Gargalaphobia

Vanessa's vision blurred with tears.

Valentine continued, 'I had to wonder why you went after me with such vengeance. It didn't take me long to figure out: you're seeking redemption. Did it work?'

Tears fell from Vanessa's eyes and she quickly wiped them away with her sleeve.

'Aw, don't cry, Vanessa.'

'Don't you patronise me.'

'I'm not. And you should know I'm authentic. That's why I got 18 years rather than 30 --  I told the truth. Not because I was aiming for a reduced sentence, but because I never lie.'

'What do you want, a cookie?' said Vanessa, sniffing back tears. 'Why the hell should I care that you don't lie?'

'Because, Vanessahhh, it means that when I tell you I know who tickled your husband...'

Vanessa's mouth dropped open.

'...you know I'm telling the truth.'

'How do you know that?' she demanded.

'Like I said: my knowledge is unsurpassed.'

They sat in silence while Jake Valentine's grin grew in slow motion. Both knew the answer she wanted and both knew he would have conditions before giving it to her.

He broke the silence. 'When I was caught I was not even half way through my list. I had eleven targets left. If I'd achieved "Mission 20", I'd have disappeared forever and right up until the trial I was still only focussed on the remaining eleven. But now I have twelve. Do you want to know why?'

Vanessa sat with her arms folded. She had no intention of giving him any more control of the conversation.

'It's because,' he said, 'even though Faith was such a pinnacle for me, I really wasn't expecting her to be the less attractive sisterrr.'

Vanessa's eyes narrowed. 'What do you want?'

'More than anything? To see you tickled mercilessly, Vanessa. Tickled until you cry. Tickled until you pee yourself. I want to see you tickled so much that you truly believe you will go insane.'

'Not in a thousand lifetimes,' she said.

Jake Valentine showed his disapproval. 'Is your ego that precious to you? I don't mean you need to come in and give a live stage show to the whole prison; you can just send a digital copy for me to watch in private.'

'You've taken enough from my family,' said Vanessa. 'You will get nothing more.'

She held back tears of frustration as he shrugged and prepared to leave.

Then he paused. 'I'll give you one other option, Mrs Twenty-One,' he said and saw the glimmer of hope rise within her. 'You need to show me Miss Ten.'

'What--?'

'Count yourself lucky -- of the remaining eleven, she is one of the easiest because you won't need to hire the camera equipment, set it up, record it, send it to me...' he said, as though this was a laborious and mundane slog, '...because she's already on TV.'

***CHAPTER XIV***

Jackal News was the proudest accomplishment of Mr Oswald Bilger, who was born into one of the wealthiest families in the United States and studied Law & Social Change at Harvard. His parents died when he was in his early thirties, at which point he was handed the reigns to the family business and chose to diversify. Previous generations of Bilgers had deliberately stayed out of the limelight, but Oswald sought recognition for his efforts and public appreciation was his favourite kind.

He created Jackal News to plug the gap deserted by the broadcasting networks that didn't cater for views like his own. Corporations that were relied on since the 1980s to carry right-wing rhetoric lost their nerve after repeating Republican talking points and false claims that verged on the treasonous and which put them on the losing side of several multi-million dollar law suits.

As chairman and CEO of Jackal, and with a budget that dwarfed the competition, Bilger accumulated the best people behind the scenes. In front of the camera, he recruited established household names and--as a firm believer that sex sells--a tranche of talented up-and-coming presenters who could have easily moonlighted as cover models.

Without doubt the most popular presenter on the network was Erina Tysinger, the opinionated and indomitable British journalist who proved her ambition when she broke YouTube records for the number of global viewers who tuned in daily to see her self-produced opinion pieces and interviews. Many were drawn by her extraordinary English rose beauty, but nobody failed to acknowledge her utmost professionalism and comprehensive knowledge of the US political sphere.

As someone who could never pass up the opportunity to speak with a stunning woman, Oswald Bilger personally flew to England and signed her to a six-year contract for a fast-tracked green card and a seven-figure salary. Her popularity was confirmed by the TV viewership and she was rapidly elevated to the weekday evenings prime time slot where she stole audiences from all other news stations--left and right.

Outside of her journalistic skill and beauty, Erina Tysinger had a unique quality that endeared her to the audience: how seriously she treated the subject matter. Even audiences loyal to other right-leaning news outlets were tired of the fawning and disingenuous styles of presenting from previously popular presenters who chased viewers just to confirm their prejudices. Their transparent agendas were old hat and their presenting styles had become like kindergarten teachers humouring pupils.

