Bedlam 2

Authors Note:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The premise for this story, a rap video shoot, was suggested by a reader. I hope I've managed to bring their concept to life satisfactorily.

Bedlam

Prologue:

The hospital known as 'Our Lady's Blessed Sanctuary', or by its shortened form 'Refuge' had closed in late 1987, the last of its long-term patients transferred to the newly built county psychiatric hospital a few miles closer to the city.

It was bought by a property developer who had aspirations of turning it into luxury apartments but planning complications eventually put and end to that ambition. Seeking to recoup his expenditure on the dilapidated building, the developer hit upon the idea of retaining its medical furnishings and hiring it out as a location for TV shows, movies and even as a location for themed parties and conventions.

When the rap duo knows as 'Punish-herz' decided to make a comeback attempt after ten years semi-retirement, preparing for the release of the latest track, Bedlam, from their album of the same name, the former hospital seemed an ideal location.

Krush and Cill were both in their early forties now and had happily left the music business behind them, content to enjoy the fruits of their earlier success. However, the cost of this retirement plan soon outstripped their net worth, both of them having much of their assets taken in messy divorces. So, they had begun the journey back into the public eye, spending weeks recording their tracks in the studio. All they needed now was a top-notch video with which to launch their triumphant return.

Their manager, keen for his clients to return to success, had organised a crew for the filming with a director, multiple cameramen and technicians, a team of four backing dancers, make up, costumes, the duo's two security guards and even catering. All this along with the hiring of the hospital set for twenty-four hours. It should have been easy, everyone involved being consummate professionals. However, the shoot hadn't gone well, Krush and Cill continually missing their marks, fluffing their attempts to lip sync to their track. The video endured take after take as the director, Allen, worked to get it right. But as the day drew on, tiredness among the entire crew further disrupted their efforts to get things right.

Chapter One:

"Christ if I have to listen to this song one more fucking time," the cameraman, John, muttered to Allen as the director waved at the sound technician to cut the feedback.

"Don't worry, that's the last shot of them rapping. We're nearly done... at least I hope so," Allen replied, his own frustration in the project very evident in his stance and tone.

"What the fuck is it even about? I've heard it a hundred times today and I still don't get it," another camera operator, Maggie, chimed in as she joined the two men.

"I asked the same question when their manager played it for me," Allen explained, "Apparently it's a discourse on the country's failing health system and the chaos that this failure inflicts on its vulnerable citizenry."

"You... are... shitting me," John said in total disbelief, "I thought these guys were all about 'bitches, guns, money and hoes' and all that crap."

"Seems they are looking to reach a more enlightened audience," Allen said, his voice betraying his doubts in how successful that endeavour would be.

"Yeah, well I can't see Generations Z and Alpha going for this shit," Maggie said shaking her head.

"And that's why they are paying us shit money to make this shit show," Allen said wryly.

Allen then waved the two operators away as he spotted the rapper's manager striding towards him. Dressed in a three-piece suit that probably cost more than Allen's car, the musicians' manager didn't look happy.

"How much longer?" he snapped irritably, "This has gone into overtime now, it's costing me a fortune."

Allen rubbed at his face, and then turned to his monitor, scrolling through what had been recorded so far. Blearily he turned back to face the fuming manager, clearing his throat as he did in an effort to focus his tired mind.

"Okay, look I need some more shots, the girls dancing around the two guys, some shots of them entering the ward in their hospital gowns. That kind of thing." He waved a hand towards the eerily empty hospital room, six metal framed hospital beds lining the two walls with an accoutrement of ancient looking medical devices and monitors beside the beds.

"And we need everyone for this?"

"Umm, no," Allen pondered the question. "You want to save money then I need the four girls, my two camera techs and that's it, well Krush and Cill also obviously. The lighting is in place, I can run the track over what I film so I don't need the boom for sound. You can even send that catering crew home. Have them all collect their equipment tomorrow."

"Fine, well as you need Krush and Cill, I'll be leaving their security here as well." The manager checked his watch bad temperedly, tapping at the face for emphasis. "I'm hours late for a call to the East coast, I'm out of here. Tell the boys I'll talk to them tomorrow." With that he swung back towards the assembled crew, snapping out orders that saw the majority of them drift away, relieved their long day was over.

