Board Thread:Off Topic/@comment-25266931-20161112032800/@comment-25266931-20161116021038

Direct

Part 1 Break

Sunday. It had honest felt like a prank. After years of doing plays and the occassional direct-to-DVD movie, a phone call came. A phone call about a job directing a blockbuster. He tired his best not to sound too eager. A lesson taught to him by his days dating. He gracefully accepted and expressed deep gratitude for the opportunity.

Odd. Within an hour an envelope slide through the mail slot on the lower half of his door. It was the script. He combed over the pages and really focused. This was his chance...Wait? This had to be a prank. His eyes peered out over a tale about a masked wrestler trying to kill a prostitue for taking off his mask while they were having sex.

He tossed the script in the recycling bin. He woke up to the phone ringing again. He had been have a beautiful dream about his parents. They just seem to smile and nod at him the whole time, but it felt good to see them. He honestly felt bad for not thinking of them more since the funeral and his time claiming the inheritance. But all that serenity was swiped away by the phone ringing. He must've been still drowsy because he could swear it sounded louder than ever before. He answered and a voice asked him what he thought of the script. He decided to play along. It was a dull day after all.

"Oh yeah, it's great. I really like the part where the prostitue remember she once took some capoiera classes and tried to fight back," the Director laughed.

But the voice on the phone seemed to take him seriously, sounding overjoyed and went on to name crew member names and legal jargon as if the whole thing was legit. Suddenly street addresses were given of where to find the studio. The Director wondered just how far these pranksters were will to take this? He continue to play along, think he could reverse this on the pranksters. If the address lead to their home he could call the cops on them. He agreed to go to the studio Monday morning and meet with the crew.

Part 2 Go

The Director had a pep in his step from a good night's sleep and was ready to start his day with having a good laugh at these pranksters. As he approached the street address he was given, he mouth fell slack. It drooped down to the ground as if it was caught in the gravitic yank of a black hole. The studio was real. And what's more, the crew was all there busy as bees. Each one greeting him and getting everything ready. They planned to do some shooting today! The director was hurried into a chair and greetinging were made, questions were asked, and directions were given. The Director found himself blown away. They were all so eager, so professional and so passionate about making the movie. The Director himself had to ask a few questions. Simple a plot as it was, he still only read it once. After the day was over, a swell of pride came over the Director. This was nothing like he'd been used to. Before there was always a diva or someone who would quite just because they lost interest. But not with this team.

Even though they were able to able to shoot a few scenes that day, he decided to look over the script. He still want to redo some of the scenes so far. Change the lighting, maybe. The whole thing should be shot dark and narrow, like the audience is trapped and running scared just like the lead female. Really comb into the viewer's fear. The passion of the crew was contagious. But it was a good thing to be passionate. If only he wasn't so tired. He rubbed his eyes just as a drop of blood fell from his nose.

Part 3 Consume

It was Friday now, and the Director was sure they were making real progress. They were approaching the final scenes of the movie! He couldn't believe it! Every suggestion he made, was followed. Every question he asked, was answered. Any time he was out of ideas, the crew was there to make suggestions of their own. They were like a well-oiled machine. Less like a production team and more like a family cooking Christmas dinner. And when the day's work was done, they laughed, had a beer and went their separate ways. He could rely on them. They showed up to work and enjoyed it. Their enthusiasm filled him. Revitalied him... That is if he wasn't so tired. He stumbled into the studi bathroom as the crew packed up after another day done. He looked over himself in the mirror and saw his what looked more like his father than himself. This was the big time alright. The stress was digging into him. The long hours.... But really? This bad? It'd always been a weak and he looked this terrible. Imagine how he'd be when it was time for interviews and talks for future movies came. He felt the kind of fatigue you feel when you get how and fall to your living floor and sleep right there. Which he planned to do as he reached his front door.