Erina, on the other hand, was completely sincere and she never smiled, which became an intrinsic part of her appeal; she never faked approval or smeared on the appearance of being charmed by a slippery interviewee. The long-range candid photos from the gutter press who followed her when she was at a restaurant or on the beach never managed to capture her smiling. Frustrated Photoshop artists did their best to digitally airbrush fake smiles onto her countenance but none achieved a convincing portrayal. Theories spread that she had a neurological problem that left her unable to smile and, enjoying this kind of mystique, she avoided the question even when interviewed by several of the late night talk show hosts who competed to make her laugh at their jokes but, one after the other, had to concede defeat.

She very quickly earned the nickname Lady Di-amond because she was ravishing, English and seen as the hardest woman on television -- stony-faced was her signature expression. People expected it and, as a result, her career depended on it.

Vanessa never wanted to be a TV presenter, but that didn't prevent her from holding a tacit resentment toward Erina Tysinger similar to the resentment that provokes sniping from innominate bozos on social media towards anyone with a modicum of success. Vanessa never voiced her feelings because she would hate to admit she was envious of anyone. Yes, Vanessa was beautiful and proud of her work, but Erina Tysinger was stunning and intelligent and successful and famous and admired and very, very well paid. All for toeing the line on principles of hate and prejudice. Oh, and she was only 26.

***CHAPTER XV***

It was early evening as Vanessa and Jaz arrived at the press entrance of the Daughters of the American Revolution Constitution Hall in Washington DC. Media folk from across the country queued ahead of them as security guards checked the credentials of each before letting them in.

'Can I just go on record as saying this doesn't feel like a great idea?' said Jaz. It wasn't every day you entered a building across the road from The White House with the intent of committing a crime.

'Noted,' said Vanessa, without even a cursory eye contact, 'for the third time.'

Among the security stood Brayden Sneed, surveying the crowd, fiddling with his laminated Access All Areas lanyard and perspiring more than anyone else in the vicinity. He spotted Vanessa and stood tall.

Vanessa was tempted to jump the queue when she recognised Jaz's old boss, Lyle Hughes, a few places ahead of them and decided to wait their turn -- the fewer opportunities they had to be recognised today, the better. When they eventually reached the front of the queue they had their credentials checked and were given press passes. They were about to be led to the press room by a member of staff when Brayden stepped forward with an excessively casual demeanour, 'I'll take them,' he said, flashing his badge. Vanessa considered that if they were shooting a movie, she would pull him to one side and demand a more subtle performance.

'Think you could look more nervous, Brayden?' asked Vanessa, as they followed him down a corridor.

'Don't give me that,' he said, turning to them. 'I don't know why I'm doing this.' A glance betrayed him as he saw Vanessa was wearing the stilettos he requested, which showed her exquisite toe cleavage and high arches.

'You do know,' she said, raising an eyebrow. 'Now, what have you found for us?'

Members of the press and security milled past. Brayden wiped his upper lip and refused to answer. 'Follow me,' he said.

He took them to a top tier entrance of the concert hall where they stood in the shadows. Over 3,700 seats in the impressive neoclassical auditorium were ready for the audience queuing outside. Television production crews made final lighting adjustments and on the stage stood five Republican primary candidates completing a sound check. Standing proud in the centre was Gabby Calhoun in her poppy red suit. Vanessa felt the impulse to storm down and smack her straight through the Jackal News branded digital scenery.

'You see her?' whispered Brayden.

'Yeah,' said Vanessa, momentarily absent-minded. 'Huh? Who?'

'Tysinger -- she's down there,' said Jaz.

At the front of the stage was a sleek black semi-circular desk and perched on it, in conversation with a sound technician who was fastening a microphone to her violet designer skirt-suit lapel, was Erina Tysinger.

Jaz inadvertently let slip a hum of appreciation. Vanessa and Brayden looked at her. 'Sorry,' said Jaz, who was not particularly sorry. 'She's hot!'

'One blessing you have here is that nobody can see what's going on under the desk because of the TVs, there...' said Brayden, indicating a wall of Jackal-branded screens at the edge of the stage, which encased the presenter's chair between the back of them and the desk and blocked the view of the bottom of the desk. 'Plus, when the lights are down, it's real dark.'

