kagablog

Inside the elevator, things have calmed down a bit. The journalist is nursing a bloody lip, staring hatefully at the 3rd Girl. The futuristic little camera dangles around her pale wrist, snapping and flashing on automatic. Mirrors multiply the livid explosions of light out into infinity. On either side like some sort of deathray. The 3rd Girl leans against the opposite mirror-wall, smirking down at her pidgeon-toed needle heels. Jennifer rests her spinning head against the cool mirrors, wincing each time the flash ignites.
“That camera is giving me fucking epilepsy,” she mutters bitterly.
The journalist spits a droplet of blood against the mirror and glares contemptuously down at Jennifer.
“It is hot, new journalistic technique,” The journalist states haughtily. “The camera takes random images, records sound, the whole night.”
She daubs her bloodied mouth against her ruby coloured sleeve, explaining further.
“We splice data into slideshow with sound…like video, only more fractal. Imbed on printed pages of magazine in new magnetic format, you read with compatible scanner. New phones out now with this scanner in portable, you download as you read. We take best images; call it God-photography, all up to fate.”
She spits more blood, talking to her sidelong reflection. She speaks eloquently, but the words come out sounding rehearsed. Like her face is not connected to what she is saying. Like she’s given this same speech in a hundred different elevators from Dallas to Taipei. While her gimmick strobes offensively behind her, collecting snatches like some electronic mosquito.
“…All images downloadable from magazine archives, End of year we splice everything into Zeitgeist shorts for Venice Biennale…”
Jennifer unexpectedly snags the camera, snapping its leash. The journalist bursts into a volley of Italian curses. She launches herself bodily at Jennifer but is pulled short by the 3rd Girl, who pins her spectacled face against the blood soiled mirror, watching it distort with rage. The camera shutters madly as Jennifer fiddles with the controls.
“Well this flash is pretty fucking distracting..” she mumbles as the journalist thrashes against her captor, screaming her lungs out in the boxy space.
“How do you de-activate…”
The journalist suddenly elbows the 3rd Girl across the forehead. The 3rd Girl loses her smile in a flash of white, flagging heavily to the floor. The journalist is upon her in a second. They flail like harpies as the journalist’s ringed fist rains down into tousled auburn hair. Jennifer side-steps on reflex, angling the camera into the mirror. Within a second, the 3rd girl has punched her attacker savagely in the bone of her face. The journalist reels with blood tracing across her throat. The 3rd Girl scrabbles up with all the vitality of adrenalin in her. She rips the journalist’s spectacles from her, crushing her bloody face against the reflective surfaces. A feline yawl escapes the torn lips as the journalist’s face is smashed repeatedly against the glass.
“You broke my smile now you cunt!” the 3rd Girl barks, her arms trammeling back and forth, sweat beading across her blood peppered brow.
“I don’t see how this photographic technique is so fucking great…” Jennifer frowns absently, flicking tiny buttons on the camera’s control panel.
“I’ll have your heads on sticks in New York!” the journalist slurs. “Give me my fucking Oracle!”
Her cheekbone emits a meaty thud as the 3rd girl strikes it heavily against the smeared mirror. They reel against one another while the flash catches white-hot moments. There is a moment of heavy breathing and staggered balance on both sides. The 3rd Girl’s fingers tighten and loosen around hanks of the journalist’s hair, questing for a grip.
“My fucking lip!” the journalist husks stickily into the 3rd Girl’s ear. “Two hundred dollars I paid for a fucking treatment!”
The 3rd Girl chuckles through the blood.
“You cheap little tramp.”
“Don’t want Botox racing round your system…” Jennifer adds, gazing deep into the pixellated camera display.
“Get a collagen job next time,” The 3rd Girl smiles. “Last longer when you get cocky with the help.”
“Suck my dick…” the journalist hisses, pinned helplessly beneath her adversary’s trained arms.
They stagger out into a long, burgundy corridor. Trailing along the walls like malfunctioning androids. Jennifer manages to keep the camera just out of the journalist’s reach.
“Do you have any idea how many neuroses in women can be traced directly back to the magazines you whore for…” Jennifer mutters over her shoulder.
“Who do you think pays for my lip treatments?” the journalist responds in acid tones.
“Not your casting agency, that’s for sure!” the 3rd Girl giggles.
Another skirmish breaks out, captured in snapshots.