bianca ran after me, and she caught me. We fought for a while, and I managed to free myself, but then she just picked me up and tossed me over the balcony. I thought I was going to die until I landed on..." She looked at George.

"Me," George finished for her. "And don't feel so bad, okay? The important thing is, you're still alive."

"And so are you," Angela returned. "It's a wonder I didn't crush you."

George looked at the slender, almost gaunt figure in the plain dress beside him. "You?" he laughed. "It'd take three of you to crush me!"

Angela smiled shyly, a little Mona Lisa smile that George found appealing. For reasons he could not explain, he found himself strangely drawn to this shy young schoolteacher with the sad little smile and the large blue eyes that expressed more than the words she spoke. A tiny hint of an idea to take her out to dinner crept up from behind his mind. Well, maybe--

A commotion from the entrance jolted George out of his thoughts. Criss had burst into the security office, demanding to see his cousin George. The first guard he encountered simply pointed to the row of chairs where George, Angela and Mona sat. Criss crossed over to them. "You okay, George?" he asked anxiously. "I heard there was a falling body and--"

George halted his cousin's babbling with an upraised hand. "First of all," he said, nodding to Angela, "this is the 'falling body' right here. And second of all, we're both okay, so you can stop worrying."

"So, what happened?" Criss demanded.

"It's a long story," George replied.

"Angela here got tossed over the balcony by her sister," Mona said. "She won the jackpot in the casino, and her sister what's-her-name got all (bleeped) off about it and tried to bump her off. She landed right on top of George here."

"Oh, Geez," Criss groaned. "Are you okay, uh, Angela is it?"

"I'm fine now, thank you," Angela replied politely.

"So, where is this sister of yours?" Criss wanted to know.

"I don't know, really" Angela replied. "I don't know if they arrested her, or she got away, or what?"

The security guard present spoke up. "She's been taken into custody, ma'am. She's being questioned in another office right now."

"I got a few questions for her myself," George retorted.

"You and me both," Criss murmured.

Angela turned to George. "You know each other?" she asked timidly.

George laughed again. "Know each other? We're cousins!"

Both Angela and Mona were surprised. "Criss Angel is your cousin?" Mona echoed incredulously.

"Yeah, he's got me, another cousin, his brothers--we're all working for him," George told them jovially. "MindFreak Productions: family owned and operated since 2004!"

Both women laughed a little. Their revelry was interrupted by the chief of security, Lucas Macaffey. "Mrs. Bobrowski," he said. "You're needed for questioning in room three. Ms. Honi, you'll be in room two. Mr. Strumpolis--"

"C'mon, Luke, it's George, okay?" George said. "Mr. Strumpolis is my dad."

"Well, anyway, you're free to go now," Macaffey told him. "We'll take it from here."

George thanked him and rose to leave. Angela turned her thin face toward him. "Thank you again for saving my life, George," she said. "May I call you 'George'?"

"Sure, you can call me 'George'," George replied. "Can I call you tonight?"

Angela was flustered. Never in her life had a man so much as glanced at her, and now this man whom she nearly killed with her own weight was asking if he could call her! She had always been a wallflower, shy and withdrawn, bullied by her overbearing sister, Bianca, to the point of being ashamed of her own existance. She had always believed that men were not interested in plain-Jane schoolteachers like herself. This man, however, had not only looked at her, but actually said she was beautiful. I enjoy having beautiful women falling all over me, he had quipped. It might have been a throw-away line, but for Angela Honi, it was the greatest compliment she had ever received.

"Sure," she said tremorously. "I'm in room 1211."

"1211," George repeated. "Got it."

"Ms. Honi!" Macaffey barked impatiently.

"You'd better go now," George told Angela. "Macaffey doesn't like to be kept waiting."

They shook hands in farewell, though they lingered for a single affectionate moment, then Angela followed Macaffey to office number two. Mona, meanwhile, stood behind him, smiling knowingly. "You're starting to like that girl, aren't you, George?" she giggled.

George turned to her. "Good-bye, Mona," he deadpanned.

Mona turned to leave, but could not resist one more dig. "He likes her," she whispered conspiritorially to Criss. "I know he does. Why else would he want to call her up?"

"Good-bye, Mona," Criss said in the same deadpan tone.

Mona walked away with a guard escorting her. The two cousins left the security office to return to work. "You are starting to like her, aren't you?" Criss said.

"Now don't you start!" George warned him.

"Hey, c'mon, George, lighten up a little, willya? I'm just kidding!"

"Well, just stay outta my personal life, okay?"

Criss held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, fine!"

The two cousins headed back to the production office while Mona Bobrowski and Angela Honi were escorted into the back offices for questioning. Outside, the security staff was clearing the area of gawkers, telling them to move along, the show's over, nothing left to see, and to have a nice day.




One person in particular was not having a nice day, not by a long shot. Bianca Honi sat fuming in the security office, indignant over the undignified manner she had been taken into custody on trumped-up charges of attempted murder. Attemped murder, for heaven's sakes! The nerve of them! The absolute nerve! Why, she had never harmed a hair on the head of a living soul in her entire life, a statement she reiterated to the security guards who escorted her (read: frogmarched in handcuffs) down to the office where she now sat in a small room with only a table, two plastic chairs and a television set with an antiquated VCR on a double-decker rolling stand in one corner. She had tried to turn on the set so she could divert herself with a little TV, but all she got was static. Frustrated, she sat down again, vowing to contact her lawyer when she got out of there so she could sue the hotel for wrongful arrest, wrongful detention and a host of other charges she hadn't thought of yet. And, oh, how she would make them pay!

Then the police stepped in, accompanied by the Chief of Security Lucas Macaffey. With faces grim as a criminal jury, they confronted Bianca, who just sat there behind the table, scowling at them. Macaffey crossed over to the TV/VCR cart, turned on the set and recorder, then slid a black videocassette into the VCR. There was some static, then some wavy lines on the screen as the tape connected with the magnetic head of the player, then the grainy, black and white but still legible image of a hotel hallway appeared. One of the doors on the screen opened, and Bianca watched as she saw her sister Angela dash out with herself in pursuit. There was a struggle, then Angela collapsed by the railing, then stood up and leaned over it, then Bianca came over, siezed her by the shift and heaved her over the side. Angela's body disappeared from camera view; Bianca just stood there looking down for a moment, then walked casually back into the suite as if nothing happened.

Macaffey stopped the tape and turned to Bianca. "Anything you have to say about that?" he asked gruffly.

Bianca looked stunned. "It was an accident!" she wailed. "She was threatening to kill herself and I tried to stop her!"

"More like helping her along, from what I've seen," Macaffey retorted. "And anyway, your sister said you were trying to kill her."

"She's lying!" Bianca protested hysterically, rising to her feet. "You don't know what she's really like! She's always trying to make me look bad; she's been that way ever since we were children! When she did something wrong, I got the blame! I tried to be nice to her, invited her along for this little getaway weekend, and this is how she repays me! That meek little lamb look is just an act! I tell you, officers, Angela's a lying, ungrateful little (bleep)!"

Macaffey faced Bianca squarely. "Ms. Honi," he said calmly but firmly, "people lie all the time, but our videotapes don't. Our staff went over that tape several times, and there is no doubt that you deliberatly threw your sister over that railing. Now, you wanna make it easy on yourself and come clean, or what?"

Bianca glared back at him. "I want my lawyer." she demanded.

Macaffey stepped back and motioned to the two policemen. They stepped forward, handcuffed Bianca behind her back, and escorted her out of the room. "You have the right to remain silent," one of them intoned. "If you choose to waive that right, anything can be held against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you wish to have an attorney present but cannot afford one, one will be provided for you before questioning. Is that clear?"

"I got it, Officer Friday," Bianca retorted sarcastically. "And I can afford a lawyer myself, thank you very much."

They removed her quickly and quietly out the back. At least the officers did, anyway. Bianca was venting her spleen the entire time, threatening lawsuits, protesting her innocence, and vowing to get the best lawyer in the city, if not in the state, to come to her defense. The officers ignored her ranting and raving; they just shoved her into the back of a waiting cruiser, shut the door beside her and drove to the lockup. Once the cruiser left, peace and quiet once again returned to the Luxor.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :D , i hope George and Angela will get together , and her sister get sent to prison , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

gives new mean to the phrase dropping in

[Veritas]

The afternoon faded into evening. George walked nervously down the twelfth-floor hallway searching for Room 1211. Even though he had presented a suave front when he first met Angela Honi in the security office, he had been on pins and needles for the rest of the afternoon. He had asked her out to dinner--no hesitation, no hemming and hawing, just "You wanna go out to dinner with me tonight? Pick you up around eight." Just like that. And just like that, she had accepted. The moment George hung up the phone he was struck by the enormity of it all. Here was a woman he had just met (by landing on top of him from twelve floors up, for chrissake!), and right out of the blue he asks her out on a date! It was funny, in a way. Now he was scared (bleep)less.

He had managed to excuse himself from a night of after-show clubbing with his famous cousin so he could take Angela out for a nice quiet dinner somewhere. It was a sensible choice in his opinion; Angela didn't seem the party type, so shy and retiring she seemed. Beisdes, it would give him time to get to know her better, and vice versa. There was something about the bashful schoolteacher that appealed to him, though he just couldn't put his finger on it. Was it her watery blue eyes, her Mona Lisa smile, her shy demeanor? Or was it something else? Whatever it was, he was determined to find out.




"Room 1208, room 1210," he muttered under his breath as he passed the row of doors. "Room 1211! Here we are!"

He knocked on the door. "Who is it?" a muffled woman's voice spoke from the other side.

George wanted to respond with something witty or clever, but in his nervous state he simply blurted out "It's me, George!" He wished he had bought flowers or something for Angie. Maybe later on in the evening, he thought.

He could hear the door latch rattling open, as if nervous fingers fumbled with the locks, then the door itself swung open, revealing Angela Honi dressed in a simple silver shift accented with a plain pearl necklace, and her thin blond hair was pinned up formally. "Oh, hello, George," she said.

"You look really nice, Angie," George complimented. He extended his arm. "You ready to go?"

Angela took the proffered arm and went with him down into the atrium. She didn't ask where he was taking her; she wanted it to be a surprise. From the way he was dressed, she could guess it was someplace really special, somewhere with candlelight and soft music. Well, it didn't really matter where they went--they could have gone to McDonald's for all she cared and she would still have enjoyed the evening, just so long as she was with George.

What neither of them expected was the reception they received as soon as they entered the atrium. Cameras flashed in their faces, people applauded them as soon as they saw them. George and Angela looked at each other in bewilderment. "What's going on?" Angela wanted to know.

"Hell if I know, Angie," George replied. "Somehow I think Criss is up to this, but I'm not sure."

The cheering died down as the president of the hotel, Felix Rappaport, stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen," he called out. "On behalf of the Luxor Hotel and Casino, it is my pleasure to give you the winner of the Million Dollar Slots, Ms. Angela Honi!"

More cheering and applauding. A large prop check in the amount of one million dollars was hauled out and set in front of a stunned Angela and a bewildered George. More photos were taken, then a microphone was thrust into Angela's face. "Tell me, Ms. Honi," Felix said. "What do you plan to do with your million dollars?"

Angela swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. "Well," she replied tremorously. "I'd like to say, first of all, I want to thank you all for this great honor. I really appreciate it, thank you." Her courage began to trickle back. "And second of all, this money is going to help the homeless at Sanctuary Shelter in North Las Vegas. We're almost out of funding there, and this is going to help quite a bit. Thank you."

"Aw, isn't she wonderful, folks?" Felix crowed enthusiastically. "Let's give it up for Angela Honi!"

A round of applause, then everyone dispersed. The prop check was whisked away. Rappaport turned to Angela. "It's good of you to donate your winnings to the homeless," he said. "Should we make out the check to you or the shelter?"

"The shelter, please," Angela replied. "As soon as I get the account and routing number for the shelter's bank account, you can direct deposit it right to it."

Felix nodded in agreement. "That'll save time," he said. "We can arrange it in my office first thing tomorrow morning."

Angela smiled gratefully. "Thank you, sir."

"You're very welcome." Felix returned.

All three shook hands in farewell, and Felix left. George and Angela walked toward the main entrance on their way to their dinner date. Behind them, Larry and Mona Bobrowski watched them stroll away, arm in arm. Larry shook his head in dismay. "Geez-Louise!" he muttered. "She wins a million bucks at the slot machine, and then she just gives it all away to a bunch of homeless bums!"

"Yeah," Mona said admiringly. "She's a real humanitarian."

"She's a nutcase is what she is!" Larry griped. "I bust my ass working day in and day out earnin' a livin', never gettin' a break from no one, and here's little miss goody two-shoes throwing away a million bucks to a bunch of lazy good-for-nothin' bums! I mean, what's up with that?"

"What's up with that is that she cares, Larry," Mona retorted. "A lot of people are living out on the street because they've lost their jobs and their homes, people who were once as hard-working as you are. They end up in homeless shelters because they ain't got no place to go. By donating her winnings, she's doing more for them than the federal govenment. And if that's being a nutcase, then I say the country needs more nutcases like her."

"I still think she's throwing it away," Larry said. "But, hey, it's her money. I bet she'll be sorry she did give it away someday."

"I bet she won't," Mona said. "As far as I'm concerned, she's doing a good deed."

"So do the Boy Scouts," Larry retorted. "She could've at least saved half of it for herself, donate the other half, and things would've been okay for everybody. That way, she could still live it up a little, get some new clothes, buy a new house or something; she doesn't have to blow the whole bundle on the homeless."

"Larry," Mona said quietly, "some people don't care for living it up. They get greater pleasure helping others than by spending money on themselves. And I think she's one of them. Why else would she donate a million dollars to the homeless?"

"Because she's a total nutcase!" Larry shot back. "Now, c'mon, we're late for the show."



Dinner was wonderful. As a matter of fact, it had been superb. Granted, it had been in a small steakhouse on the outskirts of North Las Vegas, but it had been as wonderful as any five-star establishment in the whole of Nevada. George wanted to take Angie, as he began to call her, away from the glitz and glamor of the Strip. He could tell she was uncomfortable with luxury. And after that ambush in the atrium, he could tell she wanted to get away from there as quickly as possible. The restaraunt itself wasn't too busy, just a few elderly couples out for a late night dinner, but that in itself was a blessing; it meant no cameras, no nosy fans, no interruptions of any kind. Just himself and Angie, alone in a corner booth, dining on prime rib and baked potatoes.

After eating, they engaged in small talk, the kind newly aquainted couples always get into. George told her about his family emigrating from Greece, growing up in New York, what he did working for Criss Angel (throwing in a few embarrassing incidents about his famous cousin for a laugh or two), and things like that. Angela, for her part, told George about her teaching first-graders, and her volunteer work at Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless, two subjects she delighted in, and her relationship with her sister, Bianca, a subject she didn't.

"How can you stand her?" George wanted to know. "I mean, she tried to kill you! Pardon my French, but if I were you, I'd get the hell away from that (bleep)!"

Angela sighed, "I can't afford an apartment, not on a teacher's salary," she said. "And besides, Bianca's my only surviving relative. Our parents are dead, no grandparents, no cousins, nobody. I know she's...overbearing at times, but she's still my sister."

George leaned closer. "Look, just because she's your sister doesn't give her the right to treat you like dirt under the rug," he pointed out. "You gotta live, too, you know." He took Angela's hand tenderly. "Angie, you gotta start thinking about yourself for a change! Don't let this (bleep) of a sister of yours walk all over you! She threw you over a rail, remember? You didn't bail her out yet, did you?"

"Uh, no, I didn't, but--."

"Good. Don't. Let them keep her in the lockup until she goes on trial for murder. If you bail her out, she's gonna turn on you again. As long as she's around, you are not safe, you got that?"

Angela nodded tremorously. Part of her accepted what George had told her, but another part still remained loyal to Bianca, if only for family's sake. "I'll...I'll think about it," she murmured.

"Well, think about this," George said firmly. "She tried to kill you before; you let her out of jail, she'll try to kill you again. She doesn't give a damn about you, Angie, sister or no sister. All she cares about is herself. You told me yourself she smacked you around just because you forgot to pick up her dry-cleaning. Do you want to spend the rest of your life being Bianca's punching bag?"

He reached over and drew her close to himself. "Just don't do anything about it, okay? Leave Bianca in the lockup and get on with your life. Donate your winnings to the shelter if you want--they'll put it to better use than bail--but put as much distance between yourself and the sister from Hell, okay? You'll stay healthier that way."

Angela looked up at George. "You really care about me, don't you, George?" she whimpered.

George smiled. "Damn right I do," he replied.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) i think George and Angela make a very sweet couple :) can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

awwwwwwwwwwww

[Veritas]

The blooper tape Manny had cobbled together was the most hilarious thing Criss and his crew ever saw. There were scenes of Criss slipping, bumping his nose on the camera lens, and falling on his face. There were the deleted scenes from his boxing match with George, especially when he was carried out by his brother, JD. And of course, there were the flubbed lines, not only from Criss, but from Banachek, Gerard, and Joaquin (who mangled a few English words with his Hispanic tongue). Manny had taken the extra precaution of "bleeping" out the expletives Criss had been known to use, but he could not completely control the casual swearing.

JD wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes when the tape wound to its end. "We got a winner here!" he cried. "We got a winner!"

"So, are we all agreed on running the blooper tape?" Criss asked the assembled company.

Everyone roared their approval. "Okay," Criss said, "box it up and ship it out! We got two episodes in the can in one day! That's a record!" He turned to Manny. "Thanks, dude," he said, shaking his editor's hand. "You really came through in a pinch!"

"No problem," Manny said modestly. "All we need now is one more episode, and we got the season wrapped up."

The last episode. Criss hadn't thought that far ahead. Well, they still had plenty of time, he figured. He hoped to be out of his mental block by then. Still, it would take weeks if not months of planning to come up with a season finale worthy of the show, and then there would be rehersals, run-throughs, safety checks, and all the usual preparations that came with producing MindFreak. Whatever it was he wanted to do, it would have to be spectacular. He wanted the season to end with a bang. A really big bang.

A knock on the office door interrupted Criss' meeting with his crew. "I'll get that," JD said, rising to answer it. Everyone else went on discussing ideas for the season finale, unconcerned about who had just arrived.

JD opened the door and was surprised to see his mother standing there. Dimitra almost never attended any planning or production meetings, letting her sons do all the work while she went shopping or stayed up in her suite reading or watching TV. But what was an even bigger surprise was seeing Father Stefan standing beside her. "Is this the production meeting?" Father asked.

"Uh, yeah, sure," JD said, perplexed. "Come on in."

He turned to Criss and the rest of the crew. "Guys, Mom and Father Stefan are here," he announced. "Everybody, I want you to meet Father Stefan Mykolos from Holy Trinity Church."

The group said their hellos to Father Stefan, shook hands, then fell silent. The crew knew Mama Dimitra like their own mothers, but the presence of the priest unsettled them. Why would a clergyman come to a production meeting? they wondered.

Criss shook hands with Father Stefan. "Nice to see you again, Father," he said.

"Nice to see you too, Christopher," Father said.

He offered his mother and the priest a seat on the sofa, then sat down adjacent to them. "So, what brings you two here to our meeting?" Criss asked.

Dimitra turned to Father Stefan. "You tell him," she said.

"Well, I remember during our little...'discussion' yesterday that you had no idea what to do for your next demonstration," Father said. "Well, I'm here to help."

Criss was bemused but was willing to co-operate. "Okay, Father," he said gamely. "What's the deal?"

Father Stefan explained that while Criss and his crew had been putting the final touches on the Sports and MindFlop episodes, his mother, Dimitra, had gone to Holy Trinity Church to speak with Father Stefan. He had phoned her the next morning after the intervention to ask about Criss' plans for a new demonstration, and if he was keeping his promise not to risk his life again. Father also mentioned that if Criss hadn't thought of anything to do, he himself had one in mind, a far better demonstration than escapes or explosions, and would she be willing to hear his plan? Out of curiosity and a mother's concern for her son's life, she decided to speak to the good priest and find out what he had in mind. His idea had delighted her, and she readily agreed to arrange a meeting with her son, Christopher. As luck would have it, he had another meeting that very afternoon, and she and Father Stefan had arrived just in time to present the plan to him.

"First of all," Father began, "there are two Las Vegases: the one everyone sees, and the one no one sees. The one everyone sees is the glitz, the glamor, the trappings of wealth, the Vegas of the travel brochures and television commercials. They see the bright lights of the Strip, the overhead panorama on Fremont Street, the scantily clad dancers, the performers. They see you creating spectacular illusions on stage. They are dazzled by the brilliance, the affluence, the thrill of it all. It's the Las Vegas you live in every day, Christopher, in your luxury hotel with all the amenities. But there is another side of Las Vegas, the side almost no one sees, or even knows exists. It's one of crushing poverty, of homelessness, of despair. It's one of run-down apartment buildings covered with graffitti, of pawn shops and liquor stores with bars over the windows to prevent break-ins. Gangs roam the streets, preying on the innocent. Drugs can be purchased as easily as lottery tickets. Police sirens blare throughout the night--those who live there no longer pay any attention to them. This is the Las Vegas I have seen, the one they don't show you except on crime shows."

Father Stefan leaned in closer. "You live for danger, Christopher. You've walked through fire, tortured yourself in the air from fishhooks, survived drowning several times over, and God only knows what else. But those were dangerous situations you put yourself through. They were illusions--most of them, anyway. The situation I'm describing is all too real, existing long before you became famous. You may be loved and respected on this side of Vegas, but once you've crossed over to that other side, you'll find yourself a target for robbery--or even murder."

"I can defend myself," Criss retorted bravely. "I've studied martial arts for years."

"Can martial arts defend you against a gun?" Father Stefan argued. "There are thugs out there who are better armed than the police!"

He readjusted his glasses. "What I want you to do is to go to Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless in North Las Vegas. It's a co-operative run by a few local churches, including ours. It's just a few blocks from Holy Trinity, so if there is trouble you have a place to go. Take your camera crew and film your episode there. Entertain the residents, or at least talk to them, but show the world that other side of Las Vegas, make them aware that it exists and those unfortunate enough to live there need help. But be careful when you are there, Christopher. There are gangs who have staked out territory there, and they might not welcome the publicity."

Criss turned to his mother. "And you're okay with this?" he asked.

"Compared to being blown up in a mineshaft," Dimitra replied, "I think it's perfectly safe. Besides, you'll have your brothers and your cousin George with you to protect you."

"Great," Criss said unenthusiastically. But who's gonna protect them? he worried inwardly. He turned to his crew. "Well, guys," he said, "what do you all think? Should we go with Father's idea?"

"I'm game," JD said. "I mean, if you're gonna risk your neck, why not do it for a good cause?"

"Anyone else?"

George shrugged. "Like Aunt Dimitra said, compared with your other idea...well...but we're gonna have to beef up security if we're going into gang territory."

Everyone nodded in agreement. "Keep the camera equipment locked up as well," Costa suggested strongly. "We should be all right."

Criss looked around the room. "So, we're all in agreement?" he asked.

The vote was a unanimous yes. "Okay, Father," Criss agreed. "We'll go with your idea. You contact this shelter you talked about and we'll do the rest."

Father Stefan nodded. "Good."

The meeting was adjourned. Father rose to leave. Dimitra showed him out. "Thank you, Father," she said gratefully. "I can't tell you how grateful I am that you came up with this idea to have Christopher help the poor instead of doing some dangerous stunt."

"I'm glad to be of help, Dimitra," Father Stefan said. "But I'm beginning to wonder if I'm not putting him in greater danger than he himself ever did."

[Smurf]

Great chapter :) i wonder what criss will make of the shelter , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

Can't wait to read more

[Veritas]

It was nine-thirty PM at Liquidity, Criss' nightclub in the Luxor, and the place was hopping even for that early hour. Fashionably dressed partygoers jumped and gyrated on the few square inches of space they could find on the dance floor to the deafening beat of the music pulsing from the deejay's booth. Garish lights flickered and swayed around them, giving the dancers a surreal glow. In the midst of all this happy chaos wait staff manoeuvred around the crush of bodies with their trays of multicolored beverages artistically arranged by the bartenders to serve those sitting at their designated tables or booths.

One large booth in a corner proved to be more popular than the rest, simply because Criss Angel himself was holding court there with his entourage. Criss basked in the glow of adoration, sipping a Martini between signing autographs and posing for picutres. He was in his element and was happy as a lark. His entourage of crew members also shared the spotlight, but his brothers beside him merely tolerated it. Many Loyals, as Criss' fans were called, carried the same torch for them as they did for Criss himself, but they knew it was only because they were his brothers and they worked for him--guilt by association, as JD put it once. It had its perks, but the loss of privacy was a burden; JD couldn't even take his wife out to dinner without being followed by overenthusiastic fans. Tonight, he could not help but envy George going out with his new girlfriend--what was her name?--that woman who landed on top of him when she got tossed off that balcony. At least he was enjoying a bit of privacy, not to mention a bit of peace and quiet.

The pressure around the booth eased as some of the crew got up to dance with some of the lovely ladies in the club. Criss remained to finish his Martini while JD and Costa nursed their drinks. "Isn't this great?" Criss shouted enthusiastically over the loud music. "Man, I'm sorry George isn't here! He don't know what he's missing!"




The large black Land Rover pulled up to the main entrance of the Luxor Hotel. Two parking attendants swung into action the moment it stopped at the curbside, one to let out its passenger, the other the driver. The latter tossed him the keys to the Rover and escorted his date for the evening into the hotel, his muscular arm encircled around her tiny waist.

Angela looked up at George. "I had a lovely time, George," she said, smiling happily for the first time in ages. "Thank you again for a wonderful evening."

George gave her an affectionate squeeze. "Hey, my pleasure," he replied nonchalantly.

They strolled toward the elevator bank, the carpenter/technician with the prizefighter's physique simply clothed in a suit and tie, and the frail, shy schoolteacher in the simple silver sheath, oblivious to all but each other. Angela seemed to float on air as she glided toward the elevator, returning to earth just long enough to fish out her keycard to her suite. She was floating again when George allowed her to enter the elevator first, a simple act of courtesy that elated someone so unaccustomed to privilege.

The elevator whisked them silently to the twelfth floor without stopping. Angela had the sensation of being carried away on angel's wings to Heaven, so entranced she was with George by her side. The doors slid open, revealing not lacy clouds or sunbeams but the ordinary hallway of the hotel. Still, this did not diminish her bliss; even passing the spot where Bianca had thrown her to her doom had no ill effect upon her.

They stood before the door of the suite. Had anyone in the video surveillance room been watching, he or she would have seen two lovers saying good night by the large double doors of room 1211. The grainy black and white videotape would have recorded their first awkward kiss (Angela came just about up to George's chin so he had to stoop a little) before going into the suite. The eye in the sky had recorded such scenes from the first day of its installation; so long as there was no trouble, it didn't care in the least.

For Angela, however, it was the beginning of something wonderful. To see George lowering his head toward her face and feeling him kissing her--yes, kissing her!--right on the lips was the most transcendent moment she had experienced in her life. For almost twenty years boys had not even acknowledged her existance, let alone take an interest in her, and now here she was, savoring her very first kiss from a man, a real man, a man who had saved her, however inadvertantly, from certain death and who had taken her out on her first real date! If this is a dream, she thought, I don't want to wake up!

As for George, well, he didn't care if it was only the middle of May--for him, it was the Fourth of July! The moment he pressed his lips against Angela's, the fireworks flew, the pinwheels spun, and the band played the Stars and Stripes Forever! And he had only met her yesterday! True, it had been in rather peculiar circumstances, but he began to believe that meeting Angela Honi had not been circumstantial but the hand of Fate at work. When he was with her, he couldn't think of anything else; not even his crazy cousin, Criss, could erase her from his thoughts. To think that this skinny little schoolteacher had such an effect on a big lug like himself!

They withdrew their lips and gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, unable to speak. They sensed the time of parting had come, but both were reluctant to separate. Then, Angela blurted, "Do you want to come inside?"

George couldn't say yes fast enough. A quick slide of the keycard in the doorslot and both were inside the suite. George had never been inside the Nefertiti Suite before. though his work with MindFreak Productions had him in and out of the Luxor daily. It was almost a spacious as Criss' suite, with its Egyptian columns spiraling upward, decorated with heiroglyphics straight from the Land of the Pharohs. He didn't care for the decor, however; he could have been in King Tut's tomb for all he cared, just so long as Angela was by his side.

Once inside the suite, Angela shifted into hostess mode. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked.

In his lovestruck mood, George would have taken a dirty glass of water straight out of the toilet from her hand, but his rational side suddenly took over. "Uh, no thanks," he said. "I gotta cut back on the caffeine. I'll be up all night if I do."

Angela nodded. She was not disappointed, but she felt she did the right thing by asking anyway. It was the polite thing to do, after all. Besides, she wanted to keep him near her a little longer. She drew closer to him, basking in his presence. They embraced one more time. She wished there was some way to keep George a while longer, but--

"So, you're back," a chillingly familiar voice spoke up.

They sprang apart. The giddy elation of love within Angela crashed and burned, while the old feelings of fear and anxiety rushed up like a forest fire. George could only stare in bewilderment at the malvolent figure of Bianca Honi standing before them.

[RACHEL02189]

All right who bailed out the wicked witch of the west?

[Smurf]

omg who let her sister out , can't wait to read more .

[Veritas]

Angela managed to find her voice. "How did you--"

"Get out of jail?" Bianca finished for her. "I had to post my own bail, using an advance frommy trust fund!" Her fury rose. "I sat in that Godforsaken hellhole half the night while you and your boyfriend there were out on the town! You have no idea what I've been through, sitting in that stinking cell for almost an eternity, waiting for you to come up with my bail money! But nooooooo! You had to go whooping it up with Joe Schmo there, leaving me to rot in jail all alone! Finally, I had to call a bail bondsman, I had to post twenty-five hundred dollars of my money so I could get out of there!" She glared at Angela. "I don't know how you can live with yourself, abandoning your poor sister like that!" she wailed.

"Oh, cry me a river!" George snarled. He held up his hand and rubbed his fingers together. "You hear that?" he said. "That's the sound of the world's smallest violin."

"You stay out of this!" Bianca snapped. She jerked her thumb at George. "Who the hell is this loser, anyway?" she demanded.

Angela cleared her throat. "This is George," she murmured. "George Strumpolis. The man who saved my life after you...after I fell from the balcony. Now could you please be nice for once?"

But Bianca had no intention of being nice. "Geeorrgge!" she sneered in his face. "Geeorrgge Strum-poll-iss! Hmph! What the hell kind of a name is that?"

"It's Greek," George replied sourly, "and it's mine. You got a problem with that, lady?"

"Are you threatening me?" Bianca was suddenly defensive.

"I ain't threatening you, lady," George replied. "I ain't threatening you. But right now, I feel like--"

Angela barged in between them. "George! Bianca! Please!" she pleaded. "Let's not start fighting here!"

"Well, he started it!" Bianca charged.

Now George was on the defensive. "Me! You're the one who tossed your sister over the edge out there, remember? They should've kept your skinny ass in jail for that!"

"She tried to kill herself!" Bianca protested. "I tried to stop her! It was all an accident!"

"Not from what I heard from security," George shot back. "They got it all on tape. They got you grabbing Angie by her dress and heaving her right over the side. I'm talking concrete evidence, baby, the kind that judges and juries can use to convict you beyond a shadow of a doubt. They'll send you so far up the river you'll never come back down again."

"Uh, George," Angela spoke up, trying to control her panic. "I think you should go now."

"Yeah, George," Bianca chimed in sarcastically, "I think you should go now." A mocking smile creased her face. "Just leave the money on the dresser before you leave."

Angela was perplexed, unable to comprehend that last statement. George, however, realized the insult immediatly and stepped toward Bianca. "Tell you pimp I'm not interested in your services, Bianca," he retorted.

An irate Bianca stormed into the master bedroom and slammed the door. George turned to Angela. "I'll be at the shelter on Monday," he told her. "I'll see you then." He gave her a peck on the forehead. "Good night, Angie. And if Bianca gives you any grief," he added, handing her a small white card from his billfold, "give me a call. Or at least call the shelter if you can't get hold of me. I don't want you ending up in the morgue."

Angela took the card gratefully. "Thank you, George. And I'm sorry about Bianca--"

George silenced her with an upraised hand. "Don't be," he said. "Just get the hell away from her as fast as you can. Stay with a friend or something, but don't stay here. You won't survive the night with that (bleep) of a sister of yours!"

"Take me with you!" Angela pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Huh?"

"Take me with you! You're the best thing that's ever happened to me! I'll do anything, anything at all! Just take me away with you!" She threw her bony arms around him. "I love you, George! I love you more than anything in the world!"

George's mind raced. He wanted to help Angela, but what to do? The easiest thing would be to take her to his place--he had plenty of room--but his strict Greek Orthodox upbringing forbade his living with a woman out of wedlock; it wouldn't sit too well with his family, especially his mother. Nor could he take her to her own home, not with Bianca out on bail--she'd be a sitting duck. Finally he hit upon the only logical solution he could come up with: Sanctuary Shelter. He recalled Father Stefan mentioning that he worked there with some other clergymen--maybe he could help her. It was worth a shot. Anything was worth a shot compared to leaving poor Angela to her fate with that sister of hers.

He looked down at Angela. "Get your stuff together," he ordered her. "I can't take you to my place, but I can take you to the shelter. You'll be safer there--if you'll be safe anywhere."

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) i hope Bianca go to jail soon , i think George and Angela make a sweet couple :)

[Veritas]

Monday morning. Father Stefan drove carefully through the rough part of North Las Vegas. Everywhere he looked he saw despair in the boarded-up windows of abandoned buildings spraypainted with gang graffitti, in the crumbling apartment buildings lining the cracked pavement of the streets, and in the faces of the people passing by like the walking dead. A few gazed at him, glassy-eyed and apathetic as he passed. It was as if the whole neighborhood had simply given up the will to live.

He pulled into the fenced-in parking lot of Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless and parked close to the back entrance. He took the extra precaution of locking his car and setting the alarm; he knew there were whole bands of car thieves and "choppers" who could strip a car parked on the street down to its chassis faster than a pit crew at the Indy 500. This was why the shelter staff parking lot was surrounded by ten feet of chain-link fencing topped with razor wire, ostensibly to provide security for all concerned, but it gave the place the air of a prison yard.

Pastor Robert Beaman was already there; Father Stefan could tell by the sight of the beige Chrysler minivan parked by the loading dock. Among those who chartered the shelter, Pastor Bob, as he was affectionatly known, was the most dedicated, volunteering what time he could spare in ministering to the shelter's residents. He even used his own minivan to pick up transients from the street and drive them to Sanctuary, a risky undertaking since there were some homeless people with such severe mental and emotional problems that they often became violent.

Still, Father had to admire the man's zeal; the whole project would have come to a screeching halt if not for Pastor Bob. He was the true heart of the shelter, the man who spearheaded the fundrasing drives and kept the lights on in the building. He could do so much with so little, a gift the shelter depended on week after week. Father Stefan helped out as much as his limited resources would allow, but with more and more of his own parishoners losing their jobs and homes, those resources were drying up alarmingly. All he could do was pray for a miracle.

He found Pastor Bob in the clergyman's office, the common room all the pastors working in the shelter used for business. He was a stocky man, his complexion a tawny brown, the result of a mixed-race marriage; he often referred to himself as "Halfrican", or half-African. He was good-natured, even jovial, always ready with a smile. "Hey, Bob," Father Stefan greeted him casually.

Pastor Bob looked up. "Steve!" he exclaimed joyfully. "How's it going?"

Father Stefan sat down. "Well, I just got back from meeting with one of my parishoners," he replied casually. "He promised to come down to the shelter and help out in a way."

Pastor Bob looked at the priest bemusedly. "What are you trying to say, Steve?"

Father Stefan plunged. "Well, the person I'm talking about is none other than Criss Angel," he said.

The pastor's eyes bulged from their sockets. "The magician?"

Father nodded. "Actually, his mother attends Mass when she's here," he explained. "She called me Friday morning to help her talk him out of doing this hare-brained stunt involving blowing himself up in a mineshaft or something like that, and so we got the idea of him coming to the shelter and taping his show here."

Pastor Bob remained skeptical. "Uh-huh. Okaaaayy."

"You see any problem with that?" Father Stefan asked cautiously.

"Oh, no! Nononononono!" Pastor Bob demurred. "It's just that I can't believe you could approach a big-time celebrity just like that and convince him to do a show here. Me? I can't even get a toe in the door of some of their agents, let alone try to get 'em to do a fundraiser!"

"As I said before, his mother attends Mass at Holy Trinity," Father repeated. "And believe you me, Criss is a very dutiful son where his mother is concerned. I'm not saying he's a 'mama's boy', but in many ways he's a very traditional Greek son: dutiful, loving, obedient--mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Well, he's not perfect, Bob," Father protested. "Cut the guy some slack here!"

Pastor Beaman shrugged. "Well, whatever," he said dismissively. "Anyway, you said he's gonna do a show here?"

"One of his shows here," Father clarified. "He's got this TV series, and since his mother and I scotched his mineshaft stunt, I offered this in substitution for it. 'Show the other side of Las Vegas,' I told him. 'Make people aware of the poverty and misery you and I see every day'. If he can make the world more aware of the homeless situation we got here, maybe we can finally get some real help."

"Lord willing and the crick don't rise," Pastor Bob added.

Father Stefan chuckled. That was one of Bob's pet phrases, learned at his grandmother's knee in rural Missouri. "You think you could also get Criss to make a...personal donation?" Pastor Bob asked. "We could really use the money."

"He's coming over in person tomorrow to get a 'feel' of the place," Father Stefan replied. "I'm sure that once he sees the shelter and meets the residents personally--especially the children since he has a soft spot for kids, what with his Make-A-Wish foundation and all--I'm sure he'll be moved enough to help out financially." He smiled facetiously. "Lord willing and the crick don't rise," he added.

Now it was Pastor Bob's turn to chuckle. "Well, I'll be praying for your success, and Criss's," he said. "Let's hope that he lives up to his last name and brings us the publicity and the help we need."

"Criss is a good man by nature," Father Stefan insisted. "I'm sure he won't let us down."

"Let's hope not," Pastor Bob said.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

Monday morning, and Angela was in her tiny room at Sanctuary Shelter, getting ready for her teaching job at Applewood Elementary School. Her room was smaller than the one she had at home, but it offered more privacy, not to mention protection from her sister, Bianca. Here, she didn't have to listen to a litany of complaints about her incompetance or her lack of intelligence, nor was she forced to run Bianca's errands or do housework when she got home. For once, Angela felt relaxed in the early hours of the morning.

When she had escaped the Luxor with George that Saturday night, carrying only her overnight bag and school satchel, she felt like someone defecting to another country. They had stopped briefly at the house just long enough for her to gather more clothes and a few personal belongings (so few they fit in a plastic grocery bag), then sped to the shelter. She had to leave her little Chevette behind, unfortunatly. Until she could make better living arrangements, it would have to remain at the house; parking it at the shelter would be inviting car thieves who would think nothing of stripping it down for parts. Still, she was not worried about it--George would be picking her up that morning and taking her to school, then returning to pick her up in the afternoon after looking over the shelter for Criss' show.

Angela picked up her school satchel and her purse and headed out the door. Passing the clergyman's office, she recalled that her casino winnings should be in the shelter's bank account by this afternoon. She smiled gleefully. Pastor Bob's gonna get a big surprise when he checks his balance! she said to herself. I wonder what's going to be left after taxes, though. Oh, well, whatever's left, it's going to be a big help around here!

She tripped happily into the lobby, her thin face aching from smiling so much (little wonder, having had so little practice). She was doubly delighted when she saw George standing there waiting for her. He kept his promise! she thought elatedly. I knew he would!
"Hey, Angie," George greeted her. "Ready to go?"

Angela said nothing, but threw her arms around him. It didn't matter to her whether he was driving her to work or taking her to Tahiti; she was raring to go with him anywhere. "I'm ready," she said. "Let's go.

A gruff harrumphing jolted her back to earth. Both turned aside, a bit flushed with embarrassment. Beside them were Father Stefan, staring disapprovingly at such a blatant display of public affection, and Pastor Bob, who looked both shocked and amused by it.




Pastor Bob rose from behind the desk and accompanied Father Stefan out of the office. Around them, life in the shelter went on: there was a Bible study session going on in one small room, an AA meeting next to it, a job skills course taught by a social worker volunteer across the hall, and the day care center at the end of the corridor. As the two clergymen walked into the lobby, they encountered two people familiar to each of them: a skinny, plainly dressed blond-haired woman, and a man in a cutoff muscle shirt showing off well-developed biceps, embracing each other like lovers. It came as a surprise to both pastor and priest; Angela Honi had a reputation as a wallflower, shy and retiring, almost withdrawn at times. And now here she was in the arms of a man, hugging him as if he was her husband.

"That must be George," Pastor Bob murmured to Father Stefan. "You know, the guy who broke Angela's fall when her sister threw her over that balcony."

Father Stefan nodded in confirmation. He had heard about the fall at the Luxor, but it did not mitigate his indignation over such a scene. He cleared his throat to make his presence known. George and Angela withdrew immediatly, a bit embarrassed at first, then exchanged nervous smiles with the two clergymen. Pastor Bob merely smiled back. "Hello, Angela," he greeted her warmly. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Pastor," Angela responded politely. "Oh, George, this is Father Stefan," Angela said.

"Uh, we already know each other," George told her. "My Aunt Dimitra goes to his church."

"Oh!" Angela exclaimed, both surprised and delighted. "Oh, well, that's nice!"

"Good to see you again, George," Father Stefan said, still disapproving of his and Angela's conduct but willing to let it slide.

"Good to see you again, too, Father," George returned, unintimidated.

"So," Father began, "what brings you here to Sanctuary Shelter?"

"Oh, I'm just here to take Angie here to school, and then case out the shelter for the show, that's all," George explained casually.

Father Stefan grunted. He turned to Angela. "Pastor Bob has told me George here saved your life," he said. "Is that true?"

"Yes, Father, he did," Angela replied, and she related the whole story of her winning the million-dollar jackpot in the casino on her very first try at a slot machine, her sister's violent reaction to it, her falling off the balcony and her landing on George Strumpolis. "It was accidental, really it was," she insisted. "But he still saved my life."

The priest grunted again. He turned to Pastor Bob, who nodded in confirmation. "Well, the Lord was certainly looking out for you that day," he said, shaking his head. "But what happened to your sister?"

"She got arrested for attempted murder," Angela answered almost sadly. "She kept insisting it was a suicide attempt on my part and she was trying to save me, but the video surveillance tape proved otherwise." She lowered her eyes so as not to allow him to see the tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't know why she treats me the way she does," she sniffled. "I try to please her, but she always turns on me, taking more than I can afford to give. I tried to offer her half of the jackpot, but she wanted all of it. I just don't understand why."

Pastor Bob laid a hand on Angela's bony shoulder. "Because your sister--what's her name again?"

"Bianca."

"Bianca. Well, it seems to me that Bianca is a narcissist, someone who is so self-centered she can't see beyond her own wants and desires. You can't please a person like that, no matter how hard you try; she lives in her own little world where she's the queen, and she's just letting you live in it. She has no empathy for anyone, not even members of her own family. What's hers is hers, and what's yours is hers--that's how she thinks. She can't stand the thought of anyone, least of all you, getting all the breaks instead of her. When you won that jackpot in the casino, she was so eaten up with greed and envy that she tried to kill you. It's Cain and Abel all over again." He smiled reassuringly. "But the Lord was watching over you, Angela," he continued. "He kept you from falling to your death. Maybe in a bizarre sort of way, falling on top of your friend, George, here, but He did protect you."

"Amen to that," Angela said with all sincerity.

"Well, George," Father Stefan said, "since you and your famous cousin will be taping your show here, you might as well get a feel of the place. We'd give you the fifty-cent tour if you're willing."

"Yeah, I'd like that," George replied amiably, "but I gotta drop Angie here off at school first. I'll catch you later."

The two clergymen agreed. "Good," Father Stefan said approvingly. "It'll give us a chance to catch up on some business."

George checked his watch. "Holy Geez!" he exclaimed mildly, "we'd better get going or we'll be late!"

Angela clutched her school satchel. "Well, I'll be back this evening, Pastor," she said. "Good-bye, and good-bye, Father."

She left the lobby with George, the pair arm in arm. Pastor Bob eyed his fellow clergyman bemusedly. "'Famous cousin'?" he echoed.

Father Stefan nodded. "That's right, George is Criss Angel's cousin," he confirmed. "He's got practically his whole family working for him."

Pastor Bob grunted again. "Didn't know it was a family business," he said.

"Not surprising," Father Stefan said drily. "The Sarantakos clan's pretty tight-knit, right down to the second cousins."

"Saran-what?"

"Sar-an-ta-kos," Father enunciated. "It's Greek. Both Christopher's parents are from Greece."

"So Criss' real name is..."