<0>

"You done this before?" Lance asked Jamal.

Jamal was Krush's security guard, he'd grown up with the two rappers, leaving the gang life he'd led for the first twenty years of his life, to join Punish-herz as their head of security. After the duo had wound down their careers, Krush had kept Jamal on, out of friendship more than a need. Jamal hadn't been the best of his employees. Sure, he was big, strong and intimidating, everything you'd want in a bruising security guard. His fondness for chemical stimulation however made him unreliable and if he hadn't been a childhood friend then he'd have been kicked to the kerb years before.

As the years had passed, his bulk had grown, now fat and loose flesh hung on his corpulent frame where once it had been muscle and sinew. His bosses had taken more of an interest in remaining fit and healthy, habit more than necessity. Jamal had never seen a particular need to keep himself in shape though.

Lance was a new face. He'd taken over as Cill's personal protection but the young black man had very little experience in the role. Two years before he had been a star player on his high school football team but protecting a quarterback wasn't exactly an in-demand skillset once he'd graduated. He'd only landed this job because he was willing to work cheap and the rap duo's manager had an eye for a bargain. Lacking in experience Lance found himself listening and following the older black man's lead at every turn.

"Fuck yeah, dis is nuthin'. You should'a been on the crew when we launched the first album. That was some crazy shit back then." Jamal leaned back in the chair he occupied, flicking a peanut up into the air, catching it in his open mouth as it fell back to earth. There had been a bowl of peanuts sitting on the refreshments table and he had liberated a handful to relieve the boredom.

"I was six when the first album came out" Lance protested.

"Yeah, yeah," Jamal said talking over him, "Well trust me it was off the hook. Wall to wall bitches and blow. Best fuckin' year of my life."

Lance turned to look at the four young women currently performing for the cameras, dancing an intricate set as they crossed over beds and down the aisle between them. All four had been outfitted in skimpy nurse's outfits, too tight tops that plunged down at the front to reveal black bras beneath. Short skirts that rode high up their thighs, each raised leg and bending manoeuvre revealing flashes of the black underwear and stockings they wore. The young black man looked on in appreciation as each of the women continued to perform their dance moves in the four-inch heels that completed the outfits.

"Not much wrong with what I'm seeing," he commented to Jamal.

The lighting that had been set up for the shoot generated a wave of heat that bore down on the remaining members of the company. The old hospital itself was chilly, especially now as night was drawing in but this particular room was more akin to a boiler room than a hospital ward. The four dancers had a sheen to their skin that was only partly down to the oil they'd had applied to their flesh as part of the make-up.

"Oh, they fine as fuck, 'cept of course they is too good to talk to the likes of us," Jamal replied. "Didn't used ta be dat way, I used to tap almost as much as the talent did" he jerked a thumb towards the two rappers in case Lance was in any doubt as to whom the talent was before continuing to bemoan his change in circumstances.

"Course I was younger then, not as much of me to love neither" he patted his stomach almost affectionately, "but I got to feed this mutha fucker every fucking day." At this his hand ceased to pat his stomach and grabbed instead at his crotch. Jamal bellowed out a laugh as Lance turned his head away in embarrassment. The younger man spotted one of the dancers, Olya he thought her name was, looking over at the source of the laughter. Her face crinkled in disgust as she observed Jamal pawing at his crotch.

"Yeah, don't think you've made any friends among these dancers, that's for sure" he said turning back to Jamal.

"Fuck 'em" the big man commented breezily, flicking up another peanut into the air.

Both men had wasted an hour earlier in the day attempting to flirt with the women but they had been continually rebuffed. Jamal had taken it especially hard, one of the women referring to him as 'old' a number of times as she knocked back his advances.

"Back in the day, they'd have been fuckin' throwin' themselves at us. Now they got all high n' fuckin' mighty. Not that they got any call for it, we're stuck here cos they aint cuttin' it performing." Jamal cleared his throat, looked around for somewhere to spit, shards of peanut clinging to the inside of his mouth. Not finding a spot convenient he just spat over his shoulder before turning back to Lance.

