Nick Juliet Investigations & The Case of the Golden Starlet (Chapter 2, Apr 8th)

[PeculiarChangeling]

Written for @cute little kokiri girl, using the Youthlock ideas and setting explained in this post!

Our plan is to release about a chapter a month, so strap in!

 

 

Chapter 1

I can tell a lot about a broad by what troubles she decides are worth my time to solve. 

To put it in terms any Joe could understand, my services don’t come cheap, and I’m not in the business of looking glamorous. Sometimes a dame will wander in telling me how her cat’s gone missing, and it’s not because she’s mistaken me for a newsie looking to make cash on the side, it’s because she’s got too much dough and not enough sense. 

On the other hand, if I have a dame come in telling me her husband’s gone missing, that tells me something else–if she were rich, she’d be hiring some glitzy gumshoe who’s got his name in the papers, assuming she didn’t just place a donation or two to get the coppers on the job. You don’t come to the only youthlocked detective in Los Angeles because you’re just stirring up trouble.

And that’s me–Nick Juliet, Private Eye. Don’t let my looks fool you, I might need to sit on a phonebook to use my desk and I’ve still not finished potty training, but I’ve been old enough to drink since prohibition ended, and if you take me for a kid, I’ll take you for a ride. 

It was just about closing time when the latest doll waddled into my office, looking cute as a button. She had it all–golden hair that curled up like a coiled spring around her shoulders, eyes like blue puddles, wearing a little pink number with lace that just wouldn’t quit. She stood maybe three feet tall even in her patent leather heels, but even though I could hear her diaper crinkle as she crossed my office, I knew this wasn’t any little child who’d wandered in off the street.

Youthlocks aren’t common, but we aren’t all that rare either. The lucky ones get all the way to nine or ten before they stop aging, when they’re tall enough to reach the middle shelves at the grocery store without jumping. At a glance, we look like kids, but you can tell us apart if you know what to look for. The diaper bulge is one thing; I can’t say why, but our potty training goes to squat when the youthlock sets in. There’s the walk, too. You spend thirty years practicing, you’ll have a swagger to your step that few tots will match.

In this case, though, I didn’t need any of my observation skills, just a pair of eyes. This wasn’t just any dame who’d walked in off the street, it was Shelly Chapel. The Shelly Chapel, the starlet with more than thirty hit films to her name. 

“You must be Nick Juliet,” she said, stopping in front of my desk. She had to stand on tip-toe to see over it, giving me a view that only showed her precocious eyes and a stare that’d stolen the hearts of audiences across the world. 

“And you’re Shelly Chapel,” I replied, glancing past her. My secretary had stepped out. Hopping down off my desk chair, I walked around, pulling out the seat for her. Prepared for a Youthlock, I had a spare book I kept on the edge of my desk at all times, but sizing up the actress, I quickly realized I’d need more height than just one book offered. Stacking a couple newspapers beneath it, I offered her a hand, pretending that I couldn’t spot her diaper beneath her dress as she got onto the boosted-up seat.

“I thought you’d be shorter,” she commented, looking down at me from her perch. I had a good six inches on her at least, the result of my youthlock setting in a couple years past hers. 

Walking back to my own seat, I clambered into my own chair, feeling the need for a pick-me-up. “How can I help you?” I asked, reaching into the pocket of my vest and producing a package of candy cigarettes. Extending one, I offered her first pick of the pack, but she shook her head. 

“They say you’re good at finding things,” Miss Chapel said, her golden hair flopping adorably over her shoulder as she tilted her head to eye me. It felt odd, seeing decades of suspicion in eyes that belonged to a preschooler’s face. “They say you’re discreet, too, but I don’t know much else about you.”

Setting the candy stick between my lips, I sat back, letting the slight sugar rush give me the energy I needed. “Funny thing about keeping secrets,” I said as chalky sugar dissolved down my tongue. “If you never share them, nobody ever knows how good you are at keeping them.” 

