'We are so vain that we even care for the opinion of those we don't care for' -- Marie Ebner von Eschenbach

1.1 -- The Court of the Drake: A Sidebar

When you're famous, people come out of the woodwork to 'help' you with things. Whether or not these people are, themselves, skilled at, well, anything doesn't matter. Whether or not you lived a perfectly self-sufficient life prior to garnering that fame doesn't factor into this decision. And the fact that you may not particularly want these people all up in your life? Yeah, did you expect to get any kind of choice here, bucko?

Bottom line, if you're a recognized public persona, you will have an entourage in this day and this age. It's an inescapable, immutable fact of your existence, even if your fame is only that of the Duncan Drakes of the world.

But heaven forbid if your fame comes, as Drake's does, from super-rich parents, being hella good-looking, and from frequent and oft-retold tales of your own douchebaggery. Because then not only will you not get much choice in having these people, but your parents will choose who they are, and the people they will choose to surround you with probably won't like you very much.

Such is the case with many of Duncan's very own staff, the so-called Court of the Drake. We'll meet some of them today in our excursion into the behind-the-scenes life of The Hollywood Hellion when the cameras aren't rolling.

(In other words, 'ZOMGSUPPORTINGCAST~!')

1.2 -- Asked and Answered: The Perils of Improvisation

First (Bait and switch! Unfair!), however, an interlude.

When a couple gets together that was as happy as Duncan Drake and MacKenzie Malone appeared to be, the first question that many people asked them is, 'Aww, how did you guys meet?' People seem fascinated with where people find what could be the love of their life, whether they met at the grocery store, in line for movie tickets, or even on the Internet. While this particular story is best saved for another time, what's odd was this footage, which aired right after Uproar on Showtime Interactive on SHO.com. It took place outside the wrestler's entrance of the Columbus Civic Center. A small throng of paparazzi snapped pictures of the Glitterati as they exit the building. Empty questions were thrown in their general direction. Here are a few:

'You call that an apology?'
'What do you say to fans looking forward to your wrestling debut this week?'
'Do you think Scott Spite will pursue any action against you, Ms. Malone?'
'Who are you wearing, MacKenzie?'
'What's your view on the writer's strike?'

All of them were ignored as the pair was hustled off to Duncan's cherry-red GTO. Flashbulbs popped, video cameras whirred -- footage of this would also be airing on those vapid entertainment 'news' shows in the morning.

But one question got through. It was asked by one of those smile-in-a-suit, couldn't-cut-it-as-an-anchorman interviewers. You know who we're talking about -- the interchangeably handsome talking micstands, all laughing smiles and slick hair. He could have worked for Entertainment Tonight or Access Hollywood (or both -- neither show would probably have any idea).

'MacKenzie! Duncan! How did you two meet?'

Until her disreputable YouTube debut, no one had ever heard of MacKenzie Malone. Duncan's dates were Those Girls in Hollywood; he'd been romantically linked to everyone from Tara Reid to Rod Stewart's daughter, Kimberly. None of them were considered serious, but there he was, just a few minutes ago, mackin' it with a dark-haired floozy known for making other men's huevos into rancheros.

Duncan and MacKenzie both stopped, the Hellion's hand on the passenger door handle. When they turned, the confidence they'd carried themselves with all night was a little bit more of a veneer than previously.

'We, uh...' Drake began.

'It was at the laundromat, right?' MacKenzie asked, turning up the wattage of her grin as she looked up at him with big green eyes.

'Like I'd ever go to a laundromat? No, it was at some CD release party...'

'Right! For Kieran's band!'

Duncan rolled his eyes. 'They're so bad.'

At the same time, MacKenzie's smile lost a little of its oiliness. 'He's such a talented... hey!' She smacked him in the arm. 'He's a friend of mine!'

'All I'm saying is, you're not surrounded by the musical elite, then.' Duncan pulled the door open. 'We should probably, uh, be going.' Duncan put one arm around MacKenzie, pulling her close. She looked up at him, and then she nodded quickly.

'Yeah, we... yeah, we definitely should.'

The entertainment news quickly told the story of the fairy-tale meeting at the CD release party for the major label debut of the death-metal band called 'The Vanquished'. The next news cycle, something more important happened, and the question became file footage.

Trouble was, it was all bullshit.

1.3 -- The Court of the Drake: Introducing Noah Solomon, Agent to the Stars!(tm)

One of the good things about being as rich is that you don't have to fly commercially. When you have a jet of your own at your beck and call, even the luxury of flying first class becomes a hassle (I mean, really, having to fly when the airlines want you to -- come on!).

Duncan Drake wasn't rich enough (yet) to have his own airplane, but his parents were, and they were more than happy to let their only son use it (especially if that meant that he'd go the hell away when he was in certain... moods).