"Christopher Nicholas Sarantakos" Father finished for him. "His mother told me once."

Pastor Bob whistled. "That's quite a handle!" he commented. "No wonder he changed it to Angel."

[Smurf]

Great chapter :) can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

"Christopher Nicholas Sarantakos" Father finished for him. "His mother told me once."

Pastor Bob whistled. "That's quite a handle!" he commented. "No wonder he changed it to Angel."



Ain't it the truth:D

[Veritas]

"Again," barked the instructor.

Criss, barefoot and stripped to the waist in only a pair of loose sweat pants, took his fighting stance: legs tensed and ready to spring, eyes focused on his opponent, hands poised for the attack. The instructor lunged forward, bringing his arm down with a hammer blow. Criss deflected it with a single swipe of his forearm, then grabbed his instructor's wrist, twisted his arm around, pivoting on his central point of gravity, and sent the instructor down onto the mat. The instructor landed with a soft thud and a single grunt, then rose to his feet again, his face reflecting grim satisfation over his student's performance.

The instructor drew a deep clensing breath as he regained his composure. "Again," he ordered.

Criss remained silent as he repeated taking his stance. Sweat trickled down his face, but he did not reach up to wipe it away for fear he would be caught off guard. He had been doing this same exercise repeatedly for the better part of the morning. He did not complain about it; he was too self-disciplined for that. He was going into gang territory this week to shoot the "Other Side of Vegas" episode for MindFreak, and he wanted to be prepared for whatever came his way, be it a psycho homeless bum or a street gang bent on killing him. Hope for the best, be prepared for the worst, he had been taught, and today he was doing the latter by brushing up on his martial arts skills. When he went into gang territory, he was going in locked and loaded.

The instructor came at him again, this time with a side swing. Again Criss deflected the blow with his arm and sent him sprawling to the mat. His reflexes were good; indeed, better than ever, he thought with a bit of pride. They were much better than most men his age, at any rate. Fortysomething males such as himself had a tendancy to go flabby, preferring the comfort of a recliner in front of a television set to any sort of physical activity except for golf (a sport Criss found excruciatingly boring), only to succumb to a heart attack before they reach fifty. Criss, however, maintained his physique to the point of eternal youth, often being mistaken for a man in his late twenties or early thirties, something he--

His thoughts were shattered by a blow to the shin, sending him flat onto the mat. The instructor had taken advantage of his moment of self-gratification and had tripped him with one kick to the leg. Criss groaned, cursing himself as he rose from the mat. He should not have lost focus, he reprimanded himself. He should have been aware of his opponent's every move until he had been soundly defeated. Pride goeth before a fall, he half-joked to himself. Vowing to be more careful this time, he faced his instructor as before.

"Again."

Criss took his stance. The instructor came at him with the same sideways swing. Again, the wrist grab and tumble to the mat. This time, Criss took the precaution of stepping away to avoid another kick in the leg. His muscular torso gleamed in the flourescent lighting of the training room, reflecting the strenuousness of the morning's workout. His broad shoulders and firm biceps, developed from endless daily workouts in the gym, ached from the exertion of repeated blows and tosses, but he did not complain. He refused to ask for so much as a drink of water or a moment's respite from the morning exercise. He had to keep going, no matter how much his body craved rest and refreshment. No gang member was going to show mercy upon him should he encounter one when he went to North Las Vegas. He had suffer so he could survive, to endure the physical punishment now so he could mete it out when the time came.

The instructor rose to his feet and stood before him. "Again."

And again, and again, and again....



While Angela had been at school, and Criss had been in training, George had taken a tour of the shelter for Criss' alternative episode. At first, he thought it would be a cakewalk compared to that crazy mineshaft idea his famous cousin had proposed--just go in, film a few shots with the residents and they were out of there. No danger, no explosions, no risk of life and limb, nothing but some basic magic tricks and some footage of the shelter itself. Everyone would go home, safe and sound.

It was when he actually got to the shelter that he began to have second thoughts. What he saw when he toured the streets of the shelter's neighborhood shocked and appalled him: Gangs roamed the streets, warning ordinary citizens with their mere presence to keep their distance if they wanted to stay healthy; homeless vagrants wandered aimlessly, occasionally begging for handouts from anyone who even looked as if they had money; frowzy-looking prostitutes posted themselves on every street corner, waiting for their next john but hoping it didn't turn out to be a cop.

Everywhere George looked he saw hopelessness and despair. Even the buildings seemed to have given up hope: iron bars were bolted over the windows of the few occupied tenements, or boarded up with plywood sheets. Graffitti was scrawled over every available vertical surface, marking gang turf. Police sirens wailed endlessly, a droning soundtrack to a crumbling neighborhood, if such a friendly appellation could be applied to this miserable environment.

In comparison, if any could be drawn, Sanctuary Shelter was an oasis in the desert, a place for the needy and destitute to seek refuge from the desolate wilderness that was North Las Vegas. Even so, it was a stark and dreary place to live. George and Father Stefan had walked down the main corridor, a cinderblock hallway that created the image of a prison. He saw the dorm rooms, housing up to five per room, little better than jail cells in George's opinion. He saw the classrooms with their kindling-wood desks that he recalled from his high-school days (probably did come from his old high school, he thought), the day-care center with its bright colorful paint valiently concealing the cinderblock walls, and the chapel with its rows of wooden folding chairs before a simple podium.

"And over here is the cafeteria," Father had said, pointing to the double swinging doors. "We serve over a thousand meals every day, breakfast, lunch and dinner. It's nothing fancy, but it's nourishing."

George peered into the cafeteria, a spartan dining area that reminded him of a military-style mess hall with metal tables and benches lined up in three ramrod-straight rows. To one side was a stainless steel steam table where the food was dished out to the residents on plastic trays. The few inspirational posters stuck to the cinderblock walls did little to brighten up the room. "Geez," George grunted. "It makes my old high school lunch room look ritzy by comparison."

"And if you come this way," Father continued, "you can see the common room."

The common room was just that, a room where everyone commonly gathered. No televison, not even a magazine rack, just a few old couches that looked as if they had been salvaged from a dumpster. It was crowded with residents, their unwashed clothes and bodies reeking in unison, doing nothing, saying nothing, thinking nothing. To them, it was protection against the elements, nothing more. The mere sight of them depressed George even more. Maybe when Angie donates her winnings, he thought hopefully, they can afford to fix up this place.

Later that afternoon, as he drove to Applewood Elementary to pick up Angela, George ruminated over what he had seen in the shelter. A warehouse the size of half a football field and still not enough room for everyone, he thought. And more homeless bums coming in every day. My God! What's it gonna take to solve all this? This one little shelter ain't gonna do the job--hell, they're struggling to help the people already there! The church can't do it alone. Angie with her winnings can't do it alone. We need real reform, not church handouts. Come on, Obama, I voted for you so you can make a difference--start making one already! These people need help!



Morning faded into afternoon. A black Jeep glided up to the side entrance of Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless, driving past the razor-wire fence surrounding the parking lot to the dented metal door scrawled with graffitti. It halted by the cracked concrete walkway leading up to the building. Then George Strumpolis got out of the Jeep, trotted over to the passenger side, and opened the door for Angela, who stepped out of the boxy vehicle as gracefully as a princess exiting her coach. They lingered for a while in the shade of the building, enjoying each other's company for a while longer. Then, with a kiss and a "See you tomorrow, Angie," George strode back to his Jeep and drove away.

Angela stood there, trembling with excitement. For all her adult life she never thought she would meet a man who would look past her plain-Jane looks and actually be interested in her; she had seemed doomed to perpetual spinsterhood with nothing to look forward to but a lonely life as an old-maid schoolteacher dominated by a tyrranical sister.

But now! Not only did she hit the jackpot in the casino, she also hit the jackpot in love! Yes, that was the sensation when she looked into George's eyes in the hotel hallway after their dinner date--she was falling in love with him! "Thank You, God!" she whispered. "Thank You for sending George into my life! Oh, and as for the jackpot? Well, I'm donating it to the shelter--all of it! I mean, I have a trust fund set up already, so it's not like I need the money that badly. I don't care for a life of luxury. Just let me have George, and I'm happy!"

She practically floated to the schoolroom where she taught remedial reading to barely literate residents. Her elation did not go unnoticed by a fellow volunteer, a petite brunette named Darlene Milliken. Curious over her normally withdrawn friend's bubbly mood, she quickly deduced the cause and walked up to her as Angela was setting up her lesson plan at her desk. Without so much as a hello, Darlene cut to the chase. "Okay, who is he?" she demanded.

Angela was startled at the sudden intrusion. "Oh, hi, Darlene," she greeted her nervously. "Uh, what are you talking about?"

"The guy you're in love with," Darlene pressed. "Who is he?"

Angela was flustered. "What makes you think I'm in love with a guy?"

"Oh, I dunno," Darlene replied facetiously. "It could be the humming, the smiling, the way you're walking around like you're on Cloud Nine. My God, Angie, you could see it from space!"

Angela set down her lesson plan binder. "Well, if you must know, Darlene, I've been dating the man who saved my life last Saturday."

Darlene's curiosity was piqued. "Saved your life? How?"

Once again, Angela related the story of her accidental rescue by George Strumpolis. Upon mentioning his name, however, Darlene huge aquamarine eyes lit up like Fremont Street at sunset. "George Strumpolis?" she echoed in disbelief. "Ohmigawd, Angie, do you know who he's related to?"

"Yes, I know who he's related to," Angela replied patiently, rolling her eyes. "He's Criss Angel's cousin and he works for him. What's the big deal?"

Darlene was flabbergasted. "What's the big deal? What's the big deal?! I'll have you know I am hopelessly in lust with Criss Angel! I mean, haven't you seen the banner hanging over the Luxor pyramid lately? I mean, he's got the hottest bod this side of the Mississippi! And I'd give anything, anything at all, to meet him!"

"Well, you just might get that wish."

Darlene's ears pricked up. "Really? How?"

Angela leaned over to Darlene and spoke quietly. "Keep this under your bonnet, but Criss Angel is going to be taping his show right here at the shelter."

Darlene's heart was bouncing off the walls. "For real?" she said eagerly.

"Yes, for real," Angela confirmed. "He told me so himself."

Darlene squealed like a schoolgirl. "Ohmigodohmigodohmigod! When's he gonna be here, do you know? Oh, God, I can't wait!"

"That I don't know," Angela replied. "But like I said, keep this to yourself, okay? I don't want to get in trouble with Pastor Bob or Father Stefan, okay?"

"Cross my heart," Darlene agreed breathlessly. "I won't breathe a word to anyone!"

"Good."

The literacy students, a mix of young teenagers and older folks, shuffled into the classroom for their daily lesson. "I gotta go," Darlene whispered hastily. "Lemme know when Criss gets here, okay?"

Angela nodded, relieved to be free of her overenthusiastic friend. Darlene skipped out of the classroom as elated as she had seen Angela earlier. I'm gonna meet Criss! she thought estatically. I'm gonna meet Criss! Eeeeeeeeee!

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) i hope it all go well at the shelter :) Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

That evening, Criss and his crew listened in stunned silence as George described his visit to Sanctuary Shelter and what he found there. "It's like a human warehouse, man!" he exclaimed. "They got people from practically all walks of life crowded in there--men, women and children! It's (bleeping) inhuman, I'm tellin' ya! And the whole (bleeping) neighborhood is like a demilitarized zone! Every building there looks like they'd been bombed out! Wouldn't surprise me if they were. And Father was right about the gangs--those mother(bleepers) look like something straight out of America's Most Wanted! I swear to God I saw blood splashed on the sidewalk--fresh blood, dripping right into the storm drain! I don't even want to know whose it is or how it got there, but I was glad to get out of there when I did!"

George rubbed his face as he sat down on the sofa. "I don't know how Angie can get through that hellhole in one piece," he said worriedly. "She goes to that shelter three nights a week to teach the people who live there how to read and write, and then goes home again through that neighborhood--at night! Small wonder they got the parking lot surrounded by razor wire. I'm surprised she hasn't been carjacked!" He turned to Criss. "I'm starting to think your mineshaft stunt wasn't such a crazy idea after all," he said.

"Well, I guess maybe she can put up with gangs and homeless bums a lot better than she could put up with her sister," Criss commented. "I mean, after what you told me about her--uh, what was her name again?"

"Bianca."

"Yeah, Bianca. Anyway, from what you told me about her, she's a complete psycho. If Angie can put up with her, she can put up with anything. How's she doing, anyway?"

"Bianca?"

"No, Angie."

"Oh, she's doing great. She's staying at the shelter right now until she can make other arrangements. God forbid she should go home to her sister."

JD was perplexed. "Go home to her sister?" he echoed. "I thought she was in jail."

"She bailed herself out," George explained grimly. "I was taking Angie back to the hotel after going out last Saturday night, and there she was, standing right there in the suite. Said she used money from her trust fund for bail. You talk about a mad-dog (bleep)! She looked like she was gonna throw both of us over the railing! She's poison, guys, I'm tellin' ya!"

"So, how come you didn't take her home with you?" Criss asked. "You got plenty of room; better than an overcrowded homeless shelter, anyway."

"C'mon, Criss, you know I can't do that!" George said to him. "I got enough stress in my life without Mom and the family having a fit if I had an unmarried woman living with me! And if the press found out, I'd be target for tonight about it. Besides, it's too far from Angie's school."

"Maybe Angie should get a restraining order," Costa suggested, "just in case."

George snorted. "Oh, please! A piece of paper ain't gonna do nothin'!"

"Nothing but insure her safety," Costa argued. "Bianca comes within fifty yards or so toward her and BAM! Straight back to jail!"

JD laid a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Look, George, Angie's gonna be all right," he assured him. "She's safe where she is right now, and if that sister of hers tries anything, she'll be violating the terms of her bond, and, like Costa said, bam, straight back to jail. You ain't got nothing to worry about."

George sighed heavily. "God, I hope not," he murmured.



She was gone.

Angela was gone.

Bianca sat down in the brown leather chair that had been Father's favorite in the living room of the house her family called home for thirty-five years. If only Angela had had the good grace to die when she did. No one would have known the truth since there had been no real witnesses. She could have claimed it was a suicide, and then Angela's trust fund would have been all hers. But no, that big lummox George Strumpetolous or whatever the hell his name was had to be standing right there when she landed, breaking her fall. Worse, that (bleeping) hotel security videotape showed everything that happened on that balcony. Now she was up on murder charges, and Angela was still alive and gone God knows where. If she tried to kill her again, she'd lose everything, including her freedom. Prison was not an option. Neither was poverty.

She had no idea where Angela was living (probably with that loser, George, no doubt), but she was confident she was still teaching at that school. She had a pretty good idea where Applewood Elementary was; she decided to go there in person and persuade her timid mouse of a sister to give up her trust fund for the sake of family harmony. No physical violence, just the power of persuasion. And Bianca could be very persuasive indeed. She had always been so where her younger sister was concerned.

But what if Angela refused in spite of all her efforts? She needed an ace in the hole, something up her sleeve if she remained stubborn and would not yield to her demands. What could she use against her? Bianca racked her brains to recall any sort of weakness she could exploit, an Achilles heel Angela possessed that would do more damage if touched upon. In the end she found nothing worth using; Angela was blameless to the point of boredom.

But there was George.

Bianca brightened at the thought. If she was truly living with George, unmarried, then they were living in sin, shacking up as it were. The school board would not approve of that. And what did she know about this George character, anyway? He was built like an ex-con, all beefy and muscular with such a large nose, and the way he spoke, he sounded so uncouth. Maybe she could dig up some dirt about him, link it with Angela, drop a few hints in the appropriate corners, and little sister would be ruined beyond redemption for being associated with such a man as that. Unless, of course, little sister paid up big time.

It was as if the dark clouds that had hovered over her head for the past two days suddenly parted and rays of sunshine streamed through. Bianca congratulated herself over the brilliance of her plan. But first things were first, after all--she had to gather some information about loverboy George before she could put her plan into action, and that was going to take some time. And time was what Bianca had in abundance.

[RACHEL02189]

How wrong Bianca is

[Smurf]

Great chapter :) i hope someone will stop her soon :)can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

Early next morning, Criss made the trip to Sanctuary Shelter, accompanied by his entourage of camermen, technicians, assistants and bodyguards (at Dave Baram's insistance; he feared gang violence), and truckloads of cameras and sound equipment for taping the show. It had been a harrowing ride down the side streets of North Las Vegas to the shelter. George had not exaggerated his description of the surrounding neighborhood: the crumbling buildings with their boarded up windows; the stench of urine and rotting garbage choking the narrow alleyways; the gang graffitti spraypainted on the walls; the slumped figures of the homeless on the curbside; the roving bands of gangs guarding their turf. Everywhere Criss looked, he saw hopelessness and despair--and fear.

One pitiful figure lay crumpled on the sidewalk. From inside his SUV, Criss couldn't tell if the man was passed out drunk or just sleeping He wasn't even sure if he was still alive. No one reached out to him, no one stopped to shake his shoulder to wake him up. People simply passed him by, turning their faces away from him, pretending he wasn't there. Just another homeless bum, they must have been thinking to themselves. Don't give him any handouts, he'll just use it to buy drugs or booze. If he can't take care of himself, no one else will. He bought this all on himself, he has no one to blame for his problems but himself, it's his own fault he's like this, he doesn't deserve our sympathy...

The convoy of trucks and SUVs continued on their way to the shelter. Criss spared one last glance at the lump of human flesh lying on the curbside as he passed, noting especially the wads of plastic grocery bags covering the man's feet. He lowered his head in grief, and in so doing glanced at the eighty-dollar pair of running shoes he himself wore. I have shoes, he thought. I have shoes and that poor dude out there's wearing grocery bags on his feet. America's supposed to be the Land of Plenty, but there's a guy out there weaing plastic grocery bags on his feet and sleeping out on the sidewalk. What's wrong with this picture?

He felt like weeping. So, this is what it's like to be poor and homeless, he said to himself. Shunned, ignored, despised, just a piece of human litter on the street, waiting to be tossed into the trash.

There are two sides of Las Vegas, he recalled Father Stefan telling him. The side you see, and the side you don't see. The side you see is the one the travel brochures show you, the glitz and glamor, the luxury and wealth. The other side is one I see every day, the one of poverty and violence, of gangs and drug dealers and prostitutes. That is the side no one sees, or even wants to know exists.

Nobody sees this side because they don't want to, Criss bitterly realized. They're in total denial; they want everyone to see what they want them to see: the neon signs and bikini-clad models and rolling dice coming up sevens for everybody. As far as they're concerned, these people here don't exist--they just sweep them aside like trash on the street, shove them into this warehouse where they can't be seen and pretend they don't exist. Out of sight, out of mind.

But who were "they"? Criss' conscience spoke up inside him. Who were "they" who swept aside these unfortunate people just because they were poor and homeless? Who was in denial of their existance? The city govenment? The hotel and casino owners? The citizenry?

Or, perhaps, himself?




The entire block had been cordoned off by local police for the taping. Criss and his crew were given special badges for entry into the "zone", as it became known. Once inside the shelter, Father Stefan had given him the fifty-cent tour as he called it, showing him the common room, the chapel, the classrooms, and the dorm rooms. Criss followed the priest in shock. All he could see were endless bodies with glazed eyes wandering from place to place, or slumped upon any available horizontal surface, without hope and without care. He knew the economy had taken a nosedive in recent years, but he had no idea there were this many homeless people in Las Vegas. Had the number increased since then, or had he simply not noticed? Guiltily, he forced himself to admit the latter.

He put on a brave face during his performance before the residents. A few actually cheered, but mostly they just sat there in the auditorium, grateful simply for the diversion from their miserable lives. A few took the time to speak with him on camera, telling them of their lives and how they came to the shelter. They played variations of the same theme: joblessness, alcoholism, loss of a house or apartment, drugs, a criminal record. It saddened him to see so many lives taking a turn for the worse.

Saddest of all were the number of children living there, thin, frightened little waifs with large, staring eyes like does in the forest. He did his level best to make them smile, even pulling out lollipops out of thin air for them, but the burden of poverty seemed to have crushed the joy of living out of them, leaving only empty shells of children. All they wanted was a home, a warm bed of their own, clean clothes for their frail little bodies, shoes that fit their growing feet, nourishing food, toys to play with, a chance to go to school with other kids--things he had taken for granted when he was growing up in Long Island. The mere sight of them stabbed him through the heart like an icepick.

Father took Criss to the cafeteria. It was noon, and lunch was being served. He watched as the seemingly endless lunch line snaked through the double doors, down the steam table where volunteers in flimsy hair nets shoveled out the day's rations onto chipped plastic trays. The food, if what was being ladled out could be called that, revolted him: watery soup with a slice of cheap sandwich bread on the side, a half-pint of milk and a spoonful of applesauce. Criss could only watch as the residents carried this pitful fare to the rows of metal tables and devoured it as if it was their last meal on this earth. He thought of the fine restaraunt meals he had enjoyed in the past: gourmet pizza, smoked salmon, prime rib, Porterhouse steak grilled to his liking. How many of these poor wretches had ever dined in a restaraunt before they hit bottom? he wondered. Then he recalled the home-cooked meals of his childhood, of the vegetables he had once scorned but had been forced to eat by his father's orders, and the huge family gatherings with food in abundance. Had any of these people any memory of what it was like to eat in a real kitchen in a real home? Or at a family barbecue? Did they even remember the last decent meal they had at all?

He gazed at the wretched mass of humanity before him in the cafeteria, scarfing down the tasteless, watery meals. What kept them coming back here, day after day, living on nothing but manufactured slop and sleeping on flimsy cots in an overcrowded shelter? Did they hope for a better life somewhere in the recesses of their souls? Were they hoping for a miracle, some magic windfall that would end all their misery? Or was it simply the will to live, the survival instinct present in all living creatures that kept them going? His mind boggled. Didn't anyone care what was going on here?

"Would you like to join us for lunch?" Father asked.

Criss looked again at the pathetic lunch line. "Uh, no thanks, Father," he replied as politely as he could. "It...it wouldn't be right if I took away food from the poor. We got a catering truck outside. Thanks anyway."

Father nodded and joined the residents in the lunch line. With a heavy heart, Criss retired to the comfort of the RV with his brothers and his cousin George, virtually a world away from the shelter. But even in the clean, comfortable confines of his customized trailer, he could not escape what he had seen. So much misery, so much want! Why did they have to suffer like this? Why did anyone have to suffer like this? And what could he, a single person, do about it? For the first time since his mother's heart surgery a few years ago, Criss felt helpless.

He went into the tiny bathroom and shut the door, the tears he had fought to hold back bursting forth like a ruptured dam.

[RACHEL02189]

Now I feel like crying

[Smurf]

Great chapter :) but now i feel like i'm going to cry , can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

In the clergyman's office, Pastor Bob and Father Stefan stared helplessly at the figures on the ledger sheet before them. In spite of every effort to economize, the expense of running the shelter grew higher: the food budget was insufficient to purchase enough to feed the residents; the utility bills had not decreased despite shutting off all nonessential services at night (the shelter had just repaid the electric bill after a two-day shutoff, cutting deeper into the budget); the Department of Health and Human Services had sent a notice of cutbacks in their own services due to the overwhelming number of new cases being filed due to the declining economy, evaporating that resource for the shelter. Worse, the number of donors were also receding; people preferred to hang onto every cent for their own needs instead of giving to the homeless. Even the annual post office food drive yielded nearly half the donated canned goods than the previous year. The situation looked hopeless.

With the possibility of shutting down the shelter looming on the horizon, the two clergymen racked their collective brains for a solution. They had cut back as much as they could in regards to services: the kitchen was aready reduced to serving bread and soup, the utilities were running at half-power to save on energy bills, they had stopped serving juice boxes to the children in the day care center, and they had to close the medical clinic altogether due to lack of funding, even from Medicare. What else was left?

Father Stefan sat up. "I don't know, Bob," he said glumly. "I think we've reached the end of our rope here. I don't know what to do anymore. I've already exhausted the church funds for this place, and I don't see any more money coming in from that end. Let's face it, it's hopeless."

Pastor Bob turned to Father Stefan. "Look, Steve," he said, "I know we're in dire straits here, but I still have faith that God will provide. Somewhere out there, somebody or something's gonna come along and pull us through! You might be ready to give up, but I ain't!"

"I admire your optimism, Bob," Father said. "But it's gonna take more than that to keep this place going." He stood up and began pacing the floor. "I can't believe that in this city where they can spend billions of dollars on hotels and casinos, we have to scrape by on one-dollar donations! What happened to Christian charity, for God's sake?"

"Now, Steve, it can't be as bad as all that," Pastor Bob said. "Lemme log onto the bank system and see just how much we got to work with."

Father Stefan sat down while the pastor typed away on his laptop computer, entering his password and the shelter's account number. "We're probably down to our last dollar", he thought miserably, "if not overdrawn altogether."

"Have faith, Steve, have faith," Pastor Bob said encouragingly as he waited for the bank's computerized system to process the account. "Think maybe you can get your friend Criss to help out?"

A ray of hope shot through the darkness. "Well, I'm pretty sure he would if I asked him," he replied. "I mean, he's a pretty generous guy, doing children's charities and all that. And after this morning, I think I can persuade him to give us as much money as we need."

Pastor Bob nodded and turned back to the screen, hoping against hope there would be something left in the bank but secretly dreading the moment of truth when it came. When it did come, the pastor's eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets, his jaw practically hitting the floor. "Great day in the morning!" he exclaimed.

Father Stefan started. "What?" he demanded. "What is it?"

Pastor Bob drew a deep breath. "Well, Steve, it looks like your friend Criss Angel has beaten us to the punch," he said. "From what I see on the screen here, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars was direct-deposited courtesy of the Luxor Hotel and Casino as of this morning."

Father Stefan was flabbergasted. "Seven hundred and what??"

"Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars," the pastor repeated. "Looks like whatever you told him about us had a bigger impact than you thought."

Father pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his teary eyes. "Oh, Lord," he sniffed. "Oh, Lord, thank You, thank You for this windfall!" He turned to the pastor. "You were right, Bob," he admitted. "The Lord did provide."

"Indeed He did," Pastor Bob said, smiling. "I never doubted Him for a minute."

A thought suddenly struck Father Stefan. "Come on!" he urged. "We're going out there and thank Criss personally for this wonderful deed he did for us!"

The pastor rose eagerly to his feet. "Right behind ya, Steve!" he called out, following his fellow clergyman out to the RV.




Meanwhile, in the RV, Criss had pulled himself together long enough to wash the tears from his face and grab a bite to eat. His brother, JD, looked at him, concerned. "You okay?" he asked.

Criss nodded sadly. "Yeah, I'm okay," he replied bravely. "I just...well..."

"Well what?" JD pressed.

"I just feel so sorry for those poor people in there," he confessed. "I knew things were tough, but--"

JD guided his brother to the table. "Look, just eat something, okay?" he encouraged him. "You'll feel better with a full stomach."

Criss sat down at the tiny table. The catering truck had prepared a lemon rice chicken platter for him, low on calories but high in protein. It looked appetizing, but all Criss could think about was the watery fare being dished out to the homeless people inside the shelter. Perhaps he could arrange for the leftovers to be sent to them? There wouldn't be much left after the crew had eaten, but at least a few would--

A knock on the door startled him. He rose from his lunch and went to answer it. He had expected to see his manager or a member of his crew, but instead he found Father Stefan and Pastor Bob standing there. "Hello, Christopher," Father said cheerfully. "May we come in?"

Criss opened the door wider. "Yeah, sure," he said, "come on in."

The two clergymen entered the already cramped RV. "Guys," Criss said to his brothers and cousin George, "Father Stefan and Pastor Bob have come for a visit."

Hellos were said and hands were shaken, then Father Stefan got down to business. "Well, the reason we're here is to thank you for the generous donation you made to the shelter. With it, we can serve those in need better than before. We can't th--"

"Whoa! Wait a minute!" Criss cried out. He made a T with his hands like a football referee. "Time out! What donation? What're you talking about?"

"Why, the seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars you sent us," Father said. "Don't your remember? It was direct-deposited to our account this morning. It came from the Luxor Hotel, so obviously it had to come from you."

Criss cleared his throat. "Uh, Father, um, this is a little awkward, but...I didn't make any type of donation to your shelter."

The two clergymen stared at him, puzzled. "You sure about that?" Pastor Bob asked.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure," Criss replied, blushing. "I mean, with all due respect to you both, I didn't donate a dime. If I had, I would have remembered donating that much money to you."

The two clergymen looked at each other, puzzled. "Well, if you didn't give us that money, who did?" Father wanted to know.

Criss could only shrug his shoulders in total ignorance. "Maybe someone in the hotel--"

Suddenly George shot to his feet, loudly snapping his fingers. "Angie!" he shouted. "It was Angie!"

This sudden revelation only deepened the mystery for everyone. "Angie?" Father echoed. "You mean Angela Honi, the teacher who works for us?"

"Yeah, her!"

"Angie? Whaddya mean, Angie?" Criss wanted to know. "What's she got to do with it?"

"Don't you guys remember?" George said. "Angie won that Million Dollar Slots game in the casino last Friday! She won a million dollars on her very first try at the slots! That was why her sister Bianca tried to kill her the way she did--because she hit the jackpot and wanted it all for her greedy self! When they gave her that prop check last Saturday night, she said something about donating it to the shelter!"

A light went on in Criss' brain. "That must be it!"

Everyone looked at each other. "Makes sense to me," Pastor Bob grunted.

Father Stefan harumphed. "Well, if that's the case, then we'll find Angela and confirm this." He turned to leave. "Sorry to have interrupted your lunch break."

Criss waved a dismissive hand. "No problem, Father," he said. "Nice of you to drop in, anyway."

More handshakes, good-byes, then priest and pastor left the RV. Before he stepped out, however, Father Stefan turned to Criss and said, "It would have been nice if you had made that donation."

Criss could only smile sheepishly in response.




TEACHER WINS $IM IN CASINO, GIVES MONEY TO SHELTER.

Bianca's stomach boiled like a witch's cauldron as she read the article gushing with praise over Angela Honi's selfless deed of donating her entire winnings to Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless. Of all the stupid, imbecile, boneheaded things Angela had done in her life, she thought angrily, this one took the grand prize! To think she gave away a million dollars to a bunch of drunken bums living on the street instead of sharing it with her only sister! It was inconceivable! A bunch of lazy good-for-nothing bums who did nothing but lay around the city begging for handouts! What did they do to deserve all that money, anyway? She threw down the paper in disgust and sipped her Cafe Mocha while she brooded.

There were two things Bianca Honi craved: money and revenge, in that order. Her determination to get hold of Angela's trust fund hardened her more than ever. There was still the process of getting it, but once her plan was carried out, she would once again be rolling in wealth. As for Angela, well, she deserved whatever she planned to dish out at her for holding out on her, the ungrateful little wretch. She would torture her, crush her, reduce her to a quivering mass of jelly, begging for mercy, broken and defeated once and for all. Bianca hadn't worked out all the details yet, but one thing was certain: she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) i really hope angela sister goes to jail soon , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

Bianca isn't going to get :mad: expect maybe a trip to jail

[Veritas]

The rest of the day was a blur for Criss and the MindFreak crew. There were more shots of the shelter, inside and out, more one-on-one interviews with the residents and volunteers, and more footage of the neighborhood in general, keeping well within the cordon for safety's sake. By the time six PM rolled around, the crew was beginning to get a little antsy about being in such a rough area at night; they were all too aware that they were in gang territory, and they were quite anxious to leave in one piece. Sensing his crew's uneasiness, Criss called a wrap on taping. "Okay!" he shouted, "pack up and let's go! We're done for today!"

The cameramen and sound engineers set a new speed record in taking down the equipment, packing them in the heavy padded cases and loading them onto the trucks. The police lowered the cordon to allow the trucks to leave, while the neighborhood residents watched the entire process from the perimeter or upper-storey apartment windows. The whole day had been like the circus coming to town, with the huge trucks with sophisticated camera equipment being unloaded then loaded up again, so welcome was the distraction for them. It had been interesting, even fun to watch at times, but now it was over, and one by one they walked away from the scene, returning to normal life in their corner of North Las Vegas.

Only one, Criss Angel, did not feel normal. In fact, he doubted he would ever feel normal ever again, whatever "normal" meant in his life. Visions of his experience with the homeless residents haunted him: the frightened faces of the children in the shelter, with their huge doelike eyes turned pleadingly up to him; the wretched mass of humanity crowded into cinderblock cells, six to a room at most, with barely enough room to turn around; the pitiful meals dished out in that mess hall of a cafeteria. No, after what he had seen today he knew his life would never be the same.

He sat in the back seat of his SUV with his brothers, with cousin George at the wheel. They waited until the trucks cleared out before departure. Costa couldn't help but notice how unusually quiet his famous brother was this evening. Normally, after a shoot, Criss would be giving a running commentary of how well or how badly it went, making suggestions on what could be done better or what should be changed or deleted later in editing. Tonight, however, he was sullen and silent, looking like someone who was being taken into custody for DUI or something. Concerned, Costa leaned forward and nudged Criss on the knee. "Hey," he said, "you okay?"

Criss shook himself out of his melancholy. "Oh, me?" he mumbled distractedly, "oh, yeah, I'm good."

"You look kinda down tonight," Costa commented. "Anything wrong?"

"It's nothing," Criss replied, still staring out the window.

Costa withdrew. He knew that pressing the matter would only trigger an explosion of outrage. But he also knew if he bided his time, the truth would come out sooner or later. He had a pretty good idea what was depressing Criss, though. The poverty and misery he himself had seen would depress anyone. The eldest brother, JD, had no qualms about delving into the mystery of Criss' mood. "It's them, isn't it?" he said, nodding his head toward the shelter outside.

Criss turned to JD, scowling. "You think?" he retorted sarcastically.

JD put an affectionate arm around Criss's shoulder. "Don't take it too much to heart, Criss," he said. "There's poverty everywhere--Vegas, New York, Chicago, all over the country. At least here they're doing something about it." A burst of optimism came out. "Besides, didn't George's girlfriend, Angie, donate all that money to the shelter? What was it, seven hundred grand?"

"Seven hundred and fifty," George reminded him.

"Right, seven hundred and fifty," JD repeated. "Now, that's gonna help a whole helluva lot right there! And when we air this episode, there's gonna be a lot more where that came from, I know it!"

"From who?" Criss asked.

"Well, from anyone who cares enough to donate," JD answered vaguely. "But the point is, three quarters of a million dollars is gonna help out quite a bit."

The last truck pulled away. George started the SUV and shifted it into gear. Criss glanced again at the shelter. "From what I saw," he said glumly, "three quarters of a million dollars ain't gonna be enough."

The SUV rolled up to the corner, then stopped. George became wildly animated, pointing to a pair of women on the curb. "Hey!" he cried out excitedly, "there's Angie!" He leaned on the horn, stuck his head out the driver's side window and blew a traffic-stopping whistle to get attention. "Hey, Angeeeee!" he called. "Over here!"

The three brothers watched as a thin woman in a flowered summer shift walked toward the SUV, while a petite brunette trotted behind her. JD leaned over to Criss. "Which one's Angie?" he asked.

"The skinny one in the flowered dress," Criss answered. "I saw her before in the security office when she landed on George."

JD nodded, wondering just what his cousin saw in such a plain-Jane as she. Well, no accounting for taste, he said to himself, and kept that remark to himself for fear of George's famous right hook. It's his business, not mine, he amended.

Angela and her friend stepped up to the window of the SUV. "Hello, George," she said brightly. "Nice to see you here."

"Hey, how's it goin'?" George said in way of greeting.

"Everything's fine," Angela replied. "Better, in fact."

George turned to his three cousins. "Hey, you guys know Angie already, dont'cha?"

JD and Costa didn't, but Criss did, and all three said their hellos from the back seat. George turned back to Angela. "They said hello," he told her. Then he spotted the brunette beside her. "Who's your friend?" he asked.

Angela turned to her companion. "Oh, this is Darlene Milliken," she said. "She's one of the volunteers at the shelter."

George spared her a wave of his hand. "Oh, hi, Darlene," he said with a friendly smile.

"Hi, George" Darlene replied breathlessly. "Is Criss in there with you?"

Angela was embarrassed. "Darleeeene!"

Darlene shrugged. "What? I'm just asking!"

George sighed and turned his head toward the back seat. "Uh, Criss," he said, "you mind rolling down your window for Angie's friend here?"

The tinted back window rolled down, revealing the face of Criss Angel as enticingly as if he had stripped off his shirt. Darlene nearly fainted from shock and ecstacy. "Ohmigawd!" she squealed. "You're cuter than you are on TV!"

Angela turned to George. "You have to excuse Darlene, here," she apologized. "She's hopelessly in lust with Criss Angel."

George nodded. "Uh-huh, her and ten million other women."

Criss, meanwhile, managed to tear himself away from Darlene's fawning for the moment. "Oh, Angie," he said, "I heard you donated your winnings to the shelter."

Angela blushed. "Well, I..." she began, then shyly turned away.

Knowing he wasn't going to get a straight answer from Angela, Criss strategically turned to Darlene. "You know about Angela's winnings going to the shelter?" he asked her.

Enchanted that he had spoken to her directly, Darlene was all too happy to reply. "Oh, sure," she replied, gazing dreamily into Criss' hazel eyes. "I mean, it was in today's paper after all. Everyone knows it. You know," she added, taking advantage of the situation, "I work in the day care center evenings, taking care of the children until bedtime while their parents are in class or some other program. You've seen the day care center, haven't you?"

"Oh, oh yeah," Criss replied, nodding. "Nice place."

"Yeah," Darlene sighed. "Sorry I wasn't there to see you--I mean, to show you around."

"Oh, it's okay," Criss assured her. "Father Stefan gave me the tour already."

"You know Father Stefan?"

"Well, in a way," Criss replied evasively, knowing full well the dangers of giving out too much information to overzealous fans.

George honked the horn. "C'mon, already!" he barked impatiently. "We gotta get goin'!"

Criss pulled away from Darlene. "Sorry, but we gotta go now," he said hastily. "Nice meeting you, Darlene."

Darlene leaned forward in an effort to give him a good-bye kiss, or at least a good-bye handshake, but the tinted car window rolled up before her, separating her from the man she adored. She could only stand there, a mixture of adoration and disappointment on her face, as the SUV pulled away from the corner and down the street. Angela waved her hand in front of Darlene's vacant eyes. "Hello, Darlene?" she called out. "Earth to Darlene, come in, over."

Darlene could only stare vacantly down the street as the giant SUV disappeared over the horizon. "He spoke my name," she spoke distantly. "He actually spoke my name! Oh, God, he's beautiful!"

"Uh, Darlene," Angela repeated. "We gotta go to the shelter now, okay? I gotta get to class and you have to get to the day care. You can moon about Criss Angel on your own time."

But Darlene made no move to budge from where she was standing. In her lovestruck mood, she seemed rooted to the spot where she had encountered her dreamboat Criss. Only when Angela grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the shelter building did her feet begin to move.

[RACHEL02189]

Criss may need a TRO against Darlene soon

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) poor Criss i bet Darlene scared him , Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

It would have been nice if you had given us that money.

Father Stefan's words kept replaying in Criss' mind as he rode back to the Luxor. It would have been nice if you had given us that money. It would have been nice if you had given us that money. It would have been nice if you had given us that money. Well, yeah, it would have been nice, but at the time it had never occurred to him to donate anything but his time and talent to bring attention to the plight of the homeless; he did it simply because he had agreed to do this as a substitute for the aborted mineshaft demonstration at the insistance of his mother. After what he had seen, however, the thought of giving something had crossed his mind; Ten thousand, twenty tops, but three quarters of a million? There was generosity and there was generosity, but this was way off the hook, even by his standards.

It would have been nice if you had given us that money.

He had always considered himself to be unselfish and caring, giving his time to sick children through the Make-A-Wish Foundation and entertaining the troops and their families at various military bases. But he always had a home to go to, his luxury suite at the Luxor, filled with expensive electronic games and other toys he had purchased during his career; where his every whim had been fulfilled, whether for extravagant jewelry or customized cars and motorcycles. These people had nothing but the clothes on their backs and the will to survive, even if it meant coming here to an overcrowded shelter for a watery meal and a cot to sleep on. Las Vegas made billions of dollars in gambling revenue and ticket sales for their shows, including his own. Couldn't they spare a few million improving the lot of these poor people? He had seen the residents living there, had talked to them, performed before them, even handed out lollipops to the kids, but at the end of taping he rode back to his luxury suite in his customized SUV, his staff and assistants at his side, away from the wretchedness and misery.

It would have been nice if you had given us that money.

He should have been happy that the shelter had received such a windfall. It wasn't every day that seven hundred and fifty grand came your way, especially when you needed it most. Now the shelter residents could get decent food, clothing, better care for the kids living there, perhaps even get a bigger facility somewhere. He didn't blame Father Stefan and Pastor Bob thinking he had made that donation--after all, he had millions to spare, so it was a plausible deduction to make. Instead, Father Stefan's words had pricked his conscience from the moment he had spoken them. And he just stood there like an (bleep)hole with a stupid grin on his face, unable to reply.

It would have been nice if you had given us that money.

He remembered the man with the grocery bags on his feet lying on the curb. There's poverty everywhere, JD had said. Yes, there was poverty everywhere, all right. Everywhere, all around the world, in Las Vegas, in New York, in London, in the Middle East and the overcrowded streets of the so-called Third World nations, there was the same poor wretched figure lying on the curb with no shoes on his feet, unconscious to the world which ignored him. Where were the Angela Honis of the world when they needed them?

North Las Vegas receded into the distance. Up ahead, the bright lights of the Las Vegas Strip were flickering and dancing up and down the boulevard, enticing passersby to come in and indulge themselves in the casinos, bars, dance clubs and strip joints. In his depressed mood, Criss didn't feel like indulging himself in anything but his own bed, alone. He wanted to put the horrors of the shelter out of his mind, but he didn't want to spend any money doing it; to blow two or three hundred dollars on a good time seemed tasteless after what he had been through. All he wanted to do was go back to his suite and be quiet.

He made it up to his suite, all right, but his mind refused to be quiet. Not even his beloved cat, Hammie, could chase away the thoughts running around in his head like mice in a granary with his purring and rubbing his sleek fur against Criss' leg. Criss reached down and stroked the cat's head absently, then headed for the bathroom. He needed a shower. He felt dirty from his exposure to the unwashed clothes and bodies of the homeless; despite his pity of them, he still feared contagion from all the filth he had encountered.

He stripped off his clothes and threw them promptly into the laundry hamper, then padded naked to the glass shower stall. Once under the spray of hot water, he scrubbed his skin harder than he had ever before, as if trying to purge himself of all the dirt in the world. But he could not scrub away the memory of those poor wretched people warehoused in that cinderblock prison they called a shelter, especially of the children.

Criss stepped out of the shower and grabbed a fluffy white towel with the Luxor logo stitched at one end. He had scoured his skin so vigorously that he was as red as a lobster, but he didn't care. The filth had been purged from his flesh. If only he could get it out of his mind.

It would have been nice if you had given us that money.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and headed for the bedroom. A hot shower always made him sleepy, no matter what was on his mind, so he simply flopped onto the bed and waited for sleep to come. It came quicker than he realized. He slept where he lay, exposed to the world through the giant windowpanes, the towel having come undone in the fall onto the bed. Hammie, characteristically indifferent to his owner's nudity, curled up at the foot of the giant bed and dozed.


He's racing through the desert on his dirtbike, the scenery just a blur in front of him. He comes to a stone wall, the same one he nearly collided with in his Viper. He does not stop, but drives through the wall as if it was water. He finds himself in Sanctuary Shelter again, surrounded by the homeless who are reaching out to him, pleading for help. He looks around, but all he sees are gaunt, famished faces of men, women and children crowding around him. Frightened, he backs away and dashes back out into the desert where he sees the Medicine Man, the shaman of the Cave of Sorrow. He says nothing, but looks somberly at him.

"What do you want from me?" he cries out.

The Medicine Man points his feathered staff to the rock wall. "What do they want from you?"

He is stunned. "You know about them?" he asks.

"My people have known times of great famine," the Medicine Man tells him. "We shared our bounty with those who had none, and they shared theirs when we had none, and we survived. But when the white man came to our land, we suffered worse than the lack the rain to our grazing lands. The sacred buffalo fell to their guns, the land to their plows. We watched as our children perished from disease and lack of food, while the white man prospered with his farms, his cities built on our land, and his iron horses. The land was big; it could have fed and sheltered us all. Our paths need never have crossed. But the white man had his sacred duty to tame the land and make it his own, driving us away from our ancestral home to make room for his towns and cities."

Medicine Man points his staff again. "Those behind you are suffering great famine," he goes on. "You have great bounty. Can you not share it with those who have none?"

"Well, yeah," he stammers, "but Angela Honi beat me to it. I mean, I'm talking over seven hundred grand here--"

"Why should Angela Honi shoulder the burden of sharing bounty?" Medicine Man asks accusingly. "You have greater bounty than she."