"Yeah, I guess." Lance answered, then he nodded towards where Krush and Cill stood. "The bosses don't look too happy either."

Indeed, both rappers looked like they wished they were anywhere else than here. Jamal nodded thoughtfully before lumbering his considerable bulk towards his meal tickets.

"Need anythin' doin' boss," he rumbled at Krush. Krush didn't even look at his security, he just shook his head, eyes fixed on the dancers.

The two men had once been at the top of their music genre, packing out huge concerts as they'd bounced around shirtless on stage, hordes of adoring fans screaming out their names. Now they just looked... older, wearier. Not physically tired, more mentally worn out. Jamal felt a particular concern as he looked at the two men. They were after all, all that stood between him and having to find a real job.

"He's gonna scrap it again," Cill ventured an opinion as he looked at the directors face.

"I can't stay here any longer. This is the shit that made me quit the business before," Krush replied. "Those bitches just look fucking bored out there. This is gonna take all night."

Jamal, still looming nearby felt an idea slowly coalesce in his brain. He turned back to where Lance stood, his stride more determined than when he'd waddled over to the rappers.

"C'mon kid, we got work to do," he said.

<0>

Jamal held up the small vial between his thick sausage fingers, looking at the clear liquid contained within it.

"What are we doing again?" Lance looked around at the remnants of the video crew, all of whom were focused on the production and not at the two black men standing at the refreshments table.

"We're doing what we is paid for, protecting the talent," Jamal answered irritably. "Krush says those women need to take the stick outa their asses, get their bodies movin' an' I got jest the thing to make that happen."

Lance looked dubiously at the vial of liquid, flicking at it with a finger before Jamal snatched it out of reach. "So, what does this stuff do anyway?" At school Lance had been a mediocre student, his talent lying on the football field. The only thing he knew about chemistry was that he'd been flunking it until his coach had persuaded some nerd to 'tutor' Lance... and do most of his homework as well. Tall, fairly good looking and with a broad set of shoulders, Lance had never let something like a lack of intelligence get in the way of doing what needed to be done.

"This makes Spanish Fly look like aspirin," Jamal declared confidently.

"Spanish fly, it's like crushed up insects, bug juice?" Lance looked horrified.

"Fuck kid, how fuckin' dumb are you? It's a fucking stimulant, an' it'll set a fire burnin' in those stuck-up dancer's asses, fuckin' trust me." Jamal snapped the vial open and poured the contents into a jug of fresh apple juice before he set the jug and four glasses onto a tray.

"Pick that up an' follow me. Those bitches look thirsty," Jamal ordered Lance.

"No, no, no.... fuck it. Cut, cut!" Allen called out despairingly, waving his hands in the air. "Girls, you're killing me here. Where's the energy? Where's the animation? Just... just take a break, we'll all take five minutes."

Olya, Victoria, Mercedes and Sophia heaved a collected sigh of relief before they flounced away from the cameras. All four of them were hating this job however work was work and they'd see it out, especially since they were getting overtime pay now.

"Allen's a genius," Olya commented, "But this whole thing stinks like something from twenty years ago. It's just old fashioned, nothing fresh about it at all." Olya was the eldest of the women at over thirty although you couldn't tell from her appearance. Long dark brown hair and matching brown eyes coupled with an olive-skinned complexion spoke volumes of her Greek heritage. At five foot seven she was also the tallest of the four women, her long legs and slender figure making her a poster child for a professional dancer.

"I don't know if he's a genius but he is definitely a tyrant," Victoria complained in a clipped eastern European accent. "He thinks he can bark orders at us and we will jump through hoops like circus dogs." She picked up a towel, running it through her waist length black hair before scooping up a brush and handheld mirror to check its condition. "What is he doing sending the make-up women home? Do I get paid extra now for doing my own tidying up? I think not!" Her almost black eyes flashed fire at her compatriots, daring them to argue with her but sensibly none did. She wasn't much shorter than Olya, possessing a build that was remarkably similar to the older woman. The only difference between them was the extra decade of years that Olya had. Even their skin tone seemed alike although Victoria's was obtained from hours spent tanning against Olya's natural complexion.

