Chapter V

Requiem

Most of the news headlines the following day carried the story of the forty-car pileup outside Gary Neville's place. What the headlines didn't carry was the fact that the cause of this disaster was a tidal wave of drunken football players rushing into the street and being summarily run over like speed bumps.

The papers also failed to mention the appearance of one Melanie C. who, after calling for an ambulance for the downed jocks, was arrested for solicitation of a female prostitute two blocks away. She was subsequently released after posting bail. Her police report claimed that it was dark, and she thought she was speaking to her limousine driver when she asked the prostitute for a "ride."

Why the papers did not carry all the details of this story is an issue of debate. Some bookkeeping towards the end of the year revealed a slight increase in donated funds from anonymous donators in all of the newspapers involved with the story. Other detective work might have uncovered the fact that each reporter at the scene had some sort of disdain for Manchester, David Beckham, or football in general, and was sent to the scene by an anonymous phone call only seconds after the incident occurred, assuring that they would be the sole reporters on the scene from their respective news organizations.

In any case, the wedding day was not postponed or moved, despite the unknown tragedy striking the groom and his entourage.

On the wedding day, Posh stood in front of a full-sized mirror in a small room adjacent to the room in which she and her sex slave would exchange vows. She thanked God that Beckham was too stupid to think of any sort of prenuptial agreement. Her pseudo-friends, Scary, Baby, and Sporty, waited patiently as Posh preened herself in the mirror.

"Wow," Scary said. "I can't believe today is actually the big day." She put a finger to her lip in thought. "You know, you can always divorce him after a few months if you don't like him. It's worked for me."

"No," Posh said, "I think I'll stick around for a while. He's quite loaded, and it would be a shame to give up all of that money before I had some fun with it."

Sporty glanced out the window at the near-sacrilegious assemblage of decorations and media that practically surrounded the once venerable castle. "Sure looks like you're spending an awful lot just to make getting that money a good show."

"My dear Melanie," Posh replied, turning around. "Do you have any idea how much I'm being paid in an exclusive contract to photograph my wedding? It more than covers the cost of this little charade." She turned back to the mirror. "And besides, we specifically told everyone to give us money and vouchers as gifts. We'll be swimming in cash by the end of the day."

Scary suddenly appeared nervous. "Um… Posh? What would you do if someone were to give you something other than a voucher or money, hypothetically speaking?"

Posh thought for a moment. "Do you remember the time that Ginger had to get emergency plastic surgery because I tore her ears off with my bare hands after our Los Angeles concert?"

Scary gulped. "Yes," she said hesitantly.

"Well, it would be something along those lines, dear. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason." She turned to Sporty. "Do you happen to know a good travel agent who can book me on a flight to Djibouti before she opens her gifts?"

Sporty, however, had her mind on other things. "Hey Posh, you're not all right up front." She pointed to Posh's reflection in the mirror.

"What?" she asked, turning from side to side nervously. "What's wrong?"

"Here," said Sporty, "Let me help you. "She got up, stood behind Posh, and began tugging at Posh's bustline, then pushing her breasts up. She did this for about ten seconds before deciding that it looked right. "There you go," she said. "You were sagging a bit."

Posh, not noticing that she had just fallen for an old trick and had just been felt up, turned around and smiled warmly. "Thank you, Melanie," she said. "You always were a good friend, holding the door for me, bathing me when I was sick, taking me to strip clubs…" She hugged the surprised Sporty.

Sporty hugged back, trying to feel Posh's rear as she slid her hands up and down her back. "Umm… friend. Yes, right, a good friend," she said. They moved apart. "Posh? Are there any cold showers in this castle?"

"No time to bathe now!" Posh replied. "The wedding's about to start. Grab the retard and get to your seats." Scary pulled Baby to her feet and followed Sporty out the door and into the crowd.

* * *

In the main hall of the castle, nearly everyone that was invited had arrived. Posh's family was seated on one side of the hall, talking about money and fame, and how much they were going to get out of this deal. Beckham's family was seated on the other side of the hall, picking lice and other assorted insects from each other's hair.