Medicine Man fades from view, and he feels himself falling through space...


Criss awoke with a start. "What the fuhh...?" he panted. "What the fuhh...?"

His brain rebooted itself, sending him a message that it had been just a dream. Relieved, he rubbed his face sleepily and sat up. It was at this moment that he realized he was completly nude. Hissing a quick expletive, he hastily covered his loins with the towel lying beside him, though there was no one to see him except Hammie. Then he lay back to analyze the dream he had. There wasn't much to examine; it didn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out that he had to do something for the shelter. The only question was how he was going to do it.

Your bounty is greater than hers, the Medicine Man had told him in his dream. But how much of that "bounty" of his should he give? Ten thousand, twenty thousand? That was pocket change compared to Angela's donation; people would think he was a cheapskate. A million? How could he come up with that kind of money? He had too many expenses already: the series, the live shows, Believe, the staff, his own lifestyle. A million would cut too deeply into his budget.

Or would it?

A suggestion popped into his head. What if he sold something? He had a lot of things of value, like his jewelry, his motorcycles, and his cars. He could sell some of it and donate the money to the shelter. Surely he could afford to part with something of value--after all, it would be for a good cause. He would be doing a great deal of good for the less fortunate of the city, appease his conscience, and he could deduct it from his taxes as a charitable contribution, a win-win situation all around. Perfect.

One by one he went over the methods he would use. He could sell them to family and friends, but he doubted they'd be able to afford anything he had to offer, even if he did knock down the price. If he put an ad in the paper, not only would it take too long, he'd be besieged with calls from fans or crackpots for the rest of his life. Besides, the tabloids would get wind of it and spread rumors that he was bankrupt. As for pawning the items, it was out of the question. It was no secret that Las Vegas pawnshops, and they were legion, paid out pennies on the dollar for anything laid out before them; he'd be lucky to get a hundred for a single thousand-dollar ring. No, he decided the best way to get the most money was to hold a charity auction. People could come in, bid as much as they could afford, and the money would go straight to the shelter--no phone calls, no rumors of being broke, no pawnshops.

He could hold it right here at the Luxor. With hotel president Felix Rappaport's help, he could turn it into a formal gala, attracting the wealthiest people in Vegas while at the same time making the plight of the homeless known to the public. Not only would he share his own bounty, as Medicine Man had put it, he would encourage others to share theirs as well. For the first time that day, Criss felt a smile curling up on his face.

He felt his competitive spirit rising up within him. Although he liked Angela and was happy for George for having met her, as well as being pleased that she had donated her Million Dollar Slots winnings to the shelter, he wanted to outdo her with this auction. Three quarters of a million wasn't enough for him. He was going for a million total--more, even, if he had to sell everything he owned. Well, maybe not everything, but still...

Criss sat up and grabbed the phone on the nightstand, the towel around his hips again slipping away from him. Too excited to notice he was naked, he called Felix Rappaport's office to tell him of his auction plans. He knew Felix would not turn down a fundraiser of any kind; charity made for good PR in the hospitality business. But all he got was voicemail; Felix must have gone home for the evening. Undeterred, he left a message telling him to call as soon as he could.

He hung up the phone and flopped down on the bed again, washed over with a sense of relief. Hammie raised his sleek head for a moment, looked at his owner lying completely barenaked on the bed beside him, then resumed his dozing.

[Smurf]

Great Chapters :) I had a very nice image of Criss in my head :D can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

What I wouldn't of give to be a fly on the wall for that :rolleyes:

[Veritas]

"You wanna do a what?" JD stared at Criss incredulously.

"I want to hold a charity auction for the homeless," Criss told him again. "You know, raise money for Sanctuary Shelter and for any other place that helps them."

JD remained skeptical. "So, what bought this on all of a sudden?" he asked.

"Geez, JD, isn't it obvious?" Criss replied, exasperated. "Didn't you see what was going on in that (bleep) hole they call a shelter? (Bleep), man, they got whole families living in there, men, women and children, packed in there like sardines! Those people are without homes, without money and without any hope for a better life! Me? (Bleep), man, I've earned more money in one week than most people earn in a lifetime! I got everything I want and then some, while those people are living hand-to-mouth--that is, if you can call that living."

His indignation cooled a few degrees. "I've always said that God had blessed me with so much," he said. "Now I think it's time I gave back to the community, don't you think?"

JD nodded. "Well, I appreciate your concern," he hedged, "but..."

"But what?"

"Well, somehow I get the feeling there's more to this than just helping out the homeless."

"Like what?"

"You tell me," JD countered.

"What's there to tell?" Criss sniffed casually. "You were in that shelter; didn't you want to help out in any way yourself?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you."

JD shrugged. "Well," he began hesitantly, "I threw a few bucks in the donation box, if that's what you mean. Of course, that was before I found out about Angie's donation, but still."

"A few bucks."

"Yeah."

Criss snorted derisively. "From what I've seen, it's gonna take a more than a few bucks to get that place goin' again."

"Seven hundred grand will," JD said.

"Seven hundred and fifty," Criss corrected.

"Whatever."

"But how long is that gonna last?" Criss argued. "Oh, sure, it'll buy more food, keep the lights on for, well, maybe a year, two years tops. They may even get a bigger building, or start another shelter with it, but sooner or later that money's gonna run out. And with the economy going down the toilet like it is, there won't be less but more homeless people to care for. And what are the chances of Angela Honi hitting another jackpot? Huh? No, it's up to me. If I don't do something now, nobody will."

"Why just you?" JD wanted to know.

"Well, maybe not just me," Criss conceded, "but you know what they say: a thousand mile journey begins with a single step. Well, I'm taking that first step toward helping the homeless with this auction. Not only will it make money, it'll raise awareness of the homeless problem here in Las Vegas." He leaned closer to JD. "So, whaddya say, huh? You with me on this?"

JD thought for a moment, then smiled. "Okay, I'm in," he said.

The two brothers shook hands. "Just promise me one thing," JD said.

"Sure."

"Just promise you won't do anything life-threatening while you're at it, okay?"

Criss laughed. "Geez, JD, it's an auction, not a demonstration! I mean, I might tape some footage for the show, but that's about it."

JD smiled. "Yeah, well, knowing you, you'd find a way to hog the spotlight somehow. You're the biggest ham I know, always have to be the center of attention, no matter what the occasion. I'm just reminding you of your promise to Mom, that's all."

"Okay, I know I made a promise to Mom," Criss said, "but like I said, it's just gonna be an auction, that's all." His smile turned mischevious. "Besides, I already risked life and limb just going into that neighborhood, remember?"

"You got a point there," JD admitted.

Criss sat up looking triumphant. "So, that's my 'life-threatening' demonstration right there, and at the same time, I kept my promise to Mom. So, we both win."

"Whatever you say, Criss," JD sighed.





Criss had been right about Felix Rappaport's agreeing to the auction at the Luxor. Indeed, he was very enthusiastic about it when Criss first proposed the idea to him the next morning. "Don't worry about a thing," Felix said to him over the phone. "We'll handle all the details: the advertising, the VIP invitations, selling the tickets, the set-up, the buffet, the security, everything! We got an opening in the Grand Ballroom two weeks from Friday--that good for you? Fine! You just tell us what you're gonna put on the block and we'll do the rest. This is gonna be the best charity auction we've ever had!"

Felix had hung up before Criss could remind him that this was the only charity auction they've ever had, but that little detail gave way to an even larger problem: what was he going to auction?




Noontime came. Criss summoned his family together for a private meeting to announce his plans for homeless relief. His mother, Dimitra, his two brothers, JD and Costa, and his cousin George sat with him in a corner booth of one of the Luxor's finest restaraunts. They had just ordered lunch. While they were waiting, Criss sprang the news on them: "I'm planning on selling some of my stuff to raise money for the homeless."

This sudden revelation came as a complete surprise to the family. They knew Criss loved his "toys" as he called them; for him to sacrifice any of them for charity was unbelievable, if not inconcievable. "What bought this on all of a sudden?" Costa asked.

"You've been to Sanctuary Shelter, haven't you?" Criss reminded him. "All those homeless people crammed into that one building, eating lousy food, practically sleeping on top of one another--it's pathetic! And it's time we did something about it!"

"Waitaminute, waitaminute," Costa interrupted. "Who's 'we'?"

"I mean everybody," Criss replied. "Everybody with the means to do it, that is. I got it good here--the cars, the luxury suite, the bling, everything. Don't you think it's time we shared the wealth with those who are poor?"

"Like I said, who's 'we'?"

Criss looked directly at him. "Cos," he said, "You know damn well who I'm talking about. Anyone with the means, that's who: you, me, everybody. This was a wake-up call for me when I was there. We all were there, remember? We all saw the misery those people go through every day, haven't we? Didn't you want to do something to help them at the time? I know I did. I've done my best to give back to the community at large: Make-A-Wish, the Crissmas episode, the military. But I can do more than just entertain a few people. I can make a difference in the world."

"Bull(bleep)!" Costa said, not believing Criss' little speech.

"Costa!" Dimitra exclaimed, indignant over such language.

"I mean it, Ma!" Costa shot back. "All this talk of 'giving back to the community' and 'making a difference in the world' is just a lot of BS! Maybe he felt some sympathy the first time around, but I know he went right back to his rock-star lifestyle the minute taping was finshed! It's not out of concern for them that he decided to sell his cars; it's just a temporary guilt trip! He's just doing this to satisfy his own ego so he can go back to his high-living lifestyle with a clear conscience!"

"I did not go back to any rock-star lifestyle after taping!" Criss protested angrily. "And I meant every word of what I said! And it's not for my ego, either"

"Admit it, you were guilt-tripping!" Costa charged.

"All right! All right! I felt guilty!" Criss confessed. "But didn't you guilty when you were there?"

Costa did not answer, but remained sullenly silent. "Anyone would have felt guilty seeing those people in that shelter!" Criss argued. "You'd have to have a heart of stone not to be moved by it! I got everything and they got nothing, so it's up to me to do something about it. It's not rocket science!"

"Well, I think it's a wonderful idea," Dimitra said, glowing with enthusiasm and maternal pride. "I'm glad something good came out of it, and it'll help a lot of very poor people as well. You can raise a lot of money selling those cars of yours, money the shelter can use."

"Thanks, Mom," Criss said, smiling. He hadn't planned on selling his cars at that point, but since his mother was convinced that he would...

George, always the practical one, pressed for more details. "So, how are you gonna go about it?" he asked. "Direct selling? Auction? Raffle?"

"Auction," Criss replied. "That's the best way. Sell 'em to the highest bidder. We'll get more money that way."

"Where you gonna hold it?" George asked.

"Right here at the Luxor, two weeks from Friday," Criss told him. "Felix is making all the arrangements. It's gonna be held in the Grand Ballroom. It's big enough."

"It should be," George said. "And what are you gonna sell? Your cars, your jewelry, your arcade games? What?"

"You should sell your cars, Christopher," Dimitra suggested strongly. "They would bring in the most money."

That last statement confirmed it. What Mom had said was the final word--now he would have to sell his cars. Criss sighed. "Well, I'm gonna have to go over my inventory," he said hesitantly. "I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Well, you'd better hurry," George told him. "You got two weeks to do it, and you don't wanna let all those homeless people down, now, do you?"

"I'm not gonna let them down, George," Criss said confidently. "I swear to God I won't."



After an hour sitting in his office poring over his vehicle inventory list over and over again, Criss simply could not decide which of his cars or motorcycles to auction off for the shelter. Every two or four-wheeled vehicle he owned meant something special to him; he could not bring himself to part with any of them. Still, he had made a commitment to aid the homeless, so he forced himself to continue his search. Finally, in despair, he tossed aside his list. "What am I gonna do?" he groaned. "I can't decide what to sell!"

"Maybe I can help," a voice behind him spoke.

Criss sat up, startled. Pastor Bob Beaman stood there in the doorway of the office. "Pastor Bob!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Eliza didn't tell me you were here!"

"One: your mother got hold of Father Stefan and told him your plans to hold a charity auction, and he told me, so I came to see if I could help," he explained. "And two: your secretary or whatever you call her had gone to lunch, so I just slipped inside. Seems to me you're having a bit of trouble deciding what to sell at the auction."

"Yeah, a bit," Criss mumbled. "I just can't seem to make up my mind."

"Lemme see what you got," the pastor ordered, taking up the list.

He skimmed over the printout of the list of cars and motorcycles Criss owned, his eyes widening as he read on and on. "Great day in the morning, boy!" he exclaimed. "You got enough here to open your own dealership! Surely you can afford to let go some of these! I mean, you're only one man; you don't need to have all of these things, do you?"

"It's not a question of 'need', Pastor," Criss replied. "It's more like...sentimental reasons."

"You should be more 'sentimental' toward your fellow man than these machines, here, Criss," the pastor admonished him. "Cars are just machines; they make millions of them every day. People, however, need food and shelter. They need to live, Criss, they need to eat and keep outta the wind with good homes, feed their children and send them to school. You know, someone once said, 'Live simply so that others can simply live.'. You've made your life complicated with all this materialistic wealth, all these cars and other stuff you got, while there are folks out there barely making it as it is. So if I were you, I'd forget the 'sentimental reasons' and start liquidating your inventory."

Criss's shoulders slumped in deep despair. "I could sell all I have and not make a dent in solving the homeless crisis," he said sadly.

"I'm not asking you to solve it," the pastor said. "No one person can except the federal government and the public at large. But you can ease the suffering and the misery these people are going through with this auction. Even if you turn just one homeless person's life around with it, you've done more than anyone else." He handed back the inventory list. "Now, whaddya say? We gonna go through with this or not?"

Criss stared at the printout sheet. "I made a promise, Pastor," he said, "and I intend to keep it. I just don't know what I want to sell."

The good pastor pondered this. "I think we should let God Himself decide," he said cryptically.

"Huh?"

Pastor Bob motioned him to rise. "Show me where you keep your cars, and I'll show you what I mean."

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) i wonder what criss is going to sell , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

'You got enough here to open your own dealership'

I wonder if Criss has ever thought that

[Veritas]

"Well, there they are," Criss said as he guided Pastor Bob to the warehouse where his cars and motorcycles were stored. "Now, what were you saying?"

Pastor Bob stared incredulously at the rows and rows of cars lined up neatly in the cavernous warehouse: Lamborghinis, Rolls Royces, Porsches, a Viper, a '69 Camaro, an Escalade, two Hummers, a Dodge Ram pick up truck, a T-Rex, plus an assortment of motorcycles, quads and go carts. "Just how many cars you got here, anyway?" he asked.

"Here?" Criss shrugged modestly. "Oh, about fifty, I guess. I also got my bikes. Wanna see?"

He led Pastor Bob to his collection of Harley Davidsons, choppers and other customized motorcycles. Their chrome handlbars and wheel spokes gleamed in the flourescent light as they passed each one. "Just how much did these things cost?" the pastor not so much asked as demanded.

Criss flushed with embarrassment. "A lot," he replied sheepishly.

Pastor Bob refused to be put off. "How much, Criss?" he pressed.

"A few hundred..."

The pastor eyed him suspiciously.

"...thousand."

"Mm-hmm," the pastor grunted. "I thought so."

Criss sensed another sermon coming, and he moved in to dodge it. "Hey, I said I was gonna sell some of them, okay? I gave you my word, remember?"

"You did, and I'm holding you to it" the pastor said . "But since you can't decide which ones to sell, then we should let the Lord decide Himself."

"And how's He gonna do that?"

"You gotta deck of cards on you?"

Criss produced a brand-new deck of his trademark MindFreak playing cards, a bit puzzled as to why a man of the cloth would want them. "Fan them out like you were doing a card trick," Pastor Bob ordered him.

The cards were unboxed, unwrapped and fanned out before the pastor, who took one from the deck, looked at it, and smiled. "King of Hearts," he said with satisfaction.

"Okay," said Criss, still not comprehending the pastor's plan, "now what?"

"You can put the rest of those cards away for the moment," the pastor told him. He held up the King of Hearts. "Now, this is what I want you to do: you take this card, see, and you toss it at your cars. The one where it lands on is the one you gonna sell. Get the picture?"

"That's letting God choose?" Criss said, perplexed. "Seems more like leaving it up to chance to me."

"That's what you think," Pastor Bob retorted. He held up the card above his head. "Heavenly Father," he prayed, "we ask You to bless this humble playing card, the King of Hearts, in the Name of Jesus, the King of Heaven. Let this card fall on these vehicles that You have chosen to be sold to aid those in need. Amen."

He handed the card to a bemused Criss. "Okay," he said, "start tossing."

Criss flicked the card down the row. It fluttered and landed on a blood-red Lamborghini Diablo. Criss' heart sank; he loved that Diablo, but, forcing himself to recall his promise, agreed to let it go. Pastor Bob pulled out a bar of soap and made a cross on the windshield. "That's one," he said. "Go ahead, Criss, give it another shot."

The card flew and landed on a classic Mustang convertable, then an imported Bugatti, then a huge Ford F-150 pickup. "Any more?" Criss asked, dreading the answer.

Pastor Bob thought about it. "These will do for now," he said. "Now let's see about them bikes you got."

With the toss of the card Criss lost four of his favorite choppers, including the one with the chrome skull on the handlebars and the scrollwork on the wheelframe. "Oh, God!" he moaned, "Pastor, you're killin' me!"

"I'm not 'killing' you, Criss," the pastor argued. "I'm helping you keep your promise. God has decreed these things to be sold for the poor. I'm also doing it for your sake."

"My sake?"

"That's right. You're letting your materialism get in the way of your salvation. Remember what Jesus said to the rich man: It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. And you know what they say: you can't take it with you, you know."

Criss crossed his arms. "Well, if I can't take it with me, then I ain't going!" he retorted facetiously.

Pastor Bob glared at him severely. "Okay, okay, just kidding, just kidding!" Criss placated him. "Let's just get this over with."

"I wonder about you, Criss," the pastor said, shaking his head. "I really wonder about you."

"Pastor, I made a promise," Criss insisted, "and I'm gonna carry it out, just like I said. Felix has already made all the arrangements: the auction's all set for two weeks from Friday, right here at the Luxor. It's gonna be a huge success, just you wait and see."

"I have no doubt in my mind it will," the pastor said, "but we gotta get some more stuff to sell to make it one. Now, how about those you got on display outside the hotel?"

"How about them?"

"Great day in the morning, boy!" Pastor Bob exploded. "Your mama drop you on your head when you was a baby? You know dern well what I mean!"

Criss did know dern well what the pastor meant, and it made his heart sink even deeper. "Okay," he said with a heavy sigh, "I can afford to let one of them go, but that's all."

The pastor nodded in agreement. "Good! Then let's go."




The pride of Criss' fleet stood proudly in the car park in front of the Luxor like soldiers on parade: a customized Rolls Royce, the famous black Lamborghini, the Dodge Viper, and other very expensive high-end vehicles. Dominating them all was an enormous Humvie, its gleaming body a testament to the airbrusher's art with its MindFreak themes murals, while at the same time it was armed to the teeth with halogen lights, two dozen stereo speakers, a flamethrower in the back and a small device designed to shoot out playing cards from under the hood. It symbolized not only Criss Angel's success, but the extravagance of Las Vegas itself.

Pastor Bob could only stare incredulously at this monstrosity of conspicuous consumption. He was about to ask just how much it had cost to purchase but decided against it, dreading the answer that would come. Instead, he simply asked Criss, "You actually drive that thing?"

"Well, yeah, once in a while," Criss replied simply. "Mostly it's on display here at the Luxor."

Lord have mercy! Pastor Bob said to himself. This boy don't know when to quit! "So, any of these you wanna sell?" he asked. "Or do we use the card?"

Criss looked longingly at his collection. "I'm not really sure which one I'd be willing to give up, Pastor," he replied honestly.

Pastor Bob reached into his pocket. "So, it's the card, then," he said, pulling out the King of Hearts and handing it to Criss. "Ready?"

Criss shook his head and handed it back to the pastor. "You do the honors this time," he said.

The pastor took the card back and held it up. "Well, I ain't as good a thrower as you," he said, "but I'll sure give it a try."

He grasped the card between his thumb and index finger. Lord, he prayed silently, guide this card where You will. Amen. Then he tossed it straight up into the air, hoping for the best.

No one would ever be able to explain what happened next. It might have been a simple desert breeze, or a blast of air from the hotel ventilation system, or simply the laws of gravity, but whatever the cause the result came as a complete surprise to both minister and magician. The King of Hearts fluttered delicately down to land squarely on the hood of the Hummer. Criss' heart landed with a thump in his stomach. "No!" he groaned in agony. "Oh, God, nooooo!"

Pastor Bob merely shrugged. "That's the way it is, son," he said, pulling out the cake of soap to mark the windshield. "God singled this thing out for sale, and it's goin' up for sale."

Criss grabbed his hand. "Wait!" he pleaded. "Maybe we should give it another shot."

"Criss, we made a deal," the pastor reminded him.

"I know we made a deal!" Criss cried. "But, seriously, I don't think we should sell the Hummer."

"And why not?" Pastor Bob demanded.

"Because..." Criss searched desperatly for an answer. "Because I don't think anyone will buy it, that's what. It's too...customized to my own tastes. It's also too expensive, what with the all the add-ons I put in. I mean, who would buy a MindFreak Hummer?"

"Someone who had the money to buy it, that's who," the good pastor replied. "You made a promise, we made a deal, and I'm holding you to it! This tank's going under the hammer and that's that!"

He stepped up to the giant trucklike vehicle, bar of soap in hand. A desperate plan to save his beloved Hummer hatched in Criss' mind. "Wait a minute!" he cried out.

Pastor Bob stopped and turned around. "Now what?" he snapped.

"Maybe it wasn't God who tossed that card," Criss argued. "Maybe it was just an accident. Maybe we should make another toss, just to make sure. Let's make it two out of three."

The pastor stepped away from the vehicle. "Two out of three?" he repeated.

"Yeah, you know, just to make sure," Criss explained hastily. "Maybe God's got a better car in mind."

Pastor Bob thought about it. "All right," he agreed. "Two out of three. But remember, wherever it lands, it's for sale, and no more arguments, understood?"

Criss nodded. "Understood."

"Good."

They shook on it, and Pastor Bob tossed the card up into the air again. Again, the King of Hearts fluttered onto the Hummer, this time on the roof. Criss' bowels turned to water as he climbed onto the truck and retrieved it. "I toss this time," he said.

Pastor Bob agreed. Criss flicked the card with his usual skill, aiming for the rest of the fleet. Through some capricious twist of fate it boomeranged back and fell flat onto the ground, just under the Hummer's wheels. "That doesn't count," Criss said quickly. "It didn't land on the car."

"Fine," Pastor Bob said impatiently, "just give it another toss. Just remember, this is the money shot."

Criss stepped away from the Hummer a few paces and tossed. He did not see where it landed. Neither did Pastor Bob. "Where'd it go?" they wondered.

They searched the top of the Hummer, but could not find it. Criss theorized that maybe it landed on one of the other cars and searched them, but with no success. "Must've made it disappear," he joked to himself.

"Criss," Pastor Bob called out, "I found it."

Criss trotted back to the pastor, who was squatting beside the Hummer's front passenger wheel. "Where'd you find it?" he asked.

Pastor Bob pointed to the wheelcap. There, wedged in between the metalwork, was the King of Hearts. A chill shot through Criss. "You sure that's where it landed?" he asked.

"That's where you tossed it," the pastor confirmed. "That's where it landed." He rose to his feet and took out the bar of soap.

"Oh, God, this is not happening," Criss moaned. "Pastor I know we made a deal, but I'm wil--"

But it was too late: Pastor Bob had already X'ed the windshield of the Hummer with the soap. Criss wanted to cry, to scream, to swear at the top of his lungs. He did none of those things, however, but simply stood there in a sort of catatonia, the words stuck in his throat. Pastor Bob came down and patted him on the shoulder. "You're doing the right thing by selling this truck, Criss," he said comfortingly. "It may hurt now, but in time you probably won't even miss it." He shook Criss' limp hand in farewell and left.

Criss staggered back to his suite, shut the door and entered his bedroom and unleashed the full fury of his grief.

[RACHEL02189]

Well he did put it up for auction in real life thou but I can't see Criss throwing a tantrum over a car unless it's the Rolls Royce.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) Poor Criss :) i would love to see what other cars and Bikes are going up for auction :) Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

Well he did put it up for auction in real life thou but I can't see Criss throwing a tantrum over a car unless it's the Rolls Royce.

This was written a few years ago.

[Veritas]

Attention Readers: Please go back and reread post #65. I forgot to add a section. Sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you, and enjoy the story.

[Smurf]

Hi Veritas ,just re read , really enjoying the story :)

[Veritas]

