Beauty Queens Part 10

"Yo, Agent Jones, my main man!" An Ivy Leaguer in a Lakers T-shirt popped his head above the cubicle part.i.tion. Harris Buffington Ewell Davis III, aka the Dweeb, was the son of The Corporation's former CEO. The kid had never held a job in his life and was spending his summer break from the Ivy League here, ostensibly to get training. Mostly he played covert games of Pong and annoyed the h.e.l.l out of Agent Jones. "What's going on?" Harris raised his hand for a slap.

Agent Jones left the kid's hand kissing air. "h.e.l.lo, Harris. How's production going?"

"Okay. No love for the hand. Production's good. See?" The Dweeb flipped a switch and the factory floor came up on the monitor in grainy black and white. Agents in black shirts stood guard while scientists in lab coats busied themselves over a stainless steel table filled with jars. "Who knew hair remover could also make a cool explosive?"

"Miracles never cease."

"Oh, hey, wanna see something megacool? I rigged the compound's override system to respond only to PowerPoint." Harris cackled.

Agent Jones was stone-faced. "So, in the event of a self-destruct initiation, the only way to stop the sequencing is by making and uploading a full PowerPoint presentation?

"Yeah. Isn't that awesome?"

"No. Not awesome. Change it back."

Harris glowered. "Well, I think it's awesome. I took Advanced PowerPoint last semester. You guys are always misunderestimating me. I'm totally ready to handle the big stuff."

"The word is underestimate. And when you've got a few more years under your belt, then we'll talk big stuff, Harris." Agent Jones forced a smile that he hoped pa.s.sed for benevolent. His performance reviews all praised his skills but said he lacked warmth. He was not someone anyone wanted to have a beer with.

Harris made a face. "Did you just cut one? 'Cause you're making a face like you did."

Agent Jones stopped trying to smile. "Briefing in the conference room in five."

The fortresslike conference room was an interior room with concrete walls, fluorescent lighting, and ergonomically correct leather chairs that cost five thousand a pop. Agent Jones resented the chairs as much as the lack of Hazelnut coffee. Back before the agency had been bought by The Corporation and privatized, they'd had adequate seating but great benefits. Now, they were lucky to get dental.

The room filled with the private security detail - the black shirts, as they were called. The Dweeb took a seat and put his sneakered feet on the Brazilian cherry oblong table.

Agent Jones took a sip of his disappointing coffee. "Kill the lights."

A black shirt took out his gun.

"Not literally, Agent. I meant turn them off."

The room dimmed to a hazy gray. Agent Jones pulled down a white screen and plugged in his twenty-five-year-old slide projector. Despite the high-techery available, he preferred the old wheezing machine. He clicked the remote. The fan whirred. On the projection screen was the faded-color image of a short man in a militarized black jumpsuit and huge, blue suede platforms. The man sported oversize sungla.s.ses and a long, fat mustache. He wore an obvious wig, which bore a resemblance to Elvis Presley's famous pompadour.

"MoMo B. ChaCha, aka The Peac.o.c.k. Dictator of the Republic of ChaCha and a very creative dresser. Thief. Murderer. Racked up more human rights violations than Genghis Khan20."

"Who?" the Dweeb asked.

"I thought you went to Yale."

"I study business, not Chinese." Harris snorted.

Agent Jones exhaled loudly and clicked to a new slide. "The Republic of ChaCha, or the ROC, is one of the richest countries in the world. Incredible natural resources. But we can't get to those resources because a) our government has levied sanctions against the ROC, so all Corporation interests would be in violation of the Trading with the Enemy Act and b) MoMo B. ChaCha is certifiably insane. This is a man who is so paranoid, his most trusted advisor is a taxidermied former pet named General Good Times."

The carousel clicked to a new slide. MoMo B. ChaCha in full military colors inspected his army from a Jeep. Beside him was a stuffed lemur in sungla.s.ses and a general's hat.

"But didn't we put MoMo in power in the first place when the ROC elected a socialist president?" one of the black shirts asked.

Agent Jones glared at the man until he began to play with his pencil. "In a few weeks, MoMo B. ChaCha will travel to this very island to make an arms deal with The Corporation. As you know, MoMo is not a fan of our country."