The interior of a private jet is the ultimate in flying luxury. When you can gut a Lear jet of all those pesky 'passenger' seats, it leaves quite a bit of space for your own little home. The Drake Family jet was a lot more subdued than Duncan probably preferred, the interior decorated in teak and soft tan leather, with a seating area (seats six comfortably) on one side and a small office for Duncan's father, pharmaceutical maverick Maxwell Drake, to do his business while flying on the other. A small kitchen (currently stocked chiefly with booze) took up the entire back of the jet. If the flight attendants' outfits were a little clingier than they were when his father used the plane, that was almost certainly not Duncan's fault.

As for Drake, he spent most of the time on any long flight asleep; he had since he was a very young child. The fact that he now had the opportunity to sleep sprawled across a row of three contoured leather seats only made this more likely, sleep mask in place over his face.

This did not mean the desk (nor the Bluetooth-enabled phone dock) went unused. Seated there was a squat, square, balding man in a finely tailored suit. On the desk in front of him sat a woman in a black leather miniskirt and a sparkly halter-top. The man's remaining hair was a shade of brown that often drew pitiable comparisons to things we narrators are too gentlemanly to state outright. His face didn't sag at all -- didn't move hardly at all, in fact -- thanks to the wonders of Botox, which also froze his smile to his face.

Meet Noah Solomon, Agent to the Stars! (The exclamation point is on the nameplate on his office door and on his business cards.) He chomped mercilessly on a stick of nicotine gum as he spoke, his accent like a New Yorker who'd smoked for thirty years (which was not a coincidence).

'Yeah... no, he's here, man. Noshit, Duncan Fuggin' Drake, professional wrasslin' dynamo.' Chomp-chomp-chomp. 'Dunno. Some Chinaman. We'll learn 'is name 'n' shit later on this week.'

The woman's foot was on the chair between Noah's legs, her eyes half-lidded and her breasts the size of a child's head. She said nothing, just giggling as Noah ran his hand down her thigh.

'Nah, nah. You tell 'at fuggin' prick he's gunna hafta up 'is price now. Dunk's on the tee-vee every week.' The woman tucked her finger and thumb under Noah's chin. 'Nah, it's on cable or somethin'. Showtime, Skinamax.' He waved a hand. 'Somethin' like that. Tell 'im to check his local schedule for air dates an' times.'

Noah's grin stretched (well, as much as it could, thin lips over perfectly straight teeth). 'Yeh, his girl's a piece'a ass, too.' Solomon snorted a chuckle. 'Death metal? You mean noshit death death metal?' He glanced over to Drake, laying facedown on the leather seat, one foot and one arm off the seats, the other arm covering his head. 'Yeh, yeh. I'll talk at 'im. I'm tellin' ya, man. Three-five an' we'll be there to douchebag right on yer host's face. It'll be a ratings bonanza. Get back at me.'

Noah pressed one hand to his ear, terminating the call. He stood up, the nameless blonde wrapping her so-tan-that-they're-almost-orange arms around his neck. 'Now... where was we?' he asked.

'I believe,' she said, her voice whisper-soft and barely conscious. 'We were christening the desk.'

'First? Totally christened,' Drake mumbled from the nearby seats, lips pressed against leather. 'Second, you do that, and I'll throw you both out of the plane.'

'Dunk!' Noah said, stepping backwards in surprise. 'Allie and I were jus'...'

'Don' wanna know, Noah,' Drake muttered.

The woman, Allie, straightened her top, smiling towards the immobile form of the Hellion. 'Hi, Mr. Drake. I'm Allison. I don't believe we've met?'

'We don't have to.' Drake didn't bother to move, or even to look up. 'You're blond, hot, fake tits, fake tan, thirty-something. Probably brought a dimebag on my plane.'

Allison was all of those things.

'Damn, man,' Noah laughed. 'Am I that predictable?'

Duncan did not answer. Noah dropped the girl off when the plane landed. He told her he would call.

He would not do any such thing.

1.4 -- Information Without Context

Two giant tape decks recorded a conversation -- actually, they recorded every conversation, inbound and outbound, from a number of telephone lines. These conversations were collated, listened to, flagged for certain keywords, and brought to the attention of people who actually listened for these sort of things. There were never two analysts on duty at the same time; there were never crossing shifts. For all each analyst knew, they were the only one assigned to this project; they were hired from a strange ad in the local newspaper. The advertisement appeared in the classified section in precisely thirteen cities over the course of thirteen weeks.

Within an hour of the following conversation, it was brought to their employer's attention. The analysts who were sorting through takeout orders, Thanksgiving well wishes and familial chitchat did not know to whom they were reporting. They simply transferred the recording into .mp3 format and uploaded it to a website that they only knew the IP address for. Once, an analyst took the time to search for the address, cross-referencing it to find out what the site was in their spare time at home.

