[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 , 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