… I’ve decided to reprint, for your pleasure, my 2004 review of Paris’s “Confessions of an Heiress”:
“All Ways We’ll Have Paris”
by Sean Ferrell
A response to “Confessions of an Heiress” by Paris Hilton
Cecil Roethke and Mr. Smith waited in the empty warehouse. The dust kicked up by their shoes glowed in the sun shouting against the grimy eastward windows. It wasn’t yet midmorning, Cecil thought, and I’m already exhausted.
“I don’t get it,” Mr. Smith said, his camouflaged blazer and vest making him both hard to see and dapper. “Why so close to L.A.? Shouldn’t we be somewhere out of the way?”
“She’s in the middle of a book tour and she’s got high profile fashion shows and sporting events to hit. She could barely make time for this meeting as it was.” Cecil looked at his watch. Not yet midmorning and she was almost two hours late. Right on time for her, probably.
“How come a top level assassin is writing books and starring on television and all those movies I hear about.”
“Part of her cover, Smithie. Illusionist’s technique. Make everyone look one direction, go in the other.”
Mr. Smith nodded as if understanding but Cecil knew he didn’t get it. Unless there were shivs and garrotes involved, Mr. Smith didn’t understand anything. Cecil dabbed at some sweat budding on his forehead. Not yet midmorning and it was hot as an easy bake in the CIA’s only remaining warehouse in L.A. The other warehouses had been rented out to the Immigration Department for “storage.”
Mr. Smith coughed. “She’s late, right? When was she supposed to get here?” He was sweating too. Cecil could tell by the way he was walking.
As Cecil lit another cigarette a voice from the rafters answered, “We were supposed to meet ten minutes before you guys arrived. I’ve been waiting to make sure you weren’t followed.” The figure of a woman in a skin-tight, black leather catsuit, Dolce & Gabbana if Cecil knew his catsuits, descended on a nearly invisible silver line from the ceiling. Mr. Smith already had a gun pointed and warily circled to her far side, made her the mid-point on the line between Cecil and himself.
Cecil took a drag from his cigarette. “You keep a close eye on your appointments, Ms. Hilton.”
As she ripped the leather mask from her face Paris Hilton said, “Always, when my life is on the line.” She threw a hip toward the west wall creating a healthy curve on her good side. Her smile was vacant, inappropriately perfect for any occassion, Cecil thought. Her left eye squinted a little more than her right.
“Tall drink of water,” Mr. Smith observed. Cecil waved him quiet and tossed his cigarette in the direction her hip pointed. Clattering sounds came from the roof. It was Fatty and Dunkirk, two more from Cecil’s team, handpicked by him and “Those In The Know” in D.C. His team answered to an acronym inside an acronym. He’d long ago forgotten what the acronym’s acronym was. Fatty and Dunkirk stood guard up top and amused themselves with throwing stones at pigeons.
After several odd moments of staring at Paris’ impossibly thin nose Cecil croaked out, “You have the book?” Why were his cheeks so flushed, he wondered.
“Right here.” She heaved a leather satchel up from her side. It was from the Gucci espionage line. It wouldn’t blow up if tampered with by the wrong hands as much as revert to an out-of-fashion model when in a highly embarrassing public setting. Then it would blow up.
“How do you move so quietly?” Mr. Smith asked as he watched the book trade hands. Another rattling of stones from the roof.
“Nike Airs, 2006 model*. From after Jordan’s next comeback.”
Mr. Smith nodded approval.
Cecil flipped calmly through page after page of “Confessions of an Heiress.” One-hundred and seventy-eight pages, nearly all photos. The brilliant pink cover screamed both “Run away” and “Look at me” at the same time. The Daisy Duke pose on the back was ironically ignorant, or ignorantly ironic. Cecil’s brain stopped functioning for a moment. When it unfroze he said, “Your list of ‘Instructions on How to be an Heiress,’ that’s a little dangerous don’t you think? “Number 13: Act ditzy. Always lose things.” You’re revealing that it’s an act aren’t you?”
A click and squawk from above. Fatty’s high pitched giggle squealed out.
“Not a chance,” Paris sighed. “It’s written in such a way that people will think I’m trying, but failing, to be funny. Those who like me will love it. Those who don’t will see it as unintentionally funny. They’ll make fun of me for trying to make fun of myself and still being blissfully unaware.”
“They won’t buy it. How could they? No one is this–”
“Trite?” She laughed. “You black ops guys are so silly.” She swung her body to the other side. Now it was her good side. How is it possible to have two good sides, Cecil wondered. Or are they just equally not bad?
Paris strutted toward him. “It’s all based on my show and the sex tapes. I’ve positioned myself to live down to the worst qualities expected: ignorant, entitled, slutty–and I’ve made them my strengths. There’s no going up in the public’s eye, but no going down either. I’m just there, constantly. And since I’m always there I’m constantly re-suggesting myself. I’m that jingle you can’t get out of your head. I’m the chain of stores that is around every corner. I’m a pop-up window. I’m spam.”
Cecil was just starting to understand when two loud thuds from the roof made him jump. Mr. Smith pulled out his .357 again and Paris pulled out a gold plated Louis Vuitton semi-automatic. Pearl handle.
“That was no pigeon,” Mr. Smith whispered.
From the corner came a snapping sound, a camera flash, and an evil chortle. A small man in a Nicole Ritchie mask ran across the dirty floor and dove at an open window. Leaping to the ledge he spun around, gave them the finger and shouted something meant to curl their toes, and dropped out the window. Cecil couldn’t understand through the Nicole mask. He made a confused grunt.
“Huh?” Mr. Smith echoed.
Paris, shifted her weight back to her other good side and snarled, “It’s the North Koreans. They’ve been trying to blow my cover ever since the first sex tape.”
Before Cecil could even realize that a picture of them would blow all their covers Paris sprinted across the warehouse floor. She hurled herself, not through the open window the spy had used, but headed for a large, dirt smeared plate glass window at the east end. Just as the silhouette of the spy fell on the glass Paris leapt high into the air, curled upon herself and cannonballed straight through the glass.
Mr. Smith lowered his gun and said, “Is it just me, or is it getting turned on in here?”
Karate chop sounds could be heard coming through the broken window as small glass shards fell from the frame and tinkled on the ground below. Before the final piece dropped Paris re-entered through the door. She dragged the limp body of the spy with her, the Nicole mask dangling from one ear.
Paris’ skin tight leather was shredded. She pulled disdainfully at it with a loud shout, removing the tatters. “Italian crap! D&G my ass.” She was left in nothing but a bright pink bikini, silver dollar sized bra cups with a tortilla chip sized panty triangle at the crotch. Her hip bones pointed at the two men standing before her, each at an enticing angle matching that of her pistola.
“You boys want to put your tongues away and take care of this guy for me?”
Mr. Smith’s gun dropped to the dirt. “Boss, I think I’m in love.”
“We all are, Smithie. And we hate it.”
*Note: this story was first published in 2004. 2006 was the future back then. How naive, right?