Michael Jackson was ushered into the back corridor of the Los Angeles Forum by four large white men dressed in black. Michael was wearing black pants and a white shirt. His hat had a large brim that hung with a lazy bounce over his eyes as he walked, almost glided, over the concrete floor. As Michael walked into the large arena he turned and saw Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone standing on a small square black shelf that supported her on the front of a large blue crucifix. Her arms were outstretched on crucifix like Jesus as two African American men adjusted her limbs and fiddled with wrist clamps. Scaffolding had been erected to the side by which Madonna and her assistants had been transported to the somewhat precariously high position they were currently in. Michael noticed that the makeshift elevator was about to go up and so her rushed over and hopped on, which carried him and a muscular girl with long blond hair pulled back tight in a pony tail who was carrying a bottle of water and wearing a red Kabbalah wrist band. The girl, wearing a tight sleeveless tank top, looked at Michael and recognized him immediately, but was already so surrounded by the celebrity of Madonna that she was not impressed by the fact that she was alone in a rising erector-set elevator with Michael Jackson.
“Maddy,” said Michael as the elevator arrived at the intersection of the huge blue crucifix. Madonna looked up. The blond Kabbalah girl leaned against the side of the elevator cab waiting for this little discussion to play itself out.
“What the–what are you doing here?” asked Madonna.
“I thought I would stop in to say hello. I heard you were doing something special,” said Michael.
“How does that feel?” asked one of the African American men who was clasping Madonna’s right wrist to a steel loop.
“It hurts. Maybe we should not actually do a clamp,” said Madonna.
“You doing a crucifixion. Cool,” said Michael. The blond Kabbalah girl resisted rolling her eyes.
“It’s a multiple themed show. So the last I heard you were running around looking like an Arab woman,” said Madonna.
“Yes. So what are the other themes of your show?” asked Michael.
“It’s a catholic-sado-masochistic-equine show,” said Madonna.
“Equine?” asked Michael.
“Horses, Michael,” said Madonna.
At that moment a man on the floor of the arena yelled up to Madonna: “The x-ray of your broken arm is now on the screen behind you. Is that how you want it to look?”
“I’ll look at it when I am down there,” yelled Madonna, annoyed that the idiot thought she could possibly see the enormous screen behind her while clamped to a crucifix. But Michael glanced up at the x-ray.
“That’s an x-ray of your arm?” said Michael.
“Yes. I am sharing,” said Madonna.
“Interesting,” said Michael.
“No, Michael, it is not interesting, it is brilliant. I am showing the real me while you hide the real you behind all that weirdo plastic surgery. You do not look the same. In fact, I cannot even look at you anymore,” said Madonna derisively.
“Oh, don’t say that. Please, no. I look the same. I am me,” said Michael.
“Look at me. I look the same. In fact, I look better than I did ten years ago,” Madonna said with her arms outstretched on the huge blue crucifix. One of the African Americans placed a thorny crown on Madonna’s head.
“Be careful, dammit,” said Madonna to the thorny crown guy who was adjusting it carefully on Madonna’s head.
The blond Kabbalah girl stepped forward. “You want some water? I have timed your last drink at 47 minutes ago. You are three minutes overdue,” said the Kabbalah girl.
“Yes. Give me a hit of water,” said Madonna. The blond Kabbalah girl raised the bottle to Madonna’s mouth as Madonna sucked out water. Water dripped down the side of her mouth which Madonna did not seem to notice.
“Michael, you have become a caricature of yourself. You have morphed into some weirdness that is offensive and disgusting,” said Madonna.
The two African American men turned with some sympathy for Michael who always seemed to anyone who ever met him as fragile as glass.
“Enough water,” said Madonna to the blond Kabbalah who walked back to her post in the elevator.
“No. No. Don’t say that, please. Please. I am fine, really. I am feeling fine,” said Michael.
“Who the fuck is talking about how you feel. I’m talking about how you are. How you look. Have you looked in the fucking mirror?,” said Madonna. Michael was taken aback by Madonna’s verbal attack. The awkwardness of Madonna’s words made the African American men uncomfortable, but they did their best to cover it.
“OK, take these goddam clamps off my wrists. We are not doing clamps. I will place my wrists in open rests and act like I am clamped. I’ll act it dammit. Who the fuck came up with the idea of clamps?” said Madonna.
Michael walked back into the elevator. “It was nice to see you again, Maddy. Good luck with your show. It looks very special,” said Michael. The blond Kabbalah girl grabbed the lever that started to lower the elevator cab, taking Michael and her down. Madonna’s arms were now free as she massaged her wrists.
“Michael, look at me. Look at me. I am normal. In great shape, and I look in the mirror constantly to check in on how normal I am and how fucking great I look. You should start looking at yourself honestly. You are too talented to waste on your narcissism,” yelled Madonna down at Michael Jackson as he alighted from the elevator cab and walked briskly toward the back corridor of the Los Angeles Forum ushered by the four white men in black that he arrived with.
“OK, let me see that x-ray of my broken arm,” yelled Madonna down at the man on the arena floor with the thorny crown on her head and water dripping from her chin.