Born in Beverly Hills

The “Ellie in her Nightie” statuette adorns the prow of the black 1977 Corniche. The hood ornament’s official name is the Spirit of Ecstasy, and it’s been obscuring the view of Rolls drivers for decades. Royce himself never liked her very much.

Jacquelyn Astoria is the driver with the obscured vision at present. The black Corniche is daddy’s car.

Beside her is her tennis pro, Rafael. Like the figure on the hood, his purpose is largely ornamental. He’s eye-candy for Jackie’s amusement while she weaves down Rodeo Drive. The car is weaving because she’s very, very drunk. Of course she is.

 On the way to Cartier,
 Brook no delay sil vous plait.

Her phone bleeps and Jacquelyn is answering a text from the younger scion of the Waldorf family when the Corniche plows through the open-air bistro tables doing forty. A family of four and their waiter, including two children, die in the crash.

After the media-circus trial of the decade, Judge Hardewick hands down a sentence of sixty years without parole. Jackie remains calm and quiet throughout.

She doesn’t crack and start screaming until the guards take her trinkets away and push her into the cell.

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197 words. Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

And in homage to Wish I Were Born In Beverly Hills by Alice Cooper.

Of course, a few not-so-clever referents to Paris Hilton…


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