MindFreak Productions
In co-operation with
The Luxor Hotel and Resort
Invites you to the
Grand Charity Automobile Auction
To benefit Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless
Friday, June **, 20**
At 7:30 PM
Buffet open from 8 PM to 9:30 PM
RSVP
````````````````````````````````````


George read the cream-colored embossed invitation he had just received in the production office mail. He had to laugh at the way it was written, it was so formal. "Geez," he said, "you'd think it was the prom or a wedding or something. They're just sellin' some cars, for chrissakes! Why'd they gotta make a big deal over it?"

JD looked over the newspaper he was reading at his desk. "Because, dear cousin," he began loftily, "this is Las Vegas. You know their philosophy: what is worth doing is worth overdoing. You know you just can't sell a bunch of expensive cars like Criss has got in some back lot. No, you got to do it in style: tuxedos, models in skimpy costumes, the works! You gotta do it big!"

"But it's supposed to be a charity auction!" George protested. "They're supposed to be raising money for the homeless! Why're they wasting so much money of models in skimpy costumes and all the rest of that (bleep)?"

"Like I said," JD replied quietly, "this is Vegas. It's all for show. The charity angle is just PR to give the rich and famous an excuse to blow all their cash on things they don't need to make them look like they give a (bleep). Of course, the tax breaks don't hurt, either."

"So what you're saying is that Criss is doing this just to look good?"

JD set down the paper. "No, that's not what I'm saying," he argued. "Criss' heart is in the right place; he's sincere about raising money for the shelter. He wants to help out, really he does. It's everybody else I'm talking about, the phony-baloney celebrities who pretend they're doing good by buying these cars for their own use."

"And for the tax breaks," George added.

JD nodded. "And for the tax breaks. But either way, the shelter gets the money, and everybody's happy, right?"

George shrugged. "Yeah, whatever." He stared at the invitation again. "You think Angie would like to go?" he asked hesitantly.

"Don't see why not?" JD replied. "I mean, she works there and all, so I imagine she'd already be there."

"No, I mean you think she'd like to go with me."

JD eyed his cousin in surprise. "You really got a thing for this woman, don't you?"

George's head bobbed inperceptibly. "Well, yeah," he murmured bashfully. "I guess I do."




"I really appreciate you taking me in like this, Darlene," Angela said as she carried her meager belongings into the simple but spacious two-bedroom apartment bordering between Metropolitan and North Las Vegas.

"Hey, no problem, doll," Darlene replied airily. "You needed to get out of that shelter."

Angela had told Darlene about her flight from her sister's wrath after the fall from the balcony, and how George insisted he drive her to the shelter, where she had been staying since. Darlene, bless her, offered to let her stay at her apartment for as long as she wanted as long as she shared the expenses. "Besides," she had said, "since my last roomie moved out, I need help with the rent." Angela had happily agreed to help out with anything Darlene needed, and that very weekend moved in with her.

Darlene pointed toward a narrow hallway. "First bedroom on the left," she directed her. "It's the one with the desk."

Angela carried her two suitcases, her school satchel and her purse into the bedroom that was to be hers for as long as she stayed here. It was larger than her tiny bedroom back at the house, and brighter, too; two plastic-framed windows with the apartment-complex regulation vertical blinds let in a great deal of natural light. The carpeting was the same beige Berber that covered the entire apartment from living room to bedrooms, yet to Angela it made the room look more cheerful. There was a single bed with a white chenille bedspread that reminded her of her grandmother's house in Nebraska, a wood veneer nightstand with a glass-shaded electric lamp next to it, a small white dresser with an oval mirror above it, and a small student's desk with a wheeled office chair right under one of the windows. It was this last detail that appealed to Angela the most: it offered her a place to do her lesson plans without having to sit on the bed. The minute she set down her bags, she began to feel at home.

"I'm going down to get the mail!" Darlene shouted from the living room.

"All right," Angela called back as he opened the larger of her two suitcases on the bed. Her mind ran through the list of things she had to do after she got settled: notify the school that she had moved; send a notice to the cell-phone company (thankfully she didn't have to change her number); get a spare apartment key from Darlene--oh, and a mailbox key as well; go to the DMV to get her new address put on her driver's license--

That last item made her smile a bit. Earlier that morning, Darlene had driven Angela to the house to pick up the rest of her belongings, including the Chevette. Angela had felt fairly certain that Bianca had the car impounded if not sold for scrap, and she would be forced to rely on Darlene or George to take her to work every morning until she could pay the impound fee (three hundred dollars, Darlene had informed her through personal experience) or get another car altogether. To the surprise of them both, the Chevette was right where she parked it, on the curb in front of the house, waiting for her like an old friend. It seemed that Bianca was either too lazy or simply couldn't be bothered to remove it, but it didn't matter; the car was there, and that was the important thing. Angela went into the house after making sure Bianca wasn't there (she wasn't, thank God), packed the rest of her clothes, retrieved whatever important documents were in her name, including her birth certificate and trust fund papers, took a few treasured photographs of her mother and father (leaving the ones of Bianca behind) and loaded the back of the Chevette to take to Darlene's apartment. All she left behind was her house key and a note reading good-bye on the kitchen table. With that, she had offically severed all ties with her dominating sister. Now here she was in a wonderful new apartment with a wonderful new roommate who won't scream at her or hit her or bully her into anything she didn't want to do, and a wonderful new man in her life who made her feel, well, wonderful. It was the end of one chapter and the beginning of a new one. For the first time, Angela Honi's life was finally worth living.

She heard her cell phone deedling in her handbag. She pulled it out of its special pocket and looked at the tiny LED screen to see who was calling. The number was unfamiliar to her, so she decided to answer it just out of curiosity. "Hello?" she said to the person on the other end.

"Hey, Angie," the person, who turned out to be George, greeted her. "How ya doin'?"

"Oh, hello, George," Angela responded with a mixture of surprise, delight and relief. "How are you?"

"Say, listen," George began bluntly. "You know Criss is throwing this big fancy car auction for the shelter at the hotel next Friday--"

"Why, no, I didn't know that," Angela said, even more surprised at this sudden news. "That's very nice of him."

"Well, anyway," George continued, "I got a VIP invitation, and I wanna know if...well...you'd like to be my date for the evening. I gotta warn you, it's a pretty formal affair, so--"

"Oh, George, I'd love to go!"

A moment of silence on the other end, then "Uh, you would?"

"Sure, I'd love to go with you to the auction!"

George managed to pull himself together enough to tell her he'd pick her up around seven. "You still at the shelter?" he asked.

That simple question jolted Angela's memory into third gear. "Oh, no, George, no, I'm not, not anymore," she replied quickly. "I just moved in with Darlene in her apartment. You remember Darlene, don't you?"

"The one who's in lust with Criss?"

Angela laughed. "Yes, her. Anyway, I'll give you her address if you need it."

"'Course I need it," George retorted. "How the hell can I find you if I don't have it?"

Another laugh. That was what she liked about George, she thought; he could be funny at times. She gave him the address, along with a few familiar cross streets to make it easier for him to find the complex. "I'm just glad you're in a better neighborhood," George commented. "It ain't safe for nobody out there near that shelter."

That was another thing she liked about him: he was so caring. "So, I'll see you Friday?" she asked with a note of hope in her voice.

"Yeah, sure," George said casually. "Pick you up around seven."

"I'll be waiting."

"Okay, love ya. 'Bye."

"'Bye, George."

She pressed the disconnect button on the cell phone. Did he say "love you"? she wondered. I think he did. It was the first time he had said it. True, it was a throwaway line, spoken in haste, but no man save her father had ever said "I love you" to her before. She felt giddy and giggly like a schoolgirl enjoying her first encounter with the boy of her dreams. This day was just too good to be true! First a new home, and now a date at a formal event in one of the poshest hotels in Vegas! If this is a dream, she thought, I definatly don't want to wake up!

Angela unpacked her belongings in a happy daze of romantic expectations. Now I know how Cinderella felt when she was going to the ball, she thought delightedly. And I don't even have a fairy godmother!

She heard the door open. "I'm back!" Darlene announced. "Just junk mail, no bills or anything. You done unpacking yet?"

Angela floated out of the bedroom. "Darlene! Guess what?" she gushed. "George is taking me to the charity auction at the Luxor next Friday! Isn't it wonderful?"

Darlene could only stare at her in bemusement. "Uh, yeah, uh...what charity auction?"

Something registered in Angela's love-drunk mind that Darlene didn't know anything about it. She came down to earth long enough to explain. "Well, you see, Criss is hosting a charity car auction next Friday at the Luxor to raise money for the shelter, and George asked me to be his date for the evening."

The mere mention of Criss' name caught Darlene's attention, the rest were just details. "Criss?" she echoed dumbly. "You said Criss?"

"Yes, I said Criss," Angela replied impatiently. "But that's not the point! The point is that George asked me to go with him!"

Darlene grabbed Angela by the shoulders. "You gotta take me with you!" she pleaded. "Pleeeeease take me with you! I'll do anything, anything at all! I'll let you skip this month's rent! I'll wash your car! Anything! Just let me go to the auction with you!"

"Well, I'd love to," Angela hedged, struggling to free herself, "but I think it's by invitation only."

Seeing the crushed look on her friend's face, a thought struck her. "Unless..."

Hope surged like a rogue wave inside Darlene's breast. "What? Unless what? Tell me!"

"Well, let me talk to George about it, and I'll see what I can do," Angela said. "I can't make any promises, but I'll do my best."

Darlene threw her arms around her. "Oh, you are the best friend a girl can have!" she squealed.

Angela could only sigh in frustration. Lord, what have I gotten myself into this time!

[Smurf]

Great chapter :) can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

Criss may have to put security on red alert with Darlene

[Veritas]

Good-bye.

Bianca stared at the note in her hand. Good-bye, it read. That was all Angela wrote. No explanation, no excuse, no apology, not even a forwarding address, just a blunt farewell and she was gone.

When Bianca had come home from shopping that afternoon, she had noticed the Chevette was gone. She had been a bit surprised at first, but in a way rather relieved. She had reasoned that since that bucket of bolts had been sitting there on the curb for over a week, so maybe it got impounded by the city. It was perfectly plausible. Well, Angela would have to pay the impound fee herself if she wanted that heap back. It'll cost more than the car is worth, Bianca thought with a laugh. I bet she's sorry now she donated all her winnings to that homeless shelter now.

It was only when she entered the house did she discover the truth. Angela's car keys were gone from the hook by the back door, meaning she had come back for the Chevette while she had been out. Then she found the note on the table with its one-word message. She had even left her housekey on the table, a sign that she was not coming back.

Bianca crumpled the note and strode to Angela's bedroom. The closet was empty, the dresser drawers were empty; even the few photographs she had kept on the tiny nightstand had been taken. It was enough: Angela was gone for good this time. Well, fine, she thought. Let her live out on the street for all I care! She can go live among those bums she likes so much! Me? I got the house all to myself now! Who needs her, anyway? Worthless little (bleep)!

But what about her trust fund? Bianca needed it more than ever now; not only had she maxed out her credit cards and ran herself into debt from her numerous shopping sprees and trips to the day spa, there were the legal fees as well for her defense counsel. If she didn't have enough money to hire a good attorney, it would be prison for sure. And prison was not an option for a woman like Bianca Honi, not by a long shot.

The gears in her cold, calculating mind began turning. She recalled that Father had kept all of his important papers in his desk drawer, including the files for the girls' trust funds. Angela may have been in such a hurry to leave that she may have overlooked those files, leaving them behind in her haste. If she did, then the file for Angela's fund would still in the drawer; it would only be a matter of finding it, making a few alterations, and presenting it to the bank, Bianca would once again be rolling in wealth. She smiled at the thought. One moment of carelessness on her sister's part would be a stroke of good fortune for herself.

Bianca did not waste time daydreaming but got right to work. First step: find the file. She dashed into her late father's office, slipped behind the antique oak desk and yanked open the large file drawer. The file was easy to find; Father had always been meticulous about keeping his paperwork in order, and anyway the trust fund file tab was clearly labeled with Angela's name on it. Eagerly, she pulled out the plain yellow folder and opened it.

Empty.

Enraged, Bianca flung the file to the side. She had taken the file! The little (bleep) had beaten her to it! Now what was she going to do? Again her shrewd brain began to download information. She could fall back on her original plan to intimidate Angela at the school. There was that. But what could she use as leverage?

Or, rather, whom could she use?

Bianca sprinted to her sumptuous bedroom and pulled out her laptop computer (with only forty-nine more payments to go at BestBuy) and logged onto Google. If she could find something on boyfriend George What's-his-name, she could use it against Angela to force her to give up her trust fund. Dear, sweet, gullible Angela would do anything to protect the man she loved, she knew. Anything at all.

[RACHEL02189]

She'd have a better chance on finding dirt on Paris Hilton than George

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) Good luck bianca on digging anything up on george :) Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

Francesca Voss, the events consultant hired by the Luxor Hotel to arrange the charity auction, sat by the main bar in the Grand Ballroom, her cellphone sandwiched between her ear and shoulder as she slid her finger across the mouse pad on her laptop keyboard. "Yes, that's right," she said, "we need two rotating platforms, mirrored if possible--nothing cheap-looking, this is a formal affair. Can you have them here at the Luxor Hotel by next Thursday? Good!"

The giant ballroom was empty, save for a few members of the maintenance staff running vacuum cleaners across the patterned carpeting or dusting the fixtures. On the laptop screen before her was a digitalized floor plan for the setup of event itself: the buffet, the tables with their designated number of chairs, the podium, the speakers, the platforms for the cars and motorcycles to be auctioned, the donation box; where the giant plasma screens to be mounted, where the security guards were to be posted, and where the video cameras were to be placed for best coverage. It was a massive undertaking, but for someone as organized and efficient as Frizzi, as she was known, it was breeze compared to some of the lavish Las Vegas weddings she had done in the past--no bridezillas snapping at her heels or meltdowns between the parents and their second spouses. Just set up a buffet, let the staff bring in the cars, sit back and bask in the glory of a job well done.

But there were a lot of details to take care of before that moment arrived, and Frizzi was on the job. Right this moment, she was on the phone with a rental company who specialized in auto shows to arrange for the platforms to be delivered to the hotel. Once she had situated them in their proper spots on the diagram, she tapped the Save button on the keyboard, bid the rental company clerk good-bye after affirming the delivery date and time, and pulled the cell phone from under her ear. She rubbed the stiffness out of her neck. It was a wonder her head wasn't cocked into a permanant angle from all the times she held her cell phone like that. She wondered why she just didn't get a Bluetooth headset and spare herself a trip to the chiropractor. She made a mental note to get one and looked down at the floor plan on the screen.

The Grand Ballroom was eleven hundred square feet of pure elegance, lighted with glass sconces made to look like torches in keeping with the Luxor's Egyptian theme. On the screen, Frizzi had put every inch of it to practical use: The stage at the west end of the room would be where the auction itself took place. On either side of the stage would be the rotating platforms showing off the motorcycles, the only objects small enough to fit inside the room. Since they couldn't get the cars themselves into the ballroom, two large plasma screens would flank the stage, showing rotating images of the cars for sale via closed camera from the carport. The bidders could view the cars up close outside before the auction took place.

The west end of the ballroom was designated the social side of the affair. There, the buffet would be set up along the north wall adjacent to the bar, leaving the south entrance unobstructed per safety regulations. Round dinner tables were neatly arranged on the floor plan to allow the maximum amount of mobility and efficency of space (ergonomics was something of which Frizzi was an expert). A small table by the entrance would hold the donation box for the shelter, out of the way of traffic but still visible enough to see and drop their donations in.

Satisfied that the floor plan was perfect, Frizzi saved it and headed for the office of the hotel president for his final approval. She knew Felix Rappaport would have no complaints about the floor plan; she had worked with him in the past, and he trusted her completely with this project. As far as Frizzi was concerned, this auction was going to go off without a hitch.




While Frizzi was on her way to present her plan to the president, Chief of Security Lucas Macaffey was doing his part in making sure that the auction would go off without a hitch. Big Luke sat at his desk with his own floor plan of the Grand Ballroom, plotting where to place his men to keep the peace during the auction. Two men would be at the south entrance. Two would be at the north, though it would be closed off that night. The doors had to remain open, however, for emergency evacuation by order of the fire department, something Big Luke respected but knew would lead to gatecrashing if left unattended. Four would be posted inside the ballroom itself, just to keep an eye on things. The eye in the sky could take care of the rest. There was no chance of anyone stealing the cars from the lot, since the keys were locked up with the parking attendants and the whole area was under video surveillance, and the bikes would be inside the ballroom.

He marked the posts with a red marker on the floor plan, then sat back, satisfied. It was going to be okay, he assured himself confidently. If his men did a good job there would be no problems, and he trusted his men to do a good job. Still, it did no good to be overconfident; if there was one thing Macaffey learned from his prison guard job, it was that complacency was death. With a crowd of people in one room, anything could go wrong. Macaffey knew from hard experience after fifteen years of being a guard in a supermax prison that crowds could get out of control very easily. True, this was a formal affair and everyone was usually on their best behavior at such times, but he knew it takes just one idiot to yell "Fire!" or something to cause panic in a crowded room. Well, that was not going to happen, nosirreebob. Crowd control was Macaffey's specialty, to the point that he could restore order by the sound of his voice alone.

Of course, there was also the added threat of gatecrashers, people who would try to sneak in for a taste of luxury or a quick encounter with a celebrity. They were more of a nuisance than a threat as a rule, but there was on occasion some crackpot stalker who would try to weasel himself (or herself, since Criss Angel was the dreamboat of hundreds of women everywhere) inside, and God only knew what would happen next. The (bleeper) could either be simply a lovesick teenager or another John Hinkley with a pistol in his pocket. Macaffey would drill into the men assigned for duty that night to be aware of anyone trying to sneak into the ballroom without a ticket or VIP invitation. He decided to issue metal detector wands as well, just in case. Lucas Macaffey was taking no chances.




Oblivous to Frizzi's detailed arrangements and Macaffey's military-style strategies, the preparations for the charity auction went on. In the ticket offices, clerks confirmed the acceptance or regrets of the VIP invitees while at the same time processed the purchase orders for the tickets by phone or online. Gradually, the number of attendees grew over the course of the days before the auction. It wasn't a total sellout, but sales had been high enough to claim success.

One lucky ticketholder was Darlene Milliken, Angela's new roommate. The latter had proven good as her word when she spoke to George about getting Darlene into the auction. He had simply informed her about the tickets on sale and where to buy one. Angela told Darlene, and before one could say "Sold to the highest bidder!" she was on the phone to the ticket office. The cost of the ticket was prohibitive, almost two hundred dollars, but that proved to be no obstacle--she simply put on her Visa card. "What the hell," Darlene had said at the time, "I'm never gonna pay off the damn thing anyway. If it means meeting Criss, it'll be worth it!"

After the ticket purchase, there was the matter of the proper attire. Darlene chose her trusty little black dress, a slinky spaghetti-strap number, floor length with a slit going up one side almost to hip level. It never failed to knock out the guys, she claimed, and she hoped it would work its magic on Criss Angel. With the right jewelry and the right hairstyle, she vowed she was going to knock Criss right out of his combat boots.

Angela, however, had practically nothing to wear. Her pathetic wardrobe was decades out of date, and her "best" dress, the silver shift she had worn to dinner with George that first night out, was threadbare under the arms and worn around the crease of the hem. Darlene had taken one look at it and asked, "Are you sure you don't have anything else? I mean, an old bridesmaid dress would be better than what you got!"

"Sorry," Angela replied mechanically.

"How much money you got?" Darlene asked.

Angela tried to remember her bank balance. "Well, after paying my share of the rent and all, I have about, uh, three hundred, maybe more--"

Darlene grabbed Angela by the arm. "C'mon!" she urged, dragging her along. "We're going shopping!"

"But--!"

"No buts!" Darlene snapped. "If you're going out with George on a VIP invitation, you gotta look the part! No more thrift store crap--you're going out in style!"

"Where are we going?" Angela asked, struggling to keep up.

"I know this little place just off Fremont," Darlene told her. "It's not too expensive, but it's not a dive, either. We'll find you a dress if it kills us!"

From the way Darlene was hauling her, Angela feared that was exactly what would happen. She stumbled along, trying not to twist her ankle on the way down the stairs, then straight to Darlene's Lexus in the parking lot. Then, after a quick drive to Fremont Street, she was escorted in the same manner into a small boutique called ECRU. Angela wasn't sure if it was a name or an acronym, but she had no time to find out because Darlene had just dragged her inside. There were no racks of dresses or anything, just some mannequins modeling the latest fashions in a small showroom. She learned later that the dresses themselves were kept in a storeroom in the back.

The salesclerk had barely spoken the usual "May I help you?" when Darlene demanded she show her friend what the shop had in terms of formal wear. The clerk took one look at Angela's bony figure and said, "One moment, please," before disappearing into the storeroom. After a few minutes' delay with Angela fretting about being there in the first place and Darlene assuring her that everything was fine, the clerk returned with a plastic-encased elegant white evening gown with a deep neckline that fell in graceful folds designed to camoflage Angela's almost nonexistant bustline. "It's an original DeVris," she informed the pair. "It's on sale for just one-ninety-nine."

Darlene practically drooled with desire for it. Angela was stunned into silence. Two hundred dollars for a dress? It was outrageous! Never in her life had she spent so much money on clothes! The most expensive thing in her wardrobe at home was her winter coat that she had purchased at the Salvation Army store for twenty-five dollars, and it wasn't a designer anything. "Do you have anything a little...less expensive?" she asked the clerk timidly.

"I beg your pardon?" the clerk asked.

"Angieee!" Darlene glared at her friend. "This is a DeVris we're talking about! Two hundred is a steal for a dress like this! You can't get anything like it for less than that!"

"But, Darlene--"

"Angela," Darlene said with forced patience, "for once--just for once--stop treating yourself like a second-class citizen and indulge yourself, all right? You're not living with your sister anymore, remember? No more thrift shops, no more outdated clothes--just do it, okay? You want George to see you looking like a rag doll when he comes to pick you up for the auction? Huh? Do you?"

Poor Angela could only stand there, her eyes brimming with tears of shame. Darlene sensed the worst and came to her friend's rescue. "Look, hon," she said tenderly, placing an arm around Angela's shoulder, "I know this is a radical change for you, but you got to start treating yourself right. You're lucky to be going to that auction on a VIP invitation, so you gotta look the part." A burst of good humor came forth. "After all, you're the one who donated over seven hundred grand to the shelter; you don't want to look like one of the residents, now, do you?" She turned to the clerk. "I think she should try it on, don't you think?" she suggested.

The clerk handed the gown to Darlene, who in turn handed it to Angela. "Now you take this gown and try it on," she ordered. "We can at least see if it fits."

Angela obediently took the gown into a large dressing room the size of a small bedroom. Well, it wouldn't hurt to try it on, she thought. I don't have to buy it if it doesn't fit, right? If it doesn't, then maybe I can try to get Darlene to take me to WalMart or something. Somewhere where I don't have to spend a fortune on a dress.

She slipped out of her summer shift and carefully, almost painstakingly for fear of damaging it, donned the gown. Outside, Darlene yelled, "You need help in there?"

"I'm fine, Darlene, thank you," Angela replied quickly as she adjusted the sleeves of the gown. The shoulders of the dress barely covered her own, and the low neckline left her feeling dreadfully exposed. Maybe I got it on backward, she thought.

She had no time to adjust it, for Darlene had flung open the door with a cheery "Ready or not, here we come!" Angela stood there in the DeVris gown, her eyes bugging out of their sockets like a deer caught in a car's headlights. Darlene gave a long low whistle. "Geez, Angie, you look great!" she exclaimed.

The salesclerk stepped forward and fussed over the gown, adjusting the neckline and shoulders and tugging the waist to flatten out the skirting. "That is so you!" she gushed as only salesclerks could. "I knew it the minute I picked out this dress for you; I thought, this is the gown for her!"

Darlene spun Angie around to face the three-way mirror. "Face it," she said, "you're a knockout! George is gonna flip when he sees you in this!"

Angela didn't feel like a knockout. Her collarbone stuck out like two twigs under a thin sheet of flesh. The long sleeves did nothing to hide her bony arms. She thought she looked like a scarecrow in an evening gown. "I'm not sure about this," she said tenatively. "I mean, it's pretty and all that, but--"

"So, with the right shoes, a little makeup and a new hairstyle, you'll be a winner," Darlene said encouragingly. She turned to the salesclerk. "We'll take it," she said.

Angela was aghast at her friend's audacity. "Darleeeennne!"

"C'mon, Angie," Darlene cajoled, "do it for George."

With a feeling of dread Angela returned to the dressing room and changed back into her summer shift. The salesclerk was already at the register ringing up the sale. Oh, Lord, Angela prayed, how do I get myself into these things?

[RACHEL02189]

Come on Angie live a little

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) I really like Darlene :) can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

Meanwhile, back at the Honi residence, Bianca struggled to find anything about her sister's new boyfriend on Google. Her chief obstacle was recalling his last name. She knew it was Greek, that it ended in "-olis", but she could not recall exactly how it was pronounced. She had tried as many variations she could think of--Sartolis, Struntolis, et cetera--but each entry came up blank on the Google site. The popular search engine did its best to be of assistance, suggesting other variations of the name: Sartori, Sarantas, Strumpolis--

Strumpolis! Yes! Bianca clicked on the name and eagerly waited for the results.

To her surprise, there were four hundred and ninety three hits about him, mostly dealing with filmography and his work on Criss Angel MindFreak. Bianca was curious. What did George have to do with Criss Angel? Did he work for him somehow? And, if he did, doing what?

She spotted a YouTube video starring Criss and George and clicked onto it. The tiny screen loaded its content and played before her. Sure enough, there was George with Criss Angel in a hotel corridor. "C'mon, George," Criss was encouraging his cousin, "bust that move!"

Bianca watched as George broke into a rather clumsy breakdance while Criss slapped his thighs in rhythim. On the bottom of the screen read the caption George Strumpolis, Criss' cousin.

Wait a minute! What was that again? Bianca pulled the timer button back an inch or so and replayed the scene. Again, the breakdance routine with the same caption George Strumpolis, Criss' cousin appeared on the bottom. Bianca could hardly believe it. George Strumpolis is Criss Angel's cousin?! It was too ludicrous to believe, but there was the proof right before her eyes. She clicked back to the Google list and read through it. They all confirmed it: George and Criss Angel were cousins, and the former did work for MindFreak Productions, as a carpenter and technician of some sort. Interesting.

Bianca mulled this new discovery in her mind. If George was related to Criss Angel, then maybe that would give her better leverage in her negotiations with Angela to surrender her trust fund. Anything that would ruin George would reflect badly on his celebrity cousin, and wouldn't the tabloids have a field day! All she needed now was some dirt on Cousin George, and she would be armed and ready.

But trying to dig up any dirt on George Strumpolis proved to be more difficult than she thought. It seemed George was a very private person who kept himself out of the limelight as much as possible. Undeterred, Bianca kept searching. There had to be something she could use.

Finally, she hit upon what she hoped would be paydirt, in a post regarding the Las Vegas Flasher case. According to a reprint of an article from the Las Vegas Sun, George Strumpolis had been hauled in for assault and battery after slugging Alvin Zubrowski, the infamous Las Vegas Flasher, in front of the Excalibur. He had broken the man's nose in three places, putting him in the hospital. He had been fined a thousand dollars and given a warning by the judge to "confine his boxing to the ring". Unfortunatly, the event took place last year, and from the op-ed comments below the article, he was a hero as far as everyone was concerned. So much for finding dirt on Cousin George.

Okay, Bianca thought, so George was a boy scout. But what about his famous cousin? He was a celebrity, and celebrities had plenty of dirt to hide--drug use, adulterous affairs, drunken brawls--so maybe she could find something there. She entered a search for Criss Angel and was overwhelmed with over a million hits on his name.

This would be like searching for a needle in a haystack, but still she was not discouraged. She felt it was best to start with the most recent postings, so she clicked onto a site that claimed to carry the most current news about Las Vegas' hottest magician. On the site, the headline read:

Criss Angel Charity Auction

Master Illusionist Criss Angel is auctioning some of his customized cars and motorcycles to raise money to aid the homeless in North Las Vegas. Up for sale will be his customized Humvie, four motorcycles, a F150 pickup truck, a classic Bugatti sports car, and others.

"I've been to the shelter," Criss stated to the press when he announced the auction, "and it's pathetic, the way so many people, including children, are just warehoused into that one building alone. If this auction can help in any way, it's worth the sacrifice I have to make."

Bianca sniffed. "Charity auction," she sneered. "Big (bleeping) deal!" She was about to return to the listings when suddenly the words Sanctuary Shelter caught her eye. She read on:

Proceeds from the auction will go to benefit Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless on A--Street in North Las Vegas. Tickets are $200, available at the Luxor ticket office at (***) ***-****, or at luxor.com/ticketoffice.

Sanctuary Shelter? That was the place Angela volunteered at three nights a week. The pieces began to fall into place. If George was Criss Angel's cousin, then he'd certainly be at the auction with him. And Angela, as a volunteer at the shelter and as George's girlfriend, would more than likely be there, too. Yes, this might just work. If she could somehow ensnare either of them, or both of them, in some compromising situation at that auction, then her victims would be willing to do anything to get themselves out of it, or at least keep it from going public, and only Bianca would be able to free them--for a price.

She closed the Google window and logged onto the Luxor online ticket office. She smiled to herself. Two hundred dollars was pocket change compared to the lifetime of wealth her sister's trust fund would afford. Living well was the best revenge, and Bianca was going to get the best revenge money could buy.

[RACHEL02189]

Oh boy:eek:

[Smurf]

Oh Dear , i think Criss ,Angle and George , have all better watch out , can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

The day before the charity auction was a whirlwind of activity at the Luxor. Technicians adjusted, tested and re-tested the audio-visual equipment in the Grand Ballroom with all the seriousness of a space shuttle launch. Electricians connected the speakers to the microphone on the podium and adjusted the angles of the plasma screens for best visibility, testing them as they went to check for sound or visual problems. Nearby, another technician adjusted the speed of the rotating vehicle platforms by turning a knob on the control panel backstage.

Outside in the car park, those vehicles marked for sale were being lined up in front, the other cars having been towed into a lower level of the hotel parking garage for safekeeping. The four motorcycles chosen for auction were wheeled inside the ballroom by a few members of the parking staff and mounted onto the platforms. All this was recorded by video surveillance to make sure nothing got damaged--or stolen.

On the other end of the ballroom, a ten-foot buffet table stretched along the far wall, covered in snowy linen. Gleaming silver chafing dishes lined the table like knights in shining armor, ready to be filled with the chef's finest creations. To one side, a member of the dishwashing crew sat at a small table, methodically rolling polished cutlery into fresh linen napkins, binding them with a strip of sticky paper tape embossed with the Luxor's logo and setting them into a sterile plastic tub to be picked up by the wait staff. Said staff was busy setting up the dinner tables, spreading crisp white tablecloths over the rows of round tables and meticulously settting out the china, wrapped silverware and stemmed wine glasses upon them. Florists advanced before them with the centerpieces, modest but elegant crystal bowls of flowers (Frizzi insisted on nothing too high that the bidders could not see the stage) to add color against the stark whiteness of the table settings.

The hotel's top cop, Big Luke Macaffey, strolled around the ballroom, scanning the perimeter for any potential breaches in security; he wanted to make sure there were no leaks, as he termed it. After tomorrow night his staff would be on their own, so he made double sure they knew their duties: No one who was supposed to be in the ballroom was going to be in the ballroom. They were to keep to their posts and report any trouble immediately. They were to keep their eyes and ears open and their lips zipped--no chatting with the guests or staff. And above all, they were to be on the lookout for any suspicious activity, but not to make a scene; they were to be alert but discreet so as not to cause panic. In summary, Big Luke had repeated his maxim: "Be prepared for anything, expect nothing."

So far, he had found nothing amiss, no leaks needing to be plugged. Satisfied for the moment, he decided to stroll down to the deli for a quick cup of coffee (the office coffee was free, but the deli coffee was a better quality for the price) and head back to the office.

He strode toward the south entrance of the ballroom. It had already been set up with a skirted table and two chairs to accept tickets or invitations, so there was no need for embellishment. Just inside the entrance was a shabby square wooden box with a slit in the top sitting on a tall covered drink table. This humble container, noticeably out of place among the elegance of the dinner tables, had been provided by Sanctuary Shelter for personal donations. A placard stating its purpose, to help the homeless, stood before it like a beggar's cardboard sign pleading for spare change. One could tell just by looking at it that it had been long in use.

As he made his way toward the south entrance, he noticed two young girls standing nervously by the ticket table, one of them clutching a white business envelope. Curious but not alarmed, Macaffey approached them. "Can I help you two?" he asked them cordially.

The one girl with the envelope swallowed hard. "Uh, we can't afford to go to the auction," she stammered, "but we wanna make a donation if we can to the shelter, if it's okay."

"We wanna do it for Criss," her companion blurted out.

Macaffey looked at the two girls, then at the envelope. It seemed like a reasonable request; permission was granted. He personally escorted the pair inside the ballroom and showed them the donation box. "You can drop it in there," he told them.

The white envelope, decorated with CA logos, hearts and messages of undying love for Criss Angel, disappeared into the wooden box. "This is for you, Criss," the first girl sighed adoringly as she slipped it in.

Meanwhile, her companion was absorbed by the sight of the auction setup, especially the motorcycles modeling themselves on the rotating platforms. She searched them carefully from every angle as they presented themselves and was relieved the Loyal bike, the specially customized Harley airbrushed with copies of tattoos Criss' fans had shown him, had been spared the auctioneer's hammer. "It's not here," she informed her friend happily.

The first girl turned away from the donation box. "It's not?"

The second shook her head. "Nope. Not here."

The first girl heaved a grateful sigh. "Oh, thank God! I knew he wouldn't sell it!"

Macaffey grew impatient. "Uh, ladies?"

Intimidated by the chief of security's presence, the two girls made a hasty exit, muttering a quick thanks. Macaffey nodded in reply as he watched them dash out the door. As he turned away, his eye fell on the donation box. His concern grew: it looked too beat up to hold much of anything, he thought. If people were going to drop money into it, he'd better make sure it was safe.

Macaffey inspected the box. It looked pretty sturdy despite years of wear. The top was nailed to the frame, and the wooden bottom seemed to be holding up rather well. It was the back that concerned him: a single sliding bolt secured a small door behind it. Not good, Macaffey thought, there should be a lock on it. He made a mental note to speak to whomever was in charge of the donation box to upgrade it to something more secure. Meantime, he would instruct the guard on door duty to keep an eye on it. Better to be safe than sorry.

Aside from the donation box, everything was tight. Macaffey left the ballroom and headed for the deli for a well-deserved cup of coffee. Once his men were at their posts, there should be no trouble tomorrow night. He trusted his men to do their job and do it well. He also had the eye in the sky to provide backup, a weight off his mind if there ever was one. He anticipated nothing going wrong on auction night. If something did go wrong, someone's head was going to roll all the way to the Grand Canyon. Macaffey would see to that himself.

[RACHEL02189]

I wonder what car and/or mortcycle they were thinking of?

[Smurf]

great Chapter :) can't wait to see what is going to happn at the auction :)can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

I wonder what car and/or mortcycle they were thinking of?

The Loyal bike--the one with all the Loyals' tattoos airbrushed upon the engine mount.

[Veritas]

Felix Rappaport, president and CEO of the Luxor Hotel and Resort, walked casually around the giant atrium, greeting guests, inquiring from staff about the conditions of the facilities, and tending to the hotel in general. He liked being directly involved in the everyday activities of the hotel. It didn't do to be cooped up in his office all day; the hospitality business was a service industry with its chief responsibility toward its guests, and that meant socializing with anyone who set foot inside his hotel. The hotel president was not just in charge of the business end of running a resort, he was also the chief concierge, the host who welcomed all guests who chose to lodge there, responsible for making sure all their needs were satisfied. And Felix Rappaport took that responsibility seriously.

Today, on top of his regular duties, he was overseeing the preparations for the Grand Charity Auction tomorrow night. So far, he had received no complaints regarding anything in particular about it, a rarity if there ever was one. Usually, whenever there was some major event planned in the hotel, there were delays, technical difficulties, complaints about the service or the facilities not meeting the client's expectations, or other little fires Felix was often called to put out. This meant innumerable phone calls to caterers, rental companies, or wherever, while at the same time placating the client with promises that everything was under control and they had nothing to worry about. It was enough to give a lesser man an ulcer, if not a stroke.

The charity auction, however, was proceeding along smoothly. It should, because the Luxor itself was hosting it, and Frizzi Voss was arranging it. Ah, Frizzi, Felix thought, what would I do without you? Without you, this whole thing would have come to a screeching halt.

He spotted Chief of Security Lucas Macaffey in the deli, sipping a styrofoam cup of coffee. No doubt he'd been casing out the ballroom for security leaks. He personally didn't care for Macaffey's quasi-militant methods of keeping the peace in the hotel, but he had to admit the man was more than competant. Ever since the hotel hired him as their top cop, there had not been a single break-in, theft or robbery in the Luxor. You couldn't argue with results.

Felix strolled toward the car port where the cars Criss Angel had chosen for sale were parked. It saddened him to see the Bugatti, the F150, the Mustang, the Diablo, and, of all things, the Hummer, lined up like prisoners before a firing squad, marked for death by a crude X on their windshields. Felix could understand the first four, but why the Hummer, he wondered. What compelled Criss to give up the one vehicle that symbolized his whole career?

He looked around the car port and spotted Criss standing beside the Hummer with an expression on his face that read like a telegram relating the loss of a loved one. Curious as well as concerned, Felix crossed over to see him. Criss didn't stir or even bat an eyelash; he just stood beside his beloved Hummer as if keeping vigil before the end came. "You okay, Criss?" Felix asked.

Criss merely nodded, his eyes still on the Hummer. "Anything I can do to help?" Felix offered.

A shake of the head. "No, not really."

Felix decided to get right to the point. "Well, if you love this thing so much, then why are you selling it?"

Criss hesitated, then drew a deep breath. "Because I made a promise, that's why," he replied with a tinge of bitterness in his voice.

"A promise to whom?"

Another deep sigh. "To God. To Pastor Bob. To Father Stefan." He paused for a moment. "To Mom."

"Well, couldn't you tell them you changed your mind?" Felix suggested. "Pick another car to sell! It's not too late, you know."

Again, Criss shook his head. "I'm afraid it is," he said sadly. "Pastor Bob and I went through my inventory by tossing a card, the King of Hearts I think it was, and wherever it landed would be sold. I didn't want to sell the Hummer--I still don't--but that's where the card landed, not once, but three times. I thought it was just coincidence, but Pastor Bob insisted it was the hand of God at work, and so..." He waved his hand toward the Hummer. "There it is."

Felix patted Criss' shoulder comfortingly. "Don't worry, Criss," he said reassuringly. "I've got an idea that's gonna make everybody happy."

Criss turned in surprise. "You do?"

Felix smiled. "Trust me," he said with a wink. "Everything's gonna be all right."

[Smurf]

Great chapter :) poor Criss , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

I have a feeling Felix has something up his sleeve :)

[Veritas]

"Okay," Darlene said, eyeliner brush poised, "hold still now."

Angela remained rigid while her roommate put the finishing touches on her makeover. She was not in the habit of wearing cosmetics (too expensive), so she allowed Darlene to make her up for the evening. Darlene proved to be an expert in beauty culture; not only did she know the right foundation, blush and eyeshadow to bring out Angela's best features, but had also French-braided her hair with crystal-white beads to widen her too-thin face, a project that took the better part of an hour to accomplish. Angela submitted patiently to this makeover, chagrined over such a fuss being made over her but determined not to embarrass George on the biggest night of her life so far.

She had even kept the DeVris gown, not so much out of a desire to impress than the fact that ECRU had a strict no-refund policy. "Store credit only," the salesclerk insisted. So Angela was stuck with a two-hundred dollar designer dress whether she liked it or not. Not only that, but Darlene had talked her into plunking down fifty bucks for a pair of slingback heels. To her relief, though, Darlene did concede on not purchasing a handbag; she let her borrow her beaded evening purse. "No one has to know," she had said. "Besides, it goes good with your dress."

Darlene pulled the eyeliner brush away. "Okay, all done," she said. "Care to take a look at yourself in the mirror?"

Angela faced the large vanity mirror. She hardly recognized herself. Instead of the thin, frail spinster schoolteacher, there was a very attractive, if not lovely, young woman. The dark circles under her eyes had disappeared, and her new hairstyle gave her face more fullness. The white beads in her hair sparkled like snowflakes in the sun. "Is that me?" she whispered, awed.

Darlene laughed. "Of course it's you, silly!" she replied. "Now, come on, we gotta get ready. George will be here any minute to pick you up, and you don't wanna be late, do you?"

Angela halted. "Wait a minute," she spoke up. "What about you? Aren't you going to ride with us?"

"Me?" Darlene shook her roller-covered head. "Hey, honey, you're going out with George; I don't wanna cramp your style! Beisdes, I'll probably be spending the evening with some handsome hunk who wants to take me home with him, and I don't wanna hold you up."

"Someone by the name of Criss Angel, right?" Angela retorted knowingly.

Darlene smiled laciviously as she pulled on her slinky black dress. "Ideally, yes."

Angela kept her thoughts to herself as she carefully slid into her white gown. Darlene struggled into her black one, zipped it up the back, then set to work pulling out the hair rollers. Still not used to formalwear, Angela fussed over the draping neckline to make it look like it did in the shop, but without success. In despair, she asked Darlene for help.

Darlene set down the last roller and rose from the vanity chair. "Okay, hold still," she said as she fluffed the folds around the neckline, then readjusted the shoulders. "There," she said, stepping back. "You know, you look fantastic!"

A glance in the full-length mirror nailed to the back of the bedroom door confirmed Darlene's statement. What Angela saw was a completely different person. Gone was the dowdy schoolteacher in the outdated clothes; in her place was a model straight out of Cosmopolitan magazine. "I don't know if George is going to recognize me," she said.

"Honey," Darlene said, brushing her black hair, "I barely recognized you!"

The door buzzer went off. "That must be George!" Angela cried frantically. "Oh, God, what do I do?"

"Go answer the door, silly!" Darlene replied. "He's waiting for you."

Angela gathered the hem of her gown to keep from tripping over it as she stepped to the door. She drew a deep breath, laid a hand on the knob, and pulled open the door.

There stood George with an amazed look on his face, so amazed he nearly dropped the corsage he carried. It was not only the DeVris gown that had floored him, but her thin face had been made up to hide the ravages of her miserable life, making her look not only prettier but younger. Her dirty-blonde, stringy hair had been styled in such a way that he barely recognized her, French-braided with white pearls to match her gown and purse. Whatever words he wanted to say stuck in his throat. His only reaction had been a single "Whoa!"

Angela, for her part, had been impressed by George's appearanace. His long greying locks had been pulled back in a fashionable queue, and he had shaved off his stubble, giving his pudgy face a smoother look. She could tell the tux he wore was rented, but she didn't care; on him, it looked dashing, appealing, as if it had been made just for him. For a moment she felt like a teenager going to the prom; the corsage George had taken out of the plastic container and pinned on her reinforced that fantasy.

They left in George's Land Rover, Angela taking care not to get her expensive gown dirty by hiking it up to her knees and stepping carefully to the curb where the Rover was parked. "You gonna walk like that when we get there?" George had asked half-jokingly.

Angela had flushed beet-red through her make-up. "This thing set me back two hundred dollars," she had confessed. "I'm not going to ruin it by dragging it on the sidewalk."

George had simply laughed and helped her into the Rover, not the classiest mode of transportation, but Angela's tastes were not that high. Cinderella rode to the ball in a coach made out of a pumpkin, she thought. This is a step up as far as I'm concerned.




Friday night at the Luxor glowed with the style and elegance that only money could buy. A steady stream of limos and expensive cars pulled to the side of the curb, each depositing their well-dressed occupants onto the red-carpeted walkway leading to the Grand Ballroom. Liveried doormen showed their deference to them by opening the glass doors with a tip of the hat and a depreciating smile.

There were two admission tables beside the south entrance leading into the Grand Ballroom, one for the VIPs, the other for the ticketholders. The former went smoothly as the invitees handed their cards to the person sitting at the table, who looked up their names on the register and admitted them without demur, while the latter inched slowly along as the person assigned to that table took the tickets, tore them in half and returned the stubs with all the decorum of a movie theater usher. Once inside, the VIPs were shown their tables near the front of the stage, while the ticketholders were relegated to the rear. No one minded; the ticketholders were happy to be there. After all, it was for a good cause.

Inside the ballroom, other partygoers huddled in groups, engaging in murmured conversation, occasionally interrupted by a new arrival who was greeted with insincere smiles and shoulder hugs. A self-playing grand piano, its ebony surface buffed to a mirrored shine, filled the air with soft music while waitpersons made the rounds with small trays bearing delicate crystal flutes of champaigne.

Ohmigod, I'm here! I'm really here! Darlene thought estatically as she tripped happily into the Grand Ballroom. Never mind the fact that she had to go through the ticket line, and that she was assigned to sit at one of the far tables--she was here at last! Now, all she had to do was find Criss for the most memorable encounter of her life, and she could die a happy woman.

But finding him in this crowd was like looking for a needle in a haystack. In fact, she wasn't really sure if Criss was even out on the floor since he was the host of the auction. Darlene thought that if she could find Angela, she would also find George, and if she found George, then Criss would not be far behind--logical, was it not? The thing to do would be to head to the VIP tables to see if Angela, George or Criss were there.

Darlene wove through the maze of bodies toward the front of the ballroom. The VIP tables were empty; everyone had lined up at the buffet. Darlene scanned the line carefully. Yes, there was Angela in her white gown, with George beside her. Up ahead, she recognized Dimitra, Criss' mother--how lovely she looked!--chatting with an elderly gentleman in a tailored black suit. No sign of Criss, unfortunatly. But she refused to give up hope. Screwing up her courage, she walked over to where Angela was standing, flashing her sunniest smile. "Hi, Angela!" she called out.

Angela turned. "Oh, hi, Darlene," she returned. "George, you remember Darlene, don't you?"

George nodded. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Hi, Darlene, how's it going?"

"Oh, everything's fine, just fine." Or it will be when I meet Criss. "So, enjoying the evening so far?"

"Oh, it's fine," Angela replied a bit nervously.

"Just 'fine'?"

"Well, more than just fine, really. It's fabulous."

Darlene turned to George. "Say, George, I saw your Aunt Dimitra up ahead," she said casually. "You, um, got any more family members here tonight?"

George divined what Darlene's real motive was. "You mean Criss, don't you?"

Darlene giggled. "Well, maybe," she replied coyly.

"He's in the back, getting ready for the auction," George told her flatly. "You can meet up with him after the bidding."

Oh, how she wanted to hug that man! "Oh, thank you, George!" she gushed. "You two have a great time tonight, okay? Kisses!" She tripped merrily away, leaving George to shake his head in exasperation.

"Does this happen often?" Angela asked.

"Does what happen often?"

"You getting approached by your cousin's fans, asking where he is."

George made a small shrug. "Yeah, sometimes," he replied glibly. "Sometimes they wanna meet Criss, sometimes they wanna meet me."

"You?"

"Yeah, me," George confessed. "Guilt by association, you could say. It comes with the job."

"Well, when I met you, I didn't even know anything about you or who you worked for. And even if you didn't work for your cousin, I'd still..." She couldn't say it; the words stuck in her throat no matter how she tried to force them out.

"Still love me?" George prompted.

That busted the dam. "Yes," Angela gasped. "I'd still love you."

George took her in his arms. "Yeah, I'd still love you too, even if you almost broke my back falling like that."

Angela giggled. They leaned over to kiss, but were interrupted by an impatient man behind them. "You wanna keep the line moving, lovebirds?" he said sarcastically. "We'd like to get something to eat here!"

