Max the Pig RIP

I don't care if he is George-bloody-Clooney; I am not having this event ruined by having his pig shit all over my red carpet, Thought Vern Peters two weeks previously in his Beverley Hills office.

Vern Peters was the newly appointed head of events and ceremonies at the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences, a position that he had dreamed of all his life. This was the pinnacle of his career and now, in his fiftieth year, he was the man responsible for the smooth running of the 79th Annual Academy Awards-The Oscars.

Vern now walked to his large office window which looked down onto Wilshire Boulevard where the offices of the foundation commanded a respectable, although not ostentatious presence. His own office was undergoing some modest refurbishment.

He still got a lot of visits from famous retired actors and actresses who all had their own memories of the building and who would collectively make life impossible should he change things too much. He was therefore stuck with the dark oak panelling covering two of its four walls and from which hung numerous black and white pictures of actors from a bygone age. Some of the subjects were not sufficiently departed for the panelling and photographs to be removed. He had however moved in a light tan couch and replaced the dark drapes to lighten the room. The carpet would be next and that would be half a dozen shades lighter than the current burgundy monstrosity that was currently in place.

His assistant, Mathew Reynolds, had told him several weeks ago and in no uncertain terms that George would not come to the awards without Max the pig. Unfortunately George was nominated for three awards and losing such a star on his first outing as head of events and ceremonies was hardly likely to secure him a second year in office.

Vern had resented the news from Mathew but he knew that the young man was capable and that he had tried his best to persuade George's people to leave the pig behind. The fact that Max was still on the guest list had angered him but that had nothing to do with Mathew and all to do with the unreasonableness of the actor. Demanding female actresses were often called 'Divas' Vern had no idea what the term was for male actors and didn't care. In Vern's book he was an inconsiderate pain in the ass.

Now two weeks after Vern had been notified of the actor's intentions vis-à-vis the pig there was a knock at the door and Mathew handed over an oddly shaped parcel, wrapped in brown paper freshly delivered by Federal Express ' no signature required. Vern knew immediately that it was from the small anonymous office in downtown Los Angeles from where its nondescript but capable looking occupant had promised a discreet and effective resolution to Vern's problem. He was assured that he would receive an equally discreet notification of the successful completion of the task.

It was therefore a very confused Mathew who watched as Vern opened the package to reveal a shiny new frying pan. There was no note or other contents. None required.

Vern smiled as he picked up the remote control for the small portable TV that sat on the corner bookshelf and settled down to watch the six o'clock news.