“For the love of God, please just stop moving. You’re spinning ’round in circles like a fool,” the director begs.
“HA!” the bewigged chanteuse snorts, whipping her head back over her shoulder and striking a pose. It’s #LotusPromo bitch, she thinks to herself with a smirk.
It’s been almost six cold, cruel months since Legendtina put down her crown and resigned from her oversized red throne at The Voice in order to bestow her gift upon the world–a gift so advanced that only few true music lovers can ever fully appreciate her teachings.
She’s been quiet from some time now, dormant–save for a nasty shade attack by the New York Times–but she’s been reawakened today, all thanks to an A-ha-sampling club anthem about bowel movements by a creepy Latino with a bulge larger than his bald head who visited her lair back in October.
Today is a new day: New beginnings, new wigs and, most importantly, new #LotusPromo.
The shoot has been going on for 13 hours now, all for approximately 13 total seconds of footage for the final video. Legendtina already caused quite a delay earlier in the day, following an incident that involved a wardrobe assistant being slapped across the mouth with a clipboard after uttering the words “Mrs. Carter Show World Tour.”
“Please!” the director begs. “For one second. Why do you keep clawing at the camera?”
“Let’s get glam!” she announces with a wink, kicking her leg up in the air and giggling.
What a sad world, Baby Max thinks to himself in his baby director’s seat while sipping the last drop of apple juice from his sippy cup. A sad world filled with sad, sad people. He grew bored of all this hours ago, but there was simply nowhere to go. There never really was. He sighs loudly and reaches a hand into his Osh Kosh B’Gosh overalls, wrapping his fingers tight around an iPod Nano. “Take me away from this place,” he silently whispers to himself. He unravels the earbuds, closes his eyes and hits play.
“I like my kisses down low, makes me arch my back…” a warm voice gently coos in his ears. Finally, a moment he could actually feel. In this moment, he feels infinite.
“Okay, now give me something more!” the director cries out.
“HA!” Legendtina cries, bending down into a squat and smirking.
“Why do you keep on doing that? It looks like you’re taking a dump. Get up, Christina! GET UP! Shake your ass or, just–I don’t fucking know. DO something!”
“ALL…I…WANNA…DO…IS FEEL THIS MOMENT!” Legendtina howls while still mid-squat, throwing her hands back and outstretching her arms.
“What the fuck are you doing with your arms?!” he screeches back.
“The unbreakable flower in me, I now…SET FREE!” she roars while standing up quickly.
Without warning, she unzips her tight leather jacket to reveal a vast sea of unsold copies of Lotus tucked into her bosom, now spilling out all over the floor. “Rise up, lotus! Rise! SAY!”
The director lets out a pained groan. “This isn’t working.”
Suddenly, Legendtina drops her arms and looks down. She seems defeated—distraught even, staring into the cold void of the glossy floor.
“Can you excuse me for just a moment?” she mumbles quietly, I guess I’m just not really feeling this moment.”
“Yeah, whatever,” says the director, lighting a cigarette. Don’t be so hard on her, he thinks to himself. Remember: Bionic happened.
The buxom songstress sways over to Baby Max, frowns and tucks him away into the promotional Mi Reflejo papoose.
“Tonight, I feel a little out of control,” she murmurs aloud. “Is this me?”
Strange. The way her voice trailed off at the end almost sounded like a…threat. “I don’t know. Is that even a question? I’ll see you in 15.”
The legend doesn’t respond–she simply straps Baby Max onto her back, flips her hair and struts toward the door; the fading clack of her Louboutins signaling her exit from the studio. Minutes later, the director is now hunched in his fold-up chair, hurriedly dialing Sony Records in New York City.
“Marketing division,” he says curtly into the phone.
“Chuck? Yeah. Put me on speaker,” he commands. “Whole team there? Good. Now listen, folks: She’s insufferable. She keeps throwing gum at the camera and addressing the interns as ‘fans.’ There are lipstick stains all over the mirrors. I don’t know why, but there’s gooey confetti all over her trailer. It’s a fucking mess. I don’t know what to do with her.”
He lights another cigarette and continues to unload. He didn’t go to Tisch for this bullshit.
“Did anyone ever hear back from that ex-Pussycat Doll? We could still green screen her in here. I don’t even give a fuck anymore. You guys got Britney Spears to pull on her ponytail for 5 seconds on that shitty “Scream & Shout” remix video and now she’s #1 in every country across the world. no. No, I know this one’s not nearly that legendary. It’s not like this bitch has been seen on the Hot 100 since–” He’s interrupted by the sound of something metallic. He looks down–a tube of Blu-Red LipSense rolling by on the floor. He stops and pauses for a moment, feeling it closely.
And wait: What was that smell? Is that–a Cool Ranch Doritos Loco?! But lunch was hours ago, and it was catered by Nadine’s Irish Mist. From behind, a long fingernail reaches out and taps his shoulder.
“Ho-hold down a second,” he stutters while turning around — he screams, dropping his phone.
Back at Sony, the entire marketing team exchange wide-eyed glances of terror across the table as the scream bursts from the conference phone. They’ve heard that panic from others. No doubt, they’ll hear it again.
“Wait. What are you doing?! Hold on,” the director’s voice rings out. “Why?!” Another scream, louder this time. Outside in the hallway, Keri Hilson looks up from her mop, wipes her brow and puts her ear to the door of the conference room. “Please,” the director’s voice trembles. “Please! I swear–we’re going to make up for the album sales together. You and me. We’ll put you on a song with someone more relevant, like Katy Perry or Demi Lovato!” Another scream. “Please–no. What are you doing with that bat?! Not my body. NOT MY BO–”
“SAY!”
A cackle emanates from the conference room speakers, ringing out through the entire building. And then nothing.
LIGHTS, CAMERA…LOTUS.