Thursday, October 11, 2007

You died on set with the new girl

Just to clarify, the new girl didn't die. Only you did. And just to clarify, she didn't kill you, OK? And just because being dead drops your IQ points by like three-quarters, doesn't give you the right to ignore this shit and go dumbass haunting her for the rest of her already ruined life.

* * *


Jadey from Wardrobe: ...girl's got no respect for herself, can see it already. And you know that's the biggest mistake a lady can make getting into this industry. That it's ok to not take care of yourself.

Spags: Looks a number to me.

Jadey: Yes, she still bothers to wear make up if that's what you mean, but darling have you taken a look at her ankles?

Spags: What about em

Jadey: Besides them being the filthiest? You think I want to be working with a girl who can't even be fussed to watch out for the dirt under her ankles? These are the things darling, these are the things.

Spags: The fuck ankles Jadey? I'nt the fuckin thirtees.

Jadey: Exactly this isn't the thirties darling. You think a girl could afford a wad of dove in this century. Not that priced Cali shit, just dove is what I'm saying.

Spags: Well maybe they'd been decent enough to spot the lady a hotel for the night, she'd have em clean for certain.

Jadey: You think they're all money? And would it make a difference.

Spags: Well don't know about you but I tell you I'm in a hotel I run that bath all full as it can go and hot as it can go too. Sometimes I even run the shower the same time down atop a me.


* * *


Spags the DoP had a thing for her from the start. It was something in her form, something undefinable. He was fond of the term je ne sais quoi, though he would never say it aloud. Only inwardly. And he would glow, inwardly. You...well you thought she was just another hussy with a lifetime supply of stylish footwear that has the added benefit of treating any number of STDs. All while you walk.

You'd been hawking Yodokrohm Health Sandals for three months. Or at least, you were a well defined key player in the hawking process. That was you in the ads. Some might call you an icon. Yourself and maybe your agent. It certainly didn't dampen your ego. Remember that drunk fuck you demanded call you Reverend Yodocream and she even said it loud enough to your satisfaction, absorbed into the walls of your soundproofed condo, but you still gave her one in the throat? Oh, like no one was going to find out about that?

Spags had you wired man. After he thought you were fucking the new girl, like a week in, he did up the whole thing: under the bulbs, under the mattress, dark corners of the ceiling. Devices protruding near-invisible from the spines of books you would never read (a nice camera-mic combo aimed from within the O's of The Brothers Karamazov). Once it became apparent that you were not having relations with the new girl, and that your taste in women seemed to polar between masculine prostitutes and sleepy high school girls, Spags found himself both relieved and sorely disappointed. With his vicarious fantasy paled, Spags was left with no choice but to actually ask the girl out.

* * *

A few days later, when Spags had actually built up the courage and found that delicate balance between being drunk and remaining articulate, he approaches the new girl on set.

Spags: (Shuffling steps)

New Girl: (Fanning herself with the treatment you handed her moments earlier; a softcore porn production where she would play a lesbian school teacher forced to assume the identity of a man in order to seduce a homosexual principal, who killed her brother in a reckless motorcycle accident. In the final scene it is revealed that the principal is also a woman posing as a man, and that the real man the school teacher is tracking down has traveled back in time to advise his younger self to get a sex change so that when he's older he can murder both the principal and the school teacher after first being part of a really hot threesome.)

Spags: (Continued shuffling. Increased looming. Gaffer verging on annoyance.)

_Insert your small talk with the new girl._

New Girl: (Eying you with incomprehensible disdain.)

You: (Stepping down from the stage, putting one hand on the shoulder of Spags for balance, slipping right off, falling into a mess of cables. Gaffer definitely annoyed, though refrains from making it know verbally.)

_Insert what you said to Spags about his profuse sweating loud enough for everyone to hear_

Spags: (Realising that he is now the focus of all eyes.)

New Girl: (Throwing Spags a brief glance. Not entirely bothered one way or the other, though certainly void of any yearning approval. Glancing back at the treatment, she momentarily considers the process of having you killed professionally.)

* * *

Bad weather had forced shooting to be delayed for a week. In that time Spags was nowhere to be seen. Then, in the last hours before wrap-up he was back on set. No one really noticed. He was hiding in the background, setting up something. Setting out to destroy you.

His apparent humiliation a week earlier in front of the new girl had sent Spags into a bad state. He'd taken this time to edit a compilation of your most heinous sex acts caught in the hollowed covers of Dostoevsky. Thing was, the notion of somebody broadcasting your aptitude in rough love making, really wasn't such a bad notion to you. If only he hadn't beamed that shit right into your shit eating shoe salesman grin.

The projector light threw you into a daze of three or four seconds. Long enough to step backwards into the new girl, who was not really by this stage, that new, modeling alongside you some type of croquet get up. With your foot caught in a wicket you took a nasty dive backwards, and spent the last moments of your life knowing the wetness of your own blood, whilst staring up at a screen where a pale obese woman with jiggling thighs is begging you to pull a size ten sandal out of her ass.