“Well.” Shelly nodded thoughtfully at my comment. “Thanks to the paparazzi, my life’s an open book. I can’t take a nap without a camera finding its way between the crib bars. For once, I’d like to be ahead of the tabloids.” 

I nodded, taking the notepad from my desk. “Ahead of the tabloids on what?”

“My manager, William Waters. He’s a chisel, and a bastard, and he’s trying to kill my career.” 

She sat back, eyeing me, as though waiting for me to call her crazy or question her story. I knew this part all too well. Dames who came in my door weren’t always looking for the truth, they just wanted to know that someone believed them.

I’d learned a lesson or two from the girls on fourth street: So long as they paid, it never hurt me to play the pal. Nodding, I clicked my pen a couple times, jotting down names. “Give it to me,” I prompted. “From the beginning.”

“You know who I am,” she began, stating it as an observation, not a question. I nodded anyway, and she continued, “I’ve been in the business for a long time–hell, I started playing six year olds when I was actually six. I’ve had the same manager for a decade and a half, and I’ve been at the same studio for the past eleven years. And let me tell you–I’m just about sick of it.” Her gaze drifted out the window looking wistful. 

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re done with acting?” 

“I’m done with Shelly Chapel,” she replied. “Little girl, sings and dances, cute as a button–it’s so goddamned sweet it makes me want to choke. I’ve been acting for my whole life, Mr. Juliet, but it seems like I’ve only ever been cast in one role.” 

Nodding, I chewed on my thoughts, and on the tip of the candy cigarette. “Alright. So what’s the problem?” 

“I’ve been auditioning for new roles,” Shelly explained, reaching down to dig into her purse. “And my manager–he’s worthless. He’s not able to do a damned thing for me. With my resume, I should be able to walk onto any set I please and get a part, but no, it’s like a kid wandered into a factory, they just want to coo over how cute I am and then usher me away. I was beginning to suspect something, and then this happened.” 

Producing a letter, she tossed it onto the desk. I leaned forward, unfolding the wrinkled paper and skimming the note. It was written in a tight cursive script, jotted down by someone with good penmanship.

Phone call from Candor Taurus of Erikson Productions, asked to pass along: 

He’s confused why you didn’t accept the part, but they’ve decided to go with someone else. He asked why you never responded, after you were so enthusiastic at the audition, but he had to make another choice to get production moving and couldn’t wait any longer.

I frowned. “Candor Taurus? The director of It Occurred One Evening?” Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “Why didn’t you respond?”

“Because, I never got told I’d been accepted!” she snapped bitterly. “Calls don’t come for me directly, I’m too busy to answer the phone on set. Typically, William will accept them for me and let me know if anything’s important, but my manager claims he never got this one.” 

“Who wrote the note?” I asked, holding up the paper she’d given me.

“One of the receptionists.” Shelly reached over, taking the message back. “If nobody’s around to take the call, they’ll pass along messages and have them delivered.”

“Could several messages have been missed?” I asked. “A few phone calls in a row?”

She shook her head, golden curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Impossible. If nobody picked up, his studio would call back. Someone got the message, and just didn’t pass it along to me.”

“Or several messages, by the sounds of it,” I said, frowning as I thought it over. “So, you think your manager killed your chance at a new role? Why would he do that?” 

“You know what his job is?” Shelly asked. When I shook my head, she explained, “It’s to sit around and collect a paycheck while I do all the work. A manager’s supposed to find new jobs for me, but we’ve been working on the same lot for more than a decade. All he’s had to do was get a bonus whenever someone calls up asking for an endorsement or product sponsorship–if I start working for new companies, taking on serious work, he’ll actually have to get off his ass for once. Clearly, he’d rather keep the easy ride going.” 

“So fire him,” I suggested. “You’re the biggest youthlock name in town, I’m sure there’s managers out there who’d blow their wig to scoop you up.” 

“He’s got me in a bulletproof contract,” she glowered. “Locked me into it before I was old enough to know better: If I fire him without cause, there’s a do-not-compete saying I can’t bring on anyone else. I need proof he screwed me so I can take his ass to court and hire his replacement.” 

