The first time Johnny Getz killed a celebrity, it was a complete accident. She was, as famous people go, not all that famous. She was one of the dubious stars of a reality show devoted to young people being obnoxious drunks, but she wasn’t one that would necessarily get recognized out of that context. Without the cameras following her around she was indistinguishable from any other over tanned, under dressed twentysomething. Even on her own show, she was mostly there as filler.
She wasn’t as pretty in person. This was the first thing that Johnny thought when he recognized her at the bar. On television, she wasn’t his type, he didn’t go in for the fake and bake look, but she was definitely attractive. In person she still was, but close up you could see the bad skin from too much make up and the way that night after night of corporate sponsored binge drinking had given her a kind of bloat, like her flesh wasn’t really attached to her bones.
Of course, the fact that she was throwing up in a potted plant at the back of the bar when he first spotted her wasn’t really doing her any favors either. Johnny had no intention, when he saw her there wiping vomit from her hair, of killing her. What he was after then was a lot simpler than that. Humiliation.
Johnny Getz was twenty three at the time, medium tall, medium build and medium good looking. He was well liked by his friends, had done well at school and had developed a fairly significant hatred for the concept of celebrity. Aside from the hate, he was almost entirely unremarkable, which was, in fact, exactly where the hate had come from.
He was seven months out of college when he saw her, and he hadn’t been able to find a job in his field. He probably shouldn’t have been out at the bar, considering that his jobs at a used bookstore and as a bartender didn’t really pay the bills all that well. But here was this girl, whose only discernable talent was a complete and total lack of shame, making ten times what he would even if he were able to get a damn job, which he couldn’t.
She was rich, she was famous, and she had done exactly nothing to earn it. He decided then, as she stood up and made sure her boobs were almost but not entirely secure in her shirt, that something needed to be done about it.
You would think that her being semifamous would make getting to her more difficult, but Johnny found that, in fact, just the opposite was true. She was too drunk and too dissipated looking for most of the men that didn’t know who she was, and her general level of notoriety made it so that most of the men who did recognize her didn’t make a play. The rest of them, well, they didn’t quite have the motivation that Johnny did.
The plan was simple enough that it would be debatable whether or not you could even call it a plan. Basically, he intended to get her on the roof, get her naked, and chuck her clothes off of the roof. And then leave.
Now, granted, this was a girl who let herself be filmed taking a piss behind a bar because the bathroom was too far away, but he was hoping that doing a buck ass naked walk of fame would be enough to at least trigger whatever vestigial shame instinct she had.
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