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 On a cold Saturday evening, a black stretch limousine pulled up outside Boston's wealthiest hotel, the Fairmont Copley Plaza. For the fans gathered outside this historic building, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see a rare public appearance of the great pop star Michael Jackson.A wave of cheering and screaming began to ripple through the public square. The gold-encrusted doors of the hotel opened to reveal a full film crew, their bright, hot camera lights illuminating a strange creature whose head was completely wrapped in gauze, his mouth covered in a dust mask. He looked not so much like Michael Jackson as The Elephant Man with sunglasses. He was surrounded by an entourage: bodyguards, friends, and coordinators. There was also a small figure shrouded by a cream-colored blanket who, one could only imagine, was Michael Jackson's son. Amidst the cacophony of the film crew, screaming fans, and paparazzi, Michael and his people made their way into the limousine, driving to the upscale Copley Place mall, where Jackson would proceed to vomit all over the window of a Victoria's Secret. GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH The vomit was key. Michael Jackson shopping in a mall was an interesting story, but Michael Jackson puking in a mall was an irresistible story. By the next morning, every tabloid around the world would have this story spattered across their pages.  Collecting the vomit was not an easy task. It was a queasy task. I wasn't going to gather up a stranger's vomit (that's just gross), so several nights earlier I had eaten an entire pizza, then followed it with Syrup of Ipecac, the vomit-inducing liquid that's given to people who have accidentally ingested poison. The only thing that tastes more vile than Syrup of Ipecac, I discovered, is Syrup of Ipecac on the way back up. I spent the next hour hurling up meaty chunks of goo, extremely unhappy about the way my life was turning out.
I stored the bag of vomit in the vegetable drawer of my refrigerator until Saturday, so it was well-preserved -- in fact, it still smelled like pizza. And a few hours later, I would be wearing most of it on my shoes, suit, and glasses. It would be the atomic bomb of barf. THRILLER There we were, a dozen professional pranksters getting ready to pull off the media hoax of the century. We synchronized our watches, and I dispatched the stunt crew to their starting positions. Moses and Hugo, who would play Michael Jackson and his 9-year-old son, went to the basement of the hotel to get in costume. The fans took their places in Copley Square, holding up WE LOVE YOU MICHAEL signs and gathering a crowd. The film crew and I snuck into the hotel lobby to quietly shoot interior footage. And we then had an unexpected surprise: later in the evening, R&B legend Gladys Knight would be performing at that very hotel. It was incredibly good fortune: the Motown diva would be playing a black-tie gala dinner, a 20th anniversary fundraising event for an inner-city charity. Dozens of well-dressed African-Americans were already checking into registration.  I saw a sign reading MEDIA CHECK-IN, and confidently strode up to the table. Fully in character now, I gave the young woman a smile. "Michael Jackson will be at the hotel tonight," I said, "and we're wondering if it would be possible to have him attend the show." "The Michael Jackson?" she stammered. "Yes, a Michael Jackson," I said quickly, as if I were sick of this question. "Maybe it would be possible for Mr. Jackson to meet up with Ms. Knight after the show?" I had changed into my suit, and had on my cellphone headset, so I looked like the real deal. "Well, I'll, ah ... I'll be happy to take your number and have someone get in touch." "Great," I said, giving her the number of my stunt cellphone. "Give me a call." BUTTERFLIES
Hugo, our little person, came out next. As Michael's son, he was covered in a blanket and assisted by his nanny, played by Gerson. The eight of us were the world's most bizarre entourage, and we crammed into the hotel elevators. As soon as the doors closed, I started cracking up. I had drilled everyone to stay in character, but I couldn't help it: this was nuts. Our hearts were exploding. And then the elevator doors opened. Showtime. All eyes were upon us as we strode through the hotel lobby. The seas parted to make way for the great Michael Jackson. We stepped outside to our waiting limo, where we were surrounded by fans, paparazzi, and curious onlookers. "MICHAEL!" screamed a gaggle of girls. Flashbulbs popped from all sides. We piled into the limo as people banged on the windows and hollered his name. It was insane. The limo driver, who thought he was escorting the real Michael Jackson, kept his cool, but his eyes betrayed fear. POP! POP! went the cameras, with fake press and real press right up in our face, and impossible to distinguish. The limo took us to Copley Place, an upscale shopping galleria just a block away, with fans and photographers following after us. With the help of "bodyguards" and confused security officers, we escorted MJ to fancy fashion stores, drawing stares and crowds everywhere we went. Using the Chase Visa credit card we had ordered in his name, Michael bought a glove. Heading toward the nearby Victoria's Secret, Michael started to complain of stomach pain. We slowly made our way to the huge plate-glass display outside the famous lingerie store. The mannequins were dressed in thongs and garters, their erect nipples barely covered by lacy bras. It was, quite frankly, the sluttiest shop window I've ever seen. Victoria's Secret is starting to look like a fucking Amsterdam whorehouse.  While Moe made the appropriate noises (it sounded like a small dog choking on a ball of yarn), I squeezed the bag of upchuck, firing an insanely disgusting vomit explosion onto the window. It was Hollywood-level puke pyrotechnics. The Victoria's Secret mannequin whores stared passively at the partially-digested pizza as it dripped down the glass in long, filthy streaks. What a bunch of dummies. Then we got the fuck out of there. As we hurried away, I realized one flaw in our logic: Michael Jackson had just thrown up through two layers of Ace Bandage and a surgical mask. I could only hope that people would be too confused to notice. BLACK OR WHITE As we rode back to the studio, the stink of vomit reeking up the limousine, I reflected on the evening. Our test run had revealed only one problem: Moses looked nothing like Michael Jackson. Moses is a tall white male. Michael Jackson is a small white freak.  After weeks of methodical planning, it was time to improvise. For Michael 2.0, we switched to Gerson, the member of our entourage who had played Michael's handler. And once he put on the hat and the mask, I have to tell you: the dude looked like fucking Michael Jackson. With our new Michael, we would fool the world. Or at least the organizers of the Gladys Knight concert, who would completely fall for our ruse. It was the greatest celebrity hoax ever. |