Blushing, George and Angela moved along the buffet line, helping themselves to the steaming delicacies in the silver chafing dishes: chicken marsala, steamed vegetables, fluffy rolls, fruit cocktail, and a tempting array of pastries at the end. George could not help but notice the miniscule portions on Angela's plate. "C'mon, eat up!" he urged. "You gotta put some meat on those bones!"

"This is all I can eat right now," Angela protested.

"Yeah, well, wait until you meet my mom," George warned her. "She'll stuff you like a Thanksgiving turkey with enough pastitsio and stuffed grape leaves to feed an army! She don't like skinny, that's for sure!"

Angela smiled at that. "I'd like to meet your mother."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure she'd like to meet you, too," George said, helping himself to more chicken marsala.

They came to the pastry table at the end of the buffet. "Save room for dessert?" Angela suggested.

"Oh, no," George replied. "No cakes or sweets. I'm in training, remember?"

Angela did recall that George was an amateur boxer training for the upcoming match at the Mirage. Out of courtesy for George she chose to decline dessert as well, tempting though the petit fours, mini cheesecakes and other delectables were. She walked with her plate to their assigned table, next to one of the rotating platforms displaying two wickedly customized motorcycles, their polished chrome reflecting the light. Several tables away Angela could see Darlene, eating and chatting with her tablemates as if sitting in the ticketholder section was nothing at all to be ashamed of. She felt bad that her roommate and best friend could not join her at the VIP table. She felt worse that she could not be as outgoing and sociable as Darlene, who could make friends at the drop of a hat. She may be just a ticketholder, but she could have a good time with anyone regardless of who they were. And Angela, despite her VIP status with George, cousin of Criss Angel, could not help but feel just a little bit envious.




One ticketholder who found the whole business humiliating was Bianca Honi. Dressed in a Versace gown so tight it looked as if it had been shrink-wrapped onto her body, she fretfully waited her turn in line until she came to the ticket table. She practically flung her ticket to the man, who tore it and handed her the stub. She took it and stormed into the Grand Ballroom, beet red with fury. To think a woman of her calibre had to go through the ticket line like a commoner! She should be with the VIPs, not with the plebians. Her sister was a volunteer at that shelter, so why didn't they send her, Bianca, an invitation like they were supposed to? This whole thing was simply degrading!

Then there was the buffet line. How Bianca hated buffets! She preferred having her meals served to her already plated; it was much more refined, much more civilized. To not only have to wait until her plebian table was permitted to go up to the buffet after the VIPs had gone, but being forced to scoop out her own food from a steam table like a cafeteria worker was simply uncouth. She made a mental note to complain to the management, swallowed her bile and focused on her real mission: to find a way to blackmail Angela out of her trust fund.

First, she had to find her. She fished out her small digital camera from her tiny handbag, turned on the battery, and strolled casually among the guests, keeping an eye out for her sister. But the place was too crowded; too many people got in her way. Bianca counseled herself to be patient. The night was still young. There was still plenty of time to get what she needed.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) be careful George and Angela :) can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Welcome to the
Grand Charity Auction
Hosted by MindFreak Productions
In Co-operation with the Luxor Hotel and Resort


ITEMS UP FOR BID:
1960 Bugatti,
2008 Ford F150 Utility Truck
1965 Ford Mustang convertable,
2008 Lamborghini Diablo,
2008 Humvie (customized)
2007 Harley-Davison Spirit (customized)
2005 Yamaha racing motorcycle (as seen on TV)
2007 Harley-Davison Cherokee (customized)
2006 Harley-Davison original
(designed by Count's Custom Bikes)

Auction begins at 9:30 PM.
No outside bidding allowed.

(All proceeds will be donated to Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The electronic Steinway played on while the guests dined on the buffet fare. Up at VIP table number one, Angela sat with George, the love of her life; his Aunt Dimitra, whom she found to be the sweetest old lady she had ever met; his three cousins, JD, Costa and, of course, Criss (who kept staring morosely all through dinner at his motorcycles on the platforms as if bidding them farewell), and another cousin, Phil (Angela began to wonder just how many cousins George had). Also present were Felix Rappaport, the president of the hotel; Dave Baram, Criss' manager; and Daniel "Springs" Springer, who kept the conversation lively with his stories from Sin City's colorful past.

"Yeah, Mick was the one who loved cars," Springs reminisced. "He had a whole fleet of 'em in his garage: sporty jobs, like Porches and stuff like that. Imports from Europe, really flashy. They got sold off after he kicked the bucket, God rest his soul." He turned to Criss. "Hey, Angel, didn't you buy one of 'em?" he asked.

Criss emerged from his melancholy long enough to answer him. "Oh, yeah," he answered distantly, "yeah, I bought one. It was a Spyder. They kept telling me it was the same car James Dean drove when he got killed. I just bought it to one-up a friend of mine. Sold it soon after though; it was a dumb purchase." (1) He went back to staring at his motorcycles on the platforms.

JD leaned toward Criss. "Let 'em go already, willya?" he hissed, nudging him with his elbow. "You made the decision to sell them--deal with it."

"It wasn't my decision," Criss hissed back.

JD looked at him skeptically. "Oh? Then whose was it?"

"It was--" No, he didn't want to make a fool of himself by saying it was God directing a playing card tossed into the air. "It was random, pure chance. I just picked them out at random."

"What'd you do, go eeny-meeny-miney-moe?"

"No, I didn't go eeny-meeny-miney-moe," Criss replied sarcastically. "I just...tossed a playing card into the air, and where it landed, well, it was selected for sale."

JD smiled. "You were better off with eeny-meeny-miney-moe."

Criss said nothing, but sat there simmering with resentment. Dimitra, sensing a conflict as only a mother could, quickly changed the subject. "So, George, Angela," she said brightly, "how did you two meet?"

Angela blushed prettily, flashing her Mona Lisa smile. George chuckled. "Well, I'll tell ya," he said. "It all started when Angela here won the Million Dollar Slots in the casino. You remember that, don't you Felix?"

Felix nodded. "Sure do."

"Anyway, Angie's never been in a casino before," George went on, "and she sits down at one of the slot machines, puts in five dollars and bingo! Just like that, she's a winner..."




"So, anyway, Angie's, like, in total shock, you know," Darlene babbled to her tablemates over dinner. "I mean, it was the very first time she's even been in a casino, let alone win anything, especially the Million Dollar Slots. I mean, I'd be totally blown away if I won anything like that."

"But when did she get the check?" a man in a black tuxedo asked her.

"Oh, they didn't give it to her right away," Darlene replied. "They have this policy about holding on to it for a couple of days before handing the money over. Some sort of security thing or something."

"It's to make sure there was no tampering with the machines," a stout woman in a lavender gown spoke up. "Security is extremely tight in every casino, everyone knows that. They just want to make sure there was no cheating."

"Well, Angie didn't cheat, I can tell you that," Darlene protested. "She's true blue. I know, I've worked with her at the shelter for three years now. But anyway, the very next day, that (bleep) of a sister of hers, Bianca, found out about it--"

"She didn't tell her own sister?" the stout woman said incredulously. "Why didn't she tell her about it?"

Darlene sniffed. "Hey, if you knew Bianca like I do, you'd know why" she replied. "That woman is a witch with a capital bee! I could tell you stories about her that would make your hair stand on end! She's so Marie Antoinette--let them eat cake and all that. She doesn't give a damn about anyone but herself! If she doesn't get what she wants, she gets so mad-dog (bleeped)! When she found out about Angela's jackpot, she went totally ballistic!"

"Was that why she threw Angie over the balcony like that?" the tuxedoed man inquired.

"Yeah, that was why," Darlene confirmed. "She would have been killed if she hadn't landed on George like that."

"Who's George?" an elderly lady asked.

"George Strumpolis, Criss Angel's cousin." Darlene pointed at one of the VIP tables. "That's him, right over there. Angie's the one in the white gown." She rose and waved. "Hi, Angie! Over here!"

The distant figure in white waved back shyly. Darlene sat down again. "George got an invitation because of Criss," she told the others. "Angie became his date for the evening. I helped pick out her gown, a DeVris if you can believe it! She was a little, well, hesitant about purchasing it, but I told her 'Hey, go for it! You deserve to treat yourself right!'. But, anyway, Bianca went to jail for attempted murder--she kept insisting Angie tried to kill herself and she was trying to save her, if you can believe it!--but she bailed herself out. Well, George decided it wasn't safe for Angie to go home, so he brought her to the shelter. Can't blame him, though, that woman is psycho! I needed a roommate, so of course I took her in, and she's been happy ever since."

"Well," the stout woman in lavender sighed, "at least it had a happy ending."



Sitting at the very table next to hers, Bianca could hear everything Darlene was saying about her. By the time she had finished her blathering about Angela, her rage had reached a boiling point. It was all Bianca could do to keep from reaching over and strangling that (bleep) Darlene Milliken. But, patience, she counseled herself, patience. It did no good to be hot-headed. If she wanted to succeed in her plans, she had to be cool about it.

Darlene had provided one valuable service, however. When she had waved to Angela across the room, she had revealed to her where her sister was sitting. Bianca lifted her head high to get a better view of VIP table number one. Look at her, sitting there with Criss Angel and his lumpish cousin George, she sneered inwardly. And that dress! Where'd she get that tacky thing? She never had any fashion sense, but she could have gone for something better, like a Vera Wang or a DeVris. No, wait a minute--that IS a DeVris! Where'd she get the money to buy a DeVris gown? Oh, yeah, right, the jackpot money. But didn't she donate it to the shelter?


That last question gave her food for thought. Maybe she didn't donate it to the shelter at all. Or maybe not all of it. She may have held out on them...or worse. Hmmmm, there's an interesting thought.

Bianca felt her rage simmer down. The wheels in her mind began turning. If she couldn't get any dirt, she thought. she could get something far better.

(1) See Family Affairs

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) Bianca i really starting irritate me , Can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

Bianca is really getting on my nerves :mad:

[Veritas]

The buffet dinner was supposed to end officially at nine-thirty when the auction began, but the light appetites of the guests concluded it ahead of schedule. The wait staff cleared the tables, leaving behind only the floral centerpieces and a few unfinished cocktails from the bar. There was still an hour or so before the auction started, so the guests whiled away the time with idle chit-chat and general schmoozing. The more serious bidders-to-be went out to the car-park where the items up for bid were kept, inspecting the ones which struck their fancies and appraising their value while at the same time keeping a wary eye on the competition who threatened to outbid them.

Danny Springer had no interest in the cars up for sale. He contented himself with strolling along the car-park with Dimitra on his arm, commenting with his characteristic New-York acerbity on the high-end vehicles lined up behind velvet cordons like crown jewels on display. Dimitra, for her part, kept a running commentary about each and every vehicle her son was selling--that is, what little she knew or could remember about them.

"Ah, this one," she said, pointing to the blood-red Lamborghini Diablo. "Christopher loved to race this one in the desert."

Springs gave the Diablo the once-over. "Geez-Louise," he said. "You coulda won the Indy five hundred in this thing!"

"I'm surprised he wasn't pulled over for speeding," Dimitra added.

Springs snorted. "He's lucky," he said. "A car like is just beggin' for speeding tickets. Cops'll nail ya in one even if you're under the speed limit."

Next was the Bugatti. "Oh, yeah," Springs said appreciatively. "Mick had one of these. He always loved the imports, ya know." He turned to Dimitra. "You sure he didn't buy this from Mick?"

Dimitra shook her head. "No, he said he only bought a Spyder. Then he sold it again."

"Seriously, why did he sell it?"

"I have no idea," Dimitra replied. "Personally, I think he was afraid of it because it was the same car James Dean died in. I know it's silly, but..."

Springs shrugged. "Ah, well, water under the bridge," he said drily. "It's his business, not mine."

They passed the Mustang convertable, the Ford F150 ("I've seen farmers drive tractors smaller'n that!" Springs commented), and finally stopped before the Hummer. "Geez-Louise!" Springs exclaimed. "Last time I saw anything that size it had a gun turret on it! Where'd the hell did he get this effing thing, Army surplus?"

Dimitra laughed. "No, it was a custom job. I don't know where he bought it, but he had the same people who did his motorcycles do all the paintings and put in all sorts of things in there."

"What sorts of things?" Springs asked.

Dimitra pointed under the radiator grille. "Well, below there, in the front, there's a slot to shoot out playing cards" she explained. "I know he's got a flame thrower in the back, and I don't know how many stereo speakers--too many, in my opinion."

Springs stared at her, astonished. "Flame thrower?"

"Yes, a flame thrower. Why he put one in there, I don't know."

"Probably to keep people from tailgating him, I suppose," Springs said with a chuckle. "And now he's putting it up for sale?"

"Yes, it looks like he is."

Springs nodded. "Well, if I were him, I'd sell it to the military. God knows they could use a tank like this."




Meanwhile, back in the ballroom, George and Angela were still sitting at the VIP table, becoming better aquainted with each other. Angela listened attentively as George gave her more details about his Greek-American/New York background, his training as a carpenter, and his technical duties with MindFreak productions.

"So how did your cousin get involved in magic?" Angela asked.

"Ah, Aunt Stella showed him a card trick when he was six and he'd been hooked on it ever since," George replied. "He used to drive everybody nuts with whatever trick he learned. But he got good at it, and--" He spread his arms to emcompass the room. "--the rest is history." He leaned closer to Angela. "But what about you?" he asked. "You haven't told me much about yourself except you teach first grade, volunteer at the shelter and have a sister who tried to bump you off. What about your family?"

Angela sighed. "Bianca's the only family I have left," she said. "Our parents died within months of each other, Father to heart failure, Mother to her grief over him. They were both only children, so we have no aunts, uncles or cousins to speak of, and both sets of grandparents died early, so we're pretty much alone in the world." She sighed sadly. "At least I'm alone in the world. Bianca's so wrapped up in herself, she's...well..."

"Living in her own little world," George finished for her. "Me, me, me, to hell with everybody else. Far as she's concerned, this is her world and she's just letting you live in it. Well, to hell with her!" He laid a hand on Angela's knee. "You ain't alone, Angie," he said tenderly. "You got me, Darlene, and Pastor Bob to look out for you. If Bianca gives you any more grief, let me know, I'll deal with her."

Tears of gratitude welled up in Angela's eyes. She dabbed them with her linen napkin, only to discover that her mascara was running. Embarrassed over ruining her makeover, she excused herself and went to the ladies' room to undo the damage.

George sat back, nursing his coke and rum. He recalled the day he met her (without the back pain, of course), of how she looked in that faded shift dating back God knew when. She had looked so thin, so plain, and so frightened--not surprising, having survived a twelve-floor fall from a balcony. He remembered the worn-out silver shift she wore when he took her out to dinner that first night; it had been a valient attempt to look attractive, but she still looked like the frail schoolteacher that had landed on top of him.

But tonight! Oh, tonight, she was a knockout in that white gown and her hair done up in braids and beads! It was as if her fairy godmother had suddenly appeared and turned her rags into a ball gown, just like Cinderella. Maybe there's something to that Cinderella story after all, he thought. Just hope she doesn't have to disappear at midnight!

"Hey, George!" he heard a woman's voice call out to him.

He turned around and saw Darlene Milliken walking up to him, dressed to kill in a slinky gown that was as black as her hair. "Oh, hey, Darlene," he greeted her. "You just missed Criss; he went into the back to prepare for the auction."

Darlene pouted. "Just my luck," she fretted.

Her petulant mood instantly vanished with a smile. "Well, anyway, I came to see how you and Angie were doing. Where is she, anyway?"

George jerked his head to the side. "Ladies' room."

"You two enjoying yourselves?"

"Oh, yeah," George replied. "Angie got to meet my aunt Dimitra and her date for the evening, Danny Springer."

Darlene's eyes widened. "The former mobster?"

"Oh, you heard of him?"

"Well, after that nasty business over the Piccucci will and all that..."

George nodded ruefully. The Piccucci affair was something he and his entire family wanted to put as far behind them as possible. After Mick Piccucci, one of the members of the Guys of Glitter Gulch, passed away, his will stipulated that his caregiver, Casey Worth, inherit the entire estate, setting off a firestorm of double-crosses, treachery and murder. Criss unwittingly became involved only because Casey had been working as a housekeeper in the Luxor and had discovered a phony bomb in her cleaning cart while working in Criss' suite at the time. The whole mess came to a climax when Mrs. Piccucci, Mick, Jr.'s wife, pulled a gun on Criss, Casey, Springs and a little teen runaway whose name he couldn't recall. Criss had delivered a single karate kick to Mrs. Piccucci's gun hand, making him the hero in the press (2). The only good thing that came from it in George's opinion was Springs' friendship with his Aunt Dimitra, even if he was a former mobster. At least his widowed aunt had someone to talk to while she was here in Vegas, and he had to admit Springs was a character.

"Well, they're out looking over the cars," he told Darlene.

Darlene merely said, "Oh."

George invited her to sit next to him. Darlene accepted happily, if only for the fact that her pumps were killing her feet. "So, how's the living arrangement working out so far?" he asked.

"So far, so good," Darlene replied. "It's like she's hardly there, you know. She comes home, goes into her room, works on her lesson plans--she hardly ever goes out. In fact, this is the first night out she's had since she's moved in."

"Well, I'm just glad she's living with you instead of, you know..."

"Bianca the (bleep)?"

"Yeah."

"Hey, glad to oblige. It's about time she got away from that (bleep) sister of hers. She'd stay there any longer and I swear to God she'd put her in an early grave!"

"She very nearly did, remember?"

Darlene did remember. "Oh, yeah, the balcony thing."

"Yeah, the balcony thing."

"Well, I, for one, am going to be so happy to see that (bleep) get her ass hauled off to jail!"

George drained his drink. "You and me both. Angie, too, no doubt."

"Well, I credit you for bringing Angie out of her shell," Darlene said. "If she hadn't met you when she did, not only would they have been scraping her off the floor, but she'd still be a wallflower, staying home instead of being here with you. Ever since she met you, she's just...blossomed. You've been the best thing for her since, well, I don't know what."

"Well, thank you, Darlene."

"No, George. Thank you."

Darlene wrapped her arms around George, who reciprocated by hugging her back. They quickly released one another as the president of the hotel announced the beginning of the auction. "Hey, they're beginning the bidding!" George said excitedly, rising from his chair. "Let's see who's gonna buy what!" He laughed gloatingly. "Poor Criss! He's gonna be so heartbroken to see his cars and bikes getting sold off! Hope he's got a clean hankie. Or a giant box of Kleenex!"




George and Darlene's friendly little embrace took only three seconds at most, but it was long enough for Bianca to snap a picture of them in each other's arms. Once it was transferred to the photodisc, she slunk away, one piece of her arsenal digitally stored away. She waited until all the bidders assembled around the stage before she launched the second phase of her plan. This one was a bit riskier, but if she succeeded, then Angela would be completely at her mercy--assuming she showed her any.

(2) See Family Affairs

[RACHEL02189]

Seriously the hummer had a flame thrower in the back?!?!?!?!?!?

[Veritas]

Yes. Didn't you see MTV Cribs? He showed us the Hummer with the flamethrower in the back.

[emma]

I really like this story! Can't wait to read more<3

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) I'm glad to the return of Springs :) Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

Angela emerged from the ladies' room, refreshed. It had taken longer than she thought to get her make-up right since she didn't have any experience with cosmetics, but she managed to undo the damage to her mascara with little trouble. A touch of concealer under the eye to cover up the dark circles, a final glance in the mirror, and she was ready to go.

She trotted back to the ballroom as quickly as her slingbacks and floor-length gown would allow; she didn't want to keep George waiting too long for her. The auction would be starting soon and she didn't want to miss it, even though she wasn't bidding on anything. She had never been to an auction before, let alone one as fancy as this. She was curious as to who would buy those cars Criss Angel was putting up for sale. Whoever they were, they would have to be really rich to afford just one of them. It scared her to think how much Criss had paid for them in the first place.

She entered the dining area and found it empty. Oh, dear, she thought, the auction's already started. But where was George? He had to be here somewhere. She crossed over to the other end of the ballroom, already filling up with bidders, craning her neck in search of him. "George?" she called out. "George? Where are you?"

Darlene heard her first. She nudged George to get his attention. "Angie's looking for you," she informed him.

"Hm?" George grunted. He looked around and spotted Angela in the middle of the ballroom, wandering around like a little lost lamb in her white gown. He put his fingers into his mouth and gave a loud, shrill whistle, startling everybody in the room. "Hey, Angie!" he shouted, "over here!"

That got Angela's attention. It also got the attention of everyone else in the room. Blushing for the sixth time that evening, she walked toward George amid smothered chuckles and giggles. Darlene rolled her eyes. "Oh, real classy there, George," she said sarcastically. "Very discreet."

George ignored her and took Angela into his arms. "You ready for the auction?" he asked her.

Angela nodded happily, and she, George, and Darlene took their seats near the front. The more serious bidders huddled closer to the stage where they could get a better view of the motorcycle platforms and the plasma TVs displaying the cars up for bid.

Hotel president Felix Rappaport approached the podium to the sound of polite applause. Felix cleared his throat, tapped the mike to make sure it was working, winced at the whine of feedback, and began his introduction. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Grand Charity Auction to benefit the homeless, hosted by MindFreak Productions in co-operation with the Luxor Hotel. It is indeed a great honor to have you all with us tonight, but before we begin, let's have a few words from one of the founders of Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless, Pastor Robert Beaman."

More polite applause as Felix yielded the podium to Pastor Bob. The pastor and the president shook hands before Felix left the stage. Pastor Bob stood before the fashionably dressed audience as confidently as he would his own congregation. "Good evening," he boomed. "First, on behalf of Sanctuary Shelter and its residents, I'd like to thank you all for showing your support for our cause in aiding the homeless. It's a blessing to us to know there are such caring people here in Las Vegas."

Again a round of applause. Pastor Bob waited until it died down before continuing his speech. "As you are no doubt aware, times have been hard for a lot of people: losing their homes, their jobs, their cars, everything. There have been whole families--men, women and children--who have been reduced to such poverty they've been living in abandoned buildings, in their cars if they're lucky to have 'em, or even right out on the street. They've lost hope for a better future, or any kind of future at all--just living hand-to-mouth day in and day out, thinking only where their next meal is coming from."

Images of homeless transients flashed onto the plasma screens while Pastor Bob spoke, emphasizing the seriousness of the situation. "Ten years ago, myself and a group of other clergymen from area churches got together to address the problem of what to do with the homeless people in Las Vegas. With the help of donations from whomever we could ask, we bought an old storage facility and founded Sanctuary Shelter in North Las Vegas. With it, we fed, clothed, and sheltered as many as two hundred people at a stretch. Not only that, we offered job skills classes taught by volunteers, and day care for the younger children so their parents could go to work, or search for work, whatever the case may be. But it wasn't easy. There were times when we could not pay our utility bills, nor afford enough food to feed everyone who came through our doors, nor even had enough room to accomodate everybody, but the Good Lord saw us through.

"The past few years have been especially rough for us, with more and more people out of work and on the streets, looking for a place to live after their houses had been foreclosed by the bank. Our donations began to dry up as people preferred to hold onto their money instead of sharing it with the less fortunate. We had just reached the end of our rope and about to shut down altogether when the Good Lord saw fit to send an Angel to aid us in our hour of need."

The audience got the reference and broke into another round of applause. George turned to Angela. "Hey, wait a minute," he whispered hoarsely. "What about your donation, the seven hundred grand?"

Angela raised a placating hand. "I know," she whispered back, "but I told Pastor Bob to keep quiet about it so we can get more donations. If word got out about what I gave to them, no one's going to bother donating anything. The fewer who know about it, the better. So, let's keep it between us, okay?"

George shrugged and turned his attention back to the pastor, who was blathering on about how Criss Angel had chosen the shelter for his television series, how moved he had been over what he had seen, and how he arranged the auction here tonight to raise money for it. He bestowed lavish praise upon Criss' generosity and kindness for the less fortunate citizens of Las Vegas, stating that he indeed lived up to his last name for selling his prized vehicles to aid their cause. George, recalling the gloomy look upon Criss' face during dinner, took that last sentence with a few grains of salt. Criss'll probably buy them all back, he thought. No way is he gonna give up his toys, especially the Hummer--he's invested too much money into that thing alone.

"And here his is now," Pastor Bob boomed triumphantly, "the man of the hour...Criss Angel!"

The audience cheered and applauded loudly as Criss stepped onto the stage. Cameras flashed all around him like giant fireflies as he stepped up to the podium. Darlene squealed like a teenage girl at a boy-band concert. "Ohmigahd! Ohmyghadohmighadohmigahd! There he iiiiiisssss! Ohmighad, he's cuter than he is on TV!"

Angela fluttered her hands irritably in front of her estatic roommate. "All right, all right, settle down, will you? Sheesh! It's not like you haven't seen him before."

Criss walked up to the podium. "Thank you, Pastor," he said simply. Then he turned to the audience. "First of all, thank you all for coming here tonight. I know some of you think I'm nuts to be selling some of my toys, here, but let me tell you it's for a good cause.

"You know, there are two sides to Las Vegas: the one we see, and the one we don't see. The side we see is the glitz and glamor, with the casinos, the clubs and all the neon signs on the Strip. And the other side, the one we don't see? The poverty, the homelessness, the gangs and drug dealers terrorizing the streets--that's the side no one sees because they don't want to see it. I know, because I was one of them. I never knew that other side existed until I went to Sanctuary Shelter. I was stunned by the number of poor people living there, especially the number of children. It was a wake-up call, to say the least. I felt I had to do something.

"I've always felt that God had blessed me with so much, and now it's time for me to share those blessings with those who need it most. So I arranged this auction to raise money to aid those who are in need, especially the children living in the shelter who have nothing but the clothes on their backs and the will to survive. So, let's do our part and give these people the help they need. Thank you."

Darlene had managed to curb her enthusiasm long enough to hear Criss' speech, savoring every word that he spoke like honeyed wine. Criss left the podium and went backstage. Darlene gazed upon him, as moved as if he had delivered the Gettysburg Address. "Isn't he wonderful?" she gushed.

George was completely underwhelmed. "Pretty brief," he commented drily. "I thought he'd go on longer."

"I guess he didn't want to hold up the auction," Angela said.

"Yeah, I guess," George mumbled.

A man in a black business suit stepped up to the podium. "That must be the auctioneer," Angela said, pointing discreetly at him. "Guess we're going to get started."

"About time," George muttered grumpily. "I'm starting to get bored with this whole thing."

"Once the bidding starts, you won't be," Angela said. "This is going to be exciting!"

"Good evening," the black suited auctioneer said politely. "Our first item up for bid is a 1960 Bugatti, excellent condition, eighty-three thousand miles. valued at nine hundred twenty thousand dollars."

A shot of the Bugatti in the car-park appeared on the screens. "We'll open the bidding at ten-thousand dollars," the auctioneer announced. "Do we have ten thousand? Ten thousand? We have ten thousand. Twenty thousand? Do we have twenty? Twenty thousand. Twenty-five. Thirty?"

The bidding was fast and furious. Numbered cards popped up and down until the price reached a staggering nine hundred and forty thousand, twenty thousand more than the original estimate. "Going once? Going twice? Sold for nine-forty!"

Applause. George looked around to see who the lucky bidder was. He was a bit surprised to see that it was not Criss but some guy with a fashionable goatee beard and tailored suit chatting on a cell phone. "Hey, that guy's using his cell phone!" he protested. "I thought outside bidding wasn't allowed."

"Maybe he's a broker," Darlene suggested.

"A broker?"

"Sure. Some people hire brokers to purchase things at auctions when they can't be there" Darlene explained. "They can bid independently when outside bidding isn't allowed."

"He'd better be a broker," George growled. "If they find out if he's doing outside bidding when he's not supposed to, it's going to be his (bleeps) on a platter."

"Our next item up for bid," the auctioneer announced, "is a 2008 Ford F-150, excellent condition, valued at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Again the frenzied bidding. This time the highest bidder was an enthusiastic type who pumped air when his bid of one-sixty was accepted. George looked around and noticed the broker was gone. Must've been here just for the Bugatti, he figured.

The red Mustang was next on the block, selling at its value of forty thousand, then the Diablo, which broke even at list price of one hundred forty thousand dollars. Then the Hummer appeared on the screen, up for bid starting at fifty thousand dollars. Poor Criss, George thought, he must be heartbroken right about now. Where the hell is he, anyway?



Criss sat glumly in his "black room", his personal dressing room next to the theater where he performed his live shows, staring at the large-screen television. He had arranged for closed-circuit TV coverage of the auction to be shown in his dressing room simply because he could not bring himself to be present when they sold his beloved cars and motorcycles for fear of going into emotional meltdown. It cut him to the quick to see his toys going under the hammer, one by one, to be sold off to strangers, but he remembered his promise to Pastor Bob. A deal was a deal, he reminded himself, and there was no going back now. If he bought them back, it would make him look bad in the eyes of the public, not to mention the pastor, Father Stefan, and above all, his mother. To have his dear mother ashamed of him was a fate worse than getting smeared in the tabloids.

The Bugatti was gone, the pick-up, the red pony, the Diablo--all went to the block to be fought over by the feeding frenzy of bidders, backing off long enough for the next item up for bid to be dangled before them. Criss' heart sank with every bang of the gavel.

Next up was the grand prize, the Hummer. Of all of his toys, this was one of his favorites. It could do anything except mix a Martini: it shot out cards in front and fire in the back, and it had a sound system that rivaled a concert stage. Its airbrushed artwork announced to the world that he was the MindFreak. His cousin, George, even made him a RC replica of it for him to play with, accurate down to the tiniest detail. Now, it was going, going, soon to be gone to the highest bidder, whomever it would be. God, how can you be so cruel? he thought miserably.

Criss sat helplessly as the bidding went on: one hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, two-fifty, three hundred, three-fifty, three-seventy-five, four hundred, five hundred, six hundred, six-fifty, seven hundred, seven hundred and fifty, going once, going twice--sold for seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, the same amount Angela had donated to the shelter.

He turned off the TV. He did not know who had purchased his Hummer, nor did he want to know. If he did, he felt certain he would want to kill the (bleeper) who bought it if he ever met him or her. He tried to salve his grief with the knowledge that the money would go to aid the homeless, but it was no use. He wanted his Hummer back, and that was all there was to it.

He flopped down on his black-sheeted bed and tried to deal with his loss as best he could. Later on, he would find out who had bought the Hummer. Maybe by then his homicidal feelings against him or her would have subsided. Maybe.

[The unnamed one]

Haha nice ....

[RACHEL02189]

Does anyone remember how much the hummer went for auction in real life? Wouldn't be funny if it went for the same price in this story.:rolleyes:

[The unnamed one]

A couple weeks ago Criss Angel put some of his most prized vehicles up for action at*Barrett-Jackson car auction. One of the most popular rides was his custom designed 2006 H2 Hummer. The Hummer was sold for $100,000.

Las Vegas magician Criss Angel put seven cars from his personal collection in the auction, including a 2006 Hummer H2 that fetched $100,000. The Hummer was used on the show “Mindfreak” and was on display for a while inside the Luxor. The front of the vehicle spits out playing cards and has a custom lock and chain guard inspired by Harry Houdini.
*
To see the Hummer in action check out “Impenetrable” from season four of MindFreak!

That was written in October of 2011

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) Poor Criss :( , can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

"Sold for eight thousand dollars," they heard the auctioneer call out. "And that's the end of the bidding. Thank you and have a pleasant evening."

A smattering of applause, and the auction was over. The last motorcycle was wheeled off the platform to be transferred to its new owner. The remnants of the audience rose from their seats, stretching their limbs from having sat for so long, and headed for the exit. George and Angela went with them, arm in arm, while Darlene remained behind, hoping to catch one glimpse of Criss Angel before she left. George had said he'd be available after the bidding, but she couldn't find him anywhere. Where is he? she wondered impatiently. He'd promised me he'd be here!

Meanwhile, the kitchen and wait staff were clearing the tables, taking down the buffet, gathering the linens, tossing away the floral centerpieces (the crystal bowls belonged to the florist, so they were set aside to be picked up), and stacking the chairs. In the morning, the maintenance staff would come in and roll away the tables, take down the podium, disconnect the sound system, the plasma TV screens, and the rotating platforms so they would be ready to be returned to the rental agency.

Pastor Bob Beaman strolled over to the donation box to pick up whatever had been dropped inside it. It had been a great evening, he thought, a successful evening. With the proceeds from the auction and in the box, added to Angela's prize money donation, the shelter could operate for years without the spectre of bankruptcy hovering over it. At last, God's mission to aid the poor could finally be fulfilled. Humming an upbeat gospel tune, he slid the bolt back and opened the box.

It was empty.

Puzzled, he felt around inside the box. He touched nothing but plywood on all sides. A sense of disappointment came over him. Didn't anyone care to donate? he wondered. Somebody should have dropped something over the course of the evening. What had happened?

He looked around and spotted one of the security guards who had been on duty that evening. "Uh, excuse me, sir," he called out politely. "Did you happen to see anyone make any donations into the box tonight?"

"No, sir, I didn't," the guard replied. "I was posted by the north entrance. Collins was by the south side; maybe you should go ask him."

"Where's Collins?"

The guard looked around. "Um, oh, hey, there he is, over by the stage. The tall guy with the red hair."

Pastor Bob thanked him and headed towards Collins, who was speaking to Chief of Security Macaffey. "Uh, excuse me gentlemen," he said. "Are you Mr. Collins?"

The red-haired uniformed guard turned to him. "I'm Officer Collins," he said.

"I'm Pastor Bob Beaman. You were by the south side entrance tonight, weren't you?"

"I was posted there, yes," Collins replied.

"Were you watching the donation box at any time?"

Collins shrugged. "On and off. Mostly I was keeping an eye on the people coming in, watching for gatecrashers."

"Did you see anyone drop anything in the donation box?"

Collins tried to recall. "Well, I saw one or two people slip something in there," he replied.

Pastor Bob turned to Macaffey. "Did you?"

"I wasn't on the floor tonight," Macaffey told him. "I was in the office on the monitor." He snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering. "Oh, yeah, a couple of giddy girls came in this afternoon to drop something in there, but that was it. Why do you want to know?"

"Because the box is empty."

Macaffey's hackles rose. "Empty?"

"The box is empty," the pastor repeated. "Come take a look for yourselves."

The two guards strode over to the donation box, opened the back door and looked inside. "Nothing," Collins said.

"You sure someone from the shelter didn't come by and pick it up?" Macaffey asked.

"I didn't tell anyone to do that," the pastor answered him. "No one was here from the shelter except me, at least no one I know of."

Macaffey turned to Collins. "You see anyone near this box?"

"No, sir," Collins replied. "I was watching out for gatecrashers, just like you ordered."

Macaffey nodded. He really couldn't fault Collins for the theft, if there was one. He had been ordered to watch out for gatecrashers, and that was what he had been doing; he couldn't watch the doors and the box at the same time. It was the flimsy donation box with the sliding bolt that was at fault; if it had been locked, whatever was in there would still be in there. He turned to Pastor Beaman. "You should have put a lock on that box," he admonished the pastor. "Anyone could come along and help themselves to what's inside."

"We've had that box for years!" Pastor Bob protested. "No one's ever broken into it, no matter where we put it!"

"First time for everything, Pastor," Macaffey said. "First time for everything." He laid a hand on the pastor's shoulder. "Don't worry, we'll find the thief who did it," he said. "Even if we have to shake down everybody in the entire hotel to do it."





Angela, meanwhile, strolled alongside George with a feeling of contentment she had never known before. She was sorry to see the night end. It had been so wonderful, it was almost like a dream. She seemed to float across the floor on a cloud, wrapped in a cozy blanket of bliss. The nightmares of the past had vanished into nothing; ahead was eternal sunshine and happiness. Don't wake me up, she said to herself. I want this to last forever and ever and ever...

"Angela? Is that you?"

She emerged from her blissful state to see Pastor Bob standing by the donation box with two uniformed guards. Still glowing from the evening, she smiled brightly at him, something the pastor had never seen her do. "Oh, hello, Pastor," she greeted him happily. "Good to see you again."

"Yes, good to see you, too," the pastor said, astonished at the stunning transformation of his volunteer tutor in her designer gown and beaded hair. "You look...quite nice this evening."

"Thank you," Angela responded. "You remember George, don't you?"

"Yeah, I remember George," Pastor Bob said hastily. "Uh, say, Angela, you wouldn't happen to have taken the money out of the donation box, would you?"

"Me?" She shook her head. "No, of course not. Why do you ask?"

The pastor sighed. "Because it seems somebody's stolen it."

That single statement sent Angela crashing down to earth. The blissful feeling crumbled to dust while her tension mounted. "Stolen it?" she echoed, horrified. "Who could have done such a thing?"

"That's what we're asking you," Macaffey said gruffly. "You know anything about it?"

"Nothing, I swear!" Angela protested. "I was with George the whole evening! Wasn't I, George?"

George nodded in confirmation. "That's right, she was," he said firmly. "Swear to God, she was nowhere near that box!"

Macaffey eyed Angela's evening bag. "Could I see your purse, please?" he requested officiously.

Too intimidated to refuse, Angela reluctantly handed the chief her bag. He opened it up and emptied the contents onto the donation table. He found a lipstick case, a small brush, a cylinder of mascara, a tiny change purse holding three dollars in cash, a ticket stub, and a cell phone--nothing incriminating. "Well, you're clear," Macaffey said. "You know anyone who might have taken it? Another worker at the shelter, perhaps?"

"Officer, I swear to you I don't know anyone who would do such a thing!" Angela insisted. "The only other person who was here tonight was Darlene Milliken, and I know she didn't do it!"

"Where is she?"

Angela pointed over to the stage. "Over there, waiting for Criss Angel to appear."

Macaffey turned to Collins. "You go over and talk to the Milliken girl," he ordered. "I'm going up to video surveillance to see if they picked up anything on tape."

Collins nodded. "Got it."

The two guards separated. Angela leaned against George's chest. "Oh, Lord," she groaned. "Why did this have to happen?"

"Now, now, don't fret Angela," Pastor Bob said soothingly. "We'll solve this mystery in a heartbeat. They got it all on tape, just like the chief said. We'll catch this thief in no time. Don't you worry about a thing."

"He's right, Angie," George said, squeezing her shoulder affectionatly. "I know those guys up in the surveillance room--they don't miss a trick. They got three-sixty degree coverage of every square inch of the hotel. You can't even scratch your (bleeps)--oh, sorry, Pastor--you can't even scratch yourself without them noticing. And besides, what's a few dollars in the box compared to what we pulled in with the auction tonight?"

"It's not the money, George," Angela protested, "it's the principle of the thing. Theft is theft, no matter how much it is! That money was supposed to go to the shelter, and now it's gone."

Pastor Bob laid a hand on Angela's bony shoulder. "You go on home and rest," he told her gently. "With God's help, we'll clear up this mess. Don't you worry about it."

Angela nodded wearily. She bid the pastor good night and walked out of the ballroom with George. "Don't let this ruin your evening, Angie," George said. "This is Vegas. Theft is everywhere. Dealers skim money from bets; players count cards and tamper with the slots; people embezzle money from work. Where there's money, there's crime. That's why we got guys like Macaffey to enforce the rules, and the eye in the sky to watch over everything. It's a fact of life here in Sin City. You just have to deal with it."

"Still," Angela sighed, "I just wish..."

But she never finished that thought. She was too tired and upset to argue. The best night of her life had been ruined by some petty thief. Whoever it was, she vowed never to forgive him for that.




Darlene's jaw dropped in astonishment. "Stolen?" she gasped. "But how?"

"That's what I hope to find out from you, Ms. Milliken," Officer Collins replied. "You know anything about the theft?"

"No way! I was nowhere near that box!"

"You have any idea who would take it?"

"Other than Pastor Bob, I can't think of anyone. Don't you guys have it on tape somewhere?"

"Yes, ma'am, we do, but we need to question any eyewitnesses as well."

"Well, it's not me, I can tell you that!" Darlene retorted. "I have no idea who would do such a thing."

Collins' radio receiver crackled. He pressed the transmitter button and spoke into it. "Collins' here."

"Collins?" It was the unmistakable voice of Chief Macaffey. "Get up here to surveillance. I think we got our thief."

"Ten-four." Collins snapped off the receiver. "We got something on tape," he said. "Thank you for your time, ma'am."

Darlene merely shrugged. "Hey, no problem," she said. "But, hey, if you see Criss Angel, let him know I'm looking for him, okay?"

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) can't wait to read more :) the story is getting exciting :)

[The unnamed one]

Nice .... Wonder if it was that witch of a sister Bianca

[Veritas]

Macaffey and Connor watched as the grainy black-and-white security videotape played itself out on the twelve-inch monitor. It showed a bird's-eye view of the south entrance with the donation box in the upper left-hand corner of the screen. For the first five minutes everything was normal; except for the occasional envelope dropped into the slot, the box was pretty much ignored by all concerned. The image of Officer Collins patrolling the entrance popped up every now and then, crossing the floor and back, then disappearing from view, and repeating the process over and over again. "Seems pretty routine so far," Macaffey muttered.

Suddenly a couple of elegantly dressed partygoers swept onto the screen, drinks in hand, their faces contorted with laughter. Macaffey could tell they were obviously drunk. "You remember those two?" he asked Collins.

"Yes, sir, I do," Collins replied. "They didn't try to steal anything. They just had a few too many, that's all. I made sure they got home in a cab after the party. They were pretty plastered."

Macaffey nodded approvingly. "Good job."

The drunken couple cavorted before the camera for a couple of minutes, then exited stage right. In that space of time, they had completely blocked the view of the donation box. Then someone else came onto the scene--a woman in a white floor-length gown, with a white turban covering her head and dark glasses over her eyes. The mystery woman appeared to have taken advantage of the drunken couple long enough to slip behind the donation box, pause for a moment, then slip away again, clutching her purse close to her abdomen. The surveillance officer pointed to the screen. "You see that?" he asked. "There's your thief."

"Okay, rewind that!" Macaffey ordered. "See if you can get a close up on our lady in white."

The surveillance officer rewound the tape just long enough to replay the crime. The drunken couple once again frolicked on screen, then the mystery woman appeared. "Okay, freeze!" Macaffey barked.

The surveillance officer hit the pause button. The tape stopped immediatly, creating a bizarre still-life on the screen. "Now, zoom in on her."

The image of the woman in white drew closer to the screen. "Can you run her through the records, see who she is?" Macaffey asked.

The surveillance officer highlighted the woman's features and downloaded them into the criminal records file. Then he ran the program, hoping for a match. After flipping through dozens of mug shots, no match was found. "No good," he said. "The image is too vague. We'd have to digitalize it, and the only guy who can do that is off duty tonight."

"Well, bring him in and tell him he's back on duty!" Macaffey snapped. "I want this (bleep's) ass in custody yesterday!"




Back in the apartment, Angela carefully stored her DeVris gown in it's plastic sheathing and hung it far back into the closet. God only knew when she would wear it again. It was pretty, but it had been way too expensive just to wear to an auction, even one as fancy as the one at the Luxor. It looked more appropriate for a wedding or something.

A wedding. The very word made her smile. That was a pleasant idea. With the proper veil and a bouquet of white roses, her favorite flower, it would make a nice wedding gown at that. She giggled a little, picturing herself in her DeVris gown with a matching veil, carrying her bouquet of white roses, stepping slowly down the aisle of an anonymous church to the music of the church organ, to the altar where George waited for her--

She shook the thought out of her head. Let's get real here! How do I know George wants to marry me? How do I know he wants to marry at all? Besides, I just met the man, for heaven's sake! I know he likes me, but he may not want to marry me, at least not right now.

Angela looked at herself in the mirror over the dresser. She still had her makeup on, and her hair was still braided with its shimmering beads, but deep down she still saw the old-maid schoolteacher she had always been. The old feeling of inadequacy came over her. What if sometime in the future he wants to break up with me? In fact, he might find someone else, someone better than I am, someone prettier like those dancers in those Vegas shows. We're together now, but for how long?

Stop it! she scolded herself. How do you know he doesn't want to marry you? After all you and he went through after Bianca threw you over that balcony! You saw the look in his eyes when he took you home after your first date with him! The two of you were made for each other! If he's stupid enough to break up with you, it's his loss, not yours!

That last thought startled her. Oh, my God! I'm starting to think like Darlene!

[The unnamed one]

Aw...... That was a short post ...... Oh well ...... Good story though.

[RACHEL02189]

George would never break up with her unless she's starts actting like her sister

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) Angela , George is crazy about you :) Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, reaching double-digit temperatures by eight AM. Criss sat at the breakfast table reading the Las Vegas Sun while sipping a chilled glass of orange juice. He regretted missing the auction last night. Though he had orginally proposed it and donated the cars to be sold, he had avoided the event after his speech, unable to watch his favorite toys, especially the Hummer, being sold off. He felt like a coward for doing so. He should have gone out there and faced it like a man instead of hiding in his black room watching it on closed circuit television, only to turn it off after the Hummer was sold. Well, it was too late now. With a sigh he set aside the rest of the paper and turned to the local news. A small sidebar article caught his eye:


CRISS ANGEL, LUXOR RAISES $2M FOR HOMELESS RELIEF

Master illusionist Criss Angel hosted the Grand Charity Auction at the Luxor Hotel Friday night for homeless relief in the Las Vegas area. Items donated were four Harley-Davison motorcycles and six customized automobiles from Angel's personal collection. A rare 1960 Bugatti fetched $950,000, while a customized Humvie with a card-shooting device in front and over twenty speakers mounted in the interior went for $750,000. A total of $2,130,000 was reached by the end of the evening. All proceeds will be donated to Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless in North Las Vegas.


Over two million dollars. Criss should have felt triumphant over topping Angela Honi's original donation of seven hundred and fifty thousand, but after the loss of his prized motorcycles, his Diablo, and his Hummer, his spirits felt weighted down with lead. He sighed in resignation, drained the last of his juice and rose from the table. What was done was done, he told himself. No sense crying over spilled milk and all that. Life went on regardless of whatever loss comes our way, a lesson he had learned the hard way years ago when his father succumbed to cancer. The pain and grief eventually passes, he knew. Auction or no auction, he had a job to do and he was not going to shirk it.




Criss walked across the car-park where the rest of his fleet was on display. His new Quattroporto stood among them as if trying to replace the Hummer in his affections. He strode past it without even a glance. His grief was still fresh in his mind; it would take some time to overcome it. Without a word, he approached the spot where the Hummer was usually displayed. He expected the space to be empty, the jacks supporting the giant vehicle sticking up like metal ribs. What he saw instead surprised him.

Before him stood the Hummer, still mounted on its jacks just like before. The only difference was the soap mark on the windshield had been wiped away. He knew it had been sold--he had watched it on TV--but why hadn't it been picked up? Did the new owner change his mind? Did he renege on the deal? What had happened?

As Criss stood there puzzling over this mystery, none other than Felix Rappaport approached. "Morning, Criss," he greeted him jovially. "Congratulations on the auction last night."

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Criss replied absently. "Uh, Felix? Why is the Hummer still here? I mean, we did sell it last night, didn't we?"

Felix smiled broadly. "Oh, yeah, it was sold," he answered cryptically.

"Who bought it?" Criss inquired, still bemused.

"We did."

Now Criss was even more puzzled. "You?"

"Yeah, since you were so attached to it, and since it's such a big draw here, I got the Board of Directors to purchase it," Felix explained. "Your car is now the official property of the Luxor Hotel and Resort. Of course, we'll let you drive it every once in a while--if you keep up with the insurance payments. Just remember to fill the tank every once in a while, willya?" he added with a laugh and a pat on Criss' shoulder.

Criss laughed in return. "Felix, you are the man!" he exclaimed.




Criss' "job" that Saturday morning was to present the proceeds from the auction to Sanctuary Shelter. Actually, he was to hold up a large prop check (it had been arranged earlier to direct-deposit the money into the shelter's bank account as soon as the bidders' checks cleared in order to avoid any potentially embarrassing financial situations)while posing with Pastor Bob and Father Stefan in front of the local news cameras, and give a little speech about doing his part for Las Vegas' less fortunate citizens. He really didn't see the need for this little ceremony, but Dave Baram had told him about the potential publicity benefits it would bring to both himself and the shelter, and he had already set it all up for him, so, in a word, he was stuck. I hope this doesn't take all day, Criss griped to himself as he rode one of his remaining Harley-Davisons to the shelter. I got too much to do already.

The Harley glided away from the neon paradise of the Strip and toward the crumbling purgatory that was North Las Vegas. Criss' senses went on full alert the minute his wheels touched the cracked pavement of the neighborhood which the shelter strove valiently to serve. Roving bands of tough-looking youths swaggered and strutted up and down the sidewalks, flashing their obscure handsigns either in greeting or defiance. Shabbily clothed drunken bums staggered through the streets, begging for money or scavenging for a half-empty bottle of booze in which to drown their sorrows. The less threatening citizens scurried like mice to and from their homes, fearing for their own safety, distrusting anyone who accosted them to the point of avoiding any human contact whatsoever.

