the group was comprised of cameramen and reporters with readied microphones.  “What the hell happened here?”  He said out loud to no one.

He barely had time to notice that one of the guards had recognized his car and was trying very discreetly to motion him through.  Having had that moment fly right over his head, Ian slowed down and rolled down his window.  “Good morning, everything okay?”

Suddenly, Ian’s car was surrounded with the reporters.  Lights flared and microphones were shoved into his car window.  Ian was taken totally by surprise.

“Is it true that you are going to be named the new head of HRT studios, Mr. Justyn?”, “Was this weekend all a publicity stunt to improve the network ratings?”, “Have you heard that Brittany Spears wants you to open for her next tour?”  The questions came rapid fire from every direction, and all at one time.

All Ian could say was, “What the fuck is going on?”  Instinctively he knew when on tape throw in a profanity that ruins the shot.  It will buy enough time to get your bearings.  The guards were Keystone copping in an attempt to get Ian through the gate to the safety of the lot, but the rowdy ménage was having no part of it determined to be the first to get a statement for God knows what.   

Ian decided the best way to get through this alive was to nip it in the bud, in a politically correct rhetoric way.  He put his car in park, shoved his car door open with all his might, finally shouting above the din, “For a group of people determined to get a statement from me, you don’t seem to want to let me out of my car to make one.  Get back and I’ll come out and answer all questions!”

The eager hounds quickly fought amongst themselves until a path was cleared to allow Ian to get out of his car.  As soon as he stood, the questions began to fire again.  Ian looked to one of the guards, “Would you mind pulling this out of the way?”

One of the younger guards looked like Ian had just run him over with the damn car.  “Me, Mr. Just…er…Ian?”

Ian nodded his head. “Please.”

The young man hopped in the car and put it in gear and pulled it through the gate.  The reporters kept hollering absurd questions and statements, paying absolutely no attention to the looks that were being exchanged between Ian and the guards.   

One of the bigger guards stepped between Ian and the mob, raising his hands and shouting, “Alright you people, calm down, calm down.”

He finally screamed at the top of his lungs, “SHUT UP!”  And the crowd fell silent.  The guard continued.  “If you will all compose yourself, Mr. Justyn has consented to give you a statement.  We’ll give you two minutes to get yourselves set up for the shot.”   

The guard looked at Ian and Ian at the guard.  The reporters hurriedly positioned themselves trying to get the perfect set up in less than ninety seconds.  They were professionals, they could do it.

Ian cleared his throat and took a step toward the reporters.  He started to say something but the guard held up his hand.  “Sir, let’s just have to do this one time.  I’ll give a count.  Ready?”

Ian nodded his head, the reporters fumbled and the guard counted