I nodded, mulling it over. Her story sounded plausible, but I didn’t just take every plausible case that wandered in off the street, no matter how cute she looked when she gave me a pleading look. “Miss Chapel,” I began.

Her expression fell, then I saw the beginnings of an angry snarl. “You don’t believe me?” 

“I believe you,” I promised, quelling her anger, “But if you’re right, if your manager took the calls and then buried them, or he threw away notes from the telephone operators, that’s going to be almost impossible to prove. I’d need to get him to admit it, and it’s not often you’ll convince a man to incriminate himself. You’d be wasting your money if you hired me.” 

“But there’s a chance?” she asked, leaning forward. “Right?”

“Not a good chance.” I shook my head, biting the end of the candy cigarette into pieces and chewing on it. “Even if he’s got loose lips, once a private eye shows up on set and starts asking questions, he’ll clam up like a wet diaper in winter.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “I might be able to do something about that–I can get you onto set without it being too disruptive.”

“I don’t want to take your money and leave you without answers.” I shook my head, leaning back in my chair. 

Persisting, she dug into her purse again. “I understand. Payment up front, then.” Taking out a stack of bills, she dropped it onto my desk, where the fresh green cash sat between us. 

I frowned. I had a hard time saying no to dames in desperate straits, but I had an even harder time saying no to cash up front. Leaning forward, I took the wad of bills, riffling through them like a deck of cards. 

“What’s your plan to get me on set?” I asked, nodding. 

“Call you an extra,” she explained. “We’re filming a scene at an orphanage in two days. Kid actors are cheap, but they’re hard to work with–Youthlocks are better if you can find ‘em willing to act.” 

Thinking on it, I pursed my lips. “I don’t care to have my picture taken.”

“You’ll just be a kid in the room,” she promised. “Please, Mister Juliet. There’s nobody else I can trust with this.”

I considered a little longer, but my heart was already made up long before I nodded my head. “I’ll take the job,” I said. “Call my secretary, Miss Brown, tomorrow, get her the details for when the filming starts.” 

Smiling, she pushed to her feet, falling down to the floor. I could only see her eyes over the edge of my desk, but I saw relief in them. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” I replied, staying in my seat. “I still don’t think I’ll be able to get much out of him.” 

She waddled out of my office, skirt flouncing as she reached up to turn the handle on my frosted glass door.

I mulled things over while she left, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. A film set–a whole studio full of people who lied for a living, and a case that it’d be impossible to prove before any judge. 

(Why do I even take these jobs?) I thought to myself, sitting back and putting my feet up on the desk. There was something foul in the air about this whole situation, but I couldn’t place my finger on what. 

As I pondered, my door swung open a second time, but now it was a familiar face who walked in, carrying a paper sack. Margaret Brown, the best damned secretary on the west coast. She was just a little younger than me, but stood a solid two feet taller, actually looking like a woman in her mid twenties. 

“You’ll never guess who I walked by on the street!” She exclaimed, excitement shining on her face as she set down the sack. 

“You’d be surprised,” I replied coolly, hopping off my office chair and walking over to her. 

“Go on,” she prompted, removing a package of diapers from the bag. “Guess.”

“Shelly Chapel?” I suggested, eyeing the package. 

“No, it was–” she began, before pausing to look down at me. She sniffed, disappointed. “How’d you know?” 

“Because, we’ve got our next job,” I replied, reading the label. “‘Coddles’?” 

“It’s the new disposable diaper brand,” she explained smoothly, before guiding the conversation back on track. “We’re working for the Shelly Chapel?” 

“The one and only.” I frowned. “I don’t see what’s so bad about terry cloth and plastic–old fashioned diapers have never done me wrong in the past.” 

“You’re not the one who has to do your laundry,” she replied haughtily. “And, on that subject, I smell a soldier who needs a change–let’s get you freshened up, boss.” 

I rolled my eyes but took her hand, waddling behind her to the bathroom where she hefted me onto our changing table. Smiling as she undid my diaper, Margaret asked, “So, what did the little starlet want?” 

