King of the Perverts Read Online Free PDF

oily-looking with thin hair. The office smelled like cheese. Mr. Oily sat behind a battered metal desk that appeared to have been salvaged years ago from a public school. The walls of the office were lined with more wrecked furniture. Mr. Oily motioned for me to sit in a rickety wood swivel chair in front of the desk. I did.
    He didn’t introduce himself, just waited for me to get settled in the chair and said, “Why are you here?”
    “Uh, because this is where the person on the phone said I should come.”
    He shook his head. “No, I mean why are you here in a general sense, not a literal sense. Why did you answer the ad?”
    I wasn’t following him. “Because I’m looking for work.”
    “Have you ever acted before?”
    My turn to shake my head. “No, never have.”
    “In high school? Drama club? College Shakespeare theatre?”
    “I didn’t finish college.”
    “You didn’t answer my question, either.”
    “No, nothing.”
    “But you still responded to the ad calling for extras, even though you have no experience in the entertainment industry.”
    This was discouraging. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”
    I stood, but he waved his hand. “No, sit. That’s actually perfect.”
    “It is?”
    “For the project we’re casting, yes.”
    “What exactly is this project?”
    The guy watched me for a minute without answering. He seemed to be sizing me up, tilting his head to the side, looking me over. “You’re not a bad-looking guy,” he said in a fairly nonsexual way, putting the emphasis on bad as if to say I’m not exactly a good-looking guy either.
    An internal homo-rape siren began to clang in my head and I stood up. “You know what, I think I made a mistake.”
    “No, sit. Stay. Don’t worry, no homo here.”
    I wasn’t convinced. The homo part didn’t worry me so much as the dingy office, greasy creep, and instinct that I was about to get involved with something I would regret.
    I really wish I would’ve listened to that instinct.
    •
    After I talked to the ‘ casting director ’ (and said a prayer of thanks that his office hadn’t contained a couch) I was ushered into another room. There were a few other guys in there. I recognized a couple from the waiting room. We all milled around in silence for about twenty minutes before Mr. Greaseball came in and pointed at me.
    “Mr. Porter, follow me. The rest of you, thanks for coming in.”
    The dejected walked out without a word and I followed Greasy. He talked while we walked. “Congratulations, you made it.”
    “Cool. Can you tell me what it is?”
    “I’ll let the boss give you all the nitty-gritties, but you’ve been cast in a new reality game show.”
    “What the hell is a ‘reality game show’?”
    “Boss will tell you when you meet him in person.”
    “Are we going to meet him now?”
    “Yep. You get airsick at all?”
    “We’re flying somewhere?”
    Greasy turned and smiled for the first time. “Ever been to Vegas before?”
    •
    I’d never been to Vegas before. I have to admit I was a little star struck. The plane ride out, sitting in first class, a limo from the airport to the Strip. A room at the Rio. A personal assistant to guide me where I needed to go. All my meals paid for. All that I wanted to drink, which wasn’t much, but I couldn’t resist a few. I knew I shouldn’t, but I broke down and had a glass of champagne and some wine with dinner at Buzios, which was the best seafood I’ve ever had. It was such a whirlwind I didn’t think to ask any questions until the next day when we went to meet the boss.
    My first impression of Peter Garnier was a good one. He was well dressed in an expensive-looking suit, had a very nice office modestly appointed with artwork and modern furniture. Nothing at all like the dingy warehouse offices back in Muncie. He explained to me those were just temporary spaces rented out during the casting process.
    “Not the prettiest space available,” Mr.