So far the mission was not going as Ronald had planned. He arrived at the parking garage in his pickup truck ten minutes before the meeting was scheduled to take place. He waited there for nearly an hour until someone finally showed up. It wasn’t the person he was waiting for, and he was fucking pissed about it, because if there was any hint there would be a chance of running over a pothole in the path he was traveling on, the fragile tire will explode, and the mission would fail. After the exchange was done, he went straight back to the hotel to inspect his newly acquired product. It was in a wrinkled paper lunch bag which did not help his already agitated mood.
He got to his room with paper bag in hand, immediately locked the door, closed the curtains, then turned on one of the lamps on the wall over the bedside table. He sat on the bed, reaching inside the wrinkled paper for what was inside of it.
“Gave it to me in a goddamn lunch bag,” he said aloud. “How fucking plebeian.”
He took out what was inside the bag: a Nickel plated .45 semi-automatic.
“This is what happens when you do deals with junkies,” he said, “they give you a gun with the safety off, and the clip inside it. And let us see if it’s loaded.”
Ronald removed the gun’s magazine and saw the bullets.
“Is there a bullet in the chamber?”
Turning on the safety, he checked the gun’s chamber and saw a bullet inside.
“Fucking goddamn morons!” he yelled inside the hotel room. “Not even a hint of professionalism with these clueless dimwits. Jesus fucking Christ.”
He removed the bullet from the gun’s chamber, and then pushed it into the magazine with the others. He looked up and saw his reflection in the room’s mirror on the wall over the dresser. Looking upon the image of himself holding a gun in one hand, and it’s clip in the other, he remained motionless. This was the first time he had ever held a gun. It occurred to him how well he knew how to handle his first gun, the way he checked it, removed it’s magazine, and especially how he took out the bullet from the chamber. Never once was he taught to do such a thing with a weapon. Maybe people were right about movies and the way they portrayed gun violence.
“I am not a bad person for being so knowledgable,” Ronald said to his reflection. “It’s not my fault that I pay attention.”
He put the gun and its magazine back inside the paper lunch bag, then put it into his suitcase in between his cloths.
To put his mind at ease, Ronald got out his cellphone from his pocket to watch Rolanda’s Snapchats for that day. There weren’t any new ones. He guessed she got too drunk the night before to wake up before noon. Such is the life of a Social Media Celebrity. He was hungry, and decided to go to a fast-food restaurant to chill while he waited for her first Snapchat of the day. If she went out for a job, he’d go for a drive to see her for the first time in the flesh. He would not stop his pickup truck to meet her face to face, no, that was not part of the mission.
Before leaving the hotel room he made sure he put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob; could not take the chance of a maid finding the gun. His paranoia went up one notch that day when some stranger knocked on his truck’s door window, holding that damn wrinkled paper lunch bag. He planned on calling the person he was actually suppose to meet, and deliver an earful, one long, hardcore lecture. There was no fucking around.
Later he sat inside the fast-food restaurant, slowly eating a chicken burger and french-fries, sipping on a lemonade, and staring down at his cellphone, patiently waiting for a notification that indicated Rolanda had posted a Snap.
It nearly noon when she finally posted something. He tapped his finger on the phone’s screen to watch and listen to her say:
Hey guys, I got some good news. Got booked to do a show here in LA tomorrow night. I’ll look more excited as soon as my hangover is gone, but inside I’m ecstatic, I assure you.
Ronald hastily finished eating his meal, and then drove out of the fast-food restaurant’s parking lot. Rolanda was definitely going to go for a jog.
With his heart beating fast with nervous anticipation, Ronald drove through the Los Angeles streets in a much better mood than he was after getting the handgun from the stranger. He didn’t have to drive too far, because he already knew where she lived.
Nearly an hour later he was sitting in his pickup truck parked a few blocks away from where Rolanda’s apartment was located on Overland Avenue, watching the Snapchat vids she had posted in the past twenty-four hours — the lifespan of all videos uploaded onto Snapchat. The great thing Rolanda Maze would do — one of the many things which made her popular on YouTube — was edit all the videos together for one ten to fifteen minute upload on her channel. It was something she consistently did every week without yield. Ronald hardly watched those videos on her YouTube channel due to the fact he’d watch her Snapchat videos incessantly everyday, mostly more than once because it pleased him so.
He watched her as she jammed with her bandmates, rehearsing songs, smoked marijuana, drank beers, then going out to a bar to drink shots. At one point she was speaking to her followers on Snapchat incoherently, babbling on about the election, then ranting about how tomatoes were one of the greatest foods on the planet, and didn’t know why people would hate to eat it. He got to the last video where she said she hoped the venue she was to perform at the next day would have a big crowd, and not just a few half passed out drunks stumbling around.
Watching her speak, Ronald noticed by what he saw in the background that Rolanda was on her way back to her apartment, and he got excited. He was going to see her in real life, in the flesh, and not through a screen on a cellphone from a thousand miles away in another state; this time, for the first time, he was just going to be a few yards away, on the same street. He sat in his truck, looking down the street, waiting in anticipation like that of an adolescent boy about to meet one of his idols. About a minute later he saw her jogging on the sidewalk, holding her cellphone up to her face.