Outside, a gigantic crowd of teenyboppers had gathered to catch a glimpse of their favorite manufactured pop group. Bouncers were standing all along the entrance and the aisle, ensuring that no one was there that wasn't supposed to be there.

From the bathroom, a young man emerged, wiping his hands. "Wow," Andy said as he walked to find his seat. "Imagine that! The bathrooms here have soap dispensers that look exactly like naked mannequins of George Michael! Darn soap took a lot of pulling to get it to come out, though." He found his seat, and sat down.

A few minutes later, George Michael himself walked out of the bathroom. He glanced both ways, making sure that Andy was nowhere to be seen. "Damn if I'm going to get caught alone in a bathroom again. I don't know why I never thought of that naked soap dispenser trick before, though. Kills two birds with one stone." He walked around the front to his seat, careful not to be seen by the young man who had just unknowingly cleaned his pipes.

Soon, the wedding was underway. Various Spice Girls songs that no one thought could possibly become any worse were played on violins; they were worse. Beckham waited patiently at the front of the aisle while Posh strolled down it, her head raised, her nose upturned, and the silver spoon implanted in her mouth gleaming (metaphorically speaking, of course). Rows of bouncers parted so that Posh could navigate the aisle comfortably. Suddenly, a girl stood up in the back row and began yelling.

"You bunch of pigs!" she yelled. "Do you know how far back you've set feminism?" Bouncers started moving towards her. "Not only do you dress, look, and act like sluts, but you're making a mockery of marriage itself! You make me sick!"

Sporty and Scary watched this entire ordeal from their seats. "Look!" Sporty exclaimed. "That bird's got earrings in her right ear!" She got up to move towards the short girl with close-cut red hair.

"Yeah," Scary agreed, "but she's got them in her left ear too."

"Oh, bloody hell!" Sporty yelled, and crossed her arms angrily.

"Look, let's go help the bouncers get rid of her," Scary said. "She's yelling all those big words, and I can't take much more."

The two girls got up and walked quickly to the girl, who was slipping around chairs trying to avoid being thrown out, saying her piece as she walked.

"Hey! You!" Scary yelled when she had finally reached her. "Who are you?"

"Ruth" she said.

"Well, Ruth," Scary said, emphasizing her name, "I think it would be a good idea if you fucked off."

"Excuse me?" she yelled. One of the bouncers caught up to her and picked her up by her arms.

"Hey, I can help you carry her if you want," said Sporty.

"Shut up!" yelled Scary. Then, turning to Ruth, she added, "Go away."

Kicking and screaming, Ruth was led out the front of the castle, and tossed into the crowd of people gathered.

Meanwhile, Posh resumed her walk up the aisle. When she reached the front, the music stopped playing. She sat down next to Beckham, whose blank stare was focused directly ahead. A minister who bore a striking resemblance to Rowan Atkinson walked in front of the couple with a glass in his hand, and began to speak. He had a smirk on his face.