Crossing my arms and wrinkling my nose, I stared at the ceiling. I could have changed myself, but Margeret was faster and did a better job, so I took the opportunity to get her help whenever I could. “She wants to be taken seriously.”

“Oh?” Margaret inquired, mostly making the sound as a prompt for me to keep going while she wiped my thighs clean. “Bottoms up.”

Pushing to raise my hips off the table, I let her pull my diaper away and wipe to get everything else clean. “She says someone’s sabotaging her career, trying to keep her out of serious film.” 

Margeret nodded, dusting me down with fresh baby powder, filling the room with an overbearing cloud of perfumed talcum. “And do you think she’s right?” 

“I don’t know.” I pondered it quietly for a little while as Margeret folded up my new diaper, taping it down. I still didn’t see the issue with good, old-fashioned cloth diapers, but the sticky tapes did seem to be easier to apply. “I don’t trust her.”

“Really?” Margaret seemed genuinely surprised as she sat me upright and moved to wash her hands. “Shelly Chapel? That girl seems like she’s a saint in her films.” 

“That’s the thing about actresses,” I replied. “She’s made a career out of trying to be someone she’s not–so, call me skeptical, but I’m not taking a bite ‘til I know that the sweet isn't just there to cover up something sour.” 

 

...

Support for this fiction is provided by readers like you!

 

https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl

https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

[PeculiarChangeling]

Author Commentary:

(Gonna try doing some author commentary/lite-blog posts like this!  Let me know what you think and if you want to see more of these!)

Sometimes a concept just comes together with just a little push, and this was one of those cases!

Little  Kokiri Girl reached out to me to talk about some commission ideas, and  when she pitched me the idea of a classic noir mystery with an ABDL  twist, I was on board.

Youthlock as a concept is something she came up with, a world where some people stop aging and have to deal with a few  additional ABDL-styled problems, like incontinence and needing a crib so  they don't fall out of bed. I think it fits really well with these  sorts of genre blending stories. I enjoy playing around with different  elements in my fiction, and in this case, I got to mix in some really  fun genre tropes and 30's slang and language, adapting them all to the  youthlock twist. Once I had the general premise, ('A youthlocked  hollywood star hires Nick for a case',) a lot of elements just fell into  place - I knew immediately who I wanted to base the star on.

I think everyone will probably guess  who "Shelly Chapel" is an allusion to, even without all the historical  parallels in her backstory. The real child star had a history of dealing  with contract issues and underpayment from studios, which played nicely  into the mystery angle of the story. Using that as inspiration gave me  all sorts of ideas for a fictionalized backstory for Shelly which plays  into the intrigue - some of which you'll have to wait and see in future  chapters.

On the other hand, I'm not sure if anyone will guess  all the name references I buried into the studio and director - even if  you figure out who I'm drawing a parallel to, guessing why I chose the  substitute names is probably going to be tricky. Sometimes I write  little in-jokes just for myself, and this is definitely one of those  cases.)

Really, writing AB/DL with Noir just ended up being a  peanut butter & chocolate style marriage of ideas. Kokiri Girl had  the idea for Nick to use candy cigarettes, which just perfectly blends  the gritty noir with the juvenile elements, and I think the relationship  between him and his assistant/nanny just kind of hit its stride right  out of the gate.

I'm really excited to continue this one, and I'm excited to see what y'all think, too. ^^

 

https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl

https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling

[BabySofia]

I really like where you're going with this! Glad she was able to connect with you! I look forward to more! 🙂

[PeculiarChangeling]

Chapter 2

“Animal Wafers in my Stew–” 

I rolled my eyes slightly as I watched the picture show, leaning back against Margeret’s chest and popping a candy cigarette between my lips.

There was a distinct difference between the Shelly I’d met the day before and the Shelly on screen. The actress in my office had been adorable, certainly, but she’d had a certain dignity to her that distinguished the woman from the child her body resembled. Her outfit, though pink and cute, had been refined, professional. 

On-screen Shelly, though? She’d fallen from a tree and hit every adorable branch on the way down. Her hair had curls whose flouncing ignored gravity, and her blush stood out even on the grainy film.

