When Ted answered his hotel door that evening, the last person he expected to see was a guest such as this. A man this famous had no business with a man like Ted. Ted was just an accountant for a mid-range tech company, in London on business no less. However, when an international superstar of this caliber appears at your door, what else do you do but invite him in?
When they found Ted the next day, his body was positioned in a corner of his hotel suite doing a handstand. His detached head resting comfortably upon his buttocks, his legs bent at the knees, his feet pressed against both of his cheeks, forcing his face into a grim, awkward smile.
The Fame Machine (working title) is a story borne of a stress dream on a hot Arizona night. A government-sanctioned team of assassins do their work without pay, without sleep, and without remorse to ensure the safety and security of the populace. So if you see someone coming toward you that looks strangely familiar, maybe a bit like John McClane or Ziggy Stardust, you shouldn't worry. That is, unless you're an enemy of the state. In which case you should forego asking for an autograph and start running.