Zac Efron's stunning, bronze-tanned face is the first thing you see when the lid to your tiny box opens. He flashes his pearly-whites, giving you that famous, clean-cut smile of his. "I'm not dead!" You blurt out. This sends Zac into a fit of laughter. "No, little buddy, you're not dead. You're just my slave! My first one, too, so you should feel honoured." he points out. "I'm sorry. I'm.. I'm your what?? That's impossible.. That's illegal.." The teen heart-throb laughs again, a little less patiently. "Buddy," he says, in a slightly more patronizing tone. "For celebrities with my status, 'anything' is possible. And illegal's just another word. What do you think George Bush does with terrorists after they're caught? Locks them up? Yeah, right. George happens to be a buddy of mine, and just the other day I saw an adult Russian male your size eating dirt out of the cracks of Bush's heel while he sat at his desk and talked to me." All of this information is making your head spin. Nobody can be that powerful! You refuse to believe it! If they can, how weak and insignificant does that make you.. At that moment, the doorbell rings downstairs. "Damn it! I forgot McCartney was comin' over today. I can't let him see you - I wanna break you in myself, and Jesse's so rough with his boys you'll be lucky to make it past today alive if he sees you." Zac Efron snatches you out of your box and throws the emmaculately styled package in the trash. His fingers carelessly weigh on your face, forcing your eyes shut, so you don't see him haphazardly dropping you in his white Adidas sports shoe until it's too late. He kicks the shoe under his bed, knocking you onto your belly, where you cop a face-full of foot stench from the squishy sports shoe's sole. A moment later, you hear Zac's bedroom door open, and the two boys' youthful voices talking about their plans for the day..
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