Free Battle of the Network Zombies by Mark Henry Page A

a stack of papers, her mouth twisted up like the pucker in a Chinese dumpling.
    Marithé continued, “Elizabeth is working on a relaunch of Necrophilique, under a new name and without the excrement, of course.”
    “Christ, again?”
    “Yes, again. Stop being so negative. All Necrophilique needs is pretty people on pretty packaging and the dead will be lining up to smear it on their clammy chops. Besides, it’s been two months; there’s been plenty of tragedy in the world to keep them occupied. Who’ll remember a little shit in their foundation?”
    I stopped her as we neared the narrow hall to the executive offices. “Just as long as we don’t go the infomercial route, again. I don’t want my face attached to another major screw-up. Plus, if I see that Janice Dickinson again, I’ll beat her so bad.”
    “She was a celebrity impersonator.”
    “Whatever.”
    The shoot for Necrophilique was wrought with mishaps, general bumbling and a virulent strain of incompetence, none so great as my own, I’m ashamed to say. Despite being accustomed to the camera at local events and club openings and such, I wasn’t at all comfortable reading from a script, or memorizing lines or pretending to like things that I don’t. That last part must come as no surprise.
    The lights hit my makeup like a blowtorch and before I knew it, Dickinson was giggling and pointing and the audience was doubled over laughing as stripes of foundation bled off my face leaving me looking as fresh as a glazed blueberry cake donut. If only I’d had some mustard gas. I could have at least taken out the shapeshifters. No such luck.
    “Amanda! Darling!” Elizabeth Karkaroff stomped down the corridor from her office in vintage Chanel bouclé and scooped me up in her arms. “So good to see you!”
    I squeezed my stomach in as she continued to tighten her grip, fully expecting my ribs to crack before she let go.
    “Nice to see you too, Elizabeth.”
    “Hmm.” She relaxed her arms and stood back a bit, assessing me. “I’m counting on you. And I know you can pull this agency back from the brink.”
    “It would have been nice to know what I was getting into,” I said, thinking again about the death threats on Birch and the yeti attack, rather than my part in the reality show.
    “I’d have thought you’d be thrilled.” Her voice carried a hint of hurt and her lips pursed.
    Marithé crossed her arms and judged, as per usual.
    “Well, I certainly don’t mind the exposure and I imagine I’ll do better just being me.”
    “Exactly!” Her hands shot forward and clutched my biceps forcefully. A spasm passed through me. “And who doesn’t love unbridled Amanda?”
    “No one,” Marithé added, shaking her head. “Well, maybe soccer moms.”
    Elizabeth sneered at my assistant.
    “What?” she asked, then gestured to me. “I’m talking about her pottymouth.”
    I supposed they were right. After all, I, myself, love unbridled Amanda. 24
    “Still. It would have been nice to know that Birch has been getting death threats. A yeti attacked us last night. I don’t imagine that was part of the pitch he threw you?”
    “Oh please.” Elizabeth waved off the remark. “Who doesn’t want to kill Birch? I can’t name a species he hasn’t fucked, defrauded or fouled in some way or another. He’s a complete Neanderthal and everyone knows it. That the woodland types have turned against him doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.” She pivoted on her Givenchy stilettos and slinked off into her office, speaking over her shoulder.
    Karkaroff had an unhealthy relationship with scale. Her office was long, thin and shiny as a wet birth canal. The perspective was forced as a de Chirico painting; walls slick with subway tile narrowed the full length of the building to just enough space on either side of Karkaroff’s desk for the woman to saunter around. The place echoed and was a tad claustrophobic if you ask me, but she didn’t.
    She never did.
    I thought