[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.