It wasn’t just the makeup that made her stand out, though: The dame had pipes. Three feet tall and singing her little youthlocked heart out, she somehow managed to blend the talent that came with decades of singing experience and a genuine youthful energy, never making her role seem artificial. She sounded perfect, and between her wardrobe and her fluid dancing, you’d never know there was a diaper nestled beneath her puffy bloomers if you didn’t know what to look for. 

Even knowing her, having met her in person and seen her real self, I would’ve sworn that the girl on screen was just a precocious child with a prodigious singing voice. 

It made me wonder what else an actress could lie about.

We’d hit a matinee screening. Margeret had come with me, posing as my mother so I could get free admission. I normally sat on her lap so I could see over the heads of anyone in front of us, but today the effort wasn’t really needed; the theater was practically empty. Still, a few inches of extra elevation afforded a better view.

I watched the film with a careful eye. Silly songs and dance performances weren’t much my speed, but I wanted to get into Shelly’s head, into the world she lived in. 

Her costar wandered into the scene–Candice Wick, a woman in her early twenties who towered above her diminutive costar. They were playing cousins, I was reasonably sure, though these two had been paired off together in dozens of films over the years, and their relationship always felt like an afterthought. Twins, back in the early days when they’d looked the same age, then big sister and little sister, then adult and child siblings, as the age gap grew more and more pronounced. 

They had chemistry on screen, the sort of familiar banter you’d expect from a double act who’d been working together for more than a decade. The whole piece was too syrupy for my taste–I had a sweet tooth, but Shelly’s films were pure anodyne, cotton candy celluloid. Not exactly my tempo, but I couldn’t deny the craftsmanship and acting chops on display. 

And that smile–when Shelly flashed her grin to the camera, perfectly cutesy, innocent and adorable–I knew why she’d become the face of a media empire. 

The film ended on an expected note–the poor orphan girl got adopted into her cousin’s family, the day was saved, the mayor got re-elected, everyone lived happily ever after. Margaret and I left the theater in the early afternoon, holding hands in case anyone started asking questions about our alleged ‘mother-son’ relationship. 

“It’s about time to get to set,” I commented, checking my watch. “Mind dropping me off?”

Margeret nodded, still smiling at the end of the film. She held my hand a little tighter than was strictly necessary as we crossed the street to the car, another indication of her chipper attitude. I knew she didn’t think anything of it, but when Margeret got in one of her happy moods, she had a habit of mothering me a bit too much. 

Trying to gently steer her back into a business mindset, I added, “You notice anything about that last film?” 

“What?” she asked, glancing down at me as she opened the rear door of her car, helping me inside. The car was in my name, and strictly speaking I had a license, but it was easier to just let her drive–unless I felt like being pulled over a few times per drive so that a cop could ask why I’d taken daddy’s car for a joyride. “Oh, no, what was it? The film seemed perfectly sweet to me.”

“The film did, sure,” I replied. “It’s the audience–or the lack of one. The film came out this week, you’d expect more of a crowd.”

“It is a matinee,” she pointed out. “Lots of folks are at work.”

“Sure,” I said. “But still–we were the only two there, and we only went because we were being paid.” 

“Mmmm,” Margaret said, starting up the Chrysler. I caught the skepticism in her tone–I’d said something only partly true. I reconsidered my summary. Just because the film was too cloying for me, didn’t mean it didn’t have an audience. 

I shrugged. “Alright, well, I only went because I’m being paid.” 

She nodded, and we puttered onto the road, right into the heart of Hollywood. 

Within an hour, I was on set, standing beneath the hard gaze of a man who took his job far too seriously.

“Places,” the director snapped into his megaphone. “Places, people–I swear to god, if this is the best we’ve got, I’m going to go out and hire some actual seven year olds to take your spots.”

(He’s a real charmer,) I thought, though I put a little extra pep in my step as I moved into the desk chair that’d been assigned to me. 

