Dog. Pig. Weasel. Vulture. People tried to label paparazzi like Mark as some kind of animal- Mark thought of himself as a panther.
He was not like the others, or at least, that’s what he would tell himself. The other paparazzi were a pack or herd animal, whatever they were. They would listen for clues as to where someone was going, what they were doing, then spring en masse upon the location, snapping away photos in a hope of catching that perfect shot, whether it be a smiling face or a sneer. They froze moments in time in hope that their value would build.
But Mark didn’t follow the herd, the pack- they were clumsy predators, snapping their teeth wildly and blindly in the hopes of catching something. Mark made it a point to stalk prey, to avoid the red carpet events, to figure out a targets motions, patterns, and catch them at their weakest, unawares- ambush photography.
It was not a safe choice- he had been accosted by security, had cameras broken, and fell out of a few trees. But it wasn’t just about the money- it was the thrill of the hunt.

Mark had followed her for a few weeks now. A contact in the biz had let him know she had a new project, something indie, low key- or at least, low key for now. Buzz was being suppressed so that the film would explode onto the scene like a firecracker. When the movie hit, they would scramble for any photos they could get. It wasn’t too hard to follow, considering how long she had been off the screen- nobody had seen her in a movie in years. She wasn’t being watched by anyone- anyone but him.
Mark drove his yellow beater today. He owned three cars, though none of them were particularly nice- but it was a necessity in his mind. Mark knew he often out thought paranoid celebrities by being equally paranoid. He wore a disguise for each car, made it a point to always obey traffic law even if it let a target get away from him, made immediate backups whenever using a digital camera- which was seldom. Film had properties that digital couldn’t reproduce, levels of detail and clarity without pixels, and above all, it was definitive- digital photos could be manipulated on so many levels, but a true photo was proof: he had caught them, and there was no chicanery involved.
As she got to the ‘abandoned’ building, the secret set, Mark initially drove right on past- there were no places to hide next to the flat, box of a building, surrounded by a mostly empty parking lot as it was- there were a few other vehicles there. So he drove a few blocks away to come back on foot.
Mark looked at the area he was in, surveying the people- it was a relatively poor area. There were bums wandering the area, shabby and tired looking, but they weren’t looking for handouts here, they were only resting or passing through. It informed Mark of his choices.
Mark selected a high zoom lens, the same kind used for wildlife photography and dressed himself to match the local look- shabby old army jacket, fake beard, tattered scarf, hat on head. The jacket was enough to hide the camera from casual perusal at a distance, but just barely- anyone walking by him would probably see it bulging out. Nobody was bothering him as he came closer, closer to that box, that simple unsuspecting structure. He was across the street, at a good angle- he only checked his camera once, not wanting to give away his position, betray his purpose. Looking through the lens, the door came into view as if it were only ten feet in front of him, large as life, maybe larger. He’d get the shot if he was patient- she had to walk out, toward her car, onto the right side if she wanted to drive. Mark smiled a little. He respected that. She drove herself, though she had all the money in the world to hire a driver. It was endearing to see she had a little down to earth nature in her after all.

Mark waited. And waited. He kept loose, alert, patient. His body was still, but his mind kept on chattering. He thought: I could’ve been a sniper in the military or an assassin, but this is my true calling. A photography assassin. Some tribal peoples believe cameras steal souls. I am the ultimate soul thief. I steal their souls and sell them, just for enough money to get another chance to do it again. Soul assassin.

It made him chuckle, though only on the inside. He twitched a little- someone else was at the building. He could see them, even in the shadows of evening as the sun hung lower in the sky- who was it?
It was probably just a bum, just another homeless wreck near a secret set. He’d walk on by the building once he saw nobody was near the car. But he didn’t. He was next to the car, crouched, hidden.
Mark felt a chill run down his spine- there was something wrong about this. It could be competition, but in the world of paparazzi, Mark knew all the hunters. This guy was close, too close for camera work.
Mark risked taking a look through the lens.
It was a clearer picture now, but a lousy angle. He was wearing a hood and scarf to cover his face, his clothes were gray and blue in camouflage patterns- urban camo. The ratio of the car to the door to the man did not suggest a particularly large man, but that didn’t mean much. He could not see a weapon, but… but he had to assume.
Mark did not panic. He lowered the camera, unseen, thinking. This man was here to either steal the car or kill her. Possibly both. The car was very nice for it’s year, but it was antiquated, and not a sports car- it was a relic. It was another little notch in Mark’s brain, telling him she was down to earth- human. And this man was not here for the car.
Mark had to do something- a vulture might wait, let it go down, grab a picture and make a fortune, but he wasn’t a vulture. He stood and slipped around a corner, dialing the police.
“I’m calling about a potential situation. There’s a man in camo crouching next to this car, wearing a mask… I don’t know if he’s armed. We’re at the corner of Sydney and Chavis.”
Mark was told to hold, to keep waiting, that a response would be there in fifteen minutes to an hour. It was an ugly neighborhood, Mark reflected. Ugly, and poor, and never cleaned up before. The car would be a long time coming.
Mark came back out, and looked across the street, retaking his post. For a moment, he had thought the man had left, but a second glance let him see he was still there. At a distance, the camo did it’s job, kept him a blur on the pavement. But Mark knew he was there- he was the only one who knew he was there. The sun hung low in the sky…
Showtime. The door was open, and Mark’s heart beat. He followed his first instinct, honed instinct, snapping the shot as she came out the door, his heart racing. There was no time to think, only act. He was on his feet, running forward, and he turned the flash on the camera.
With every step he sprinted, the flash went off as he took another picture. The aging star threw her hands up to block her face, while the masked man turned towards the flashing light… before fleeing, knife glinting in the light. He kept snapping photos as the man fled until he was well away. Mark felt a swell of pride, a rush of adrenaline- it had worked.
There was an impact against Mark’s back, a soft thump.
“You monster! You fucking vulture, get out of here!” she screamed as her purse hit him. Her makeup was running slightly, lip quivering, and there were other people coming out of the building now. It was becoming a mess very quickly. He tried to stammer out an explanation, but there were angry growls- a larger man from inside made a swipe at his camera and Mark was running. He was running as fast as he could, away from the set, away from the incident, out of the world he had just kept from crashing.

Later, Mark would send the photos to her. Later, she would hire security to watch her, protect her. Later, the man from the photos would be caught. But right now, she was alive, and Mark felt more at peace than he had been in years as he drove away. He was a hero, and he had it all on film- every moment, frozen in time.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 06.03.2010

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