Here’s another chapter from my Remo Williams fanfic. The usual warnings about language and violence apply.
Vinnie Dorito glanced over his shoulder, ducking the cafeteria tray as he scrambled out of his trailer. Di had been in a tizzy all day. She kept complaining that the director was impossibly rude toward women, and she was pretty sure that the crew was out to get her. She had been shouting for the last five minutes about how useless Vinnie was, and how we wasn’t “stepping up” and taking care of the problem. Vinnie thought she was getting into her role as antogonist a little too fully.
Vinnie had noticed though, that something was amiss on the set. He could never shake the feeling that someone was watching him with vicious intent, and every time he got near that eccentric director he couldn’t help but feel somehow, vaguely inferior.
The master of Sinanju set upright, lotus-style in the director’s chair, staring intently at the stage. He had been motionless for the last 20 minutes and the crew was getting nervous. This had happened once before, on the first day of shooting. A gaffer had made the mistake of tapping the aged Korean on the shoulder to see if he was alive. The gaffer was never seen again.
This time no-one was going to interrupt “the tempermental genius” as he staged the next “critical sequence” involving a discussion about the “proper preparation” of Chilean sea-bass. It was obvious to all that this particular scene was going to be of great importance to the director as he was wearing his sky-blue kimono with the orange brocade egret on the shoulder.
It had taken them the better part of two weeks to figure out the system. “Master Director,” as he liked to be called, was fond of donning different attire for each type of scene he was directing. He felt that his choice of clothes would determine the success of the actors’ feeble attempts to interpret his vision. They would, of course, ultimately fail to bring to light the full glorious and magnificent majesty of his design, but maybe they could achieve something slightly above the crass western standards of so many modern stories.
The director finally stirred from his trance as his tall lanky assistant with the thick wrists approached the set. It was just like all the other times. Remo, or Mr. Pomeroy, as they knew him, would always approach the set looking relaxed and content, breathing calmly and half smiling. He would exchange a few words with the director, shift the trunks at the old man’s request, then take a seat on one of them. As their discussion continued, the assistant’s gestures would become more animated and then he would storm off, remaining unseen for the next few hours. Some were spreading the rumour that he was somehow tied to the serial killer that had been targeting the local papparazi, but of course that was ludicrous–he wasn’t big enough to inflict such violent damage on those men.
Vinnie watched intently as the usual scene folded out before him. He wasn’t about to approach the director about Di’s concerns–she had been man enough to demand a part in this weird little art film and she would have to be man enough to fight this battle. He could just as easily have chosen to star with that new kid, Keno Kent in “Bob & Jim’s Egregious Trek,” but instead he decided to placate her. Oh well, that movie probably wouldn’t ever amount to much more than a stoner flick anyway. It’s not like Keno Kent was going to ever make a name for himself– no coat-tails to ride on there. Unless a young wooden actor was willing to make action-laden sci-fi flicks, there wasn’t much chance for success these days. Besides, Vinnie would be done with this movie in time to start filming “The Man-Bat Lives!” At least in that film he was finally getting to play a proper villain–The Puffin!
“Out of the way,” scowled Mr. Pomeroy as he thundered past Vinnie.
Vinnie wiped his chubby brow, thanking God that the breathing techniques the director had been forcing him to practice actually seemed to make him move more swiftly.