Chuck Palahniuk - Tell-All

Also by Chuck Palahniuk

Fight Club

Survivor

Invisible Monsters

Choke

Lullaby

Fugitives and Refugees

Diary

Stranger Than Fiction

Haunted

Rant

Snuff

Pygmy

To E.A.H.

Boy meets girl.

Boy gets girl.

Boy kills girl?

Act one, scene one opens with Lillian Hellman clawing her way, stumbling and scrambling, through the thorny nighttime underbrush of some German schwarzwald, a Jewish baby clamped to each of her tits, another brood of infants clinging to her back. Lilly clambers her way, struggling against the brambles that snag the gold embroidery of her Balenciaga lounging pajamas, the black velvet clutched by hordes of doomed cherubs shes racing to deliver from the ovens of some Nazi death camp. More innocent toddlers, lashed to each of Lillians muscular thighs. Helpless Jewish, Gypsy and homosexual babies. Nazi gestapo bullets spit past her in the darkness, shredding the forest foliage, the smell of gunpowder and pine needles. The heady aroma of her Chanel No. 5. Bullets and hand grenades just whiz past Miss Hellmans perfectly coiffed Hattie Carnegie chignon, so close the ammunition shatters her Cartier chandelier earrings into rainbow explosions of priceless diamonds. Ruby and emerald shrapnel blasts into the flawless skin of her perfect, pale cheeks. From this action sequence, we dissolve to:

Reveal: the interior of a stately Sutton Place mansion. Its some Billie Burke place decorated by Billy Haines, where formally dressed guests line a long table within a candlelit, wood-paneled dining room. Liveried footmen stand along the walls. Miss Hellman is seated near the head of this very large dinner party, actually describing the frantic escape scene weve just witnessed. In a slow panning shot, the engraved place cards denoting each guest read like a veritable Whos Who. Easily half of twentieth-century history sits at this table: Prince Nicholas of Romania, Pablo Picasso, Cordell Hull and Josef von Sternberg. The attendant celebrities seem to stretch from Samuel Beckett to Gene Autry to Marjorie Main to the faraway horizon.

Lillian stops speaking long enough to draw one long drag on her cigarette. Then to blow the smoke over Pola Negri and Adolph Zukor before she says, Its at that heart-stopping moment I wished Id just told Franklin Delano Roosevelt, No, thank you. Lilly taps cigarette ash onto her bread plate, shaking her head, saying, No secret missions for this girl.

While the footmen pour wine and clear the sorbet dishes, Lillians hands swim through the air, her cigarette trailing smoke, her fingernails clawing at invisible forest vines, climbing sheer rock cliff faces, her high heels blazing a muddy trail toward freedom, her strength never yielding under the burden of those tiny Jewish and homosexual urchins.

Every eye, fixed, from the head of the table to the foot, stares at Lilly. Every hand crosses two fingers beneath the damask napkin laid in every lap, while every guest mouths a silent prayer that Miss Hellman will swallow her Chicken Prince Anatole Demidoff without chewing, then suffocate, writhing and choking on the dining room carpet.

Almost every eye. The exceptions being one pair of violet eyes one pair of brown eyes and of course my own weary eyes.

The possibility of dying before Lillian Hellman has become the tangible fear of this entire generation. Dying and becoming merely fodder for Lillys mouth. A persons entire life and reputation reduced to some golem, a Frankensteins monster Miss Hellman can reanimate and manipulate to do her bidding.

Beyond her first few words, Lillians talk becomes one of those jungle sound tracks one hears looping in the background of every Tarzan film, just tropical birds and Johnny Weissmuller and howler monkeys repeating. Bark, bark, screechEmerald Cunard. Bark, growl, screechCecil Beaton.

Lillys drivel possibly constitutes some bizarre form of name-dropping Tourettes syndrome. Or perhaps the outcome of an orphaned press agent raised by wolves and taught to read aloud from Walter Winchells column.

Her compulsive prattle, a true pathology.

Cluck, oink, barkJean Negulesco.

Thus, Lilly spins the twenty-four-carat gold of peoples actual lives into her own brassy straw.

Please promise you did NOT hear this from me.

Seated within range of those flying heroic elbows, my Miss Kathie stares out from the bank of cigarette smoke. An actress of Katherine Kentons stature. Her violet eyes, trained throughout her adult life to never make contact with anything except the lens of a motion picture camera. To never meet the eyes of a stranger, instead to always focus on someones earlobe or lips. Despite such training, my Miss Kathie peers down the length of the table, her lashes fluttering. The slender fingers of one famous white hand toy with the auburn tresses of her wig. The jeweled fingers of Miss Kathies opposite hand touch the six strands of pearls which contain the loose folds of her sagging neck skin.

In the next instant, while the footmen pass the finger bowls, Lillian twists in her chair, shouldering an invisible snipers rifle and squeezing off rounds until the clip is empty. Still just dripping with Hebrew and Communist babies. Lugging her cargo of Semitic orphans. When the rifle is too searing hot to hold, Miss Hellman howls a wild war whoop and hurtles the steaming weapon at the pursuing storm troopers.

Snarl, bark, screechPeter Lorre. Oink, bark, squealAverill Harriman.

Its a fate worse than death to spend eternity in harness, serving as Lilly Hellmans zombie, brought back to life at dinner parties. On radio talk programs. At this point, Miss Hellman is heaving yet another batch of invisible babies, rescued Gypsy babes, high, toward the chandelier, as if catapulting them over the snowcapped peak of the Matterhorn to the safety of Switzerland.

Grunt, howl, squealSarah Bernhardt.

By now, Lillian Hellman wraps two fists around the invisible throat of Adolf Hitler, reenacting how she sneaked into his subterranean Berlin bunker, dressed as Leni Riefenstahl, her arms laden with black-market cartons of Lucky Strike and Parliament cigarettes, and then throttled the sleeping dictator in his bed.

Bray, bark, whinnyBasil Rathbone.

Lilly throws the terrified, make-believe Hitler into the center of tonights dinner table, her teeth biting, her manicured fingernails scratching at his Nazi eyes. Lillians fists clamped around the invisible windpipe, she begins pounding the invisible Fhrers skull against the tablecloth, making the silverware and wineglasses jump and rattle.