According to a national statistic, one in every six woman may experience being stalked in their lifetime. This statistic is in regards to the typical, everyday female civilian. In the case with high profile celebrities, such as mainstream actresses, musicians, artists, or a popular news anchor, the chances of them being the victim of stalking is significantly lower. This is mainly due to the fact they can hire personal security to keep them safe, making it more likely a stalker would not take the chance of being caught, and having their mugshot in newspapers, magazines, websites, and on television, giving them fifteen seconds of fame. Though a female celebrity being stalked is talked about more on media outlets, it’s actually a rare occurrence, because their stalkers — if the manage to get one — are psychotic, and stupid enough to go after someone who has cameras on them nearly twenty-four hours a day, because of the so called “legal” stalkers: Paparazzi.
Now even though a Social Media Celebrity’s fame is a smidgen in comparison to that of a mainstream celebrity, the chances of a female — or even a male — being the victim of a stalker is significantly higher than that of a high profile celebrity. The thing is these Social Media Stars, using YouTube, and various other social media outlets for exposure, make enough money to pay rent, buy food, and sometimes may receive free things such as an invite to a red carpet premiere, or get paid to go on a trip to some resort simply to promote it to their followers, but one thing most cannot afford is private security. It’s very rare for one to acquire enough income to afford even one bodyguard. They do not come cheap. The thing about Social Media Celebrities is they are simply private citizens who have convinced a shitload of other private citizens to click their computer’s mouse, or tap their smartphone’s screen to subscribe, or to follow.
When one is in public, many of their fans come up to them, asking them for a hug, autograph, or a picture with them. Most of the Social Media Celebs are grateful, and happy to have made it so far, but the thing is it comes with a price. There have been instances where their homes have been broken into while they were out — in come cases they were home — robbed at gunpoint, attacked in public, or stalked by an obsessed fan, or someone who simply didn’t like them. Whether they are female, or male, there was a chance they would pay the ultimate price, and that is killed.
Watching Rolanda, also known as Rollie Maze, running in his direction on the other side of the street, Ronald gazed at her image, fixated by the way her ponytail bounced on the back of her head from side to side, how her arm not holding the smartphone was bent and slightly swung back and forth as she made each stride on her jog, the sweat gleaming off the surface of her skin as it rolled down, and the way her legs flexed. As she was getting closer, he had a bout of nostalgia, thinking about someone in his past, the closest thing to deja vu without actually experiencing it. The memory started to make him cry. Tears ran down his cheeks, and immediately he wanted to remedy his sadness by doing something that may ruin his mission.
“Fuck it,” Ronald said aloud, wiping away his tears with the sleeve of his hoodie sweater. “I’m in a funk and need to get out of it. How else will I feel alive? There can’t be anything negative to come out of it. No, can’t be.”
He started up his pickup truck and began driving down Overland Avenue in the opposite direction of where Rolanda was going. Without hesitation or inhibition, he gave her a cat call whistle as he drove by. In response, still staring into her smartphone, she gave him the finger, and continued on jogging down the sidewalk to her apartment.
Seeing her middle finger made him give out a cackling laugh which surprised him. He never knew he could sound like the Joker from the Batman movies. This pleased him so much he forgot he was crying moments earlier. He was laughing so hard he had to park his truck on the side of the road because he was afraid he’d lose control, hit someone, or crash into a parked vehicle. He then picked up his smartphone from off the seat beside him, and waited to see what Rolanda uploaded in response to his cat call whistle the encounter.
Moments later, after watching her new Snaps she uploaded for her followers, Ronald was totally elated, slapping his hands on the sides of his head as his phone fell onto his thigh, then slid down his leg to the floor.
“I can’t believe it,” he said aloud inside the truck. “I directly influenced her Snapchat. Fuck, this is fucking awesome. I’ve done something with my life.”
He removed his hands away from the sides of his head, making them into fists, pumping them in the air, his face contorting as he said, “Yes,” a few times over and over again.
“That was great,” he said. “Fucking better than sex, man. The ultimate orgasm.”
Later that day he walked over to The Wellesbourne from the hotel like he did the previous night.
“You’re turning into one of our regulars, aren’t you now?” the bartender said.
“Well, I am but only a tourist,” Ronald admitted, “but if I lived in this town, this place would be one of my regular chill spots.”
“Wow, you’re a tourist, and this is the second night in a row you’ve come here. Thank you so much, sir. The first round is on me.” The bartender reached out his hand to shake Ronald’s.
Ronald graciously shook the man’s hand.
“The name’s Ronald,” he said.
“Mine’s Bob. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Your first round is on me. Want what you had last night? Raging Bitch, and shot of Patron?”
“Instead of the Patron, make it a Wild Turkey,” Ronald said. “I feel wild tonight.”
“A Raging Bitch, and shot of Wild Turkey coming right up, Ronald.” Bob, the bartender then walked away to get the drinks.
That was the last night Ronald went to The Wellesbourne for the rest of his time in Los Angeles, he’d be too busy to go back there as he followed the Social Media Celebrity, Rollie Maze, around the city.
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