As if on cue, the auditorium lights lowered and the nominees were illuminated, casting a pitch black shadow under the semi-circular desk.

'Good,' said Vanessa. 'Let's move.'

Brayden led the way out of the auditorium to an elevator that took them into the basement. They walked some sparsely populated corridors with an air of purpose that repelled any suspicion. As they arrived at their destination, the door was opened by a middle-aged electrician carrying a toolbox.

'All yours,' he said, his eyes on the floor as he shuffled past them.

'Er... thanks,' said Brayden, holding the door.

'Just don't pull out any plugs or I'll have to get down here quick,' said the electrician. 'And I'm no sprinter!'

As he walked away Vanessa mouthed, Who was that?

Brayden shrugged and ushered Vanessa and Jaz inside.

They found themselves in a long, dimly-lit room surrounded by support columns, pneumatic structures and electric wiring. The ceiling above them creaked with a multitude of footsteps.

'We're under the stage,' whispered Brayden.

Vanessa looked around. 'And where...?'

In response, Brayden pointed to a 12x18 inch hole in the ceiling, above which was a panel. 'That's sometimes used for electrical access,' he said, then smiled, 'but not today.'

'How the hell am I supposed to get up there?' asked Vanessa.

Brayden's smile dropped. He beckoned them over to a dark corner in which were propped two tall ladders and a plank of wood. They put the ladders in place and Brayden carried the plank to the top to sit as a bridge between them; under the panel.

He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket. 'Just unscrew the panel with this but not until the questions are under way, otherwise she might see it,' he went to hand the screwdriver to Jaz.

'I don't want it!' said Jaz, raising her hands. 'Give it to her.'

'What are you talking about?' asked Vanessa. 'You're doing this.'

'I am not!' said Jaz. 'This is way outside my job description. You want to grab the feet of the USA's most famous news anchor during a presidential primary debate on a live nationwide broadcast? It's your show, Vani -- I did the Hades job.'

Vanessa looked to Brayden. 'What about you? You'd love to do this.'

Even though he was standing, Brayden managed to squirm his thighs together, obviously turned on by the prospect. 'In fantasy, yes. In reality -- you'll be lucky not to get stun-gunned and thrown in the slammer. Besides, Gabby is definitely asking where I am already. And, you still haven't repaid me for the last favour I did you.'

Vanessa snatched the screwdriver from him. 'I'll do it myself. Leave.'

Brayden leaned in to Vanessa, as though doing so prevented Jaz from hearing what he was saying, 'Don't forget -- you owe me two footjobs--'

'A-shush-ush-ush!' said Vanessa, trying to drown out his words and dismissing him with a flick of her hand.

Brayden opened the door and gave one last glance at Vanessa's stilettoed feet. 'I've set this to TiVo. Good luck!' he said and left.

'Juvenile,' muttered Vanessa as she regarded the panel.

'Sounds like the place is filling up,' said Jaz. Vanessa didn't respond. 'You nervous?'

'Only when you ask questions like that.'

'Sorry... If it helps, I'm nervous.'

'It doesn't,' said Vanessa with a nonchalant air. 'Let's wait.'

She indicated two foldable chairs. Jaz noticed a small, portable television on a nearby bench and switched it on. It was tuned in to Jackal News. She muted the sound.

The auditorium was soon full and the hubbub of thousands of voices were raised to compete with--and occasionally sing along with-- a mix of "patriotic" rock and country music. Vanessa pondered whether the compilation was called Now That's What I Call Jingoism, volume 1, but at least it distracted her from the task. She was just being informed that folks from Muskogee don't let their hair grow long and shaggy when Jaz interrupted: 'I know I've asked a thousand times, but are you sure this is the only way?'

'Yes, Jaz, unless you have any better suggestions? You suggested I visit Jake Valentine. This is the result.'

'But what if it has no effect on her? There'll be no reaction and he could accuse you of not actually doing it.'

Vanessa shrugged. There were no assurances.

The music from the auditorium faded and an announcer declared: 'LLLLLLadies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Daughters of the American Revolution Constitution Hall in Washington DC and the first Republican Presidential Primary debate, hosted by Jackal News! Please welcome your host, Erina Tysingerrrrrrrrrrr!'