For the first time since he became a celebrity, Criss felt vulnerable. He had no bodyguard to shield him from the gangs who dominated the streets, no RV in which to take shelter; not even his older brothers were there to back him up. He had entered the lion's den alone and unprotected. With a chill racing down his spine, he realized that whatever came his way, he had to deal with it himself. "God, protect me," he pleaded heavenward in a half-whisper.

The square brick building that was the shelter came into view. Criss could see the TV news camera trucks with their microwave transmitters pointing skyward lininig the curb. Passersby gave them a glance and kept on moving, not caring at all why the media was parked by Sanctuary. It was just a church-run homeless shelter; nothing exciting ever happened in there. To the apathetic, crime-hardened local citizenry, if there were no cop cars, no yellow CRIME SCENE tape cordoning off the area, nor anyone being hauled away in handcuffs or on a gurney under a sheet, it was not worthy of interest.

Criss pulled into the shelter's small parking lot. It was like entering a prison. In the midmorning light, the razor wire over the chain-link fence shimmered menacingly, their sharpened tips bared like metal claws. Again, he felt the icy chill down his spine. He knew that just one of those surgical steel blades could slice off a finger should anyone be foolhardy enough to try and climb over the fence. And not even he, who had gone through unimaginable, inconceivable lengths to prove himself the master of escape and illusion, was willing to attempt such a thing.

He parked his Harley as close to the entrance as possible, taking the extra precaution of setting the anti-theft device, and pocketed the key. As he dismounted, he spotted a familiar looking Range Rover parked nearby. A warm wave of relief washed over him when he recognized it as belonging to his cousin, George. He must be here with Angela, he reasoned. Thank God he's here!

Confident now, Criss strode into the shelter where he was greeted with applause from staff and residents alike. They all crowded around him, thanking him profusely and shaking his hand until it ached. Then the media swept in, armed to the teeth with microphones and cameras, all aimed squarely at him while they fired volley after volley of questions and demands for statements. It was all he could do to fend them off so he could get in without being crushed by the mass of bodies surrounding him. "Everybody, please!" he shouted over the din. "I'll tell you everything later, okay? Just let me get through in one piece, willya?"

Suddenly, a pair of large, powerful hands grabbed him by the arm and yanked him away from the crowd. Freed from the compression of so many bodies, Criss filled his lungs with fresh air, grateful to be able to breathe again. "Thanks," he gasped to his rescuer. "You saved my life."

"Don't mention it," he heard Pastor Bob say.

Criss looked up at the pastor, who returned his surprised expression with a jovial smile. "Now let's get you into the office," he said, towing him along. "We got a press conference in ten."

There were only four people waiting for them, but in the tiny office it seemed overcrowded. Criss had expected to see George there with Angela, of course, and Father Stefan's presence didn't surprise him much, but to see Felix Rappaport here in North Las Vegas, let alone in a homeless shelter, startled and puzzled him. "Felix? What are you doing here?" Criss asked.

Felix shrugged. "Hey, we're in this together, remember?" he laughed. "You hosted this thing in our hotel, so of course I'm here! What, you were going to claim all the glory yourself?"

"I'm not here to claim any glory," Criss protested, "I'm just here to give a prop check, that's all."

Felix nudged Father Stefan beside him. "Modest, isn't he?"

Father Stefan shrugged his eyebrows, saying nothing. There was an awkward silence in the room. Criss sensed the two clergymen seemed uneasy, almost tense. "Something wrong?" he asked innocently.

"Well, I don't know if you've heard about it yet," Pastor Bob spoke up, his normally jovial tone lowering to a more serious note, "but the donation box was robbed last night. Someone came along and emptied it right after the auction ended."

Criss was stunned. He turned to Felix. "You know about this?"

Felix nodded. "They got it all on tape," he said. "They saw a woman in a white dress slip up behind the box and slip away again. They're still trying to get a fix on her face."

"A woman? In a white dress?" Criss tried to recall whom he had met wearing a white dress that evening, but the only one he knew who had been wearing one was--

"Oh, dear God!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean to tell me...Angela?"

George stepped up defensively. "Now wait just a minute, there, Criss!" he growled. "Angie's innocent and you know it!"

"I know she is, George!" Criss protested. "I know she couldn't have done it! No way in hell could she have done it!"

"Then why--"

"Because she's the only woman I remember wearing a white dress that evening! It had to have been somebody else!" He turned to Felix. "Tell me it was somebody else, Felix, please?"

Felix raised his hand to placate him. "Look, I don't know who did it, but I'm not pressing any charges against Angela here, or anybody else until we get the results from the AV tech! So, just calm down, willya? All we know is that the money was stolen from the donation box last night by a woman in a white dress. Nobody knows it but us, so when we go out there we're gonna keep a lid on it--for now, anyway. Last thing we need is a scandal. Agreed?"

All agreed silently. "Now, let's go," Felix ordered, picking up the giant prop check. "It's show time."

He followed Criss, George, Angela, and the two clergymen out of the office. "I didn't do it," Angela whimpered. "I was nowhere near that donation box the whole evening!"

George gave her an affectionate squeeze on her arm. "We know you're innocent, Angie," he whispered in return. "It had to have been somebody else. I know it."

"Of course it was," Criss agreed. "If I know Macaffey, he'll turn the whole damn hotel inside out looking for whoever did it."

George halted in midstep. "Hey, wait a minute! Didn't Macaffey search your purse when they found out about the money being stolen?"

"Why, yes," Angela answered. "He dumped out the whole thing on the table; he didn't find anything, so he let us go."

"Well, then, hey, you're innocent!" George said brightly. "You ain't got nothin' to worry about!"

"No," Angela said, realizing that George was right. "I guess I don't."

"So, let's all stop worrying and get this thing over with," George said. "Let Macaffey and his men handle the crimebusting. We're here to help the homeless!"




The little ceremony went off without a hitch. Felix proudly presented the prop check for two million one hundred and thirty thousand dollars as flash bulbs popped all around him. Pastor Bob and Father Stefan accepted it with all the humility their callings required. Criss made his little speech to the press, thanking all who had participated in the auction for its success and urging continued support to aid the homeless not only in Las Vegas, but throughout the country. George and Angela merely stood there, posing behind the giant posterboard check with the others and smiling for the cameras. They had a sense of deja vu as they did so, remembering the last time they posed with a large prop check presented by Felix Rappaport. The media peppered Criss with so many questions about why he chose to sell his cars and bikes for homeless relief that he just said, "Hey, take a look around you! I mean, what would you have done under the circumstances?"

Finally, it was all over. The reporters had milked the story for all it was worth and set out to return to their news rooms to broadcast it. The TV cameras were taken away; the technical crew packed up their audio equipment and hauled to the vans outside. Criss heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God that's over," he muttered.

Father Stefan laid his hands on Criss' shoulders. "Christopher," he said, "I am proud of you. Not only did you save our shelter, but you kept your promise to your family and me as well. You see? You didn't have to try to kill yourself by performing some harebrained stunt to prove your greatness. What you have done for us far surpasses any escape or magic trick you've done before. You've truly lived up to your stage name."

Criss smiled modestly. Father Stefan embraced him. "May God bless you in all you do," he said.

Criss embraced the priest in return. "Thanks, Father."

Father Stefan backed away. "Well, Bob and I have a lot of work to do," he said. "Now that we have the funds, we've got a lot of bills to pay, supplies to order, things like that, so if you'll excuse us, we'll be going now." He shook Criss' hand. "Give my regards to your mother," he said.

Criss nodded. "Sure thing, Father."

Pastor Bob also shook Criss' hand. "Bless you, and thank you for all of your help."

"You're welcome, Pastor Bob."

The two clergymen left. Angela stepped up to Criss and hugged him. "Thank you so much," she said. "I can't tell you how grateful we are to you."

Criss hugged her back. "Hey, anytime, Angie."

Suddenly George stepped in. "Whoa, whoa, wait a minute there," he said, laughing as he pulled Angie away from Criss. "That's my girl you're huggin' there, you know."

Criss held up his hands in surrender. "Nothing personal, George," he protested meekly. "Nothing personal."

"Now, George," Angela said with mock indignation, "you're not the jealous type, are you?"

George wrapped his muscular arm around Angela's thin waist. "Hey, y'know, you gotta watch this guy," he said conspiratorially, nodding toward Criss. "Last girl he went out with, she was in the car with him--she laid a hand on his thigh and he turned into a motel!"

Angela both giggled and grimaced at the racy joke. Criss feigned a right jab at his cousin. George deflected it with a well-practiced right-arm block. "C'mon, let's get outta here," Criss growled impatiently, heading for the parking lot.

George planted a wet one on Angela's forehead. "I'll pick you up later," he said, "if Criss doesn't keep me too late."

"It's okay," Angela said. "I've got my car here."

George grimaced with distaste. She should sell that thing for scrap, he thought. I don't think they even make parts for it anymore. Why didn't she keep some of her winnings and get a new car instead of giving the whole bundle to the shelter? Wouldn't have made much difference either way. "Sure thing, babe," he said. "Talk to you later."

A quick peck on the cheek and Angela went down the corridor to resume her volunteer duties. The two cousins walked out together to the parking lot. "What'd you drive here?" George asked Criss. "Viper? Lambo?"

"In this neighborhood?" Criss scoffed. "I'm not that dumb! I rode my Hog."

"Which one?"

"The Spirit, the plain-looking one. Thought I'd be less conspicuous that way."

"Good idea, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, in this neighborhood, they got thieves and carjackers who'll steal anything that isn't nailed down. If you'd taken your Lambo, it'd been stolen the minute you turned your back, even if you had all the security devices in the world in it, they're that good. Or it'd be stripped for parts."

Criss opened the door and followed George outside. "Hey, man, if anyone touches any of my rides, even my go-karts, that guy's ass is gonna be grass! Besides, all of my cars and my bikes have anti-theft devices."

George walked a few steps, then halted. "You wanna tell that to them?" he said.

"Who?"

He pointed to where Criss' Harley was parked, and where a surly-looking welcoming committee in identical jackets leaned casually against it, glaring at them defiantly.

[The unnamed one]

Nice have a good day

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) , NO step away from the harley :) can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

"What are we gonna do now?" Criss muttered from the side of his mouth.

"You tell me," George muttered back.

Criss remained silent as he sized up the situation. "Stay here," he told George.

He strolled up casually toward the gang holding his Harley hostage. "That's my bike you're leaning on," he told them firmly.

The tallest youth leaning against the handlebars shrugged. "So?" he sneered. "Whatcha gonna do about it?" His companions laughed sardonically.

"What am I going to do about it?" Criss sneered back. "I'll show you what I'm gonna do about it!"

He grabbed the tall youth by the shirt and slammed him against the side of the building. The other three cleared away, startled. "You and your buddies here had better get the hell away from my bike right now, or else I'm gonna get down to some serious ass-kicking!" Criss snarled in the boy's face. He flung the tall youth aside like a bag of garbage. "Now beat it!" Criss shouted angrily

The punks made no effort to beat it, but simply stood in front of the Harley like a human barricade. George's fury mounted. He strode up to the punks, his fists clenched. "Didn't you hear him?" he roared at them. "Move!"

"(Bleep) you, mother(bleeper)!" a boy with a faded red bandana tied convict-style around his head spat in reply. "This is our turf, and we make the rules around here." He held out the palm of his hand to Criss. "You wanna move your bike, you gotta pay up."

"(Bleep) you, (bleeper)!" Criss spat. "I ain't givin' you (bleep)!"

"Then we ain't givin' you your bike," Bandana Boy sneered.

George stepped up to the punk. "How about I give you five?" he offered.

Bandana Boy eyed him warily. "Five? Five what?"

"Five of this!" George's powerful right hook collided with Bandana Boy's face, sending him spinning to the concrete.

Bandana Boy sat up, covering his left eye with his hand and groaning in pain. The tall youth flicked open a springblade knife and pointed it at George's chest. George grabbed him by the wrist and wrenched his arm behind his back, the point of his own blade a hair's breadth away from stabbing him in the back. "Owwwww!" the youth cried. "Hey, man, leggo of me!"

"You're not so tough now, are you, mother(bleeper)?" George sneered. He kicked the tall youth to the pavement. He landed with a thud, the springblade flying out of his hand and skittering across the lot.

Bandana Boy got up with the help of his two other companions, still clutching his injured eye. The tall youth rose to his feet, rubbing his sore arm. "You wanna piece of me, mother(bleeper)?" he challenged, beckoning George to step forward. "C'mon! Bring it!"

Surrounded by the four punks, Criss took his fighting stance while George braced himself into position as he had been trained by Seamus Linehan. Wait for your opponent to make the first move, he heard the old man say in his mind, then follow through. Don't be in such a hurry to rush him.

Stay focused, Criss told himself. Be aware of every move your opponent makes. Use his strength against him to bring him down.

With his gang buddies cheering him on, Bandana Boy took a swing at Criss with all of his might. Criss blocked the blow with his arm, then grabbed the punk's wrist, pivoted around and sent him crashing to the pavement. Bandana Boy cried out in agony on the moment of impact, then rose up for round two. Again, Criss assumed his fighting stance, ready for action. Bandana Boy charged, howling with fury, ready to tear him limb from limb. "YOU MOTHER-UHHHHH!!!"

Bandana Boy had no breath to finish his insult, owing to the fact that it had been knocked out of him when Criss' knee jabbed squarely into his abdomen. He doubled over like a pocket knife, his eyes bulging in shock and pain, his mouth gaping like a landed fish. Then a swift kick to the shin sent him down for the count. Criss stood there while Bandana Boy lay on the pavement, gasping for air. There was no time to gloat, he reminded himself. He had to save his cousin, George, from the other three.

George, however, was holding his own. The tall youth had come back at him with a wide right swing. George easily deflected it with a left block and returned with a right jab to the face. The tall youth crumpled like an aluminum can, his nose gushing blood like a broken pipe. George merely stood there, massaging his right hand. God, that hurt, he thought. Next time, I'm wearing my gloves.

"George! Behind you!" he heard Criss shout.

George whirled around just barely in time to see a third gang member lunging straight at him. With a power born of desperation, he swung his arm like a baseball bat and delivered over two years of boxing training right into the punk's face, sending him sailing four feet over the pavement and landing with a crash on solid concrete. The punk lay there sprawled on the lot, his face a bloody mess. That left the fourth member, a short boy built like a sumo wrestler who stood boldly before the two cousins like a brick wall, his beefy fists clenched. George and Criss braced themselves against this solid wall of flesh. "Yo' asses are mine, mofos!" Sumo Boy spoke through flabby jowls as he waddled toward them. "Yo' asses are mine!"

Criss turned to George. "Think we can take this guy down?"

"If we work together," Criss replied quickly. "On my signal, we tackle him."

They tensed their bodies as they waited for the right moment to strike. Sumo Boy waddled closer like an fat, angry bear. "I'ma crush both yo' asses inna the groun', mofos!" he growled. "I'ma gonna--"

"NOW!!" Criss shouted.

The two cousins bolted forward, grabbed Sumo Boy by the forearms, kicked him in his stumpy legs and brought him down like a pair of quarterbacks. Sumo Boy crashed like a fallen tree, cursing all the way, taking Criss and George with him. The three lay there on the pavement, panting, then George released his grip and rose to his feet, helping Criss up as he went. "You all right?" he asked.

Criss nodded. "Yeah, I'm good," he replied. "Good job, George."

Gradually, Bandana Boy, the tall youth and the third punk rose to their feet, dazed but still angry enough to keep up the fight. Sumo Boy struggled to rise, but his bulk kept him anchored to the ground; it took the combined efforts of his companions to get him back on his feet. "You dead, mofos!" he cursed at them. "You (bleepin') dead! You hear that? You all (bleepin')--"

"Casio!" a voice boomed from behind.

George, Criss and Sumo Boy, aka Casio, turned to face an angry Pastor Bob storming up to them. "What's going on here?" he demanded.

"Well, it seems Casio and his buddies here were trying to extort parking fees from me," George explained. "That guy over there flashed a knife at me after I told them to clear out."

"Is this true, Casio?" Pastor Bob demanded.

"We ain't done nothin', man!" Casio protested. He pointed a pudgy finger at George and Criss. "Them guys started it!"

"I don't care who started it!" Pastor Bob snapped. "I'm ending it!" He turned to the tall youth and the two other punks. "You go to the nurse to treat that bloody nose you got!" he ordered the third punk, then he turned to Casio. "Then I want you and your homies in my office in five, got that?"

Casio nodded, still reeling from the tackle. The four youths filed into the shelter, shamefaced over their defeat. Bandana Boy flashed his middle finger at George as he passed. George ignored the insult; he just wanted to get away from this hellhole of a neighborhood as fast as possible.

Pastor Bob came forward. "You okay, George?" he asked.

George nodded. "I'm good," he replied. "Sorry about all that, but--"

"No need to apologize," the good pastor said. "Those four have pulled this stunt before all over the neighborhood. Some folks couldn't even pull out of their own driveways unless they paid em." He looked over his shoulder at he retreating gang. "Quite a beating you gave 'em, I have to say."

George rubbed his sore hand. "Well, I just hope they finally learned their lesson," he said.

Pastor Bob's good nature returned. "After the way you two handled them, I'd say they did. But just in case, when either of you ever come back here, don't come alone. These guys'll be lookin' for payback sure as come Sunday."

The cousins agreed to heed the good pastor's warning. Pastor Bob went back into the shelter to tend to the four toughs. Criss drew a deep breath, exhausted. "Well, that was fun," he said facetiously.

"You got a wierd idea of 'fun', Criss," George mumbled.

Criss sighed wearily. "Look, let's just go home, okay?" he groaned. "I'm tired, and this place sucks."

George agreed readily, grateful to be leaving at last. Criss mounted his newly-liberated Harley while he climbed into his SUV. He kept one eye on his cousin ahead of him and the other on the road as he drove; a man on a motorcycle was more vulnerable to attack in this neck of the woods, he thought. His right hand was still sore, but at least nothing was broken, thank God. He hoped the whole incident would not become public--the last thing he wanted was another suspension from another match like the time when he decked the Vegas Flasher (1). At least we showed those punks who's boss, he gloated. They ain't gonna mess with us anymore!


(1) Risque Business.

[The unnamed one]

Yay.... For Liberated Harley's .... Have a nice day

[RACHEL02189]

Never mess with guys from New York or Boston :)

[Smurf]

Don't mess with Criss and George :)

[Veritas]

Unaware of her boyfriend's rumble in the parking lot, Angela was busy setting up her adult literacy class for the day in the bland cinderblock cell the shelter called Classroom C. There was barely room enough for ten wooden student desks, a small metal one for herself, and a blackboard. She had tried her level best to brighten up the place by hanging up colorful inspirational posters with captions underneath (which her students could barely read if they could read them at all), but the chipping pale green paint still made it look depressing. Angela hoped that with her donation and the funds raised by Criss' auction, they could finally afford to fix up the building. Better yet, maybe they'd add on to it, make it larger, or buy a whole new building altogether! Wouldn't that be wonderful! Well, whatever the shelter's founders decided, it woud be a vast improvement over what they had right now.

One small worry trickled through her mind--what about the stolen funds from the donation box? Angela brushed it aside. She was already in the clear as far as the security people at the Luxor was concerned. In fact, she was confident they had already caught the thief and returned the money to the shelter. She knew how diligent Chief Macaffey was in keeping law and order (George had told her once that he had been a prison guard, which explained a lot), and the entire hotel had every square inch of space covered by video surveillance. The thief would have been detected in a heartbeat and arrested on the spot. There was no way on God's green earth anyone could get away with anything in that place! Indeed, her own sister, Bianca, had been caught in the act of trying to kill her by throwing her over the balcony when--

A shadow crept over her desk, startling her. Angela looked up and saw Darlene Milliken standing before her. "Oh, dear God," she gasped. "Darlene, you scared the life out of me!"

"Well, sorry," Darlene apolgized half-heartedly. "Didn't mean to do that."

Angela smiled understandingly. "It's okay."

"Well, anyway, I came to tell you that Criss and your boyfriend, George, got into a little scuffle with some gang out in the parking lot a few minutes ago," Darlene reported to her.

"A scuffle?" Angela was suddenly worried. "What sort of scuffle?"

"Oh, nothing much," Darlene replied lightly. "At least, nothing a good right hook and a karate chop in the gut couldn't cure."

"What happened, Darlene?" Angela demanded.

Darlene suddenly became animated with enthusiasm. "You should have seen them, Angie!" she said excitedly. "I saw the whole thing through the kitchen window! George landed a wicked right hook right into one punk's face, while Criss took down another with his martial arts training! Oh, God, he was magnificent! Then they both tackled this fat guy together--boom! Just like that! I'm telling you, those two could have taken on a whole army without even getting winded!"

"Did George get hurt?" Anglea asked anxiously.

Darlene laughed. "George? No way! Those punks didn't stand a chance, especially with Criss kicking their asses all over the parking lot!"

"So, what happened?"

"Oh, Pastor Bob came out and broke it up," Darlene explained drily. "Then they left--Criss and George, I mean." She sighed with disappointment. "By the time I got out there, Criss was already gone. Bummer!" Her lips puckered into a pout. "Just my luck to miss him again."

"Well, you were there at the presentation ceremony, weren't you?"

"Oh, sure--way in the back! I was stuck in the kitchen most of the morning, and when I was able to get out to see him, there were so many people in that lobby I couldn't get through! I barely managed to catch one little glimpse of him--God, I hate being five-five!" She sighed longingly. "So near, and yet so far," she mused, "story of my life."

"Well, you'll get your chance someday," Angela said as she laid out the workbooks for the morning's class. "Look, class is going to start soon. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Darlene checked her watch. "Oh, (bleep)!" she gasped. "I gotta get going, too! Later, okay?"

Angela waved good-bye as Darlene scurried out of the classroom. Mrs. Beamer, Pastor Bob's wife and acting supervisor of volunteer activities, had put her on KP that day. She was a sweet-tempered lady of about fifty or so, but she ran a tight ship: she disapproved of tardiness as strongly as she did drinking, swearing, gambling, and too much TV watching in the common room among residents and volunteers alike. Sanctuary Shelter was a Christian-run shelter, she reminded everybody repeatedly, and all volunteers were to behave in a manner that reflected Christian values so as to be good role models for the residents. Anyone who strayed even a millimeter from the straight and narrow was subject to a long sermon from Mrs. Beaman or the pastor himself (or both), and/or summary dismissal.

Darlene took a short cut through the lobby on the way to the kitchen, hoping to slip in unnoticed and spare herself a long-winded lecture on the virtue of punctuality. At least she had not been caught watching the fight in the parking lot--that would have unleashed unholy hell on her head. Still, it had been worth seeing Criss again, even if only from a dist--

She jolted to a stop when she crossed the lobby. A chilling sight met her eyes, in the form of Angela's sister, Bianca, stepping through the doorway. Darlene could only stare in surprise and bewilderment. What the hell is she doing here? she wondered. I got to warn Angie! This can't be good!

Her friend's safety taking precedence over Mrs. Beaman's protocol, Darlene started to turn back to the classroom. As bad luck would have it, though, Bianca had recognized her the minute she stepped out of the glass-encased foyer. "Oh, hello, Darlene," she said with obviously insincere cordiality.

Darlene gritted her teeth and turned toward her. She wanted to sneer Well, if it isn't the Wicked Witch of the West! to her face, but she refrained from doing so. Mrs. Beaman would not have approved. "Hello, Bianca," she managed to force herself to say politely, yet not quite able to say how good it was to see her again; that would have been an outright lie, and both of them knew it.

Bianca glided up to her. "Have you seen Angela?" she asked casually.

Darlene shrugged. "Why do you want to know?" she asked in return.

Bianca shifted her high-heeled feet. "You know, it's not polite to answer a question with a question. I just want to know if you've seen her, that's all."

Instinct told Darlene not to trust this woman. "I've been in the kitchen all morning," she alibied quickly. "Haven't been out until just now. Hardly seen anyone outside."

Bianca nodded, not believing a word Darlene had said. "Never mind," she said. "Just go back to doing your dishes or whatever. I'll find her myself."

Before Darlene could think anything to stop her, Bianca walked down the corridor, the heels of her Manolo pumps clicking on the worn linoleum tile floor. Darlene dashed to the receptionist desk phone and frantically tried to recall the extension number to Classroom C. Dear God, she prayed, keep Angie safe from that mad-dog (bleep)! Trip her up, let one of the residents mug her--anything! Just keep her away from Angie!



Where is she? Bianca fretted as she peered through tiny window after tiny window down the corridor, searching for Angela. She's got to be here somewhere! Well, I'd better find her soon--I got a nail appointment at three today, and I don't want to waste my time looking for her in this dump.

She passed an AA meeting, a Bible study, a job search workshop, a living skills class, and a child-care center, each one populated with shabbily-dressed men, women and children with nowhere else to go. Anyone else would have felt a twinge of pity for these unfortunate people. Bianca felt only her contempt for them. Bums, she thought disdainfully. Worthless, good-for-nothing bums, that's what they are. Sponging off the taxpayers because they're too lazy or too drunk to work. I don't know why Angela bothers to deal with these people in the first place.

She peered through yet another tiny window through the door of yet another room. There, lecturing by a small blackboard in front of another group of homeless residents, was Angela, looking no better than her students in her faded print dress in Bianca's opinion. She could make out what was printed on the board: simple alphabetical block letters forming three and four letter words. Bianca dimly recalled that Angela did teach adult literacy classes here at the shelter; the proof was now before her eyes, and it made her more contemptuous than ever. Must be a bunch of retards or something, she thought.

A ringing noise came from inside the room. Bianca watched as Angela set down her pointer and walked over to the small plastic office phone on her desk and picked up the receiver. Angela's face tensed as she listened to whatever she heard from the other party; she didn't say a word but hung up quickly, excused herself and walked to the door. She could see Bianca's face through the tiny window, tensing her even more. She opened the door just enough to slip through, then closed it quickly. Whatever greeting she had stuck in her throat. She could only stand there, paralyzed.

"Hello, Angela," Bianca said casually but with a tinge of malice in her voice that only Angela could detect. "Nice to see you again."

Angela swallowed hard. "Nice to see you, too, Bianca," she returned, though deep down she knew it was anything but nice to see her. "What brings you here? I-I mean, you swore to me once that you'd never set foot in this--"

Bianca held up her hand to silence her. "Don't worry, my stay will be brief. I have a nail appointment at three o'clock, so I'll just get to the point. You were at that charity auction last night, were you not?"

"Well, yes, I was. George took me; he had an invitation."

"Oh, Geeeooorrrrge took you" Bianca purred. "Did you two have a nice time?"

Angela was suddenly on the defensive. "Well, of course we did. What are you getting at, Bianca?"

"Well, I don't know about you," Bianca hedged as she pulled something from her purse, "but Georgie certainly did,"

"What are you talking about?"

Bianca flashed a photograph at her. "Take a look at this," she said. "Seems Georgie's been playing the field behind your back--with your new roommate, no less."

Angela took the picture and studied it. There was George and Darlene, sitting at the VIP table, embracing. It startled her at first, but upon closer scrutiny she couldn't detect any sort of passion between them. Besides, she knew that Darlene's heart belonged solely to George's famous cousin, Criss Angel; if it had been the latter, Darlene would have been all over him like a rash. As far as she was concerned, it was just a friendly hug. The tension receded as she handed the picture back, her skepticism clearly showing on her thin face. "Nice try, Bianca," she said drily, "but it's not going to work with me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my class."

"It may not work with you," Bianca retorted, "but everyone else will believe it--especially on the Internet."

For the first time in her life, Angela laughed at her sister's threat. "Oh, right," she scoffed. "You really think people are going to believe that? Not everybody's that gullible, Bianca. One little hug doesn't mean they're having an affair. You're wasting your time with that thing. Why don't you go show it to Darlene? I'm sure she'll get as big a laugh out of it as I did--if she doesn't punch you in the face." She placed her hand on the knob, clearly intending to return to her students.

Bianca sullenly put the photo back into her purse. "Okay, maybe you're not convinced about George," she said, "but there's still the matter of the stolen donation money."

The hand slipped from the knob. Angela stared at her sister. "What do you know about that?" she asked dumbly.

"Darling," Bianca purred, "everybody knows about it. Well, not everybody, since they did such a good job covering it up, of course, but everybody concerned, that is. Your Pastor Bob, for instance, and that other guy, the priest. Oh, and you and George, of course."

"And you," Angela added.

"Well, I just found out secondhand," Bianca said with feigned modesty. "But the point is, we all know who stole that money, don't we?"

"No, no one knows who did it. All they know it was a woman in a white dress--"

"And you were wearing a white dress that evening, weren't you?" Bianca charged.

"They've already cleared me, Bianca," Angela told her. "They searched my purse and found nothing. I am completely innocent."

Bianca tisked. "Oh, Angela, Angela, Angela," she sighed pitifully. "You know when you lie, you make the angels cry. You stole that money and you know it. Now, why don't you be a good girl and come clean, all right?"

"Because I didn't steal it!" Angela exploded.

Her protest echoed up and down the cinderblock hallway, startling the few people present. "I didn't steal it," she repeated calmly this time.

"Then who did?" Bianca demanded.

Angela threw up her hands. "How should I know? That's for the police to find out."

A man's deep voice interrupted them. "Excuse me, ladies, is there a problem here?"

Both sisters turned to face Pastor Bob standing before them. "Oh, Pastor," Angela gasped, relieved, "Thank God you're here. I was trying to convince Bianca here that I didn't steal the donation money last night."

Pastor Bob turned to Bianca. "So, you must be Angela's sister, Bianca, right?"

"Why, yes, I am," Bianca replied. "And I was trying to convince Angela to admit that she really did steal the money and to make it easy on herself by giving up. Wasn't I, Angela," she added with an icy tone.

"Pastor, you know I'm innocent," Angela pleaded.

"I know you didn't do it, Angela," the pastor said. He turned back to Bianca. "How do you know she stole it, anyway?" he demanded.

"Simple," Bianca replied. "The video surveillace cameras spotted a woman in a white gown stealing the money. Angela was the only one wearing a white gown that evening, so it stands to reason it was her."

"You know, it could have been someone else," Pastor Bob argued. "And I know that the videotape was in black and white--it could have been a grey, blue or pink gown the person wore. And she was wearing a turban and dark glasses, neither of which Angela was wearing at the time."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure! Angela would never do such a thing! Now, I suggest that you leave this minute, Ms. Honi. And might I also suggest you review the commandment about bearing false witness, because that's what you're doing to your sister! Good day to you!"

With that, Pastor Bob stormed away. Angela slipped back into her classroom, unnoticed. Bianca just stood there, irate. It seemed that little sister Angela would need some more convincing...




The hour passed. Angela's shift at the shelter was finished. She packed her school satchel and walked toward the parking lot, secretly praying that the gang who extorted fees would not be there. Then she recalled that George and his cousin Criss had pummelled them raw, a thought that cheered her greatly. For once she could get into her car without paying for the privilege. She reflected on how much her life had improved since she had met George Strumpolis: her first date, her first kiss, a magical evening at the Luxor (even if it did end on a sour note), a new place to live, finally free of her overbearing sister, and now relieved of those punks who made her pay up just so she could drive her own car home. For once, life was good.

Angela stepped through the stifling hot glass foyer into the equally stifling hot afternoon air. She crossed over to her faithful little Chevette, waiting for her like a patient friend in the parking lot. She opened the driver's side door, pausing to let out the heat that had been building up inside over the course of the afternoon, then tossed in her satchel. As she did so, she noticed three objects she had never seen before lying on the front passenger seat: a pair of sunglasses she knew weren't hers, a white silky scarflike thing that looked like a pullover hat, and a bundle of envelopes bound together with a rubber band. The top envelope had Criss Angel's name and other strange doodlings all over it. She picked up the bundle and pulled open the flap of the top one. It was full of money in various denominations.

A shadow loomed over her like a phantom. Angela looked up and saw Bianca standing before her with an expression on her face that read like a death warrant. In shock, Angela dropped the bundle. Bianca calmly picked it up and flicked the envelopes like a deck of cards.

"Oh, Angela," Bianca said in a pitying tone. "How could you?"

[RACHEL02189]

I'm really starting to hate Bianca

[Veritas]

You're just starting to hate her??

[The unnamed one]

Nice update .....

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) i really don't like Angela's Sister ,can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

Angela simply stood there by the open car, staring at Bianca. "How did...?" she stammered nervously. "What's going on?"

"You tell me," Bianca retorted.

"Bianca," Angela said with forced calm, "I swear I never saw these things before in my life! I have no idea how they got there--"

She stopped in midsentence, the truth revealing itself in her mind. "You!" she exclaimed. "You put those things in my car! It was you who stole that donation money from the auction in the first place, and now you're trying to frame me for it! Even for you, this is a new low!"

Bianca was suddenly indignant. "Lies! Lies! Lies! Mother always said 'Lies make the angels cry'! First you steal money from your own shelter, then you try to pin it on me! How can you do such a thing to your own sister?"

"Because it's true!" Angela shot back.

"Prove it!"

"I will!" Angela grabbed the bundle of envelopes from the front seat. "I'm going to return this to Pastor Bob and tell him about you and your little theft!" she said angrily.

"You think he'll believe you?"

"Of course he will! He trusts me!"

"Not after today, he will."

"What are you talking about?"

Again the pitying tone. "Oh, Angela, you are so naive. If you go to your Pastor Bob and tell him you found the money in your car, he's going to think you were lying to him all along."

"But you were the one who put it there," Angela argued.

"How do you know I did?" Bianca challenged. "Did you actually see me put it in your car? Huh? Did you?"

"Well, no, but--"

Bianca spread out her arms in triumph. "There! You see? You have no proof! The money was in your car, along with the turban and the dark glasses. Therefore, you are the thief! The evidence is as plain as day!

"Circumstantial evidence," Angela countered. "It won't hold up in any court."

Bianca smiled slyly. "Oh, it will. Especially with your fingerprints all over the envelopes."

Angela looked at the bundle of envelopes and tossed them fearfully back into the car as if it was contaminated. Bianca laughed derisively. "Too late now, little sister," she gloated. "You are totally busted on this one! Unless..."

"Unless, what?" Angela demanded.

The sly smile brightened. "Unless you surrender your trust fund to me, " Bianca said.

Angela was aghast. "What?"

Bianca leaned closer. "You heard me. You sign over your trust fund to me, the shelter gets its donations back without incident, and nobody will know a thing. If you don't, then I go to the police, tell them that you made off with the donation money that night, they find your fingerprints all over the envelopes, and sweet little Angela Honi is busted for theft. The school board won't look too kindly upon you after that; they'll fire you so fast it'll make your head spin. And just think what this will do to your relationship with George. He'll be sooooo heartbroken to learn that his girlfriend is a thief and a liar!"

Angela stood there, stunned into silence. This wasn't the first time Bianca had blackmailed her, but now the stakes were too high for her to gamble: she had started a new life with a new love, and she was seeing it crumble before her eyes. Bianca was too clever and too devious: she would find a way to outsmart her at every move. Yet she had to fight back, she had to! Her trust fund was her future and she dared not lose it, not by any circumstances.

Bianca sensed Angela's discomfort. "I know this is a very serious issue for you," she said patronizingly, "but that's the way things stand. Do yourself a favor: do what I say, and you'll spare yourself a lot of grief." A burst of maganminity came forth. "Tell you what--I'll give you twenty-four hours to think about it, sleep on it. I'll be back here tomorrow, same time, same place. I'm sure you'll do the right thing."

With that, she sailed back to her silver Lexus parked nearby, deactivated the anti-theft device with the remote on her keychain, got in and drove away, leaving Angela leaning against her Chevette, weeping uncontrollably.




"You-have-reached...5-5-5--3-6-4-5. Please leave a message after the tone, or press five for more options."

"Hey, Angie, this is Darlene. Where you been, girl? You're usually home by now! Gimme a call when you get this, okay? 'Bye."

Darlene hung up and waited for a reply. And waited. And waited...



It was six PM when George's cell phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered it. "Hello?"

"Hello, George? This is Darlene."

"Oh, hi, Darlene. What's up?"

"Is Angela with you?"

"Angie?" George shook his head. "Nope, haven't seen her since the presentation."

"Well, she's usually home by this time, and I haven't seen her since this afternoon. I called her on her cell phone, but all I got was voicemail."

"Well, maybe she's out shopping or something."

"No, no, no, she's always home by this time. You could set your watch by her."

"Look, Dar, I wouldn't worry about her. She's a grown woman who can take care of herself. She'll be home soon, so just chill out, willya?"

"All right. If you see her, tell her to give me a call, okay?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, George. 'Bye."

"Yeah, 'bye."

George flipped off his phone and stuffed it into his pocket. She must really be worried, he thought. She didn't mention Criss once.




The shelter's office phone rang loudly. Pastor Bob picked it up before the first ring faded. "Sanctuary Shelter, Pastor Beaman speaking."

"Pastor Bob? This is Darlene Milliken."

"Oh, hello, Darlene. What can I do for you?"

"Have you seen Angela? She didn't come home this evening. I tried calling her twice, but she didn't pick up. You know if she's still there at the shelter?"

The pastor paused as he looked out the window overlooking the parking lot. "Nope, don't see her car there. Guess she's gone. Why?"

"Well, she's usually home by now, but I haven't seen her since our shift today."

"Well, I think it's a little premature to go filing a missing person's report just yet," the pastor chuckled. "She probably had to run an errand or something. I'm sure she'll return home soon."

"Thanks, Pastor."

"You're welcome."




Darlene found Angela's old home number in her dog-eared phone book. She hesitated to dial it, knowing who would answer, but her concern for Angela overruled her her misgivings. She pressed the right combination of numbers on the tiny keypad quickly before she could change her mind, then waited for an answer. A part of her hoped it would go to voicemail so she would be spared speaking to Bianca.

The line stopped its buzzing. "Hello?" a woman's voice spoke over the receiver.

"Hello, Bianca?"

"Who is this?" Bianca snapped impatiently.

Geez, bite my head off, why don't you? "Bianca, this is Darlene Milliken."

"Who?"

"Darlene Milliken. Angela's friend from the shelter and now roommate, remember?"

"Oh." Bianca's tone fell flat. "You."

"Yeah, me. Say, listen, have you seen your sister this afternoon?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I do! Have you seen her or not?"

"Well, maybe I have, and maybe I haven't? What's it to you?"

Darlene's fury swelled to the bursting point. "Don't play games with me, Bianca! I want to know what happened to Angela! Now, are you going to co-operate with me or not?"

"Well, if you're going to take that tone of voice with me..."

"Where the hell is Angela??" Darlene exploded.

"How should I know where she is?" Bianca shot back. "For all I know, she ran off with the money she stole from the donation box from the auction last Friday!"

"Ran off with the..." Darlene was stunned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, come now, don't play innocent with me," Bianca retorted. "She was the one who stole all that money. Everyone knows it. A woman in a white dress, turban and dark glasses was caught on tape swiping the contents. Angela was wearing a white dress, was she not?"

"Well, yeah, but so were a lot of other women! It could have been any one of them!"

"Was it?"

"Yeah!"

"Then why did I see the money in Angela's car this afternoon, along with that same turban and glasses?"

Darlene was flabbergasted. "What??"

"It's true. I saw the evidence before my very eyes. She's guilty as sin. That's why she's not home. She took the money and ran!"

"You're lying!" Darlene shrieked. "Angie would never, ever do such a thing! Not in a million, billion years! If you ask me, someone planted that stuff in her car to frame her!"

"Someone like yourself, perhaps?"

Now Darlene's outrage was complete. "You lying (bleep)! I was nowhere near that box! And besides, I was wearing a black dress that evening, so I'm completely innocent!"

"That may be so, but if you're covering up for her, that makes you an accomplice, an accessory to the crime. You can go to jail for that."

"Oh, look who's talking! A woman who threw her own sister off a balcony getting all high-handed about law and order! You should be in jail, you (bleep)!"

Bianca responded with a silvery laugh. "After I go to the police and report the theft, we'll see who lands in jail. Do you think the two of you can survive prison? Well, maybe you can, but Angela won't last an hour with those (bleeps) behind bars."

"You've got nothing against me, or Angie for that matter!"

"Don't I? Why did Angela run off in the first place? That's a clear sign of guilt right there, you know. They'll find her and the money, and she'll be trading in her white gown for prison orange. And you'll be busted right along with her as her accomplice."

"You really think the police are going to buy all that BS you're spreading?"

"Of course they will. The evidence is all on tape. That, and my deposition. They have to believe me."

"I sure as hell don't!"

"Does it matter if they do? What good is your word against solid evidence?"

"Better than yours. They cleared me that very night when I was questioned by security. Same with Angie. They searched her and didn't find a thing."

"How do you know she didn't hide the loot somewhere? Or hid it in her car that night?"

A sense of triumph surged through Darlene. "Ha! Gotcha!" she crowed. "She didn't drive her car that night! George picked her up in his Rover! That clears her right there!"

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Did you drive with George and Angela, or by yourself?"

"What business is that of yours?"

"Just answer the question."

"I drove myself. There, are you happy now?"

"So you are an accomplice."

"What the hell do you mean, I'm an accomplice?"

"Isn't it obvious? Angela stole the money from the box, went out and put it in your car. Then, when you and she were at the shelter today, she retrieved it from your car and placed it in her own. Case closed."

Darlene's jaw dropped. "That is the most convoluted logic I ever heard, Bianca, and I don't know why I'm wasting my time talking to you. I'm going to find Angie and prove you wrong!"

"Fine," Bianca said drily. "And when you do, tell her I'm waiting for her answer."

"Answer to what?"

But Bianca had already hung up, leaving Darlene as puzzled as she was angry. She slammed down the receiver and grabbed her purse. I'm going to find Angie if I have to tear up all of Vegas to do it! she vowed. I've got to find her before it's too late.

[RACHEL02189]

I'm ready to kill her

[The unnamed one]

Bianca is an idiot ..... It's her DNA on the sunglasses and her hair on the scarf ...... Angie only touched the envelopes

[RACHEL02189]

Bianca is an idiot ..... It's her DNA on the sunglasses and her hair on the scarf ...... Angie only touched the envelopes

good point there :)

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) i really hope Bianca get what coming to her soon :) can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

A gentle rap on the clergyman's office door caught Pastor Bob's attention, if only for a moment. "Who is it?" he called out, still fixated on the paperwork scattered all over the desk.

"Bob?" he heard his wife's voice speak softly through the wooden door. "May I come in?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, Adele," he said, "come on in."

Adele Beaman stepped into the office. Her husband looked up and smiled at her. She was not only his wife of thirty-three years, but his helpmate and partner in founding and maintaining Sanctuary Shelter, serving as secretary, receptionist, fund-raiser, chief cook, laundress, day-care supervisor and Bible study teacher. She had given up so much of her time and energy to helping the homeless without a thought of her own needs; a lesser woman would have collapsed from fatigue, if not quit altogether. The shelter would have shut down long ago if not for Adele's tireless efforts working at her husband's side to keep it going despite the lack of funds. Pastor Bob could not help but wonder if her faith was stronger than his as far as the mission was concerned.

Now she stood there, a stack of envelopes in her hand, her weathered face grim as a criminal jury. Sensing something was amiss, Pastor Bob merely asked, "Something wrong?"

Adele set the stack of envelopes onto the already littered desk. "I found these in one of the clothing donation bins," she explained, "with a note attached to it. Someone dropped 'em through the chute."

Pastor Bob adjusted his reading glasses and unwound the rubber band binding the envelopes. They varied in size, from three-by-fives to standard business nine-and-a-half-by-fours. One of the latter had Criss Angel's name written all over it, accompanied by blue-ink valentine hearts and other strange looking doodles. Curious, he opened it and found a total of one hundred dollars in ones, fives, tens and a couple of twenties. The pastor rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "You found this in the clothing bin, you say?"

"I did," Adele confirmed, "about half an hour ago. I was gathering up the clothing donations when I found it lying there."

"And there was a note, you said?"

"That's right."

"Did you read it?"

"I did. It's from Angela Honi, the teacher."

Pastor Bob recalled the telephone call he had received earlier from Darlene Milliken about Angela' disappearance. He grew concerned. "Where's the note?" he asked.

Adele pulled it from the pocket of her work smock. "Right here," she said, handing it to her husband.

He took the note, unfolded it and read it:

Dear Pastor,

Here is the money that was stolen from the donation box from the auction. I found it in my car this afternoon. I think my sister Bianca stole it and now she is trying to frame me for it. I can't prove anything right now, but please believe I am innocent.

Angela

"So, what do you make of it?" Adele asked.

Pastor Bob shook his head. "I can't say for sure," he replied. "But I'm gonna call Darlene and tell her what happened. Maybe Angela's home already, I don't know. One thing's for sure--we're gonna clear up this mystery once and for all, Lord willing and the crick don't rise."




Darlene raced to the Luxor as fast as the evening traffic would allow. Angie had to be with George, she convinced herself, she just had to be. She had no doubt that Angela would turn to the man she loved in this time of crisis. She was probably scared off by that (bleep) of a sister of hers, threatening her with the same BS conspiracies that Darlene had hurled against her earlier. Poor Angela was so scared of her that she'd do anything to escape. But why didn't she just come back to the apartment instead of running off like that? And what did Bianca mean by "waiting for her answer"? And how did she even know about the theft in the first place? The whole thing had been hushed up by Pastor Bob and the hotel. It didn't even make the papers. The only way she could have known about it was either by forcing it out of Angela herself...

Or Bianca was there that night at the auction!

The shock of recognition nearly sent her colliding into the SUV in front of her; she slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid plowing into it.
Suddenly, the whole puzzle fell into place: Bianca had been at the auction, and she saw the real thief who stole the money! Instead of reporting it, she used it to her advantage to get back her sister! But no, that didn't make sense. Why would she use someone else to hurt Angie when she could have used a more direct approach?

Unless it was Bianca who stole the money in the first place.

Yes! That was it! It was Bianca who stole the money from the donation box, to set up her sister for a fall! Why else would she go to a function she knew her sister would be attending? She was so eager to see not only her sister but herself, Darlene, ruined and humiliated, undoubtedly taking revenge for that balcony toss a few weeks ago. Payback was a (bleep), and her name was Bianca Honi.

Armed with this new revelation, Darlene made her impatient way toward the Luxor. If she couldn't find Angie there, she could at least warn George about it. God forbid that mad-dog (bleep) should implicate him as well.




George, meanwhile, was with Criss and the technical crew in the editing room, going over the tapes of their show at Sanctuary Shelter: keep this, delete that, bleep this out, edit that for content; oh, this is a good opening shot, start with that; blur out their faces when this airs so as to avoid lawsuits--so much material to fit into forty-five minutes of air time. He watched a street scene of some tough-looking youths strolling aggressively down a sidewalk, and recognized them immediatly. "Hey, Criss," he said, poking his cousin in the ribs, "those guys look familiar to you?"

Criss rewound the tape and watched the scene again, closer this time. "Hey, yeah," he said, nodding, "those are the same (bleepers) who tried to charge us parking fees at the shelter this morning." He chuckled a bit. "Coincidence."

"You want to air it?" George asked.

"Me?" Criss snorted. "Hell, no! I ain't giving those (bleepers) any free publicity!" He turned to the taping editor sitting before the screen. "Edit that out, Manny," he ordered him.

Manny nodded and set about sending the four punks to the cutting room floor. Criss stood upright, grimacing from the pain of having been in a ninety-degree position for almost an hour. George felt the need to stretch as well as the need for nourishment. "Hey, how about grabbing a bite to eat?" he suggested. "I'm starved."

Criss cracked his neck. "Later," he replied. "I wanna get this in the can ay-ess-ay-pea."

George shrugged. "Okay, fine," he said. "I'm gonna get a sandwich or something."

There was no protest on Criss' part, so George took his leave. He yearned for a double bacon cheeseburger with the works, but his boxer's training forbade it as too fattening. Instead, he would have to settle for a lean roast beef sandwich on an onion roll, light on the mayo. No sodas, as those contained too much sugar and the carbonation ate into his gut; he decided on Gatorade instead. Or maybe pure juice: he needed the vitamin C. He set his sights for the small deli just past the atrium, the perfect place to get what he needed.

As he walked toward the deli, he heard a woman's voice call out his name. Thinking it was an overanxious Loyal at first, he pretended not to hear so he could eat his lunch in peace. But the voice called out again, and this time it sounded familiar. Was it Angie? he wondered. He turned around and saw not Angie but Darlene, her roommate, racing up the escalator toward him, her face white as a sheet. "George!" she called out breathlessly. "I need to see you!"

George walked toward her. "Darlene? That you? What's the deal?"

Darlene paused to catch her breath. "I...I think I know why Angela disappeared," she panted. "It's Bianca."

"Bianca? What about Bianca?"

"She's setting her up for stealing that donation money," Darlene blurted out. "She said something about 'waiting for an answer' from Angie. George, I think she's the one responsible for all this."

"You tried calling her on her cell phone?"

"I tried and tried, but I couldn't get an answer." Darlene clung to George's muscle shirt. "George! You got to help me! You got to help Angela! We got to find her before it's too late!"