The director, Don Allan, glared over his megaphone at the eight of us, all ‘extras’ who’d been hired to fill out a classroom scene with Shelly. He was in his forties, with a combover that did little to hide his prominent bald spot and a constant glare on his expression, as though someone in the room had whispered an insult and he was trying to figure out who’d said it. 

This was our third run through the blocking rehearsal so far, and I was beginning to worry that we’d never get out of the practice. I was only pretending to be an actor–yes, I’m aware of the irony–and I still needed to find time to ask a few questions.

“Alright,” Don Allan insisted. “Let’s do it again. Shelly’s going to raise her hand, and–listen–and then you’ll turn…and…look.” 

The eight of us mimed looking over our shoulders to the back of the classroom set, our collective gaze falling onto an empty desk–Shelly was in makeup, and she didn’t need to be here for this part. 

“No!” he snapped. “You’re not turning to watch a performance–you’re turning to see who asked the question! This is simple, people, what are you not understanding?”  Tossing his megaphone to the side, he pinched the ridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. “I’m going to have a smoke. When I get back, I expect to see some goddamned whimsy in here.” 

He stalked out. Only half the set looked convincing–he didn’t have to slam a door to leave, he just walked through the open space where the cameras would be placed when it came time to roll, past a table of snacks and out to the exterior door. That left me sitting inside half a room with seven extras who all knew Shelly better than I did.

“Is this typical behavior?” I asked under my breath, trying to match the cadence of a new actor looking for gossip. “I heard things were rough on Don Allan’s sets, but woof–this guy needs to unwind a couple degrees.” 

The actors–my costars, really–were a couple seconds behind me in relaxing, waiting until after an audible slam echoed through the set, a door being closed with a firmly unnecessary amount of force. 

One of the extras reached into his prop desk, taking out a pack of smokes and a strip of matches. Offering one to the woman next to him, he lit them both up, the pair of pint-size actors sharing the smoke break together. 

“He gets pretty evil when we’re behind schedule and overbudget,” another extra prompted. I glanced back her way–she looked to be about eight, though she certainly didn’t sound it. She didn’t quite have the perpetual adorability of Shelly, a little too much world-weariness visible in her eyes, which is probably why she was filling a classroom desk rather than headlining. “Which, if you’re new here, that’s pretty much every day.” 

I pursed my lips. Sitting back in my own desk, I put up my feet on the empty chair in front of me, mimicking the relaxed posture of the other extras. “You think that’s why Shelly’s trying to get on other films? Rumor has it, she’s trying to get in with some bigshot drama director.” 

The man who’d taken out the smokes snorted. “The golden girl? No, she gets the princess treatment. Everyone knows where the checks are coming from–it might not be her name on the studio, but we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Chapel.” 

Nodding along, I considered that. It tracked with what I knew, though it also painted a question mark on the director’s back. Who would benefit the most from Shelly’s inability to find other work? The studio that made bank off her name, of course. 

The woman who’d been given a cigarette, one of the older-looking youthlocks in the room, stubbed out her Lucky Strike with about half of it left, tucking the remainder behind her ear and pushing to her feet. “I need to powder my nose,” she commented, though a slight lingering odor betrayed her euphemism a bit. 

After a long beat, I asked, “You think Candor Taurus really wanted to hire her? I mean, that’s a role to kill for, if I–”

A loud scoff interrupted my question, and I turned to see Don walking onto set, a scowl on his face. “That’s a crock,” he snarled. “She’s not working for Candor Taurus, or anyone–our studio’s all she needs.” 

I put up my hands defensively and shook my head. “Just asking about a rumor.” 

“Rumors,” he spat, saying the word like a curse. “Where’s Barbara?” 

“Went to change,” another extra supplied. 

Don swore, then waved a hand at the whole group. “I can’t get you into better shape than this–go get into makeup, I want to be rolling in thirty minutes.” 

Nobody had to tell these actors twice–in moments, the set emptied out like someone had yelled ‘Coppers’ at a speakeasy. I was the last one out, giving Don Allan a passing glance as I waddled towards the makeup rooms. 