Via the portable TV, they watched Erina sashay onto the stage to a roar of applause and whoops of appreciation. At the same time they could just about make out the accompanying sound of high heels clacking downstage above them.

'Good evening, everybody!' said Erina. Her English accent sounded all the more English in contrast to the compare and every other aspect of the event. 'What a great crowd! Are you ready for a debate?'

More cheers and whoops. Vanessa observed how Erina made these statements sound sincere without even a trace of a smile and while still looking knock-out gorgeous.

Vanessa took a deep breath of resolve, slipped off her stilettos, took off her suit jacket and went to a ladder.

'What do we do if she just freaks out and announces to the world, "There's someone touching my feet!"?' asked Jaz.

'Well, at least Valentine will know I did it,' said Vanessa. 'What do you want me to say?! Just get ready to haul ass out of here.'

'Vani, is this about the story any more, or about you wanting to get revenge for what happened to Ryan?' asked Jaz.

Vanessa hesitated. They both knew the answer. 'Hold the ladder,' she said.

She gripped the screwdriver between her lips and climbed to the top where she found the gap between the plank and the ceiling barely left any room to manoeuvre. She was ready to curse Brayden when she realised it probably had to be that way for her to reach what she needed to reach. She crawled awkwardly onto the plank and twisted to lay down, then shuffled until she was in position under the panel and her bare feet rested over the end of the plank.

'Hey, I'd better not tickle you, huh?' said Jaz.

Vanessa quickly tried to retract her feet and banged her knees on the ceiling. She swallowed any exclamation and looked down at Jaz, who covered her mouth.

'Sorry. I was only joking,' said Jaz.

Vanessa pulled the screwdriver from her lips. 'Just hold the goddamn ladder! Can you just do that?!'

Jaz nodded sullenly.

Vanessa's attention returned to the clacking of heels above, which stopped over her face and was followed by the roll of chair wheels. She looked down at the portable TV -- Erina Tysinger was at the desk.

***CHAPTER XVI***

At Fishkill Correctional Facility, Jake Valentine was alone in a cell usually reserved for those ordered into solitary confinement. In this case, the evening was a gift to him from the prison guard who was a fan of his "work". Providing Valentine with a television and some privacy for one evening in return for the awesome sight that would await him when he returned home to watch and re-watch a recording of the debate was a meagre payment. He also aimed to be the first to upload the clip to all of his favourite message boards.

Jake Valentine lay on his bed with the blue light of the screen reflected in his unblinking eyes. Just the sight of the indescribably dazzling Erina Tysinger, as she introduced the five Republican candidates, stimulated him without assistance.

It was over two years since he'd felt the warm, soft skin of a woman, but he could recollect the sight and physical memory of every woman from whom he had elicited laughter. In particular, he recalled the soles of their feet and--whether petite or large, narrow or wide--what stayed in his mind the most was their texture. Some were flawlessly smooth. Others were delightfully wrinkled. Some had a sexy firmness that he believed indicated worldliness, while others were incredibly--possibly naively--soft. But, to him, they were all wonderfully unique and he had a savant-like ability to recall them each in intricate detail.

His mind drifted to the possibility of identifying women's soles in a line-up and whether that ability could establish him as an FBI consultant, but he brought his attention back to the night's entertainment. His one regret was that he had not demanded Vanessa Holbrook take a close-up photo of Erina Tysinger's soles before the action commenced. Perhaps another time.

He tried to picture what Vanessa might be doing at that moment...

- - -

Vanessa reached into the gap in the ceiling and began to unscrew the panel. As she did so, she could feel the occasional thump through the surface and hear Erina Tysinger's introduction.

'...and this is how tonight's show will work: we will have two minutes for answers and thirty seconds for follow-ups. If a candidate speaks beyond their allotted time you will hear this sound...'

A loud brrring! reverberated over the stage speakers, almost causing Vanessa to drop the screwdriver. 'Goddamn it!' she muttered aloud.

Erina continued, '...but hopefully we won't hear that sound because, due to the number of candidates who withdrew from the race this week alone--three on Wednesday and one just this morning--the remaining candidates have double the expected time to speak.'

"Yeah. And why don't you and Calhoun the Maniac have a cosy chat about why they withdrew, Erina?" thought Vanessa. She dropped six screws down to Jaz, who managed to catch none of them. The remaining two screws kept the panel in place; wobbling under the weight of Erina's foot.