"Normally, this would be the part when I stand in front of the congregation and make remarks about how much I love the bride and groom. I'd talk about how I've known them for so many years and how much warmth they bring to my life when I see them together holding hands." His smirk disappeared. "Well, that's bollocks. To begin with, I've never met these two excuses for human beings in my life before today, and to be honest, I could live the rest of my life in complete satisfaction if I never see them again." He sipped from the glass. "You're probably wondering what it is that I'm drinking. Ah yes, the more naïve among you would no doubt believe that I have water in here, to quench my thirst whilst I ramble on about what a lovely couple the caveman and his harem girl are. No, this is not water. It is sacramental wine. One of my priest friends recommended it, promising me a light buzz that would numb the pain of this unspeakable act against common sense. I am, of course, speaking of the marriage between Victoria Adams and David Beckham, more commonly know as Posh Spice and Pretty Boy Football Player. Let's examine this lovely relationship, shall we? Boy meets girl by watching a music video in which she is dancing around wearing a miniskirt and lip synching to some atrocious piece of garbage that she lip synchs to on stages across the world. When he sees this girl, he turns to his best friend and brags that someday, somehow, he will get her in the sack and bang the living shit out of her. Well, when that day came, not only did he bang the living shit out of her, but he banged a small child out of her. Yes, a child. A child doomed to live the rest of his life being mocked by his peers because his mother and father thought they were clever for naming him after a piece of a city. Then, after getting pregnant, the wonderful duo moved in together, spending each and every day giggling about material wealth and struggling to remain in an increasingly dimming spotlight, hoping against all odds that someone still knows who they are. Then, they have the audacity to request each other's hand in marriage." He looked at the bride and groom, the former with a look of shocked horror on her face, and the latter with his usual blank stare. "I'd say you did this entire thing ass-backwards, didn't you? What's the point of being married now? You're already living together with a child you had out of wedlock, so what's the point? Oh, wait, I remember." He sipped the wine again. "The point is to whore yourselves to the media so that you can maintain a grasp on that tenuous thread by which you are so desperately clinging to your fifteen minutes of fame. This is not a wedding; this is a mockery of a wedding. If either of you honestly cared for the other enough to marry them, which I highly doubt, you would have opted for a nice, normal ceremony like other celebrities, rather than by turning everything into a media circus. The fact that opulence is the key ingredient in this ceremony appalls me, and leads me to wonder what exactly you are trying to prove. The only thing missing from this disgusting little display of money is the band of dancing seals and singing parakeets." He chugged the last of the wine. "So now, it falls upon me to marry the two of you. God is no doubt laughing His holy ass off at the moment, for you two have just proven to the world what it means to care more for showmanship, material wealth, visual effects, and presentation than for each other's hearts, and I will live happily ever after knowing that nothing can save you from the fiery pits of Hell. But, since you are paying me for this little charade, I might as well play the devil's advocate by giving the two of you vows to exchange." He produced a book from his pocket, then added, "And may God have mercy on your souls."

The crowd sat in complete silence. The minister motioned for Posh and Beckham to stand, which they did somewhat reluctantly. "Now my dear," he said, addressing Posh, "I'm going to read a few lines, and you're supposed to respond to them. Try to keep up, eh?"

"Do you, Victoria, take David, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to occasionally have and hold, in sickness and in health, though it depends on how sick we're talking, in good times and in bad, or until your flow of cash runs out, all the days of your life? Until your impending divorce, that is."

Posh said, "You know, I don't think I like your attitude. Why don't you…" Leaping from her chair, Scary bolted up the aisle before Posh could finish. She whispered something in her ear, at which point Posh turned back to the minister and said, "Oh… I do." Scary breathed a heavy sigh of relief, then returned to her seat.

The minister turned to Beckham. "Now, I realize that you've been kicked in the head several times, but all you have to do is agree to the exact same terms I just read to your trollop. Think you can do that?"

Beckham struggled for the right words. "Me… do?" he finally said.

"Close enough," the minister said, rolling his eyes. "I now pronounce you man and leech. You may kiss the harlot."

At that very moment, David Beckham turned to Posh, pushed her back, and pulled off the rubber mask he was wearing, revealing himself to be none other than Oliver. The crowd gasped. He reached into his pocket and produced a radio with a trigger on it. "Now!" he yelled into the radio, as he pressed the makeshift trigger on its side. Instantly, the aisle erupted with a loud explosion, sending the goons-for-hire flying through the air.

The front door of the castle cracked, and as the shocked congregation turned around to gasp, a group of soccer players stormed into the hall. They pulled off their various disguises, revealing themselves to be an army of young people. In the front was Cloud, flanked by several others he had managed to gather for this occasion. At his side was Geri Halliwell, formerly known as Ginger Spice. All of his legions were dressed in various T-shirts, jeans, and fatigues. Some of the more serious ones had donned face paint. "Let's rock," he said with a smile.

On to Chapter VI: Restitution.

Trademark and copyright 1999, CloudVader Productions. Do not reproduce without giving the author, Cloud Volpe, due credit.