Waddling away from the helicopter, Kim teetered in the gusting wind, and dropped her $32,000 custom-made Louis Vuitton ostrich-hatchling-skin size-all bag, spilling $27,000 worth of dna-matched whipped-civit-cat makeup, a $58,000 ruby-encrusted iPhone, a ziploc bag of invaluable pharmaceuticals, and a precious script, on the green helipad tarmac atop Trump Tower.

The pages lifted, spun; some caught in the prop and were ripped to pieces, some swooshed over the roof edge, others hovered and turned, suspended.

"Oh fuck me," she exclaimed.

"Oh fuck ME," echoed Kourtney, her stiff new extensions twirling in the blade wash like dark ice tornados. She threw her $89,000 hummingbird-tongue-lined-and-platinum-chained clutch down next to Kim's splayed-open purse.

"Kourtney, are you stupid or what? Don't do that! We're off script here. The camera crew got waved off, and we came down first by mistake. Donald's new assistant is supposed to have someone up here but she screwed up."

"Oh."

"He should fire that bitch."

"Oh." 

Kourtney re-arranged her face, to show an emotion. It was a pout, she thought. Or maybe frustration. She felt the pull around her ears, like when the pool guy didn't skim properly, and she had to feel annoyed about it. She bent to pick up her clutch, missed it by about six inches, moved her heels further apart, bent again, and grabbed it.

"Don't just do what I do. I hate when you do that.  Don't ad lib. "

"My lip?" pondered Kourtney, confused. She touched it with her $3500 cloissoned-enamel index finger nail. She felt nothing. "Seems perfect..."

The helicopter pilot was yelling at them: "..high wind..wait for...can't...LOOK OUT...GET BACK..." something something "..stupid goddamn morons..." something. His bird tilted. He revved, and rose up, dipped, revved and rose, dipped even lower. The wind threatened to crush him and the girls against the roof structure, the one with the big D on it that housed the AC, water, and electronics. With a deafening SHZSflupflupSHZSflupVRMMMM, the helicopter jumped higher, then veered away, toward Jersey.

"So we're alone up here!" screamed Kim.

"So we're alone up here!" shouted Kourtney, nodding. She threw her clutch down again. 

"Jeez-us!" whined Kim. They shielded their eyes against the setting sun, and looked all around.

"Where's the crew?" asked Kourtney. "Are they using those telephon-o lenses?" She pushed back her shellacked hair, which instantly resumed flailing all round her face, picking up blobs of bronzer and foundation and mascara. She had little scritchy marks everywhere as a result, as if swallows had tracked orange and black ink all over her face, neck and décolletage. 

"There is no crew you dope." Kim squinted her eyes and moue-d her mouth, her most vicious move, but it was wasted, hidden as it was behind her $42,000 Swifty-sized chocolate-diamond rimmed sunglasses.

Kourtney smiled. "So what should we pretend to talk about, just in case they have mics or something. Should we talk up the new accessories, the 'Occupy Fashion' thing?" She primped a bit, stuck out her breasts, and remembered her part: " 'For a  Kardashian-quality 'mic check', we'll offer a megaphone with mega-style' -- and then he says: 'We'll write a check to mike!' I don't get that last line, though. "

Kim was staring down at the mess on the helipad, at all her things. She couldn't decide what to do. "Someone has to pick this up." Some of the pages, still fluttering among her things, floated up. She raised her head, watching it rise, her hand automatically covering her throat, to cover any crease lines in the concealing top layer. "Stay focused," she muttered to herself. She kicked her iPhone with her perfectly manicured toe. "I need that. I need to text."

"I heard they all went home, or to jail or whatnot." Kourtney wandered over to the roof edge.

"Kourtney you dumb bitch! come pick this up for me!"

"Pick it up yourself you lazy asshole!" Kourtney peered over the edge. She backed away, horrifed, and fell on her tuchis. "Ows-ie!"

"I can't. It's too soon. I'll pop a stitch." Kim reached up, patted her still-tender boobs. She leaned one way, then the other, bending her knees, keeping her torso rigid, her palms out, trying to land safely. She fell sideways. "Owwww!"

She brushed the bits of grit from her palm, "ow"-ing again and again. She felt a twinge in what used to be functioning tear ducts.

"I can't reach your iPhone from way over here," offered Kourtney. "Or else I would totally get it for you."

Kim stretched out a heel, missed the phone by about two feet. She stuck out her lip,  then lifted herself up and scootched her behind, inches at time, until she came close enough to retrieve it. With a practiced hand she opened the text software and tapped furiously. A ferocious cruelty played about the edges of her placid face.

"Tell them we changed our minds about pretending to sleep in those tents and all, like we said!" hollered Kourtney. She rolled over on her knees, and tried to get up. Her tall spike heels skittered and scraped. She banged her knee. "Owwww!"

Triumphantly, Kim hit send, and waited. And waited. "The fucking spinning dotted arrow-circle thing is broken again!" she screamed. She tapped send again and again, clicked side and front buttons. A message appeared. "No fucking signal! FUCK!"

Kourtney was on one knee, still trying to stand up again. "Maybe it's the -- ooph! --  tower dealy-thing. You know, interference." She pulled her other foot under her; the heel snapped, and she fell again. "Owwww! Fuck!"

"Fuck! Shitfire-mcFuck mcFuckettyfuckpissfuckcuntcocksucker! FUCK!" Kim was pounding on the iPhone. It cracked. She stopped, stared at it. Then she pulled her arm back and threw it, as hard as she could. It hit the dish atop the D structure, flew over the edge, fell thirty stories, reaching terminal velocity. It struck an out-of-work single mother of two, just laid off from her housecleaning job after the hotel she worked for had its union busted by a Kuwaiti-owned chain, based in the Antilles, who had paid off both the Democrat and Republican New York congressional representatives to kill a bill protecting collective bargaining. She died instantly.

"This was a stupid idea," said Kourtney.

"It sure was," snorted Kim. "I don't even think those occupational people can even afford new tents. I mean, 'occupational' -- that means they work for a living or somesuch, right?"

"And I bet most of them don't even HAVE a bank sponsor deal, right?"

"This was a stupid idea," said Kim.

"Right! That's what I said!" Kourtney beamed.

"It's like, what, dusk already. I don't think that pilot told them where we are," groused Kim, bitterly.

"Where. Are. The fucking. Ca-a-a-ameras?" cried Kourtney.

Pigeons cooed. To the east, clouds massed threateningly. To the north, the upper east side glowed like a hearth. To the west, New Jersey crowded up with B&T-ers, honking their way home. To the south, Wall Street glittered like Harry Winston's favorite whore.

"So I'm confused. You're the smart one, Kim. What do we do? Do we stay up here? Do we try to just Occupy Manhattan right here? Erect something? I mean, what's the answer, then?"

Kim looked up. The wind increased; it howled like a hammer. She watched the last of the script pages circle one last time, and soar off. "The answer, Kourtney, is blowin' in the fucking wind."

"The answer, Kim, is blowin' in the fucking wind," nodded Kourtney, solemnly, while she slowly rotated her signature $17,000 white-gold-and-star-sapphire bangle bracelets.

__