From the desk he picked up the glossy photo, a publicity shot they send out to all the fans or scrawl all over with a Sharpie at personal appearances. They handed them out like fliers at a Southern Baptist Convention. Surely no one would miss this one.
Ian Justyn stared back from the photograph. It didn’t do him justice, they thought. He hated having his picture taken, but they’d managed to get this one out of him. He was popular. People wanted autographed pictures of him. Little did they know, the autograph was a stamp and Justyn never saw the letters.
Justyn wasn’t aware that he received more fan letters than some of the networks biggest stars. They’d had to hire three more people, just today, to handle it all. They wondered what his reaction would be if he knew that food was being put on the table, bills were being paid and insurance covered for a handful of people who for a living rolled their eyes every time they opened an envelope containing a letter that started ‘Dear Ian Justyn’.
He’d figure it out eventually. It would probably make him blush. He wouldn’t be able to believe it. Justyn was so humble. Or at least he faked it really, really well. But Justyn would never know.
They picked the eight by ten glossy up from the desk and looked one last time. They picked the letter opener up from the desk and aimed. With two bold punches, the eyes of the picture were expertly gauged out. They laughed and then dropped it in the trash with the rest of that day’s garbage.
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