Version 2 of SAVAGE: A Story of Hollywood

The clear, dry desert air crackled with excitement as Savage surveyed the tumult below from his penthouse vantage point in the tallest building ever erected in teaming Las Vegas. Hundreds of feet below were throngs of people jamming the streets and clogging the boulevards straining to get a better look at the Circus Parade, the Laser Light Show, and the lines of sleek, black limousines bearing international dignitaries and celebrities from the greatest and most important cities in the world, including the gated mansions of Malibu and Bel air. As he peered down at the spectacle below commemorating the Grand Opening of his lavish, technically engineered marvel of construction the world had been waiting six long years to inaugurate, he uttered a self satisfied laugh.

"The masses" he mused. How they loved the excitement. How they worshipped their idols. Being famous and having a limitless treasury of financial security acknowledged him to be the most fabled performer and business entrepreneur of all time.

Anyone famous in their eyes was somehow raised to the status of Deity. Below they swarmed in a frenzied feast offered for their enjoyment. Every game has its champions. Savage was the reigning champion of the Fame Game, where so many played and few ever won.

He turned from the window.

"I guess that's it for now, Marcy," he said. "You can go. Get something to eat. It's been a long day and is going to be an even longer night."

"What about you?" she asked with genuine concern, "Have you had anything since breakfast?"

"I never eat before a performance, Marcy. You know my rule."

She smiled softly. "I've never known anyone with your stamina. As for me, I can't wait to sit down to a large steak and baked potato -- with," she emphasized, "sour cream and chives."

Marcy paused as if to add something and thought better of it. "All right then. I'll see you in your dressing room when you come down."

As she reached the door she turned, "Your night has finally arrived. I hope it brings you all that you've worked so long and hard for."

He didn't reply. He wasn't listening.

Mother of God! At long last, a moment of peace. Time to think, to be alone and focus on the evening ahead. The past six weeks had been a blur. There had been countless decisions, hastily held meetings, approvals, and disapproval's, changes, replacing personnel, rehearsals, and sound checks. It seemed like the only time he was ever alone was in the fleeting minutes when he had to go to the John. Even then one journalist followed him into a public urinal in an attempt to get a glimpse of his famous phallus. Savage had learned long ago how to play that part of the game. Piss in the crapper behind a closed door. Nobody saw 'it' unless he wanted them to. Let them talk about it. Let them wonder. Like King Arthur's legendary sword, Excalibur, the more it was whispered about the larger and more powerful it became. Everyone wanted it, even if just to say they had seen it. It was a sword that had served him well in his climb to the heights of Olympus.

What he needed now was a shower. It was a part of his pre-performance ritual, meant to wash away the pressures and stress of the day.

Down the drain. There goes the publicist, the music arranger, the sound man, the lighting engineers, the stage manager, and even his trusted Marcy. As the scalding hot liquid pounded his body from every direction, he felt his taut muscles begin to relax. He reached from the shower stall and pushed a button which filled the green marbled room with strains of Mozart's violin concerto number twenty-six in C. Music to be alone by, the sound so perfectly balanced in every room of the vast twelve thousand square feet of luxury in his quarters that he would be able to hear it even in the shower. Savage allowed the pounding water and the genius of Mozart to invade his being and produce the desired effect of nirvana. On this night of nights, Savage alone grasped how much he needed every iota of his mental, physical and genetic skills before his head could rest peacefully upon his pillow again.

He was furiously drying his hair with a thick bath towel as he stepped from the shower. As was his custom, he made sure the scalp and surrounding area, including his shoulders, were vigorously rubbed in order to promote blood circulation to his hair follicles. His hair, after all, had been but one of his genetic blessings which had first brought him to the attention of the public.

He stepped up to the immensely long marble countertop which ran the length of beveled mirror and leaned forward to inspect himself. His looks were as much a part of his success as his talents and must therefore be maintained in the most remarkable and unrelenting manner. He was the chief mechanic of a one-of-a-kind human body recognized around the world for its perfection and he spent time with it every day making sure it was as finely tuned as the most powerful and expensive racing cars of the Grand Prix.

The veined, hunter green malachite was cold against his abdomen and muscled thighs as he leaned forward to inspect himself in the mirror. He thrust his sword against the icy marble and enjoyed the sensation. It caused a rush of warm blood to his loins and produced a mild erection, causing Savage to smile at his own image, smiling back at him. He would not dally with that now. There would be plenty of time later for sexual pleasure if this night went as planned.

Inspecting his face closely now, he was satisfied. Nearing forty and still looking great. It was all in the cheekbones. They were high, wide and very pronounced, thanks to the lineage of Shawnee Indian genes woven into his DNA.

He opened his mouth wide and inspected his impeccably white, polished ivories. Still perfect and still all his own.

He then focused on his eyes. His famous brown eyes ringed with double rows of thick black lashes, like spider's legs surrounding the brilliant hue of dark brown-black like the eyes of a wounded Doe. The world's most renowned eyes which melted and broke the hearts of women and more men than would admit. They were still as sparkling as when he was in his youth, when strangers and friends alike would remark upon the child's lengthy black lashes and glimmering orbs. To his satisfaction, they had not been dulled with years of booze and drugs.

His face had not been abused by poor diet or excess and was still remarkable without having ever been touched by a surgeon's scalpel. Oh, yes, a crease here and there when he smiled, but nonetheless, this was not the face of the average man of almost forty.

He backed away from the mirror to access the overall, naked self. Would Michelangelo complain? Savage was tall, lean and well muscled. He still had strong, chiseled pecs and a firm belly with a dancer's washboard abs. Add to that his hard, tight manly behind which only accentuated the rippled muscle of his upper thighs.

Finally, there was his sword, suspended from his loins and accentuated with thick, silken black hair. Still as black as in his youth, without a hint of gray as yet. Again he thanked his American Indian ancestors.

He turned sideways, the better to inspect himself at full length. In his quest for perfection he would not allow himself the vanity of sucking in his stomach for better effect. The honesty with which he judged himself was uncommon. It happened frequently during each and every day; in micro-seconds as he caught himself in a passing reflection and judged his posture, or in the tone and pronunciation of a word during conversation. Was he all that others expected of him? Was he all that the ghosts of his long ago past had told him he could be?

The only flaw that Savage could discern was that he had grown slightly pale in recent weeks and his tan line was beginning to fade. He had been spending too much time indoors, surrendering himself to the deadlines and demands of the evening ahead. He made a mental note that, starting tomorrow he would resume his hour in the Sun. The word "Tomorrow" startled him. His pulse began to race. After tonight, would there be a tomorrow? The tomorrow he had worked and risked everything for? Did anyone know or care that tonight could be the beginning of a whole new world of tomorrow's? He knew it, but did anyone else?

Yes. Someone else did know. The thought of her shot through him like an arrow and dispatched him into reality. Masses of adrenaline rose through him. It was like the advancement of an old Western movie showdown. And, it was going to happen on this very night, with the entire world watching. Not only those in the audience of the two thousand-seat main room, but the millions in front of their TV sets around the world, thanks to modern technology and satellites and cable and dish networks. He could almost hear the old Circus Barker standing at the waving flap of a dilapidated tent, "Yessiree, folks! Step right up and place your bets. Will the little lady show up or not?"

PROLOGUE
PART TWO
TO BE CONTINUED