Agent Jones switched to the big screen and a grainy video of MoMo sitting at his enormous desk, a swivel-hipped Elvis clock ticking behind his bewigged head. "Death to the capitalist pigs! Death to your cinnamon bunsmelling malls! Death to your power walking and automatic car windows and I'm With Stupid T-shirts! The Republic of ChaCha will never bend to your side-of-fries-drive-through-please-oh-would-you-like-ketchup-with-that corruption! MoMo B. ChaCha defies you and all you stand for, and one day, you will crumble into the sea and we will pick up the pieces and make them into sand art."

"So why is he doing a deal with us if he hates us so much?" someone asked.

"MoMo's been trying to tamp down an insurgency in the ROC. Needs some firepower. We sell him arms; he lets The Corporation set up shop in his country. Covertly, of course."

"How're you going to get those weapons into the country?"

Agent Jones held up a small, white jar of Lady 'Stache Off.

"Lady hair remover?" a black shirt asked.

"Looks like it. Actually, it's a powerful explosive. Dr. Du'Bious?"

"We found that if you change one compound in Lady 'Stache Off, it becomes highly unstable. All it needs is a charge of some kind and you've got incredible shock-and-awe capabilities," the scientist explained excitedly.

"And it leaves your legs baby smooth." Agent Jones attempted another smile. No one laughed. Agent Jones cleared his throat. "So. We sell MoMo his weapons. And The Corporation gets a foothold in the Republic of ChaCha."

A new slide whirred into place. It showed an artist's colorful rendering of the new ROC, with huge shopping complexes, smiling people in sungla.s.ses toting oversize shopping bags, a Corporation oil rig shining from the blue water in the background. "Viola. The Republic of The Corporation. G.o.d bless America."

There was a round of applause.

17Bermes scarf, a highly coveted status symbol. When the Pope chided pop star Magdalene for her collection by saying she could feed a village for a year for the cost of it, she responded, "Yes, but I can t wear a village around my neck."

18 Bipolar Bears, The Corporation's cuddly combination vitamin and mood-leveling drug marketed to tween and teen girls. Bipolar Bears banish bad moods and keep you beauty-queen perfect. Sold in a variety of signature bottles. Collect them all!

19Ragnaroknroll, an online gaming community whose members meet once a year at a Holiday Inn in Brainerd where they eat reconst.i.tuted eggs and stage mock battles. Soon to be a major motion picture with merchandising opportunities out the wazoo.

20Genghis Khan, thirteenth-century Mongolian ruler. Genocidal maniac. Wearer of very smart hats.

CHAPTER NINE.

Under Taylor's direction, her group of girls found their way back to the damaged beach, which resembled a dorm room after an island-themed kegger gone wrong. Broken trees and fractured palm leaves littered the sand. Belongings were strewn about. But the sea was now calm and the sky forgiving. The girls fell into the sand, exhausted and groaning.

"How long have we been stranded here?" someone asked.

"About three days," Miss Ohio answered.

Mary Lou looked at the hair on her legs. "Four."

"All right, Miss Teen Dreamers. Let's get this place a little cleaned up and get us a signal fire going. Tomorrow morning at sunrise sharp we'll practice the opening number. Just lettin' y'all know, we might have to make a few more adjustments to the ch.o.r.eography if the other girls don't make it back."

"I'm so hungry," Mary Lou mumbled. "So, so hungry."

"I can't move," Miss Arkansas cried. "I'm too tired."

Taylor had already begun clearing plant debris into a tidy pile for burning. "This is not the Miss Teen Dream spirit, ladies."

Miss New Mexico tried scooping a handful of sand into her mouth, but Adina stopped her.

"We need food!" Miss Ohio cried, and the others moaned in agreement.

"Miss Teen Dreamers. It is time to get ahold of ourselves. Miss Alabama, I did not mean that literally. That is gross. Stop it." Taylor scooped up seawater in a large sh.e.l.l and poured it over the ends of her hair, rinsing out the mud. "Remember: We are Miss Teen Dreamers. We are not victims. We are not cowards. We are bright shining stars, beacons of hope to all who arrive on the sh.o.r.es of our beauty."

Mary Lou pointed to the surf. "There's an ocean full of fish out there if we could find some way to catch them."

"I hope there's salmon," Brittani said. "Salmon has a lot of omega-3. My consultant, Tricia, says it's really good for your skin and nails."

"Right. Because I'm really worried about my f.u.c.kING NAILS AT THIS POINT!" Adina screamed.

