Bendly Banner knew fame well enough. After all, he’d always had it. He was born famous -no, he was famous even before being born. He was the offspring of two exceedingly famous actors, both of which led tumultuous lives, and it was by some great miracle that he’d been born without some sort of addiction right out the gate.


Paparazzi had sought desperate pictures of his mother and the bulging belly that signaled his inevitable arrival. They’d paid her money for photos of what was, to him, a perfectly normal boring human function. Nothing extraordinary or mystifying, just a round, stretched belly holding a child. Yet, to them, it might as well have been the Second Coming. Then, he was born and the paparazzi paid even more money just for a shot of his squinting, sobbing face pressed against his mother’s breast.


After that, it never ceased. The camera flash never went dark. He guessed, now that he looked back, that he never really had a choice to be anything other than famous. He’d never run from it either, not that he’d ever seen an opportunity to do anything different. Perhaps it was inherited nature, written on his DNA, to seek and find and devour attention as if it were nothing more than sweet pudding in a bottomless cup that always left him starved.


Bendly Banner knew fame well enough, but it did not make him happy.



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