The shortest of the four women, Sophia, looked up from the floor where she had collapsed, tearing off her heels as soon as she had, wriggling her toes as if to encourage blood flow back into them. "Well, I agree with you both. This whole situation sucks." Blonde, buxom and with a slightly vacuous expression permanently adopted, she appeared to possess the qualities that every man dreamt of when describing their ideal porn star date.

"And what happened to those Punish-herz guys? I mean... they got so... old. I used to have such a thing for Cill. Now, now he looks more like my Uncle Henry," the last of the dancers quipped as she went through a series of stretches to keep her muscles warmed up. Mercedes had a tight muscled body that was the result of hours each week spent in the gym. She did it all, weights, cardio, Pilates, yoga. Her real aim in life was to work full time at a gym of her own but for now, dancing paid the bills. Some at least.

"Your Uncle Henry is black?" Sophia looked at Mercedes in disbelief. Mercedes in turn contemplated the blonde girl with a look that showed she wasn't a hundred percent sure if the young woman was putting on a dumb blonde impression as a joke or if she truly was that slow.

"No." she answered finally, shaking out her shoulder length dark wavy hair. "No, he isn't black. I just meant Cill, Krush as well, they look more like Uncles and Dads now than the edgy rappers I remember them as."

"So not black," Sophia asked again.

"Not. Black." Mercedes confirmed, flashing a smile at the other two women who were biting their lips to stop laughing.

"Oh shit, perv alert," Olya muttered as she spied the large figure of Jamal headed their way, his shadow Lance, trailing behind.

"I've had enough of his shit!" Victoria exclaimed. "What now? No, no I don't want back rub, or whatever else you offer. Get the message?" Her English became less fluid in her annoyance.

Jamal held up two fingers in the peace symbol. "Don't go bitin' me, I'm just here doin' my job," he said in a reasonable enough tone. "Catering staff have fucked off. Bin told ta keep you all hydrated," he explained, nodding his head at the bank of lights above them. At the same time Lance proffered the tray laden with apple juice and glasses toward the four women.

Sniffing derisively Olya picked up the glasses handing them out while Mercedes lifted the heavy jug, her bicep's growing taut as she did, filling each glass to the brim.

"Thank you," Sophia said in a sing song voice, raising the glass to her lips. The two men stepped away, Jamal turning his back on the women quickly so that his wicked grin would go unnoticed.

"Five minutes girls, five minutes" Allen called out, "And for fucks sake, bring it this time. I'd like to get this wrapped before I'm due to draw my pension. Hmmm?"

Chapter Two:

"Okay, look this is really simple so let's try get it in one take, how's that sound?" Allen looked at the four dancers who seemed unusually agitated, distracted even.

"Is it me or is it getting even hotter in here?" Mercedes whispered out of the corner of her mouth to Olya who gave a brusque nod in agreement. They both turned back to Allen who was explaining the set up.

"Right, each of you are lying in those four beds" he jabbed a finger at four of the hospital beds, each covered in crisp white sheets, a pillow atop each that also gleamed like ivory beneath the powerful lighting. "Then Krush and Cill will enter... ahh, guys you got a moment?" The two rappers stepped closer to Allen as he beckoned toward them.

"Guys, gonna need you to put on the hospital robes for this shot and ummm, just boxers on underneath if that's cool? Trying to keep it authentic, like you are both actually patients. Yeah?"

"Whatever man, if it gets this over then whatever," Cill said, pulling his clothing off as he spoke. Krush grunted and followed suit, both men soon down to black silk boxers only. One of the camera men handed a hospital gown to each of the rappers who looked bemused as they held the green clothes in their hands but nevertheless, they began to done them.

The four women had been glued to the sight of the two rappers stripping off. Despite their earlier scorn for the men getting older, there were no snarky comments as their still fit bodies were on display.

"Uncle Henry huh?" Olya commented, "I should meet this uncle of yours,"

"Shut. Up!" Mercedes hissed, embarrassed and angry.

"No, no," Sophia whispered, "Her uncle

isn't

black remember?"