"Language, Miss New Hampshire. You owe me twenty-five cents for that potty mouth." Taylor took the lip gloss from her zippered pocket and slicked it over her mouth. "Let's ignore those who would bring us down and affirm, Teen Dreamers: How are we gonna get us some fish?"

Everyone shouted at once. "We could try grabbing them!" "Fishing pole." "Laser gun!" "Think positive thoughts!"

"We could spear them," Mary Lou offered.

"With what?" Miss Ohio asked.

Mary Lou blushed. "Um, with a ... spear?"

"Oh my gosh! My bad. How could I have forgotten to pack my spear for my beauty pageant?" Miss New Mexico snapped. The tray in her forehead shook.

"Because you probably left it in your compet.i.tion's back," Miss Ohio snarked. Miss Montana high-fived her.

"Well, your evening gown looks like it was put together in the dark by a bunch of dyslexic sweatshop workers!" Miss Arkansas gave Miss Montana a small shove.

Miss Montana shoved back. "Oh really? Says the girl with flotation device b.o.o.bs."

"These are one hundred percent real!"

"So's Santa."

"At least my talent isn't totally lame," sniffed Miss Ohio.

Miss Arkansas laughed a loud HA! "Your talent? Are they letting people perform oral s.e.x in these pageants now?"

Taylor clapped three times for attention. "Ladies! Ladies! My stars! That's enough. Now. We all know Miss Arkansas's girls are fake, Miss Ohio's easier than making cereal, and Miss Montana's dress is something my blind meemaw would wear to bingo night. And Miss New Mexico - aren't you from the chill-out state? Maybe you can channel up some new-age-Whole-Foods-incense calm right about now, because we have a big job ahead called staying alive."

"What do we do?" Brittani asked. She lay in the sand with her arm over her forehead.

"We need something we can use to turn these sticks into spears."

"A knife!"

"A rock!"

"Two rocks!"

"Adina's tongue."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot," Adina snapped.

Mary Lou pulled something from one of the suitcases. It was egg-shaped and shiny. "Pumice stone?"

Taylor examined the palm-size foot grater. "Good work, Nebraska. Sparkle Ponies and Lost Girls, start buffing and polishing those sticks into fish-killing machines."

"But that could take forever. I'm starving now" Miss Ohio cried.

"Fine. Desperate times call for desperate measures." Taylor grabbed a sh.e.l.l and gouged the sand, going deeper and deeper. She reached into the sand and brought up a white, cylindrical bug. It wiggled lazily in her palm. "Who wants to eat first?"

"What's that?" Miss Montana asked with obvious distaste.

"It's a grub and it's packed with protein. My daddy said his unit had to survive on these for a whole month once. Who's going first?"

Collectively, the girls took a step back.

"My stars, I thought y'all were hungry and wanted to survive."

No one made a move.

"Well, then. I guess as team leader I will just have to draft someone as a volunteer." Taylor looked over the girls like a general inspecting the ranks of new recruits. She stopped at Adina. "Miss New Hampshire. Congratulations. You're the winner."

"If you're so keen on it, why don't you go first?" Adina asked.

"Because y'all know I'll do it," Taylor answered. "This is about building trust. Take one for the team, New Hampshire."

Adina had a memory of Alan and the ridiculous trust-building exercises he conducted for business retreats full of blowhard execs who apparently liked wasting money on glorified corporate camp. Once, Alan had asked her to fall backward with the a.s.surance that he would catch her and that she would see she could trust him. But Adina balked. The only person she trusted was herself. She was not ending up on the floor with a concussion, and she was not, absolutely not, eating that filthy bug in Taylor's hand just so she could prove her mettle and get a round of high fives from the beauty queen set.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "No. Sorry. Not doing it."

"I'll do it," Miss Arkansas volunteered.

"No. This is about Miss New Hampshire. We are the Miss Teen Dream team. We are only as strong as our weakest link. There is no I in team."

"There's no U in a.s.shole, either, and yet ..." Adina muttered.

"I'm dockin' you another twenty-five cents for your potty mouth and bad att.i.tude, Miss New Hampshire."

"Fine. Let me just go to the JUNGLE ATM TO GET A WITHDRAWAL!"

Taylor leveled her gaze at Adina. "Do you know what your problem is, Miss New Hampshire?"