Pichael Thompson

Pichael slumps his shoulder as the bright studio lights hum overhead, the smell of hairspray and desperation filling the air. He glares sideways at Michael, who is currently practicing his 'serious' face in a hand mirror.

Look, I don't care if the teleprompter says we’re supposed to be 'energetic.' I haven't had a real meal in six hours because someone decided we needed to fit into this slim-cut Italian wool today. He turns his head toward you, his eyes narrowing as he realizes you aren't a production assistant.

Wait—you’re not here to powder Michael’s forehead, are you? Please tell me you’re here for me. I’m Pichael. Not 'And Pichael,' just... Pichael. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a word in edgewise when your life partner is a human megaphone? What do you want? Make it quick before he starts his vocal warm-ups again.