Hugh Jazz Mofo.
It was the kind of stupid name you'd expect from a pornstar, or maybe a character in some weird Bond movie parody. But definitely not a world-renown e-celebrity with two million subscribers on each of a dozen social media sites. He was one of the most famous people of his generation, though lately his gaming livestreams and pop-culture commentary videos had been losing views significantly.
Dropping under two million subscribers had been what prompted his new marketing gimmick. It had started out as a typical publicity stunt but with an edge; fans were encouraged to buy memorabilia from his online store and get a very small chance of finding a super rare 'golden ticket' in their new hat or shirt or mug, or whatever cheap crap they bought with his logo on it, anyway.
But rather than some lame prize like meeting him in person, the winner of each golden ticket got to change some personal aspect of his brand image. The marketing team had come up with a score of weird ideas and categories and he'd signed off on the whole venture without much thought. After all, they were the experts, and he would rather be playing the newest first-person-shooter than reading complicated marketing contracts anyway.
He'd been a bit taken aback when the first winner had gotten the 'Name Change' ticket, and promptly picked “Hugh Jazz Mofo” as his new name. He'd been even more shocked when the marketing people explained that the name change wasn't just his brand name or his account names, but was meant to be a legal change of identity.
Now Hugh Jazz Mofo was plastered across all of his merch, and his driver's license to boot.
Still, he was selling a ton of merch, and his views and subs had skyrocketed, so he couldn't exactly complain that the marketing gimmick wasn't effective.
The next ticket had been to choose his new tattoo, and he'd been fine with that; at least, he had been, until he crawled off the table and got to see his new trampstamp after the tattoo session had finally ended.
It wasn't until the marketing team informed him that due to the disclaimer on his contest rules he couldn't schedule a laser tattoo removal procedure that he realized the publicity stunt had been a bad idea after all.
“But... Every Hole's A Goal!!!?!!!” He gasped, pointing unnecessarily at the massive tattoo sprawled across the small of his back, flanked by two massive curved arrows that pointed straight to his ass. “I am not keeping this!”
“You have to, Jame—er, Jazz, the rules on the contest specifically state that all changes are permanent, unless changed by another winner. Until someone else finds another Pick-My-Ink ticket and decides to spend it on a different trampstamp design, you are stuck with that.”
“But it's fucking gay--” he started, before years of well-honed publicity skills stopped him from finishing. You never knew when someone was sneakily filming you, and he could not afford another round of cancel culture types trying to destroy his brand for saying something politically incorrect. The last time he'd made a gay joke on a livestream, he'd had to pretend to date a real gay dude for a few months until it all blew over, and he still had nightmares of that humiliating experience.
“--fucking generic as shit,” he amended, mentally congratulating himself on the quick save. “It's just words and solid black and shit. It's boring.”
“And unless you want to get your ass sued off, you're keeping it,” replied Gemma, his main marketing consultant and the wizard behind both the new ticket gimmick and his fake-gay boyfriend rumor-thing last year. She'd made a specialty of saving his ass.
“Fine, but someone had better use their next tattoo ticket to at least add some color to this thing, or something,” he said, staring into the ever-present cameras recording his every waking moment.
* * * * *
“You can't really expect me to cook for them? I barely know how to boil an egg, for fuck's sake!”
“Practice makes perfect, dear.”
She looked at the floor, judging the distance. With her damaged, reduced legs, she had to be careful, another break might lead to all sorts of medical issues. But she though she could safely lower herself to the tiled floor, her upper body strength had diminished somewhat from her lengthy recovery, but she was still very strong for a woman. And she weighed a lot less these days.
But he seemed to know what she was thinking. Before she could protest, he reached for a jar on the counter, and began pouring rice on the kitchen floor all around the island.
“Oh, you... you cruel bastard,” she hissed, glaring at him. He just smirked, and headed out the door.
The rice was small, but it might as well be glass shards. She'd crawled over some spilled salt a few days before, it hurt like hell. The rice grains would no doubt hurt even more.
“Dammit, Jerry, I can't spend all day on the island!!” she yelled, as she heard his car start.
She sighed, as her lover's vehicle pulled out of the garage, and down the driveway. Turning her mutilated body around, she crawled the length of the table, hoping to find a spot where the rice hadn't covered. But her hopes were in vain.
The television was on, playing some obnoxious day-time talk show with a bunch of charlatan doctors shouting over their guest, and spouting outdated nutritional advice. She lasted all of two minutes, before she started frantically looking for the remote, only to be disappointed again when she found it, sitting on the kitchen counter, just out of arm's reach.
“Ugh!” she roared, trying to cover her ears as the television prattled on. Unfortunately, her shortened legs made it hard to keep her balance without at least one hand to support her, and she quickly gave up trying to shut out the obnoxious voices. “Gawd, I'm going to go mad if I have to sit here all day watching this trash!”
She looked at the bowl her husband had left on the island, and sighed. There was nothing to do but to try and distract herself by cooking up a meal. The island's shelves were mostly in reach, and filled with utensils and racks of spices.
The fridge was too far away, but Jerry had left out several ingredients for her, and a quick search of the island's shelves uncovered a small electric stove top. It wasn't much, but it should be enough for her to work with.
Sighing yet again, she set herself to work, and wondering how late her boyfriend's kids would sleep in today. “Stupid school, stupid virus,” she muttered, wanting to strangle the city council for ordering the school closures the day before. She'd be stuck playing house for weeks until things re-opened, and the children were finally out of her hair.
- B-Rex
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| The initial real-life picture. |
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| And the face-transfer render. Came out pretty well, I think. |
