Paparazzi Page #3

Tuesday they come.

He broke the window.

It'll be fixed by tonight.

I won't be stepped on.

Numero uno:
Letters-to-the-Editor.

The boss writes them.

Sure. He gets off on it.

Plan B:
Find R.R.

Michel owes me that much.

R.R. Is nobody.

It means "Rights Reserved."

It's on all of them.

They're too chicken to sign.

Rights reserved?

Awesome.

Michel's the biggest wuss around.

And he got you twice.

Sue them, you can't lose.

Take their money, they got plenty.

I'm not a beggar, I'm unemployed.

They cost me my job,

they owe me a job!

I'll never see Michel again.

Cell phone number?

Don't have one, I'm unemployed.

Call me later at work.

I'll ask around.

Anybody here?

Nobody. Two TV has-beens,

and the usual bimbos

who think they're Cindy Crawford.

- Not late.

- Half hour.

Right. Compared to usual,

you're on time.

Renaud Le Bihan,

Michel Verdier.

I know you.

That a problem?

- Who's this guy?

- He's a photographer.

Zaire, Sarajevo, Chechenya.

- Guidebook?

- Funny.

He was in Uruguay,

for the earthquake.

Great.

Anonymous deaths.

Plus if they're black...

Talent, and a heart of gold.

- Bye, Nicole.

- I'll call you.

Great guy.

Cocksucker.

Jealous?

No. You're a free woman.

I'm married. You always forget.

Not my problem.

Your place or mine?

Hubby out of town?

He likes it, you know.

He's great for his age.

Cataract's gone, he's 20-20.

What does he like?

Watching us do it.

Champagne, please.

The mirror.

That big mirror in the bedroom.

He watches us

without my knowledge?

This you talking?

He doesn't sell the pictures.

He takes pictures?

This guy's looking for you.

Have a seat.

Sorry, I can't place you.

- What do you do?

- I do unemployed.

Couldn't get the picture.

I got lit up.

But I think I earned my thousand.

May I?

I really need it, too.

I got canned for the first one.

Scuzz.

Help him out.

You love lost causes.

Give him a job.

But Magma's in the dumper.

Fashion shots, staged poolside pap.

People want real life.

People want scuzz.

I'll tell you in your language:

You're a f***ing ballbreaker.

Your whole gang of little scumbags.

You f*** people over,

and you don't care.

You like scuzz.

You'll pay me today?

Yeah.

Then I guess I can have...

some tiramisu.

And a Perrier.

You treat people like dummies.

They know it's hype.

They want truth.

I go after it, and I find it.

The best job there is.

Yeah, who? Ten minutes ago?

Be right there.

Sorry, got to go.

High journalism calls?

Coming? Got a job.

I'm going to help him.

Coming, Tonto?

Not sure. Last time wasn't so hot.

All right, stay.

Bye, ma'am.

- Regards to your husband.

- Yes, of course.

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