He looked tense, more so than he’d been before his smoke break. My comment about Shelly working for other studios had rattled him. 

Sliding my gaze smoothly past the director, I waltzed through the rest of the studio, trying to look like I belonged. It was in some ways easier than normal–I didn’t look like a kid to the people around me, just another extra, and so I didn’t have any adults…

I didn’t have any non-youthlocks trying to get in my way.

Bobbing my head, I shook out the thoughts buzzing around in there and returned my focus to the job.

I took a second to inspect the mail cubby by the makeup rooms, but it didn’t offer much in the way of clues. A half dozen notes were set in labeled shelves, but there were no guards keeping an eye out to keep the messages private or to ensure the wrong person didn’t walk off with them. Had someone noticed a letter for Shelly sitting out in the open, there’d be nothing stopping them from swiping it before anyone was the wiser.

Walking through the door into the makeup room, I found myself blinking away at the sheer illumination in the place–every mirror had half a dozen lightbulbs around it, and there were more on the ceiling, with a few more mood lamps scattered about to boot. Makeup artists were apparently allergic to shadow, and my eyes watered a little as they adjusted to the stiflingly bright room. 

Once my eyes had adjusted, I clambered up into one of the makeup chairs to await my turn. It was similar to the kind barbers used, with a foot pump at the base to raise and lower it and a swivel so the makeup artist could rotate her subjects around. A couple other extras had arrived before me and were in their own chairs–though, I noticed, only a couple had arrived. Most had apparently scattered to steal a quick break before they were required on set. 

One makeup artist was assigned to us extras, applying thick layers of foundation that wouldn’t run from sweat or come off too easily while filming. Shelly had her own team, three technicians primping and polishing her appearance to a perfect shine, highlighting the contrast between her importance and our own. Sitting in the chair, she straddled the line between her reality and her persona–the miniature professional woman and the doe eyed darling tot. 

The makeup team had her almost done, but it was missing something–the sparkle in her eyes, the energetic posture, the acting that turned her wardrobe from a costume into a character. Her outfit might have been On-Screen Shelly, but her mind still reflected the world-weary woman I knew lay beneath the clothing.

She made brief eye contact with me when I got in the chair, but didn’t give me so much as a nod of recognition, keeping our real relationship a secret. I was just another extra.

My feet dangled off the chair while I waited, pondering what I knew to pass the time. This job had left me plenty of time to think, but not much to think about so far, just a few loose motivations and a blank spot where my evidence should be.

That all changed as the door opened, and a skinny man in a slightly oversized suit came bustling in, a three foot poster folded awkwardly under his arm. 

“Shelly!” he called, tripping over himself as he pulled one of the posters out. “I’ve got something to show you.” 

I could tell by Shelly’s look that she knew this man well, and that she wasn’t pleased to see him. That pegged him as her manager, William Waters. As I saw the poster in his arms, I got an idea of why.

It was a painted version of Shelly’s likeness from behind, though with her head turned so that we could clearly see the precocious grin on her face. The real subject, though, was the disposable diaper hanging around her waist, sticking out with more poof than even the frilliest bloomers. 

There was a slogan printed beneath: ‘Coddles - Protecting even the brightest smiles.’ 

He held it up for Shelly to see. “I just got out of a meeting with the marketing director at Beverly-Mark, they’re ready to start printing these in magazines and–”

Over the course of a second, I saw Shelly’s face flicker through all a dame’s most dangerous emotions–surprise, confusion, and then, finally, rage. 

I was wrong. Her world-weary, professional act melted away in front of my eyes. Shelly’s true self came out, face contorting in anger, and then came the screaming. 

...

The kickstarter for "The Baby Bet" Audiobook is fully funded! That means we're going forward with production!

If you're interested in securing a copy of the audiobook, it's 15$ - less than it'll be when it goes up on retail - and if we can hit our first stretch goal, we'll also be adapting and including the trilogy of "Gamer Pants" short stories as a bonus!

www.kickstarter.com/projects/peculiarchangeling/the-baby-bet-coming-to-audio