George floundered helplessly. "Well, sorry, Darlene, but I--"

Suddenly, Darlene's cell phone played the MindFreak theme song inside her purse. "That's probably her right now," George said.

Hoping against hope, Darlene fumbled in her purse for her cellphone and flipped it open. "Hello, Angie?" she spoke anxiously into the receiver.

"Uh, no, this is Pastor Bob," the other party replied.

Darlene's face fell a couple of inches, but she did not give up hope. "It's Pastor Bob," she told George. "Yeah, Pastor, what is it? Did you find Angie?"

"Well, no, not exactly," the pastor hedged. "She did return the donation money, though. She said she found it in her car."

"In her car?" Darlene was bewildered. Again she turned to George. "He says Angie found the money in her car."

George pondered this new development. "I smell a set-up," he muttered.

Darlene turned back to Pastor Bob. "What else did she say? Did she say where she was going?"

"Didn't say anything of the sort," the pastor replied, "except she claims that her sister might have stolen it, but she didn't have any proof."

Darlene felt justified in her assessment about Bianca. "I knew it!" she exclaimed. "I knew it had to be Bianca!"

"Had to be Bianca what?" George wanted to know.

"Bianca stole the money from the box and now she's trying to frame Angie for it," Darlene relayed to him. "I knew it had to be her all along!"

"Gimme the phone!" George demanded.

"What?"

"Just gimme the phone!"

Darlene handed George her phone. He raised it to his ear. "Pastor? This is George Strumpolis. What's this about Angie getting blackmailed by her sister?"

"I didn't say nothin' about her gettin' blackmailed," the pastor protested. "I'm just sayin' that the donation money was found in her car, and ended up in one of the clothing bins with a note. Didn't see her or nothin'."

"What exactly did the note say?"

There was a pause on the other end. "It says, 'Dear Pastor, here is the money that was stolen from the donation box from the auction. I found it in my car this afternoon. I think my sister Bianca stole it and now she is trying to frame me for it. I can't prove anything right now, but please believe I am innocent. Angela'. That's all she wrote."

"So now you've got the money back, right?"

"Seems so," the pastor answered. "But I still don't know what happened to Angela. Last I saw her, she was outside her classroom, talking to her sister. Haughty woman she was, all dressed up like the Queen of Sheba. She accused Angela outright of stealing the money, but I knew she was innocent. Still do, as a matter of fact. But how it ended up in her car is a mystery to me."

"It's obvious, Pastor," George said. "Bianca planted it there. She had the money all along."

"Now let's not go pointing fingers at anyone before we have proof," the pastor admonished him.

"Proof?" George echoed. "You want proof? Come down to the security office here at the Luxor and I'll show you proof! They got it all on tape! Whoever that woman in white was, it wasn't Angie!"

"Well, we'll let the police worry about that," Pastor Bob said. "We got to find Angela before something happens to her."

"Well, we'll keep calling her on this end," George told him, "and you keep calling on yours. We'll find her, don't worry. She couldn't have gone far. Not in that bucket she drives." he added facetiously.

The pastor agreed. "All right, then, we'll keep calling. I pray we find her safe and sound."

"Amen to that, Pastor," George said.

He handed Darlene back her phone. She quickly said goodbye and folded it up. "So, what do we do now?" she asked.

"You just keep calling her on her cell phone and back at the apartment," George replied. "Me? I'm gonna get something to eat so I can think clearly." He turned and headed for the deli.

Darlene was appalled. "Eat!" she exclaimed. "You can't eat now! Angie's lost out there and we got to find her!"

George whirled around to face her. "How?" he snapped. "How are we gonna find her? Where are we gonna look? Vegas is a helluva big city with over a million people! How are you gonna find just one person around here?"

Seeing the hurt look on Darlene's face, he softened his tone. "Look," he said, laying his hands on her shoulders, "far as I know, she's probably back at the apartment. Maybe you should go back there and see. I'm sure she's okay."

Darlene nodded wearily. "Yeah, maybe you're right," she acquiesced. "Maybe I'm making a big deal over this. Angie wouldn't run off if she was innocent, right?"

"Of course she wouldn't," a chillingly familiar voice spoke up from behind. "It only proves she's guilty."

George and Darlene spun around, startled. There stood Bianca, smug as ever in one of her designer suits. "It seems this little conspiracy is getting more interesting by the hour," she purred. "With a little love triangle thrown in for good measure. How romantic."

[The unnamed one]

Nice update veritas

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) i hope they find Angie soon , can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

God what a pain in the :mad: that Bianca is.

[Veritas]

George and Darlene stared at Bianca with a mixture of surprise and disgust. "Well," Darlene sneered, trying to hide the shock of seeing her, "look what the cat dragged in."

Bianca chose to ignore the slur. "Getting a little cozy, aren't we?" she purred. "I never pegged you to be a player, Georgie. I always thought your cousin, Criss Angel, the famous magician, had always been the womanizer, but here I see you with Darlene just two days after your date with Angela." She glanced contemptuously at Darlene. "Well, I guess there's no accounting for taste."

George took two steps toward Bianca, his fists clenched. "First of all, don't ever call me 'Georgie'," he snarled. "And second of all, I ain't gettin' 'cozy' as you call it with Darlene, here! I don't know what kind of game you're playing here, lady, but as far as I'm concerned, you are full of (bleep)!"

Bianca's face took on an astonished expression. "Game?" she echoed innocently. "I'm not here to play any games, except in the casino, maybe."

"Then just what the hell are you doing here?" Darlene demanded.

Again the innocent look. "Me? Oh, nothing. Like I said, I came her to play in the casino, minding my own business, when lo and behold I see the two of you here together." She leaned forward. "Close together. Very close together."

"Cut the bull(bleep), lady!" George spat angrily. "What're you up to, really? You said something about a conspiracy--what kind of conspiracy?"

"Oh, don't play innocent with me, Georgie," Bianca said sneered again. "You know damn well what I'm talking about. In fact, the two of you were talking about it just a couple of minutes ago."

"Refresh my memory, please," George requested a little sarcastically.

Bianca sighed. "About the stolen money," she told him with condescending patience. "From the donation box at the auction. Remember?"

George snapped his fingers as if suddenly remembering. "Oh, yeah!" he replied sarcastically, "the money from the donation box. The money you stole and tried to frame your sister for. You remember, don't you, Darlene?"

"You know, it does ring a bell," Darlene said with the same sarcastic tone. "Oh, yes, it all comes back to me now." Her tone turned icy. "You stole the money and planted it in your sister's car to blackmail her somehow, didn't you, Bianca?"

Bianca was filled with righteous indignation. "I?" she cried. "I stole the money? I blackmail my own sister? Whatever for?"

"You tell me, (bleep)," Darlene retorted. "By the way, you told me you were waiting for some sort of answer from Angie. What kind of question did you ask her, huh? Were you blackmailing her?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Bianca replied loftily.

"Like hell you don't," George grumbled.

"Well, I see I am wasting my time here," Bianca huffed. She spun on her designer heel and made for the escalator. "I don't have to listen to this! I'm leaving!"

George, however, was not to be put off. With one lunge he grabbed Bianca by the arm and whirled her around to face him. "If you've said or done anything to hurt Angie, so help me, I'll--"

Bianca tore her arm out of George's grasp. "You'll what?" she goaded him.

George merely stood there, simmering with rage, his chest heaving up and down inside his muscle shirt. Bianca sniffed derisively. "I thought so," she said, tossing her coiffed head disdainfully. "You don't have the cojones to do anything to me, Georgie. You're too much of a chicken(bleep) to do anything."

With that, she sailed toward the escalator, gloating over her triumph. George was fit to explode as he watched her leave. Darlene stepped cautiously toward him. "What do we do now?" she asked.

"What do we do now?" George repeated, still glowering at Bianca's retreating form. "We follow her, that's what we do now! If she's framing Angie for the theft, then we gotta bring her in!"

"But how do we know she really did it?" Darlene pointed out. "I mean, we gotta have concrete proof."

"Oh, we got it, Dar," George nodded confidently. "On tape. But we gotta bring her in first." He made for the escalator. "Come on," he said gruffly. "We're gonna follow her."

The two trotted down the moving escalator to the ground level. He found his Rover close by the entrance. "My car's parked over there," he told Darlene. "You know what kind of car she drives?"

"Big silver Lexus, I think," Darlene replied. "I know she's got a vanity plate with her name on it."

George gave a nod. "Good. Get in."

Darlene clambered into he passenger seat of the Rover. Suddenly George heard his name echoing through the parking garage. He turned around and saw Criss trotting up behind him. "Where you going?" he asked. "I thought you were gonna get something to eat."

"Later," George said, resuming his trek. "Right now we gotta catch a thief."

Criss was puzzled. "Catch a thief?"

"Yeah, and we ain't got much time!" George snapped impatiently. "You comin' or goin'?"

Impulsively, Criss clambered into the back seat. "I'm goin'!" he said.

George jumped into the driver's seat, jammed the key into the ignition, started the engine, and roared out of the garage. "Keep an eye out for Bianca's car!" he ordered Darlene. "I don't wanna lose her!"

Darlene nodded affirmatively. She kept her eyes peeled for Bianca's car, especially her vanity plate, but her mind was swirling. Bianca's blackmailing Angie, I know she is, but for what? What deep dark secret could Angie have that would cause her to run like that? God, if I run into that mad-dog (bleep) again, I'm going to pull out all that blonde hair by its black roots! Gotta keep an eye out for her car--oh, my God, I just realized I'm riding in the same car with Criss Angel! I'm riding in the same car with Criss Angel! Ohmigodohmigod! This is too cool for words!





A LVMPD squad car pulled up deftly to the curbside in front of a large Victorian style house and parked. Two uniformed police officers exited the cruiser quickly but with professional dignity and strode up to the front door, their faces grim with purpose. One of the officers carried a folded piece of paper in his hand, an official looking document meant for the occupant. The second officer, a barrel-chested veteran with silvery hair, pounded on the side panel of the glass and wood front door. "Ms. Honi?" he called out. "Open up! Police!"

No response. The silver-haired officer pounded again, making the glass set in the wooden frame rattle. "Open up!" he ordered, louder this time. "Police! We have a warrant for your arrest!"

Silence. "Think we should break the door down?" his partner asked.

The silver-haired officer shook his head. "Go check the garage," he said. "See if there's a car parked there."

The partner did as he was told, circling around to the back of the house to the garage. He looked through the side window, then returned to the front porch. "Nothing," he said. "Guess she ain't home."

The warrant went back into the silver-haired officer's pocket. "Okay, then," he said, "we'll just have to wait. Meantime, send out an APB. She couldn't have gone far."

His partner snorted. "With five thousand dollars," he retorted, "she could be all the way to Mexico by now."

[RACHEL02189]

I don't think she's in Mexico

[The unnamed one]

Ugh Darlene should have ko'd the chick .... Great update

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) can't wait to read more :)

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Veritas, this story is incredible! One thing though, I think MindFreak Productions has been in operation since December 19th, 1967! ;-) lol Keep writing!

[Veritas]

Angela wiped away her tears as she drove her little brown Chevette down the desert highway faster than she had ever driven it before. She had no idea where she was going, nor did she care; she just wanted to escape the misery of it all. Her life, which had once promised so much happiness, had suddenly crashed and burned thanks to the machinations of her devious sister, Bianca. Not only did she frame her for the theft of the donation money, but she also embarrassed George, the first man Angela ever loved, with that photograph of himself with Darlene at the auction. She's probably posted it on the Web by now! she wailed to herself. George must be furious about it! Dear God, what have I done to deserve this? What had I done to deserve Bianca's torments?

Bianca, always Bianca. Bianca, who cheated her out of her allowance by bullying, tricking or outright stealing; Bianca, who claimed for herself the big beautiful dollhouse Grandpapa Bellows had made in his workshop; Bianca, who undermined her self-esteem by mocking, scorning, and humiliating her in front of her schoolmates, resulting in a lifetime of torment and isolation; Bianca, who always had to be first in everything, take the biggest and best of everything, insist on everything be done her way, get everything she wanted when she wanted it, and never mind with what Angela or anyone else wanted. Bianca cared only about Bianca; it was her world and she was just letting everyone else live in it, if only to serve her. Marie Antoinette was Mother Teresa compared to her.

Just once, Angela fretted, just once she wished she could have stood up to her, defied her to her face instead of creeping around like the little mouse she was, trying to hide from her sister's wrath. Why couldn't she be strong, like Darlene? She had seen her roommate take on some tough customers at the shelter on more than one occasion, especially the time a drunk took a swing at her, only to be thrown to the floor when she grabbed the guy's arm and flung him down, a feat Angela could not recall without feelings of envy. If anyone swung a fist at her, and it was usually Bianca, of course, her first reaction would be to duck and cover. Was she really that pathetic? Was she really that weak and helpless?

Miserably, she had to admit she was. And now she was on the run like a fugitive for a crime she did not commit. Why didn't she just go to Pastor Bob, hand him the money in person, and tell him the truth? Because it would have looked like she had lied to him about it, that was why. No matter how much she could protest, it would be Bianca's word against hers. Bianca was clever, too clever by half, as Mother used to say. She could come up with the most convincing excuses, alibis, and outright fabrications that would blind anyone to the truth. What hope did she have against such an evil genius as she?

The temperature gauge on the dashboard climbed into the red zone; steam began curling from under the hood. Angela pulled over to the shoulder just as the Chevette stalled to a standstill. She pulled out her cell phone from her battered old handbag to try to call for help, but got no signal in the vast emptiness of the desert. She hoped against hope that someone would come along and help her, but even that seemed unlikely, not in an area as desolate as this. Alone, stranded, she wept bitterly, cursing her fate. Then she got out of the car, shielding her face from the merciless sun, and looked around for any signs of life. All she saw was sand, scrub and rocks.

In the distance was a large mesa, its jagged sides and flat top looking straight out of a picture postcard. Angela gazed at its majestic height, its outline breaking up the monotonous desert sky, and followed it downward to the ground. How hard would it be to climb up to the top and jump from it? she wondered. But she abandoned that idea as quickly as she thought of it. No, suicide was out of the question. Besides, she could more easily die out here by the highway without water unless someone came--

Angela blinked several times and stared at the foot of the mesa. She was sure she saw someone standing there a moment ago. A tour guide, maybe? A mountain climber or a hiker? It was possible: she knew that the Nevada desert offered the more adventurous types opportunities to push themselves to their limits, whether it was hiking, climbing or BASE jumping. At any rate, she thought maybe they could help her with her car. It was a long walk to the mesa, but it was better than standing by the side of the road withering from the heat. It was a risk she had to take.

She pulled out her tiny folding umbrella from the glove compartment to use as a parasol, then began the long trek to the mesa. Her throat was parched, and her worn-out loafers offered little protection from the rocky desert soil, but she pressed on, determined to make it. She barely noticed a large scorpion skittering across her path, nor the large rattlesnake that caught it in its jaws and devoured it. Her mind was empty of all thought save for her destination.

By the time she was halfway there, she was reduced to a zombie-like state. Her watery blue eyes burned from lack of moisture, her feet were blistered and her fingertips felt numb. After a seeming eternity of crossing the desert, she reached the foot of the mesa. Desperate, she cried out for help, but her throat was too dry to go above a whisper. In despair, she dropped her umbrella and fell to her knees in exhaustion. Her head drooped as if her neck could no longer bear the burden of supporting it, her eyes too dehydrated to shed tears. So this is where you die, a part of her conscious mind told her, in a desert wasteland with no water, no food, no friends and no hope. Oh, God, George, please forgive me.

"How have you offended?"

Angela raised her bleary eyes just enough to see a pair of beaded moccasins before her. Startled back into consciousness, she forced her weary head upward to see their owner, a grim-faced Indian (no, they weren't called Indians anymore, they were Native Americans) standing over her. Terrified, she tried to speak, but no words came out. All she could do was gesture helplessly, only to break down and cry. "Please help me," she whispered between sobs. "Please help me, whoever you are."

The grim face seemed to soften a little, his dark eyes reflecting what looked like pity. "I am Medicine Man," he intoned. "I am the keeper of the Cave of Sorrow. Those who have offended come here to reflect on their wrongdoing and make amends. How have you offended?"

Angela swallowed hard to regain what was left of her voice. "Please, sir," she spoke hoarsely. "I-I ran away because...I was accused of...of a crime I didn't commit. I-I was scared...no one would believe me. I don't know what to do." Her voice broke, and she wept out of fear and exhaustion. "I didn't steal that money!" she sobbed. "I swear I didn't! My sister's blackmailing me into giving up my trust fund because of it! She's the one who stole it, not me! I know it was her! She just wants my money, that's all!"

The Medicine Man looked down at her. "If you are truly innocent," he said, "then you have nothing to fear. You must go back and claim your innocence. Fleeing only increases your seeming guilt. Face your accusers with a brave heart. An eagle soars higher against the wind than with it."

"But I can't go back!" Angela protested. "Besides, my car broke down and--"

But the Medicine Man had vanished. Nothing remained where he had once stood, not even his footprints. Angela wondered if she had hallucinated the whole thing before she succumbed to unconsciousness.




George cruised slowly down the main boulevard, keeping pace with the afternoon traffic to avoid being pulled over by patrolmen. Darlene sat up front beside him, keeping her eyes peeled for any sign of Bianca's silver Lexus, the vanity license plate her only clue to its identity, while Criss, riding shotgun in the back, idly glanced out the windows on either side, wondering just what they were looking for. "You sure she went this way?" he asked.

"I'm positive," George replied. "I saw her turn right onto the boulevard when she left. She's gotta be here somewhere."

"Maybe we should go back and call the cops," Criss suggested. "They can tail her better than--"

Suddenly, Darlene became excited. "There she is!" she shrieked. "There's her plate! She's right there in front of us!"

George scanned the traffic in front of him. Sure enough, there was a silver Lexus with a Nevada license plate reading BIANCA in large black lettering. He pulled up behind her, leaning on his horn and shouting, "Hey! Pull over!"

Bianca glanced in her rear-view mirror, wondering what all the commotion was about, then, noticing it was George, stepped on the gas and sped off down the boulevard. Irate, George floored his Rover and gave chase, determined to bring down this treacherous (bleep) who had tried to mar his happiness with the woman he loved. The sudden jolt forward sent poor Criss flying to the back of his seat. "Hey, watch where you're goin', man!" he yelled.

The Lexus and the Rover wove in and out of traffic, leaving angry commuters honking their horns in protest. George kept within a car's length behind, close enough to tail her but not too close to crash into her should she slam on the brakes. He hardly noticed that he and his quarry had left the main boulevard, the city limits, and practically all civilization for that matter, and were now heading down a deserted stretch of highway. As far as he was concerned, it made for better sighting of the Lexus without the obstacle of traffic. Darlene, however, became anxious. "Where are we going?" she wanted to know. "Where are we?"

"I don't know," George snapped, "and I don't give a (bleep)! All I want is to catch that (bleep), even if I have to drive all the way to (bleeping) California!"

Criss was startled by this unusual display of bloodlust from his normally easygoing cousin. Ever since he could remember, George had never held a grudge against anyone, or at least not for long. Any physical violence was confined to the boxing ring, and even then he followed the rules. Oh, sure, there was that incident with the Vegas Flasher, but that was for family honor, not personal revenge. (1) But now George was pursuing a person with a singleminded purpose to do bodily harm. It seemed to Criss that he was seeing a side of his cousin he had never known existed, and it frightened him a little. Would he actually kill Bianca if he caught her? God forbid he should, he prayed--Nevada was one of the few states in the Union that still had the death penalty.

George leaned on his horn and sped up behind the Lexus. "Pull over, dammit!" he shouted. "Pull over!"

A single slender arm extended itself from the driver's side window, flashing a single slender middle finger in defiance. "(Bleep) you, too, (bleep)!" George growled. "You wanna play games, huh? Well, it's game over, baby! Your ass is toast!"

With that, he floored the accelerator, fully intending to ram Bianca off the road. Alarmed, Criss lunged forward. "What the hell are you trying to do?" he shouted over the Rover's roaring engine. "You're gonna kill us all!"

"Says the man who wanted to blow himself up in a mineshaft!" George retorted. "Hang on!"

The Rover charged forward. The Lexus, smaller and more aerodynamic, sped on, eluding the truck-like vehicle behind it. Bianca cackled in triumph over having outrun her pursuers, now just a diminishing image in her rear-view mirror. "So long, suckers!" she shouted gleefully as she sped down the highway, heedless of where she was going.

Her exhilaration was short lived. She heard a loud bang like a pistol shot, then her car lurched crazily all over the road. Panicking, Bianca tried to regain control of her vehicle, but only succeeded in skidding to a stop on the side of the road, kicking up clouds of dust all around her. Then, all was still again. Bianca drew a few deep breaths to regain her composure. "What happened?" she asked no one in particular.

With trembling hands she opened the car door and stepped outside. The dust had settled enough for her to see that she had blown her front left tire. "Oh, great," she moaned. "Now what am I going to do?"

As if on cue, George's Land Rover pulled up behind her and ground to a halt. George burst out of the driver's side like an angry bull from a rodeo chute, while Criss and Darlene came out after him. Bianca's imperious nature came to the fore, and she stood there defiantly, her head raised indignantly. "How dare you chase after me like that?" she accused them. "Look what you've done! You caused me to have a flat tire! I should sue you for damages! I should have you--"

"Put a sock in it, lady!" George snarled. "I want to know just what the hell you were planning to do with Angie. What were you trying to do, blackmail her? Pin the rap on her for the money you stole from the auction? Where is she, anyway?"

Criss turned to Darlene. "Uh, you wanna tell me what's the deal here?" he asked in a low tone.

Darlene was all too happy to tell Criss what was the deal here. "You see, the money from the donation box was stolen, and then it turned up in Angela's car, see. We think Bianca did it so she could blackmail her somehow--for what, I don't know. Anyway, Angela turned in the money to Pastor Bob, and nobody's seen her since. I tried to look for her, but when I came to the Luxor, thinking she might have been with George, Bianca the (bleep) showed up and accused us of being lovey-dovey. She even took a picture of us together at the auction to try to get back at us."

"Okay," was all Criss could say, though he was still bewildered by it all.

Meanwhile, George and Bianca were still arguing over Angela's fate, with the former hurling insults and accusations, and the latter denying it all and hurling a few insults of her own. Criss could sense the altercation was coming to blows, so he blew a loud whistle through his fingers to end it. "Okay, break it up!" he shouted. "Look, I don't know a whole helluva lot what's going on here, but the first thing we gotta do is find Angie! Then we can get this whole thing settled, okay?"

"Oh, yes," Bianca agreed wholeheartedly. "By all means, let's find Angela. She's the cause of all this trouble in the first place. After all, she was the one who had stolen all that money--"

"Bianca," George groaned, "don't you ever shut up?"

"Well, I'm just saying--" Bianca protested.

"Yeah, well just don't say anything anymore!" George shot back. "I'm sick and tired of your constant (bleeping)--"

"Hey, look!" Darlene suddenly cried out, pointing down the road.

George, Bianca and Criss followed where Darlene's finger directed. Just a few yards away was a small brown car parked by the side of the road. "That's Angie's car!" she shouted excitedly. "I know it is!"

"You sure?" Criss asked.

"I'm positive!" Darlene confirmed. "That's her car all right!" She began to run toward it. "Come on!"

Criss followed Darlene toward the car. George followed them with Bianca sulkily trotting behind, their quarrel momentarily on hold,. "Angie?" George called out as he ran. "Angie! You all right?"

No answer. No sign of Angela anywhere. Criss could tell the car had overheated by the puddles of coolant underneath the engine block; the cooling hose must have burst, he figured. The car interior was empty except for Angela's school satchel, a white turban and a pair of sunglasses lying on the front seat. George examined the items one by one. The satchel he recognized as Angela's, but the turban and the glasses puzzled him. "What are these doing here?" he asked.

Bianca stood over him, a smug smile on her face. "Isn't it obvious, Georgie?" she said. "That was Angela's disguise when she stole the money from the auction. You said yourself they got it all on tape--a woman in a white gown, a white turban and dark glasses, slipping behind the donation box and stealing the contents. Well, there's your proof that she's guilty. So, what do you think now of your sweet, innocent little girlfriend, Angie, hmmmm?"

George threw down the turban and the glasses. "Know what I think?" he echoed, stepping toward her with clenched fists. "I'll tell you what I think. I think you planted those things in her car to frame her, that's what I think! I think you set this whole thing up to get back at her for your tossing her over the balcony, that's what I think! And I think I'm gonna break your skinny little neck if you don't tell me where the hell Angie is!"

"You wouldn't dare strike a lady!" Bianca said loftily.

"Who said you were a lady?" George shot back.

Bianca was about to deliver a scathing retort when Criss again intervened. "Okay, okay, break it up, you two! We ain't gettin' nowhere fast this way. We still gotta find Angie, so let's just settle down, okay?"

George and Bianca retreated to neutral corners while Criss tried to think. He lowered his head to rub the sweat from the back of his neck, but as he did so he saw a set of small shoeprints heading away from the road and into the desert. He followed them with his eyes and discovered they led toward the mesa in the distance. He suddenly realized exactly where he was, and where Angela had gone. "Everyone, back into the truck," he ordered.

Darlene looked at him, puzzled. "Why?" she asked. "Where are we going?"

"I'll explain later," Criss replied hastily. "Just get into the truck. George, you drive."

George climbed back into the driver's seat. To his chagrin, Bianca took the passenger seat as if she felt entitled to it. Darlene was also miffed about it at first, but felt compensated by having her beloved Criss Angel sitting next to her in the back seat. Tough luck, Bianca! she gloated inwardly. I got Criss sitting right here by my side, and you're stuck with George! She felt a twinge of guilt for that last thought. Oh, poor George, stuck with that (bleep) Bianca. Well, once we find Angie, Bianca can ride in the trunk or something. Oh, hell, she can walk for all I care!

"So where we going?" George wanted to know.

Criss pointed toward the mesa. "That way," he said. "To the Cave of Sorrow."

George looked at Criss bemusedly. "Cave of Sorrow? What the hell's that?"

"I'll explain on the way," Criss replied hastily. "Just get going before it's too late."

(1) See Risque Business

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

more please ;)

[The unnamed one]

Veritas ,
I have finally finished reading all your stories on this site and I even went back to the old boards and re-read the ones on there, I must say your stories are still the same ( I swear you must have a notepad with a million ways to torture, annoy and break criss' heart ) ....personally I find the way you keep all of the stories connected is a very cool thing. Even though they are all seperate they are all together.... And they are very well written ..... I have neglected my poetry to read these stories which is unusual for me ..... I hope you update this story soon....
Ash

[Veritas]

Oh, I will, and thank you for taking the time to read my stories. I look forward to reading your poetry. Which story would you like me to post next?
***************


The way to the Cave of Sorrow was a bumpy one, even for the rugged Land Rover. Every rock and rut jostled everybody in their seats; only their seat belts kept them from flying out the windshield. Darlene seemed not to mind the rough ride--indeed, she began co-ordinating her jolts so as to land squarely into Criss' arms every time. Though she played the modest maiden and insincerely apologized for it, deep down she was thrilled to be so close to her idol. It was all poor Criss could do to pry himself loose whenever Darlene "accidentally" embraced him.

Bianca, however, was not so amiable. Every bump and jolt brought another round of griping and complaining, digging deeper under George's skin like a bad case of poison ivy. He couldn't make up his mind which was worse: the rough terrain or Bianca's constant nagging. By the time he came in sight of the mesa, he had voted on the latter.

"Watch where you're going, you cretin!" Bianca shouted at him for the tenth time in as many minutes after hitting her head on the roof after running over a large rock. "You trying to get me killed?"

"Don't tempt me!" George shot back.

"Where'd you get your license, anyway?" Bianca retaliated. "In a box of cornflakes"

"Hey! You don't like the way I drive?" George roared at her. "Get out and walk!"

Bianca settled back as best she could. "Dumb cretin," she muttered sullenly.

Criss pried himself away from Darlene and leaned forward toward George. "That's it," he said, pointing to the mouth of the cave. "Right over there."

George veered sharply to the right, nearly sending Bianca sailing out of the passenger side, then slammed on the brakes, making her lunge forward inches away from the windshield. "Will you take it easy, you stupid (bleep)?" she shrieked furiously. "You almost tossed me out of this crate you call a car!"

"Yeah," George sneered. "Too bad I didn't."

Bianca cast a poisonous look at him. "I am so going to sue your ass for this, Georgie," she threatened. "You just wait. I am so going to bring you down so low you'll be playing handball on the curb!"

"Oh, like I'm shaking in my boots," he sneered in reply. "And stop calling me Georgie!"

Once again, Criss came forward to intervene. "Look, you think you two can hold off until we find Angie?" he pleaded with them. "That's what we're here for, right?"

George drew a deep breath to clear his head and charged out of the Rover. Criss followed him with Darlene right at his heels. They trotted over to the small cave, searching for any sign of Angela. Darlene managed to put her devotion for Criss aside long enought to aid in the search. "Oh, God, I hope we're not too late!" she cried anxiously.

Bianca remained in the Rover, totally uninterested. She had no concern whatsoever about her sister's welfare--she was there only to identify the body and confirm time and place of death when the coroner filled out the certificate. This way, it spared her the tedium of blackmail and extortion; once Angela was buried, the trust fund would fall into her eager little hands. How nicely everything worked out! I love it when I win! Bianca gloated.

She was mentally rehersing her speech to the authorities ("Oh, my poor dear sister! Oh, officer it was terrible! We were planning on forgiving her for the theft if she turned in the money, but she ran away, and now...(sob)! Why, oh, why didn't she just come clean?") when she heard George shout, "Hey, everybody! She's over here!"

Surprised, Bianca bolted out of the Rover and walked to the cave where the other three had gathered. Angela was lying halfway inside the cave, unconscious. In the stillness of the desert, their muted conversation could be heard clearly.

"Is she all right?" Darlene asked.

"God, I hope so," George replied. "Angie? Angie, honey, please wake up!"

"She must've crawled in there to escape the sun," Criss commented.

"Anybody got any water?" George cried out. "Somebody get some water!"

Criss shrugged. "Sorry, dude, but I didn't pack any."

George turned to Darlene. "Go look in the truck!" he ordered. "Find something! Anything!"

Darlene ran back to the Rover, climbed inside, and began rummaging around. Bianca stepped forward. "Is she dead?" she asked.

"You wish," George retorted over his shoulder.

He patted Angela's cheek gently. "C'mon, honey," he pleaded, his eyes filling with tears. "Wake up for me, willya? Huh? I don't wanna lose you, baby!"

Angela made no response. In a moment of desperation mixed with passion, George gathered her into his arms and kissed her on her parched lips. Oh, God, Angie! he said mentally. Don't die on me! You're the only woman I ever loved! You're the only one I ever will love! I can't bear to lose you now, Angie. Sweet, sweet Angela, my angel, my beloved angel-- He embraced her tightly, rubbed his tear-streaked face on her cheek, kissed her again and again. "I don't wanna lose you, Angie," he said, his voice ragged with emotion. "I don't wanna lose you!"

Criss swallowed the lump forming in his throat and knelt down beside his grieving cousin. "She's gonna be okay, George," he said bravely. "I'll call nine-one-one--we'll get her to a hospital in no time!" Heroically, he whipped out his cell phone, flipped it open to dial the emergency number--and discovered that there was no signal on it. "Son of a (bleep)!" he cursed under his breath. "We're in a dead zone!"

"Oh, great!" Bianca fumed. "Now how are we gonna get out of here?"

Irate, she began pacing back and forth like a caged panther. "We're stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, I got a flat tire thanks to you and your cousin there, and now there's no cell phone signal!"

Criss rose to his feet. "Bianca," he began.

"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you!" Bianca raged on. "You chased me here like a common criminal! It's your fault I'm stuck out here in the desert with no water and no way of contacting anyone!"

"Bianca," Criss repeated, a bit louder this time.

"I should sue your ass in court big time over this! No, better yet, I'll sue you and your cousin over there for damages to my car and for emotional distress! I'll sue you for every dime you've got, Criss! Just you wait a--"

"Bianca!"

Bianca whirled around. "What?"

Criss stepped right up to her, his hazel eyes blazing into hers. "On the count of three, you are going to stop talking," he said firmly. "One..."

"You can't make me stop--"

"...two..."

"--talking just like th--"

"...three!"

Criss snapped his fingers, and suddenly Bianca was voiceless. Her mouth and jaw moved, but try as she might, she could not make a sound. "Now, you just stand there and be quiet, okay?" he told her.

Meanwhile, Darlene was rushing back to the scene, a plastic bottle in her hand. "I found some water!" she cried triumphantly. "It's not much, and it's kinda warm, but it's water!"

She handed the bottle to George. "Here," she said, "try this."

George ripped the cap off the flimsy plastic bottle and held it to Angela's lips. "Come on, baby!" he encouraged her. "Drink up!"

The few ounces of warm water worked a seeming miracle. Angela's eyes fluttered open, and she looked straight up at George. She couldn't speak, but made little cooing sounds in lieu of words. Elated that the love of his life was still alive, George clutched her to his chest. "Thank God you're all right!" he said, nearly weeping with joy.

Criss rubbed his face, fighting to hold back his own tears. Darlene threw her arms around him, relieved that Angela was going to be all right. For once, Criss didn't object, but embraced her in return. Darlene Milliken vowed to cherish that moment as the happiest in her life to date.

George released Angela from his crushing embrace for the moment. "You all right, baby?" he asked.

Angela could only nod. George gave her some more water. It was almost hot enough to make tea, but it did lubricate her throat enough for her to speak at last. "I'm okay," she whispered. She looked up at George. "Did you see him?" she asked weakly.

"See who?"

"The Indian man."

"What Indian man?"

But Angela had lapsed into unconsciousness again. George carried her out of the stifling cave and back to the Land Rover. He turned on the AC to let her cool down, then shut the doors to keep the cool air in. He turned to Criss. "She's delirious," he said. "Said something about an Indian man."

"Indian man?" Criss repeated. Then it struck him. "She must mean the Medicine Man!" he exclaimed with a finger snap.

Unfortunatly, the second he snapped his fingers, the silence spell he had cast over Bianca broke. "What did you do to me, you (bleeper)?" she demanded. "I don't know how you did it, but if you do it again, so help me, God--!"

"Oh, (bleep!)" Criss groaned. "I snapped her out of it!"

"So, shut her up again," George said.

Criss glanced at the raving Bianca, still hurling threats, insults and expletives with full force. "I don't think I can now," he murmured.

"Try!" George half-ordered, half-pleaded to his famous cousin. "I can't stand her anymore!"

Meanwhile, Bianca's tirade was reaching its peak. "Oh, you just wait, Angel! You just wait until I get hold of the media! They'll crucify you for what you and your dimwitted cousin did to me! You'll be out of show business so fast it'll make your head swim!"

"Will you just shut the hell up, you (bleep)?!"Darlene shrieked at her.

Bianca turned her fury toward the petite brunette. "Don't you tell me to shut up, you little runt!" she retorted. "Why don't you crawl into a mousehole and stay there?"

"(Bleep) you, you big horse!" Darlene shot back.

Her insult silenced Bianca more quickly than any hypnotic spell from Criss, but only for a moment. "Why, you little--!" she sputtered, and then lunged at Darlene, her laquered nails bared like claws. She swung, clawed and pulled handfuls of hair within reach. Darlene, however, had over a year's worth of self-defense training under her belt; though Bianca was a head taller than she, she had no trouble fending her off. Every blow was deflected, every pull of her hair was met with a kick in the legs. Though Darlene was little, she was fierce in her ability to defend herself.

"I'll kill you, (bleep)!" Bianca stormed.

Darlene fended off another blow. "Ungh! Not if I kill you first, you (bleep)!"

"Oh, you think you're so tough, do you?"

"Agh! Yeah? Well, I've handled tougher than you!"

"I'll crush you like the little cockroach that you are, you little bug! I'm bigger than you are!"

"Yeah, well the bigger they are, the harder they--ugh...fall!" Darlene threw Bianca onto the ground with one mighty heave over her shoulder. Bianca landed on her rump with a howl of pain. But Bianca was not through yet. Panting, her designer suit caked with dust, she staggered to her feet to begin the next round. Darlene braced herself for another attack, then the fight began anew, degenerating into face slapping and hair pulling.

Watching the catfight from the sidelines, Criss turned to George. "Think we should break this up?" he asked casually.

George shook his head. "Nah, let 'em have their fun," he replied, smiling. "Matter of fact, I'm kinda enjoying this."

Criss shrugged. Meanwhile, inside the Land Rover, Angela, almost fully recovered from her heat exhaustion, was also watching the brawl between her sister and her roommate. Fearing the worst, she turned off the AC and stepped out of the truck to try to break it up, if only by pleading piteously for peace. "Bianca! Darlene! Please!" she cried, "Stop this! You're hurting each other! Please, stop fighting!"

Her words fell on deaf ears. Terrified, Angela retreated to George's arms. Bianca and Darlene kept up their brawling, hurling epithets as fiercely as they did blows. "Go to hell, (bleep)!" Bianca screamed between slaps.

"Fine!" Darlene fired back. "I'll meet you there!"

"Little runt!"

"Bimbo!"

"Cheap (bleep)!"

"Hell, I'm a virgin compared to you, (bleep)!"

"STOP!!"

It was a man's voice, but it came from neither George nor Criss. This voice was heavier, more commanding, It penetrated deeply into their minds and souls like a sound wave after an explosion, paralyzing the two women where they stood. They had strength enough only to turn their heads and see the man who had such power in his voice that he could break up their brawl with a single word.

He stood before them in his painted leather robe and beaded silver hair, his feathered staff in his hand like a sceptre. His dark eyes flashed like sunlight on the amulets he wore around his neck. His weathered face reflected his outrage as he glared at Darlene and Bianca. "Why do you fight like menials before the Cave of Sorrow?" he demanded. "Do you not know this is sacred ground?"

George looked at Criss. "Who the hell is he?" he wanted to know.

"That's the Medicine Man," Criss replied softly. "He's the guardian of the Cave of Sorrow."

George jerked his thumb at the shaman. "You know this guy?"

"Uh, yeah. It's a long story," Criss hedged. "I'll tell you later."

George turned to Angela. "Angie? This the guy you were talking about?"

Angela nodded fearfully. "Uh-huh." she squeaked.

Darlene swallowed hard and tried to speak. "Uh, h-h-hello," she stammered. "Uh, I'm Darlene, Darlene Milliken, from North Las Vegas. Um, we didn't mean to, you know, cause any trouble." Her words ended in a nervous giggle. "We were just looking for our friend, here, see, and--"

Bianca, however, was not intimidated. She brushed Darlene aside and faced the shaman boldly, defiantly. "Look, Geronimo," she said brusquely, "I don't know what you're trying to pull here with that costume of yours, but you're not impressing anyone, so why don't you go back to your reservation and mind your own business?"

The shaman remained unmoved. "I am not Geronimo, I am the Medicine Man."

"Yeah, whatever," Bianca retorted dismissively. "Just back off, willya?"

She spun on her heel and began to walk back to the Rover. Again, the Medicine Man commanded, "Stop!", this time pointing his feathered staff at her. Bianca's feet stuck fast to the dusty ground as if cemented in place. She struggled to free herself, but failed. "Hey!" she cried out, "I'm stuck! Somebody help me!"

"Did you do that?" George asked Criss.

He shook his head. "Wasn't me," he replied. "It was him, the Medicine Man."

Suddenly, Bianca felt her feet shuffling her back toward the shaman against her will. She tried to stop herself by grabbing onto whatever was within reach, first the hood of the Rover, then the jutting rock by the mouth of the cave, but the force was too powerful--she always lost her grip and went careening back to where the Medicine Man stood. Only when she was in his presence did he release her. Indignant but unwilling to experience any more paranormal power, she stood there sullenly, her arms crossed over her chest.

Darlene could not help but take one more jab at her. "Maybe he likes you," she quipped. "Maybe he wants to make you his squaw or something."

"Zip it, (bleep)," Bianca spat.

Meanwhile, George, Angela and Criss had crept up silently before the shaman. George pushed Criss forward. "You know him better than we do," he said, "you talk to him."

Criss steeled himself and approached the Medicine Man. "Greetings," he said formally. "Uh, please forgive our trespassing on the site of the Cave of Sorrow. We have been searching for our friend, Angela Honi, sister of Bianca, over here, who had disappeared earlier today. We thank you for rescuing her; we are very grateful. Now, if you'll excuse us, we'll be leaving now." He turned to leave. "C'mon, everybody, let's go," he said hastily.

"Stop!" Medicine Man commanded.

Everyone froze in their tracks. The shaman raised his staff high. His face took on a distant look. "One of you has offended," he intoned. "There was a theft of some sort, a theft against those who have nothing."

Bianca siezed the opportunity quickly. "Yes!" she cried out eagerly. "Yes! There was a theft! Some money had been stolen from the homeless!" She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Angela. "There's the thief, right there!" she shouted. "She's the guilty one! Scalp her! Burn her at the stake! Do anything you want with her! She's a criminal!"

"Silence!" the shaman bellowed. He turned to Angela. "Come forward."

Angela shuffled forward timidly, still grasping George's hand. The Medicine Man stared seriously at her. "Does this woman speak the truth?" he asked her.

"No!" George replied loudly. "Angie's innocent! She didn't steal anything from anyone!"

The shaman motioned him to be quiet. "Let her speak for herself," he said.

Angela drew a deep breath and replied, "No, I didn't steal the money. I am completely innocent."

"Then why was the money in your car?" Bianca demanded.

"Because you...because someone planted it there," Angela answered.

"Like who?"

"Like you!" George retorted sharply.

Bianca was indignant, "How dare you accuse me like that?"

"Enough!" roared the shaman. "A theft has been committed, and you squabble like children? I will not tolerate it!"

Criss once again stepped forward. "Medicine Man, you told me the first day I met you that you used to judge the members of your tribe, You obviously have great powers--you found out about the theft of the donation money without anyone telling you. Can you determine who is the real thief here?"

"Uh, Criss?" Angela spoke up quietly. "Actually, I told him about it earlier."

"Well, whatever," Criss said, shrugging it off. He turned back to the shaman. "Can you tell us who is the thief?" he asked.

The Medicine Man raised his feathered staff high. He began to chant arcanely in his native tongue. His thin body swayed back and forth as he fell into a trance-like state. Angela drew closer to George, fearful of this eerie display. Darlene sought refuge beside Criss, terrified yet fascinated by the shaman's chanting and swaying. Bianca merely rolled her eyes in disgust--the whole thing was simply ridiculous to her. This was the twenty-first century, for God's sake! There was no room for all this hoodoo bull(bleep)!

The chanting continued. The Medicine Man's eyes rolled into the back of his head, leaving only two white discs in their sockets. Darlene clung to Criss; Angela buried her face into George's shoulder, repulsed by it all. Bianca, not in the least impressed, looked at her wristwatch impatiently. "Let's get this over with already," she murmured.

Now the swaying turned into convulsing, the chanting into a long screeching wail. He's possessed! Criss thought. He's possessed by some spirit or something! What's gonna happen now?

Suddenly, the feathered staff fell from his hand. The Medicine Man ceased his wailing and convulsing when it clattered to the ground. No one moved, no one spoke; only the desert breeze whistled silently through the scrub. The Medicine Man returned to his normal, taciturn self, though he seemed drained of all energy. He faced the two sisters grimly. "You!" he said, pointing at Bianca. "You are the guilty one!"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Bianca scoffed. "A little mumbo-jumbo and you think I'm guilty? Give me a break! Angela's the one who did it, everyone knows that!"

The Medicine Man pointed downward. "Look there!" he ordered.

Everyone looked down at the feathered staff. Its tip was pointed directly at Bianca's feet. "Boy!" George exclaimed. "That's creepy!"

Bianca angrily kicked the staff away. "Geez! You're all a bunch of (bleep)holes if you believe bull(bleep) like that! Me? I got more brains than all of you put together!" She turned to Criss. "Tell Sitting Bull there he knows what he can do with his staff!" she told him nastily, and headed for the cool shelter of the Land Rover.

Angela, meanwhile, had picked up the staff and carried it back to the Medicine Man. "Thank you," she whispered with her typical Mona Lisa smile. "Thank you for all your help."

The Medicine Man bowed as he took back his staff. Suddenly, another wail was heard, this time the more familiar one of a police siren. Angela spun around to see a Nevada State trooper four-by-four squad SUV come charging round the bend like the calvary to the rescue.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) can't wait to read more :)

[The unnamed one]

Oh hell-0 I can't decide I like them all it would be nice to see a " brand new " creation from that great imagination of yours how about it ? Maybe a guardian angel is sent to protect criss during a crazy new demonstration and she ends up falling in love with him and gives up her wings for a chance of true love ..... Lol I dunno whatever you decide will make us happy we love your fanfics ....

Ash

[Veritas]

Let me get this one out of the way first, okay?
*************
"Cops are here," George announced unnecessarily.

Criss looked down at Darlene, who was still clinging to him. "You can let go of me anytime now, Darlene," he said.

Darlene looked up. "Do I have to?"

Criss nodded. "Yes, you have to."

Reluctantly, Darlene relinquished her grip around Criss. The NSP truck ground to a halt a few feet away from the Rover. Both doors opened and a pair of clean, starched state troopers stepped out, the brims of their smokey-bears perfectly parallel with the ground. They marched up to the disheveled group standing before the Cave of Sorrow. Before they could inquire about their reason for being there, Bianca rushed up to them with exaggerated gratitude. "Oh! At last!" she exclaimed loudly the moment she saw them. "Thank God you're here! Oh, I can't tell you how happy I am to see you!"

"Uh, Ma'am?" one of the troopers, Gilmour by name according to the polished brass name plate he wore on his chest, spoke quietly but officiously.

But Bianca was just getting warmed up. She pointed to George and the others. "Those people chased me all the way into the desert!" she wailed. "They tried to kill me! They caused me to get a flat tire! That's my car over there--you can see for yourself! They're maniacs, every one of them!"

George rolled his eyes. "Oh, Geez," he groaned.

"I want you to arrest them immediatly!" Bianca demanded. "They're criminals! They're a menace to society!" She pointed to Darlene. "She assaulted me--physically!" she charged. "And she--" she pointed to Angela. "--stole five thousand dollars from a homeless shelter! She's the worst of the lot!"

"Bianca!" George shouted. "Will you just put a lid on it?"

He exhaled deeply and stepped up to Trooper Gilmour. "Look, officer," he said calmly, "I can explain everything."

"Sir, could you step over here, please?" Gilmour requested.

George willingly obliged, glad to get away from Bianca's bazooka of a mouth. He followed the trooper to the semi-privacy of the rear of the Land Rover, its shadow offering small relief from the desert sun. "Can you tell me what's the problem here, sir?" Gilmour asked.

He listened patiently while George explained the whole story to him: Yes, he did chase Bianca, but not to kill her (not that he wasn't tempted, he freely admitted). He just wanted her to tell him where was her sister, Angela, whom he pointed out standing in front of the Cave. Darlene was Angela's roommate; she had approached him searching for Angela when she didn't come home that afternoon. As for Criss, well, he was just along for the ride. No, Angela did not steal five thousand dollars from the homeless shelter, but there was a very good reason to believe Bianca had, and if they went to the Luxor security office, they'd have it all on tape. He left out the part about the Medicine Man, though; the last thing he wanted was to undergo a breathalyzer test. "I know it sounds kinda crazy," George said, rubbing his scorched neck, "but it's the truth, so help me, God."

Trooper Gilmour remained unmoved. "Is this your vehicle, sir?" he asked routinely.

George nodded.

"I'd like to see your license and registration, please."

The items requested were quickly produced. Gilmour took them to the squad SUV to run a check on them. Meanwhile, his partner, Trooper Chauncy, a taller version of Gilmour, was questioning Criss and Darlene while at the same time keeping an irate Bianca at bay. Angela kept quiet, concealing herself behind a large rock to avoid her sister's wrath. For Chauncy, it was an exercise in frustration just to perform the routine investigation.

"You the owner of this vehicle, sir?" he asked Criss.

"Uh, no," Criss replied. "It's my cousin's. He's right over there." He pointed toward the Rover's rear where George and Trooper Gilmour were standing.

"Tell him how he almost ran me down while you're at it!" Bianca spat angrily.

Criss turned to Bianca. "Put a lid on it, willya, Bianca?" he snapped.

Chauncy turned to Bianca. "Ma'am," he said, his patience wearing thin, "let me handle this, okay? I'm trying to conduct an investigation here."

"You don't need to 'conduct' anything!" Bianca retorted. "I've told you everything you need to know already! They chased me here into the middle of nowhere and caused me to have a flat! You're supposed to serve and protect: why don't you just cuff them already and get me a tow truck so I can get out of this Godforsaken hellhole?"

The trooper turned to Darlene. "What's your involvement in this?" he asked.

"Well, I'm just Angela's roommate," Darlene replied simply. "I got worried when she didn't come home at her usual time, so I called George to see if she was there. Then I went looking for her at the Luxor--that's where George works, you know, he works for Criss here. Anyway, I found George, and he told me not to worry about it, and then all of a sudden Bianca the (bleep) shows up and starts accusing us of having an affair and being part of the theft of the donation money for the shelter. We got into an argument, she left, and we followed her because we know she's blackmailing Angela for some reason. We trailed her down the Boulevard, then she took off toward the highway. We chased her here. We weren't going to kill her. We just wanted some answers about Angela."

"Who's Angela?"

Angela stepped forward timidly. "I'm Angela Honi," she said hoarsely. "I-I-I can explain everything."

"You'd better," Bianca said threateningly.

Trembling from fear and dehydration, Angela began to tell her side of the story. "Well, it all started with the charity auction last Friday," she began. "It went really well; we raised over two million dollars, thanks to Criss here. He donated some of his cars and motorcycles to be auctioned--

"Get to the point!" Bianca demanded irritably.

Angela swallowed hard. "Anyway, I was with George that evening, and so was Darlene. And Pastor Bob, of course, since he was in charge of the whole thing. Well, anyway, we had this large donation box in the corner for people to drop in money for the shelter."

"Which you stole!" Bianca accused her.

"I...no!" Angela protested. "I didn't steal it! I wasn't even near that box! I was up front with George all evening!"