It was a pornography video site. There was no sign of the .mp3 file on the site anywhere, even though they all knew what the file was named. The analyst was replaced the next day. He is currently an active missing persons case.

The following transcript is of a conversation recorded the evening of Monday, November 19, 2007. As with all of the so-called 'keystone' conversations, one of the speakers was a low-voiced woman and the other speaker's voice was artificially distorted (they have never been able to remove the distortion).

(The phone does not even fully ring once; there are no greetings.)
WOMAN: 'Are things proceeding?'
DISTORTED: 'In a general forward direction.'
WOMAN: 'That is not a very promising answer.'
DISTORTED: 'It's a very delicate situation, this early in the game.'
WOMAN: 'It always is. The subject?'
DISTORTED: 'Is pliable, thus far.'
WOMAN: 'And suspicions?'
DISTORTED: 'None that I'm aware of.'
WOMAN: 'That does not mean there are none.'
DISTORTED: 'I didn't say there weren't.'
WOMAN: 'I trust you will make sure there are none. This is when it is most critical.'
DISTORTED: 'I know what I'm doing.'
WOMAN: 'I did not say you did not. Merely reiterating the need for caution.'
DISTORTED: 'Stop treating me like --.'
(The call abruptly terminates.)

Once the call was flagged as a keystone conversation (the analysts never knew where the term came from, they simply used it because their employers did), the transfer to the website took an hour.

1.5 -- Thanksgiving Doesn't Come Only To the Poor

MacKenzie Malone was not on the private jet with Duncan Drake and his Court because she was elsewhere. This seems rather obvious, but one wonders what could separate a pair as inseparable as the self-proclaimed Glitterati.

Thanksgiving is not just for the poor, however.

People think that, just because Arizona is located in perhaps the most inhospitable portion of the contiguous United States, and that it's well-known for reaching 110° for a hundred-plus consecutive days, that it's always hot. The problem is, that during the late fall and throughout the winter, the desert is cool to downright cold at night. The wind catches from outside the city, and, without a convenient forest to stop it, is funneled through the Valley of the Sun to make it the Valley of the Brrr.

So it was this evening that MacKenzie sped down the US 60 in her shiny new Cadillac SRX, the windows rolled up and the heat on. The Belle of the Ball did not look the part this evening, favoring only (if by 'only,' you mean, 'they probably still cost more than you'll spend to eat food in a week') 7 For All Mankind's Tri-Colored A-Pocket Jeans and a white tuxedo shirt, her black as pitch hair bound back by a silver clasp.

She pulled off, swinging into an easily accessible apartment complex, sliding easily out of the luxury SUV. A tuneless whistle came to her lips as she bopped her way to a particular building -- Building #7, for those of you keeping score at home. She hopscotched up the steps, a white paper bag in her left hand, illuminated by the pale fluorescent lights along the side of the building. It's a simple, low-rent complex; the paint is peeling off the walls, and this close to the freeway, the sound would come at all hours.

'Knock-knock-knockity,' said her knuckles on the door.

A middle-aged man, his sandy-brown hair backlit by a pair of strong lamps, opened the door in a whoosh, so quickly that the brash Malone started -- just a little.

'MacKenzie Jean Malone,' the man growled.

MacKenzie stood there, stock-still -- if you look up the phrase 'deer in headlights,' this is what you'd see for a picture.

'You!' He pointed with one thick finger. But he could not hold a straight face; a grin broke lines across his weathered features. 'Are early for Thanksgiving for the first time in your whole life!' He stepped out into the pale lights, enfolding the smaller woman in his thick arms. 'Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?'

Feebly, MacKenzie flailed her arms. Her response is muffled, spoken into her father's wool sweater.

'I... I brought cookies.'

Thanksgiving doesn't come only to the poor, but it does come to them, too.

1.6 -- First Fliers

Fliers were distributed around Oklahoma City frequently for events like the one that was coming to the Ford Center this weekend. Concerts, cage fighting, horseracing, motocross -- everyone wanted a piece of the entertainment pie.

This being Thanksgiving Weekend, a horde of kids with fliers would be at malls throughout the OKC, reminding people that some choice tickets were still available for this Saturday's UPROAR.

Not being one to miss a chance for advertising of that nature, Noah Solomon sent his own people out starting Wednesday morning. There were fewer of them than the others, certainly, and most of them had the 'slap to get your attention and pass the paper' technique picked up from time spent handing out pornography on the Las Vegas Strip.

These fliers looked similar to those that reminded folk about other events, but they were a little more... narrowly focused.

The fliers read as follows:

Following public protests, the fliers were pulled Wednesday evening.