FRANKIE LYNN, FALLEN CHILD STAR...

Franky Lynn, Childstar turned porn star turned clerk at an adult bookstore... looked up from his seat on the floor, at the glass counter where some customer was standing and waiting to have his dollars changed into 'tokens', and told himself that he could do this... that it was role like any role and he could do it.

Still, he opened another whippet, put it in his lips and ripped off the top -- the resulting blast freezes his lip to the whippet, something his raging, roaring, hallucinating head does not notice as he stands up and tries to smile for the customer. "Memo, can I slep do wid somptin."

He isn't sure why his words are so screwed up until he starts to feel his lip rip, which sends his buzz running off for higher ground. He jerks the whippet off and see's a thin line of blood spread glistening and black across the glass counter, over the display of dildos and whips and various anal related products of dubious quality.

"I think you are bleeding, dude."
"Tokens?"
"Uh, yes. One dollar please."
"Five dollar limit."
"The other guy never charges me. My mouth is why half these guys come in here."
"Man, your mouth is your own business."
"Doesn't have to be."

He sits back down on the floor and takes down another whippet, watches the ceiling begin to breath for a moment, before he crashes hard and cold and naked back on a planet now filling up with a line of somewhat nervous looking men.

"What is he doing down there?"
"He's licking his balls, like a dog."
"Oh, I have to see that."

He stands up just as a middle aged man with silver glasses, a bald head, and a stringy grey beard traveling across his face where once there was a chin, leans over the counter. His head painful whaps into teeth.
"Oh, god damn it!!! Now, I'm bleeding in my mouth."

One hand pressed to the top of his head, he looks down at the line of men and says, "Who the fuck wants some tokens?"

"Uh, that is why we're been lined up here for the last five minutes, whippet boy."

THe small group of men are staring at the gay mans blood, which is pouring from his mouth and pooling on the gleaming grey linoleum floor. They collective take a step back, then one steps over to the door and pushes it open and leaves, letting the morning sun flow across the small storeroom filled with cheap plastic devices and wall to wall magazines with shiny, airbrushed cheeks on both faces and asses.

He has a coin changer that he hits once for each dollar they hand him. As he takes care of the men and watches them disappear into the pathetic orgy in the back room, he is just grateful that no one recognizes him. He understood why gary coleman punched that women who slammed him for being a security guard so damn well that he often fantasized about hunting her down and killer her, then sending her head to gary... that would violate a restraining order, he reminded himself (he lost what the judge called his 'privelege" to call gary his freind after he took him hostage, with a toy gun, and tried to force him to do a video come back movie that Frankie had tried to do in his twenties, just before finding that unless he stared in porn, he was going to be homeless -- or at least credit cardless, which he once thought was the same thing.


He was pretty sure he was going to be okay in his sleepy little nothing job... and most importantly, he told himself, he was technically still in the business. He could already hear how he would describe the job in bars, "I'm in the marketing end of movies now."


His golden moment ends as peels of laughter come from the back and a lone, feminine voice yells out, "Ohhh, I couldn't believe it was him either," which is followed by a chorus of voices agreeing...

Before he can stop himself, he yells back at them, "Who fucked Drew Barrymore in the ass when he was seven, huh? Who?"

He seems to have stunned them all into silence, and looking at himself in the mirror, he flashes what is left of his trademark smile... which fades as someone who everyone back there just finds hilarious yells out, "Oh, everyone has fucked her in the ass-- even me. I thought she was a little boy. That's what she told me. She'll say anything to get some dick up her ass. You gotta respect that."

And with that, he decided to do the last sleaziest thing he could, the one bottom he always swore he would shoot himself before he experienced . . . Feeling like he was now going to hate himself at some new, herefore undreamed of levelt, he opens his wallet, pulls out the only business card there, and stares at the number as he dials.
When he hears the famalier salesman's chipper closing voice answer, Franklin talks in a dead to the world monotone:
"Yes, uh, Tom, listen... I'm ready to become a Scientologist."



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