Bianca threw up her hands in dismay. "Lies, lies, lies! You remember what Mother said about lying? Lies make the angels cry! All of Heaven itself must be weeping buckets over this!" She sidled up to Angela, making her flinch. "Now why don't you be a big brave girl and tell the nice officer the truth?" she said patronizingly. "That you were the one who stole the money. Things will go much easier for you if you do."

"The angels won't be the only ones who'll be crying if you don't shut up!" Darlene retorted.

"But I didn't steal it!" Angela wailed. "You did! You stole it and you know it! You were trying to blackmail me out of my trust fund!"

"How dare you...!"

Angela's eyes found enough moisture to produce tears. "Ever since we were little you tried to take away anything and everything that mattered to me! You lied, cheated, stole and manipulated everyone around you! You never cared about anyone but yourself!"

"Now, Angela--"

"Whenever I got any money, you bullied me out of it! When I forgot to do your errands, like picking up your drycleaning, you struck me across the face! Now, when I'm about to receive my trust fund, the only guarantee of a better life, you went after that, too!"

"And the balcony," Darlene added, "don't forget the balcony."

"Oh, yeah, that's right," Angela said, suddenly remembering. "When I won that million-dollar jackpot in the casino, you threw me over the balcony, even when I was willing to split it with you! But you wanted the whole thing for yourself! I don't know what I did to deserve someone like you for a sister!"

Something clicked in Chauncy's mind. He turned to Bianca. "Ma'am?" he said, "I'd like to see your driver's license, if you don't mind."

Bianca was startled by such a strange request. "Whatever for?" she demanded. "I'm not the offender here--they are!"

"We just need to verify your ID so we can call for assistance, that's all," the trooper assured her. "Routine procedure."

It sounded plausible enough. For once, Bianca obliged without complaint. "Here," she said, handing him her license, "and tell them to please hurry. I'm roasting out here!"

Chauncy took the license and went to the SUV, where Gilmour was running a check on George. He leaned in through the window. "What've you got?" he asked.

"Strumpolis, George," his partner read from the screen mounted next to the dash. "Born in New York, lives in Vegas, no prior arrests, no outstanding warrants--aside from a battery charge last year which was settled in court, guy's clean as a whistle."

Chauncy handed him Bianca's license. "Run this through, willya?"

George's record was closed and Bianca's license was entered into the system. "Honi, Bianca," Gilmour read. "Lives in Vegas, no prior arrests--wait, hold the phone."

"What'chu got?"

Gilmour pointed to the screen. "She's got a warrant out for her arrest," he explained.

"Theft, right?"

"And violation of bond."

"How much was it she stole?"

"Five grand. Seems she boosted it from a donation box at the Luxor hotel during some charity event last Friday night. Eye in the sky got it on tape. The techies there ID'd her as the same woman who tossed her sister over a balcony--in the same hotel, if you can believe it. That's why she's out on bail. When she emptied the donation box, she violated her bond. LVMPD are looking for her right now."

Chauncy smiled for the first time that afternoon. "Well, looks like we just found her."

Gilmour nodded. "Let's move," he said.

He got out of the SUV and followed Chauncy back to the Cave of Sorrow. Bianca greeted them with her most charming smile. "So," she said brightly, "when is the tow truck going to be here?"

Both troopers wore an expression that read like a death sentence. "Bianca Honi," Gilmour said, "we have a warrant for your arrest."

The charming smile vanished. "Arrest?!"Bianca shrieked. "On what grounds?"

"Larceny and violation of your bail bond," Chauncy informed her. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs. "Place your hands behind your back, please," he ordered.

"I most certainly will not!" Bianca told him indignantly. "This is outrageous! I want my lawyer!"

Chauncy slapped the cuffs on her wrists with the skill and dexterity born of long practice. "You have the right to remain silenet," he intoned as he did so. "If you choose to waiver that right, everything you say will be held against you in a court of law."

"Just get me my lawyer, Officer Friday!" Bianca growled.

"You have the right to an attorney," Chauncy went on. "If you wish an attorney but cannot afford it, one will be provided for you at no charge. Understood?"

"I get it, I get it!" Bianca said impatiently. "But you're gonna be sorry for this!"

The two troopers ignored the threat and hauled her to the SUV. "I'll sue you for wrongful arrest!" she screamed. "I'll sue every one of you for every dime you've got! And that goes for you, too, Criss Angel! Just wait until I get out! I am so gonna sue your ass for this!"

Criss made a yakity-yak hand gesture and headed for the Rover. Trooper Gilmour shoved a protesting Bianca into the SUV and slammed the door behind her. Trooper Chauncy returned to George, Darlene, Criss and Angela. "We saw two vehicles by the side of the road," he said. "You know who the owners are?"

"The silver one's Bianca's," Angela replied. "The little brown one is mine. It overheated, so it won't run."

Chauncy nodded. "We'll send for a couple of wreckers to take care of 'em," he said. "If one of them is Bianca's, it's gonna end up in the impound lot. You got insurance, Triple-A?"

Angela shook her head. "No, just basic coverage," she answered sadly. "I can't afford anything more, not on a teacher's salary. How much is it going to cost to tow it?" she asked fearfully.

"Oh, I dunno," Chauncy replied, shrugging. "Forty-five bucks, maybe."

George came to the rescue. "I'll cover the charges, Officer," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just tell 'em to take it in and fix it."

Criss looked over at the battered old Chevette. "I'd rather take it out and shoot it," he muttered.

There were more questions, more information requested and given; the tow trucks were summoned; George got his license back from Trooper Gilmour who thanked him for his co-operation, and soon the bronze and white four-by-four was on its way to the lockup. After a quick trip to the Chevette to retrieve Angela's school satchel, plus the white turban and dark glasses for evidence, the foursome were on their way back to the Luxor. The sun was setting when they left, casting gorgeous hues of orange, yellow and red across the horizon.

George could hear his stomach growling like an angry bear; he had completely forgotten about lunch when he had met up with Darlene and had chased after Bianca, and now he was famished. "Anyone for drive-through?" he offered as he drove his Rover back onto the highway. "I'm starved!"

The vote was unanimously affirmative, and George drove until he came to the very first fast-food joint he saw, one of the millions of McDonald's franchises scattered throughout the country. Screw the training, he was going for a Big Mac with large fries and the biggest Coke they got! Criss ordered the same, Darlene went for a double cheeseburger combo meal, happy to be having dinner with her idol, even if it was Mickey D's. Angela settled for a single hamburger and a small orange drink. George stared into her thin, bony face. "Good God!" he exclaimed, "you eat like a bird! You got to put some meat on those bones, girl! You look like death warmed over!"

Angela blushed. Darlene leaned over to her. "Be grateful, honey," she said. "A lot of guys dump their girlfriends when they put on weight."

George pulled up to the pick-up window to fetch their order. Their meals were served in plain paper bags, part of the McDonald's corporation's effort to save the environment. Their server, a sharp-eyed girl of about twenty, spotted Criss in the back seat and waved eagerly to him. Criss waved back, but before he could give out any autographs, George sped off. Darlene felt a tiny twinge of jealousy at first, but brushed it off as the price of celebrity. Everyone loved Criss, she reminded herself, so of couse he was going to attract attention wherever he went. Just not when I'm around, she added. Then he's all mine!

The bags were juggled around so that everybody got what they ordered. George unwrapped his Big Mac with one hand while he drove with the other, a skill he developed working for Criss. He did surrender half of his fries to Angela, however. "Eat up," he told her, "you need the carbs."

Darlene nibbled daintily on her double cheeseburger. God forbid Criss should think she was a pig, she thought. "Wonder what Bianca's having for dinner tonight?" she wondered aloud.

Criss swallowed his giant burger. "Probably a bologna sandwich," he laughed.

George laughed, too. "On stale bread," he added. "But whatever she gets, she deserves."

"You think they'll let her out on bond again?" Angela asked in her typical timid manner.

George shook his head. "Doubt it," he replied. "After what she pulled last time, they ain't gonna let her out until her trial. They'll keep her in the county jail until then."

"Actually, they'll keep her in the women's wing of the Clark County Detention Center," Darlene informed him. "Then they'll ship her off to Almagordo if she's convicted."

"How do you know all that?" Criss asked.

"I work with a lot of former female convicts at the shelter," Darlene explained. "I got to know the system pretty well there."

"Well, there's no 'if' about it," George spoke up after draining the last of his Coke. "She's goin' so far up the river she ain't never comin' down again! I'm gonna see to that!"

"Well, hey, they got it all on tape, anyway," Criss pointed out. "It's an open-and-shut case. She'd be better off pleading guilty if she wants to see daylight again."

George snorted. "Yeah, right," he scoffed, "like that's gonna happen."

Angela turned back to Darlene. "What's this place like, anyway?" she asked. "Almagordo, I mean."

Darlene chewed thoughtfully on a handful of fries. "Well, it's not the Luxor, I can tell you that," she replied. "No malls, no day spas, no salons, no mani-pedis--just a shower once a week. The food, I heard, is, well, tolerable at best." She turned to Criss. "Mostly bologna sandwiches, I've heard," she added facetiously.

Criss shrugged. Darlene went on. "They do their own cleaning and maintenance of the grounds, and they have classes for GEDs. They're up at six AM and lights out at nine-thirty. No TV, no radios allowed, but the library bookmobile comes in once a month. Socializing is restricted--very restricted. You're allowed to visit, but only once a month unless you're a lawyer, and then only for ten minutes at a time. It's not a supermax, but it's pretty grim."

"She won't last a day," George commented, "pampered little (bleep) like that."

Angela flushed an even deeper red. She knew that George didn't like Bianca, but to call her that was almost offensive. Bianca may have had her faults, but she was still her sister. "I just wish there was something I could do," she murmured softly.

George laid a hand on her thigh. "There ain't nothin' you can do except tell the court what happened at the trial," he said. "It ain't your fault she's in jail again. She bought this all on herself, so just put it behind you and get on with your life."

"Amen to that," Criss chimed in. "Now, let's go home. I got a show to do."

"Can I come?" Darlene pleaded, batting her puppy-dog eyes prettily. "Pleeeeeeeze?"

"You got a ticket?" Criss asked.

"Well, no, not really."

"Well, that's too bad, because it's a sold-out show." He patted her hand. "Sorry."

Darlene leaned back, pouting. "But at least we had dinner together," Criss said to smooth things over.

She looked at him and saw him smiling at her, a bit mischeviously as far as she was concerned. She adored this man sitting beside her, but now she realized he could be so exasperating at times. Her irritation melted like butter when he gave her a kiss on the forehead. "Feel better now?" he asked.

"I know what'll make me feel really better," she said.

"What?" Criss asked innocently.

Darlene flung her arms around him and tackled him down onto the back seat. "This!" she cried, and planted a huge wet one right on his lips while the Rover rolled on peacefully toward the lights of the Vegas Strip.

[RACHEL02189]

Darlene flung her arms around him and tackled him down onto the back seat. "This!" she cried, and planted a huge wet one right on his lips


EVERY LOYAL'S DREAM COME TRUE :o

[Smurf]

Darlene flung her arms around him and tackled him down onto the back seat. "This!" she cried, and planted a huge wet one right on his lips


EVERY LOYAL'S DREAM COME TRUE :o

Yep , that is so true :) great chapter :) can't wait to read more :)

[The unnamed one]

Nice update veritas .... I have a few poems on here it's in a thread titled " a poem I wrote in 07" ..... I haven't gotten much in the way of reviews on it yet..... I have another one I have written but I am unable to post it yet. I injured my shoulder and my dr. Is worried that I may have damaged my rotator cuff so I am stuck in a sling for a while but I am hoping I can convince someone to type it up for me ..... Can't wait to read more I really love this story
Ash

[Veritas]

Hope your shoulder gets better, Ash.
****************


The excitement of the past weekend dissipated into the clear, quiet dawn of Monday morning. Commuters followed their customary routes to their destinations, be it work, school or home after the night shift. The morning papers, delivered in the predawn hours to homes and newsstands all over the metropolitan area, featured a page-four article about the future plans of Sanctuary Shelter for the homeless: a larger facility somewhere farther north, improved welfare assistance, an alliance with the state unemployment agency to implement a job search program, free child care, free drug and alcohol rehabilitation, better food, better education, better help in general for the poor.

Spearheading the project was Pastor Robert Beaman, director of Sanctuary, and Father Stefan Mykolos of the Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church, assistant director, in co-operation with a committee of other local clergy. Thanks to master illusionist Criss Angel, who had donated some of his cars and motorcycles for auction the previous Friday night, and to volunteer Angela Honi, who donated her seven hundred and fifty thousand Million Dollar Slots winnings, two million, two hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars had been raised. Pastor Beaman expressed his deepest gratitude to both Angela and the famous magician for all of their help, not only in raising the money needed for expansion and improvement, but also for raising consciousness for the plight of the city's indigent citizens. No mention of the donation box theft was made in the article.




Chief of Security Lucas Macaffey signed the last page of the final update regarding the donation box theft, then, with a satisfied sigh, tossed it into the Out box on his desk. It rankled him that such a thing happened on his watch, but he didn't fault the men on duty that night; they had their hands full with crowd control, which they performed with pure professionalism. Nor did he blame the wait staff or any other employee present who could have witnessed it--they were too busy with their own jobs, and the box was on the other side of the room. No, part of the blame lay with the donation box's lack of any type of lock. If it had been better secured, none of this would have happened. The other part lay with where the box was placed in the ballroom; it should have been in a better location, directly within camera range. Macaffey made a mental note to be sure that all donation or gift boxes containing cash be clearly visible to the eyes in the sky. Anyone caught pilfering would be nailed and jailed in five minutes or less.

At least they caught the woman in the white turban and glasses who stole the money--the same woman who tried to bump off her own sister by tossing her over the twelfth-floor balcony of this very hotel! They should have never let her out on bail, he told himself again and again. Well, one good thing came out of all this: the hotel's security monitors were switching to color now. That baby-blue gown she wore came up white on a black-and-white screen.




A black Lincoln towncar pulled up to the main entrance of the Luxor Hotel. A parking attendant dashed to the driver's side and opened the door for Father Stefan Mykolos. The priest handed the attendant his keys and a fifty-dollar tip, then entered the hotel. Inside the lobby, he found Dimitra Sarantakos, Criss Angel's mother, waiting for him with a warm smile on her gentle, withered face. "Kalispera, Paternas," she greeted him in Greek.

"Kalispera, Dimitra," Father Stefan responded in kind as he embraced her. "How are you this morning?"

"I'm fine, Father, thank you," Dimitra replied.

They strolled casually across the lobby. "So," Father said, "has Christopher kept his promise about not doing any more dangerous stunts?"

"He has so far, Father," Dimitra answered him. "But I get the feeling he's going to...relapse somehow, go back on his word and do something so dangerous he'll kill himself."

Father smiled assuringly. "Well, if he does, just call me," he said. "I'll straighten him out." He looked around the lobby. "Say, where is he, anyway?"

"In the production office," Dimitra said, "working on his show. They do a lot of editing of the tapes they shoot, you know."

Father shrugged. "Well, I won't disturb him, then. I just wanted to see how you were doing, and to see how Christopher was handling the loss of some of his fleet."

"You mean his cars and motorcycles?"

"Mm-hm."

"He's been taking it very well, Father, much better than I thought he would. I don't think he even misses them."

"Well, that's great! He doesn't need all those fancy cars and bikes. He'd do well to get rid of them all. Why should he burden himself with material goods when there's so much need in the world?"

"You've never seen his new home, have you?"

Father Stefan stopped in his tracks. "New home?"

"Yes, he bought himself a new home in the desert--cost him twenty-five million dollars."

Father was aghast. "Twenty-five million dollars?! For a house?"

"Well, he wanted his privacy," Dimitra said helplessly, "and it's really nice, really it is. It's got a nice, large pool, gardens, a big garage for his cars--"

"Twenty-five million dollars!" Father repeated. "That's outrageous!"

Dimitra laid a comforting hand on the shaken cleric. "Father," she said quietly, "this is Las Vegas."




The dry, hot days of June deepened into the even drier, hotter days of July. Metropolitan Las Vegas withered under triple-digit temperatures. Its citizens sought refuge from the heat in the air-conditioned comfort of the hotels, casinos and clubs, while swimming pools became the places to socialize during the day. In the cool of the night, however, the streets came alive with the sights and sounds that made Sin City famous, with its lavish display of neon and electronic wizardry, as entertaining outside as it was in its theaters.

Fourth of July weekend bought the customary fireworks display, of course, but more spectacular in keeping with Vegas' reputation of being the Entertainment Capital of the World. The rockets' red glare competed with the miles of flickering lights down Fremont Street and the fabled Strip, booming and thundering over the domed screen which flashed images of the Stars and Stripes to the accompaniment of Sousa marches.

Meanwhile, in the quiet surroundings of his home near the Grand Canyon, Criss Angel was entertaining his family and friends with a holiday barbecue. Among his guests were his cousin, George, and Angela Honi. Angela was overwhelmed to the point of intimidation by the large castle-like mansion Criss called Serenity: the elegant furnishings, the sophisticated electronic security system, the large pool with the crystal ball in the middle of it, the garage big enough to hold fourteen cars, the spectacular views from the balconies, and above all the size and spaciousness of it all. The price had bowled her over, too--twenty-five million dollars! That was more than Applewood Elementary's entire budget! A part of her began to resent such extravagance, what with all the homeless people she dealt with every week at the shelter, but she prudently kept her opinions to herself; she did not want to offend George's cousin who had been so nice to invite her here for the holiday weekend. Darlene had yearned to come along, but she was stuck with her own family's holiday plans; her sister's bridal shower was also that weekend, and, being the maid of honor, was forced to attend. Angela promised to bring pictures home, on the promise that Darlene would not download them onto the fanboards out of respect for Criss' privacy. Darlene accepted this consolation prize with good grace, but she still seethed inside for having to miss what she called the party of the millenium.

It was a wonderful party. Angela got to meet Robin "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" Leach, whom she found to be a very nice gentleman, and the Amazing Johnathan, who, to put it politely, wasn't. Indeed, she found his brand of humor and magic rather vulgar, though he did show George's Aunt Dimitra some courtesy at least. AJ, as he was known, had some sort of professional rivalry with Criss--they were constantly trying to one-up each other by playing pranks. It was a wonder they found time to eat. Still, it was entertaining in a way, though she wished AJ would clean up his act a little.

Angela also met Criss' current girfriend, Sandra, a petite brunette twentysomething who reminded her of Darlene, though not as assertive. Though she was friendly enough, Angela could not shake the feeling that Sandra looked down at her because of her shoddy wardrobe. During the course of the afternoon, she overheard her commenting to Criss about her faded flowered shift and how outdated it made her look. "She won all that money," she heard her say, "why didn't she go out and buy herself some new clothes?"

"Because she chose to donate it all to the homeless," Criss had replied simply. "It's just the way she is."

"Well, still...," Sandra had fretted.

"Well, still, she's George's girlfriend," Criss had reminded her, "and if you don't like her clothes, go out and buy her some new ones."

Sandra fell silent. Angela turned away, fighting back tears. She wanted to be friends with Sandra, really she did, but not if she was going to make fun of her clothes. Was it her fault she had to resort to secondhand stores on a teacher's salary? She wanted to tell Sandra the truth, but as was her habit, she kept it to herself.

When it came time to change into swimwear, she was shocked at Sandra's string bikini, which to Angela seemed more string than bikini: the top, if it could be called that, just barely covered her nipples, and the bottom was no bottom at all, just a patch over the front leaving her behind completely exposed. Angela's own bathing suit was prudish by comparison, just a plain old one-piece Jantzen she had picked up in a thrift store ten years ago. Sandra looked it over with ill-concealed disdain, embarrassing her to the core, but Aunt Dimitra seemed to approve. Looking on from one of the padded lounge chairs, petting Hammie, Criss' cat, the old woman smiled at her, lifting her spirits a little. If George's aunt was such a sweet lady, she wondered what his mother was like. She hoped she was as sweet as his aunt. She had to be. God forbid if she wasn't.

Angela hadn't been swimming since college, but she managed to keep her head above water. George, however, swam laps like an Olympic gold-medalist, hardly ever coming up for air. She attributed it to his boxing training, his desire to keep fit for the ring. Criss had told her he had a wicked right hook, and had once sent the infamous Vegas Flasher down for the count when he had exposed his ugly naked self in front of Aunt Dimitra. Angela had heard about the perverted exhibitionist who had terrorized little old ladies in the Metropolitan area, but she was shocked all the same, yet at the same time she felt proud of George coming to his aunt's rescue like that. It only proved what a wonderful man with whom she had fallen in love.

In time, Angela managed to disregard Sandra's opinions about her clothes and enjoy herself for the second time in her life. This time, there was no Bianca to try to ruin it for her, so she was free to laugh and play with the other guests. The food was delicious, prepared by Criss' own private chef. She ate much more than she used to, something that pleased George, who insisted she "put some meat on those bones". With all the delicious dishes set out before her, Angela was all too happy to oblige.

As the day wore on, George began to distance himself from the rest of the party. He wandered around the pool area, lost in thought. Angela tried to get him to return to the party, but all he did was give her a hug and tell her he was fine, then go on with his brooding. Worried, but not wanting to start an arguement, Angela left him to himself. He'd come around in time, she told herself. He was probably tired from the party or something. He'd come back sooner or later.

George did come back to the party, sooner than anyone realized. He had been summoned by JD, Criss' eldest brother, to return to the house immediatly. The cousins dashed back to the pool area, into the house and into the spacious living room where Dimitra lay on the sofa, unconscious, her sons by her side. Angela, covered in a thick terry-cloth robe, stood by anxiously. The minute she saw George, she threw herself into his arms. George disengaged her briefly. "What happened?" he demanded.

"We don't know," Angela replied, shaking. "She just...collapsed. I don't know if it was a heart attack or a stroke or something, but we found her lying on the floor in the house. We bought her here and put her on the sofa."

"Did you call nine-one-one?"

"I think you cousin did."

George gathered her into his arms. "Okay, good," was all he could say.

Angela burst into tears. "Oh, God," she sniffled, "I hope she's all right. Please, God, let her be all right. She's such a sweet lady; I couldn't bear to lose her like this!"

George couldn't help but smile a little when she said that.




Dimitra's malady proved to be minor, thankfully. A few days' rest at Serenity, and she was back on her feet again. Angela sent her some flowers and a get-well card, raising her stature in Dimitra's eyes. Whenever Angela had a spare moment with George, rarer now since MindFreak 6 was going on the air, the first thing she asked him was, "How's your aunt doing?", to which George simply replied, "She's doing much better, thanks. She'll appreciate your asking about her."

July seared into August. George was busy due to the production schedule, and she herself had to prepare for the new school year, which left both of them with almost no time for dating. They had gone so long without seeing each other, Darlene began to ask Angela if she had broken up with him. Angela had to keep assuring her that no, they were still together, though she began to wonder about it herself. By Labor Day weekend, just as she was beginning to doubt she would ever see George again, he called her up and asked her out to dinner. Happy and relieved, Angela accepted and decided to splurge on a new outfit--new as in new, not from a thrift shop.

Once at the restaraunt, the two caught up with each other's lives. George told Angela about Criss' new series of stunts which astounded her. Jumping from the Grand Canyon and into a cage suspended by a helicopter? Escaping from a cage submerged in water? Walking up the side of the Luxor--outside? "How does he think up these things?" she wanted to know.

George shrugged. "Beats me," he replied. "He's an adrenalin addict, that's all I can say. Hell, we had to hold an intervention once just to talk him out of blowing himself up in a mineshaft! We had a priest there and everything."

"Did it work?" Angela asked.

"Oh, yeah," George replied, nodding. "He scrapped it, but now he's gone and thought up all these other stunts he wants to do. He won't be happy unless he kills himself." He smiled and patted Angela's hand. "How about you?" he asked. "What's going on at your end?"

Angela flashed her Mona Lisa smile and told George about the new school year coming up. If the school board liked her work, she would receive a raise when she renewed her contract next year, she said. The smile faded when she told him about Bianca's trial next January. She was still in the detention center (Angela hated the term "lockup"), under watch as a flight risk. She had gone to visit her last week, and found the once proud Bianca a wreck: her hair, always so carefully coiffed, hung in disarray like a dried out mop. Her cosmetic-deprived face looked pale and haggard. Even her perfectly sculpted nails were chipped and broken. Her bitterness toward her sister and George, however, had not abated one bit. "She still blames you for her being there," she told him.

George merely shrugged. "Tough (bleep)," he murmured drily.

Eager to change the subject, Angela babbled on about Darlene's sister's wedding. "Oh, it was so lovely," she gushed. "Darlene showed me all the photos. All the bridesmaids wore straight black gowns with white bolero jackets. Darlene was maid of honor, of course. And the cake was tremendous--three feet high! It was held at a country club somewhere in California. Darlene said her dad and the groom's father played nine holes during the reception! Needless to say, her mother wasn't too happy about that. Still, it was a nice wedding, even if I wasn't there."

"Would you like to have a nice wedding someday?" George asked casually.

Angela responded with a little giggle. "Me? Well, I never really thought about it. I always thought I'd spend the rest of my life as an old maid schoolteacher. I mean, I'd never even had a date in school, let alone a serious relationship." After a thoughtful pause, she asked, "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," George replied airily, "just asking, that's all."

Angela grew suspicious. "George, what are you up to?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Oh, well, I thought maybe you should start thinking about it, that's all."

"George? Are you...?"

George reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tiny black velvet jeweler's box. "I know we haven't seen each other a lot lately," he hedged, "but I've thought about you a lot, and I've decided you're the girl I want to spend the rest of my life with." He opened the box, revealing a delicate diamond ring that made Angela's eyes pop out of their sockets. "Whaddya say, Angie? Will you marry me?"

It took a gargantuan effort on Angela's part just to catch her breath to speak. "Yes!" she whispered hoarsely, tears spilling from her eyes. "Oh, God, George, yes!!"

[Smurf]

Say Yes Angela :) can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

Bianca is going to have a fit when she finds out

[Veritas]

"He did?!" Darlene squealed.

Angela showed her roommate the ring as proof of her engagement. "There it is," she said happily.

Darlene shrieked happily and flung herself onto Angela as enthusiastically as she did Criss in the Rover that day at the Cave of Sorrow. "Ohgodohgodohgod! I can't believe this! You're actually marrying Criss Angel's cousin! My God! I feel like I'm gonna be related somehow!"

"Uh, not quite," Angela said, struggling to free herself from her overeager roommate. "But I would like for you to be my maid of honor, if it's all right with you."

Darlene was astonished at such a request. "If it's all right? If it's all right?! Of course it's all right! I'd love to be the maid of honor!" An even happier thought crossed her mind. "Do you think Criss will be the best man? I hope so! Then I can walk down the aisle with him! Oh, God, this is gonna be so cool!"

"Well, just hold your horses, there, Darlene," Angela said calmly. "We still have to tell the immediate family, you know; I've yet to meet his mother. George's family is so big, you know--this is going to take some time."

"Angie," Darlene said, "you're marrying Criss Angel's cousin, for God's sake! Word's going to get out faster than you think!"



Darlene proved to be right about one thing: the happy news of George and Angela's engagement spread like a brush fire over the course of the Labor Day weekend. In spite of Criss' PR agents efforts to keep a lid on it, the story leaked to the fanboards. Thousands of Loyals sent their best wishes to the couple via the Internet, their posts loaded with happy-face emoticons and demands for more information about the wedding and for photos of the bride- and groom-to-be. By mid-September, Angela was officially adopted into the MindFreak family.

Meanwhile, George had dutifully informed his mother, Molina, before telling anyone else. In fact, he didn't have to tell anyone else; Mother Strumpolis called everyone in her personal phone book from her closest relatives to the parish priest and relayed the good news to them in both English and Greek. Meanwhile, she kept pestering her son just when the wedding would take place so she could make travel plans for herself and the family.

"Uh, wouldn't you like to meet Angela first." George suggested, "then worry about the wedding?"

This minor detail had completly slipped Molina's mind. Of course she would be delighted to meet Angela, she said. She was sure she was a very nice girl, and would have no trouble getting along with her, but like every other future mother-in-law, she peppered her son about the bride-to-be: Could she cook? Yes, reasonably well. Was she a good housekeeper? Oh, yes, very clean and tidy. Was she a Christian? Definatly; in fact she worked in a Christian-run homeless shelter to aid the poor. Did she have a good reputation, or was she one of those women she had heard about in Las Vegas? Not to worry, there wasn't a single blot on her character. Most importantly of all, was she Greek? Well, no, not really, but George assured his mother she'd like her all the same.

This last issue deeply concerned Molina. "Does she agree to raise your children in the Church?" she pressed.

George had not discussed this with Angela yet, but he knew this was a serious matter as far as his mother was concerned. "I promise you our kids will turn out just fine," he replied evasively. "Just come on over to Vegas and we'll talk it over furthur. You'll love Angie, I know you will. She's a beautiful lady and she'll fit in just fine, I promise."

"Well, if she is everything you say she is," Molina said, "then I give you my blessing--as soon as I meet her, of course."



After the Labor Day break, when George returned to the production office after his morning boxing training session at Linehan's Gym, he was greeted with cheers and congratulations from the entire MindFreak crew. Surprised at first, then embarrassed, George accepted their accolades with modest grace, shaking hands, giving high-fives and shoulder hugs, all the while flushing beet red, something everybody pointed out and had to record on videotape for posterity.

"Soooooo," Criss drawled, "when's the big day?"

"We haven't picked one out yet," George told him. "I mean, hell, I just proposed to her over the weekend! Give us some time, willya?"

"Oh, sure, sure," Criss demurred. "No sense rushing into these things. Take your time. Hey, it's your day. Make the most of it."

"Thanks."

"We just want to know when to plan the bachelor party, that's all," Criss added casually.

George felt his stomach plummet to groin level. "Bachelor party?"

Criss laughed at his cousin's discomfort. "Well, yeah, we can't let you get married without celebrating your last night of freedom!" he said.

The MindFreak crew seconded with war whoops and throaty howls. Poor George merely stood there, visions of his cousins and fellow crew members debauching themselves with copious amounts of beer and the pseudo-amorous attentions of scantily-clad pole-dancing strippers played before his mind's eye. "Uh, guys," he spoke nervously, "I-I think I'd rather not."

Everyone groaned loudly in disappointment. "Aw, c'mon, George!" Criss cajoled him. "Don't wimp out on us! You deserve it!"

"I just don't want anyone ending up getting hurt, that's all," George insisted. "Or put in jail for a DUI. Especially me."

Criss put his arm around George's shoulder. "Look, we promise to bring you back in one piece, okay?" he assured him. "Don't worry about a thing; we got it all under control."

"Famous last words," George muttered with a sinking heart. "I'll be lucky to make it through in one piece."




If the prospect of a raucous bachelor party dampened George's spirits, the visit to the Clark County Detention Center, Women's Wing, soaked them to the core.

He was all too willing to let Bianca rot alone in the lockup, but Angela wanted to see her sister, her only living relative, and announce her engagement in person. Besides, there was a more practical reason she wanted to visit Bianca: her Chevette had been pronounced DOA by the garage where it had been towed that day at the Cave of Sorrow; the mechanic had no parts for such an outdated car as that, he said, so she would be better off selling it as scrap. Angela still needed a car for work, and she hated having to rely on Darlene and George for transportation, but she couldn't afford to buy a new one, not on a teacher's salary. George, however, hit upon a brilliant plan: since Bianca's car had been impounded during her arrest, why not just use it? All she had to do was pay the three-hundred-dollar impound fee, get the tire fixed, and it would be hers, he told her. "Hey, it's not like she's gonna be using it," he had reminded her. "Not when she's in jail, anyway."

Angela had been hesitant at first, but since the fee was far less than the down payment on a new car, she agreed. The Chevette was scrapped, and the silver Lexus rolled out of the impound lot on its new tires. As the summer wore on, however, the matter of ownership worried her. Legally, the car still belonged to Bianca, though she was in custody. If she got pulled over, she would have a lot of explaining to do. Could she arrange a transfer of title? If she could, then the car would be legally hers. Knowing Bianca, however, she knew her sister would never consent to such a thing. What was hers was hers, period.

So, Angela put off the transfer until the day she got engaged. She put the title in her purse and rode with a sullen George to the CCDC one sunny Saturday morning. Neither spoke as they traveled, both dreading the meeting with Bianca for reasons of their own.

After the standard search for contraband, George and Angela stepped into a small meeting room divided in half by a heavy glass partition, further divided into booths for privacy. They found an extra-wide booth with two chairs designed for family visits. They sat down and waited for the guard on the other side of the partition to bring in Bianca. She arrived in due time, dressed in garish prison orange, her hair pulled back into an unflattering ponytail. Neither George nor Angela recognized her at first, until she spoke. Her first words were characterisically cutting and sarcastic. "So, what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" she sneered.

"Nice to see you, too, Bianca," George retorted sarcastically.

"George, please," Angela pleaded, "be nice."

George grimaced, knowing that being nice to Bianca was a waste of time. "Well, first of all," Angela began, "George and I are getting married." She held up her finger bearing the engagement ring. "See? It's official."

Bianca grunted in reply, totally unimpressed. "Well, try to control your enthusiasm," George sniffed.

"Is that all?" Bianca said drily.

Angela drew a deep breath. "Well, there is the matter of your car," she began hesitantly.

"What about my car?"

"Well, we got it out of the impound lot where it's been since you were, well, you know..." She pulled out the title from her purse. "And since you won't be using it for a while, I thought you'd like to transfer the title to me. I'll take really good care of it, I promise."

Bianca did a slow burn behind the partition. "Give you my car?" she echoed, appalled at such a thing. "I've been here for two months and already you're laying claim to my property? You have some nerve, Angela! That car is mine, you hear me? It will always be mine, and don't you forget it! No way! I'm not transferring!"

George spoke up. "Yeah? What good is a car gonna do you locked up in jail, huh? What're you gonna do, drive it around the prison? And how are you gonna pay for gas? The insurance? Prison pays peon wages, I heard." He snatched the title from Angela's hand. "Do yourself a favor and just sign the (bleeping) title, willya?"

Bianca stared defiantly at George. "First of all, I am not going to prison! No jury in the world is going to convict me--I am completely innocent! This is just a temporary setback, that's all. When I'm acquitted, I am going to sue you, your cousin the famous magician, and the city for all that I've suffered here! I'll be a rich woman, and the two of you will be living in that homeless shelter! By the time I'm through with you, you won't even be able to afford a marriage license, let alone a wedding! Time's on my side, Georgie! By January of next year, I'll be a free woman!"




"The jury finds the defendant guilty of all charges."

Bianca's jaw dropped. How could they? How could they find her guilty when she had done nothing wrong? Enraged, she turned on her court-appointed lawyer. "You said you'd get me off!" she hissed. "You promised to keep me out of prison!"

The attorney, a slim man with a receding hairline, could only shrug in reply. "Sorry, Bianca," he said helplessly, "but the videotapes clinched it for the prosecution. It was a slam-dunk as far as they're concerned."

"Does the defendant have anything to say before sentencing?" the judge intoned.

Bianca could only gape meaninglessly. "But-but...I'm innocent!" she feebly protested. "It was an accident! Someone else stole that money! Your honor, I'm being set up!"

The judge remained unmoved. "Ms. Honi, you have been tried and convicted by a jury of your peers on charges of attempted murder, larceny and violation of bond. The evidence before the court is solid proof of your guilt; there was no set-up of any kind, except by your own greed. From the testimony of the witnesses, you have no consideration for anyone except yourself. It is the decision of this court that you serve a minimum of ten years, but not exceeding fifteen, in the Alamagordo Correctional Facility for Women, effective at noon tomorrow."

A final bang of the gavel, and the one-day trial was over. Bianca was led away by two uniformed officers, protesting all the way. George swept Angela up from her chair, planted a big smooch on her face, and smiled. "C'mon," he said, "we gotta get to the marriage licensing office before it closes."




A year had passed since Criss' first encounter with the Medicine Man at the Cave of Sorrow. It was a year of changed perspectives and making plans for the future, not just for himself but for those around him. His cousin, George, was engaged to be married; his mother's latest health scare made him more aware of her advancing age, and what the stress of his career was doing to her; and he had seen what Father Stefan had referred to as "the other side of Las Vegas", the poor and homeless who haunted the streets, scavenging for crumbs from the lavish neon-lit banquet that was the Entertainment Capital of the World.

Ever since the spectral shaman had made him see the error of his ways, Criss saw the city of Las Vegas in a different light, as a city of contrasts divided between rich and poor with the former ignoring the latter while indulging in Sin City's pleasures. Riddled with guilt, Criss vowed to share his "bounty" with those who had none. True, he still enjoyed his expensive toys like customized motorcycles and cars, and he loved his new twenty-five million dollar home, Serenity, but to disregard the thousands of people who had no home to call their own, especially the children he saw at Sanctuary Shelter, was criminal. He was currently in the planning stages of holding an annual auction for homeless relief with the help of his celebrity friends, encouraging them to share their bounty as well. They could at least enjoy the tax breaks, he figured.

As far as his mother was concerned, she showed no sign of her illness since last July, a big relief to her family. The battery of tests the doctors had run had revealed nothing serious; a few days' rest at Serenity, and Dimitra was back on her feet as well as ever. Criss had chalked it off as heat stroke; he was aware that the elderly were more vulnerable to it than anyone, and being in the Arizona desert in July was asking for trouble. From now on, he vowed, Mom was going to stay indoors as much as possible when she was at Serenity or in Las Vegas--no going outside after ten AM or before six PM. God forbid she should succumb to the triple-digit temperatures of the Southwest.

Then there was the matter of George and Angela's wedding. As estatic as everyone had been about the engagement (Everyone still recalled the tears of joy Mother Dimitra had shed when she heard the news), the actual planning of the wedding proved to be a logistical nightmare. For one thing, George's family lived in New York, and there were relatives in Florida to consider, but there was also the friends he had among the MindFreak crew here in Vegas. Would they hold the wedding in New York, or would they have to fly everyone into Vegas? And who would Angela invite? She had no real family except Bianca, who was serving time at Alamagordo. She had a few friends among the staff at Applewood Elementary and at Sanctuary Shelter, but that was all. How could they balance out the guest list without offending anyone?

After numerous phone calls to everybody concerned, it was finally decided the wedding itself would be held in Las Vegas so Angela could invite some of her friends, then a large family reception would be held in New York so no one would have to make the trip all the way out west. Most of the family were too old or infirm to travel, anyway, so this worked out for the best.

After that problem was solved, George's mother entered the picture. She had met Angela a week after Labor Day weekend and, after a perfunctory interview, pronounced her worthy enough to be her daughter-in-law once Angela agreed to raise their children in the Greek Orthodox faith. Relieved she had passed the test, Angela embraced Molina and swore to be a good wife to her son. Criss' sister-in-law, Lynn, bless her, gave Angela a set of Greek language CDs so she could communicate in the family's native tongue.

"This isn't going to be like that movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, is it?" Angela had asked Lynn nervously.

"You'll be fine," Lynn assured her. "They're Greek, but they're not that Greek."

Next was the venue, the term wedding planners use for the location. In the living room at Serenity, Criss was full of ideas in that department, and he was all to eager to share them with everybody. "We can have it at the Luxor!" he said excitedly. "We could fix it up so we can have the wedding on one side of the Grand Ballroom and the reception on the other! Better yet, you can have it here! It's big enough for everybody, and the view is great--think of the wedding pictures you could take! Or we could go to one of the wedding chapels! I know this great one on Flamingo: it's got this awesome aerial act! You got to see it! Or, hey, you can go to one that has Elvis officiating! That would be so cool!"

George shook his head in disagreement. "Uh, I don't think I'd like to have Elvis marrying us, Criss."

"So, okay, you don't have to have Elvis," Criss conceded, his spirits still high. "I mean, hey, this is Las Vegas! You can get married however the hell you want!"

"A nice little chapel would be nice," Angela suggested timidly. "I really don't want anything fancy."

"Well, we got dozens to choose from, honey," George said. "Take your pick."

Meanwhile, George's mother, Molina, sat like a stone statue, listening to the plans and ideas tossed around, her face grim. The words "chapel", "ballroom", and "Elvis", made her bristle. George turned to her and asked casually, "So, what do you think, Ma? Where would you like the wedding to be?"

She rose from her seat, faced her son, and, in a firm tone, said in clear but heavily accented English, "You were born in the Church, you will marry in the Church, you will die in the Church."

With that, Mother Molina spun on her heel and left the room, leaving George subdued, Dimitra, JD and Costa amused, and Angela puzzled. Criss shook with suppressed laughter. "Two down and one to go, huh, George?" he murmured into his cousin's ear.

"Dummy up," George hissed.



Father Stefan Mykolos was all too happy to officiate the wedding, but there were a few issues of protocol that needed to be laid down. For one thing, both the maid of honor and the best man had to be Greek Orthodox according to tradition. That meant Darlene didn't qualify; a female cousin from George's side of the family had to fill in. Not only that, but Molina was dead set against Criss being the best man because of his divorce four years ago; she felt it would bode ill for her son's marriage to be witnessed by a man whose own marriage had ended disgracefully. JD was chosen instead, as he had a more stable relationship with his wife. Though it stung him deeply, Criss aquiesced for the sake of family harmony. It was George's day, he reminded himself; he could choose whomever he wanted. He could still serve as a groomsman, however, a compromise he could live with.

When Darlene heard the edict against her, however, she was heartbroken. "It's so not fair," she pouted. "I mean, it's your wedding, right? You should be able to choose whoever you want to be maid of honor!"

"You can still be a bridesmaid," Angela told her, trying to cheer her up.

"But I wanted to walk down the aisle with the best man--Criss!" Darlene wailed.

"You will."

Darlene looked up. "I will?"

"Uh-huh. You see, Criss isn't going to be the best man."

"He isn't?"

"No, he's not. It seems they won't let him be the best man because he's divorced. These people are pretty strict about things like this, so we gotta play by their rules."

"But that's still not fair!" Darlene protested. "At least, not to him. I mean, JoAnn divorced him! What difference does it make, anyway?"

"Well, rules are rules," Angela said resignedly. "Besides, you still get to walk down the aisle with Criss, just not as maid of honor and best man."

Darlene pondered it, then shrugged her shoulders. "Six to one, half dozen the other," she said lightly, "I still get Criss either way."




The wedding took place in mid-June at Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church. The interior was decked out with hundreds of flowers and lit with dozens of white tapers from the vestibule to the altar, softly illuminating the Byzantine stained glass windows of the hundred and seventy five year old church. George's family, friends and fellow MindFreak crewmembers filled one side of the church; Angela had invited whomever she could think of to balance the guest list on her side: fellow teachers from Applewood Elementary, Pastor and Mrs. Beaman, volunteers from Sanctuary Shelter--a pretty good turnout in total.

Everyone had liked the black and white ensemble Darlene had worn to her sister's wedding, so they chose that design for the bridesmaids (saving Darlene time and expense for a new gown, at least). The men in the party wore simple black tuxedos with white carnation boutonnieres. George stood by the altar, simply happy to have survived the raucous bachelor party his cousins insisted on throwing him the night before. He could recall very little: it had been a blur of neon, loud music and naked female flesh scented with beer and liquor. Mercifully, no one had called the cops.

The procession began. The bridesmaids and the groomsmen, led by JD and a female cousin, walked slowly down the nave. Darlene beamed as brightly as if she were the bride herself, gliding along on Criss Angel's arm. Oh, God, this is a dream come true! she thought gleefully. Next to marrying Criss, of course!

Michael West, principal of Applewood Elementary, had the honor of giving away the bride. Angela looked resplendent in her Vera Wang gown (she had wanted to wear her DeVris gown, but Darlene insisted she save it for the New York reception), drawing gasps of surprise and delight from the guests. The shy, frail schoolteacher had transformed into a beautiful swan on her wedding day. George felt a lump in his throat when she approached the altar. How could a guy like him be so lucky to be marrying such a vision of lovliness as she? When Principal West joined Angela's hand into his, he felt his spirits soar to the heavens.

There wasn't a dry eye in the church as the priest intoned the two-thousand year old rite of marriage. The American-born half of the guests couldn't understand the Greek language spoken during the ceremony, but it was moving nonetheless. Principal West claimed he found the ceremony fascinating. Doug Malloy, one of Criss' technical assistants, said he found the whole thing confusing. "Why the hell didn't they speak English?" he complained later. "This is America, ain't it?"

The floral wreathes were set on the heads of the bride and groom, the rings were blessed and exchanged, and the new Mr. and Mrs. Strumpolis took their first steps as husband and wife to the accolade of everyone present. Darlene broke into sobs of joy; Criss whipped out a handkerchief and buried his face in it to keep from weeping out loud. Then the wedding party paraded out of the church to the strains of Mendelssohn's Wedding March, proud and triumphant.

They piled into the fleet of limosines parked in front to take them to the reception at the Luxor. It turned out to be an even bigger "reception" than they had ever planned--hundreds of Loyals, armed with digital cameras, camcorders and camera phones, had gathered in the front of the hotel to welcome the happy couple (and to catch a glimpse of Criss Angel) and shower them with good wishes. It took the entire hotel security detail to keep them at bay long enough for the wedding party to make their way to the Grand Ballroom. Angela blushed, hiding her face behind her bouquet. George took it in stride, accustomed to being famous by proxy. Criss waved to his fans, shook hands with them, but could not linger long--Darlene kept yanking him by the arm, intent of keeping him for herself for the evening. The other guests, including Dimitra and Molina, were taken to the rear of the hotel to enter in relative safety. Once in the Grand Ballroom, all entrances were sealed off to uninvited persons per order of Chief Macaffey.

Felix Rappaport, president and CEO of the Luxor Hotel, welcomed everyone personally and offered the newlyweds a free weekend vacation package, good for one year, as a wedding gift. The cake came gratis as part of the Wedding Package: a four-tiered confectionary skyscraper detailed in delicate white icing filigrees, a masterpiece of the pastry chef's art. "It looks to pretty to eat," Angela had commented, though she had no qualms about cutting it with a silver knife and feeding a piece to George. The groom reciprocated in kind, but he cut too big of a slice and ended up mashing it into Angela's face. For once, Angela did not feel humiliated when everyone laughed at her cake-smeared face. Indeed, she laughed along with them, something she had never done before in her life.

There was dinner, there was dancing, and there were the tributes to the bride and groom. Criss spent most of the evening mingling with the guests while at the same time trying to evade Darlene's amorous advances. Just as the party was beginning to wind down, Criss disappeared completely. Darlene searched every square foot of the Ballroom, even daring to take a peek in the men's room, but she couldn't find him anywhere. She asked around, but no one had seen him except for JD, who saw him take some wedding cake from the table, but that was about it, he said. Darlene just pouted. He could have at least stuck around for one last dance, she fretted.




A pair of bright halogen headlights illuminated the dim desert landscape like a pair of cat's eyes. Only the purr of a car engine could be heard, if anyone or anything was around to hear it at that late hour. The black Lamborghini Viper was all but invisible in the darkness as it veered off the road and headed toward the mesa in the distance. Once it had reached its destination, the lights went out, submerging it into darkness. The gull-wing doors flew upward, and Criss Angel, still dressed in his tuxedo, emerged from within. He clicked on a flashlight and searched for the Cave of Sorrow. It took longer than usual in the nighttime darkness, but he found it soon enough. He lowered himself in front of the mouth of the cave and carefully crawled inside, his flashlight guiding the way.

He crept up to the small jut of rock used as an altar. He blew away the ashes of ancient sacrifices, reached into his jacket pocket, and took out two small white boxes tied with white satin ribbon and embossed with George and Angela in gold calligraphy on the lids. The creamy white boxes stood out in stark contrast to the overall gloom of the cave. Criss set the boxes onto the altar reverently, then bowed his head in prayer. God, bless George and Angela in their new life together. May the sorrows of the past never haunt them, and may their days be happy and bountiful. Amen.

Criss quickly blessed himself, then crept backward out of the cave, still clutching his flashlight. Once outside, he stood up and brushed the dirt from his trousers, hoping he hadn't damaged them so badly he would have to forfeit his rental deposit. Then he returned to the Viper, climbed in, folded the doors closed, and drove away into the desert night.

If he had turned around for even a moment, he would have seen the ghostly figure of the Medicine Man standing on the rocks above, smiling faintly.

(finis)

[RACHEL02189]

CLAPPING good story Veritas

[Smurf]

* clapping and cheering * great story Veritas :D

[The unnamed one]

That's great ..... Would have been hilarious if the guards at the prison teased Bianca about it though ...l. Well I'm off can't seem to stay awake
Ash