He looked over his average uninspired apartment and wandered over to his couch, just as a warm familiar sensation ran over his top lip. God damn it! Why was his nose bleeding again!? Everything was fine, he'd worked hard before. He was only 38, his body should be able to handle a few long hours a week. He tried to ignore it. Wiped his nose, and looked over the script once more. Then he dropped it right there on the floor. As fear began to run through him. A chill like a needle slowly, gingerly, grazed along the back of his neck.... He stood there stunned and rubbed his index finger and thumb together. There was no residue. No powder of any kind. He just kept staring at that terrible script. The fatigue, the nose bleeding, the withered way his body looked... The only thing different in his life was this script. A script that showed up out of nowhere. From god only knows who. Had he just assumed everything? Where was the skeptic that was ready to get back at some prankster? When did he come this thin old man.

The same thin old man ready to pump out this gutter trash movie. He grabbed tongs and latex gloves and flipped through the pages of the script. Nothing. No chemical smell, no powder, nothing. Yet he still felt like his very being, his essence was falling away into nothing.

Part 4 Survive

The Director sat in his living room wrapped in sheets and blankets. He felt cold, almost like his home had become an igloo. He stared at the script sitting on his coffee table. He hadn't gone to work. He spent the whole day contemplating, planning, trying to get his head on straight. He had made a decision: He would quit. This wasn't his vision for a movie, nor was it worth it to run himself ragged over a movie where describing it with the word "shitty", would be a understatement. Just as he thought this he heard a knock at the door.

It never occured to him that a crew member would come to his house. But he did remember ignoring the phone ringing non-stop all day. Oddly enough, it seemed to ring louder and louder despite no change in it's volume. He crawled out of his fabric cacoon and answered the door.

"Who is it?"

The voice he heard was a familiar one. The one from the phone. A voice he always believed was some middle-man hired to smooze with stars and directors to seduce them into working a job for a few thousand less than they wanted or deserved. He opened the door on a reflex after hearing the voice. He imidiately regretted it. There stood a man that looked like he escaped his cubical and decided to make a house call during his lunch. Grey slacks, white shirt and plain black tie. The only thing that stood out about him was his stare and his odd way of talking.

"Don't do that," The man said.

"Do what?"

The man made his way into the Director's home. And to the Director awe, he found himself simply stepping out of the way. The man came over to the coffee table and stood beisde it. His hand hanging at his side, almost touching the script.

"Why didn't you come into the studio today."

"I'm really tired. You know how it is. I'm used to doing theater, I'm not so quick to adjust to the big time. Directing movies is gonna take some getting used to."

"So you will come in and finish the movie Monday morning, right?"

The Director thought around it: Everyone has to do a few bad movies before they get to do some really good ones. Would it really be that bad to just finish it? I mean he'd done all this work so far. And the team was a good one, best ever really. Why let them down? This was his chance to get his foot in the door. Use this one kinda bad movie to as a stepping stone. And from there he could do greater things. Better things... Wait a minute.

"Uhhh...yee..." Before he could fully form the word "yes". He stopped himself. Wasn't he, only minutes ago, serious about quiting. He recalled the thought of burning that damn script all the whole morning. Even if he couldn't find the drug used on him, he was sure burning the script and quitting the movie would be a start to recovery.

"You know what? No. I'm quitting the movie. It's not what I'm looking for."

"Are you sure?"

"I mean, come on, right? A mexican wrestler versus a bottle blonde hooker who once took martial arts? It's almost done. Just pay me and you all can have it. Don't even put my name in the credit."

"Don't do that." It was like English wasn't the man's first language even though he spoke it perfectly. There was always pause between certain words.

"Meh. It's done. I wash my hands of this movie."

This displeased the man.

Part 5 Defend

The man walked over to the door and openned it as if he were going to leave. Suddenly every member of the crew was in the Directors home. Not just the living room, the whole house. They stared back at him with euphoria in their eyes. Each one in pure bliss just to lay eyes on him. They said nothing. Only the man spoke, and he did so, as if all was well. A slow, calm, series of sentences with odd pauses between random words.

"Don't do that. Quitting half way. Worst! You're tripping at the finish line. Finish it. Let's go to the studio right now."

By now the crew was so cluttered over the house the pressed against the Director. He couldn't breath. It felt like he couldn't move. No one was grabbing him, but the all stood so clustered together around him and could even think. Some were literally nose to nose with him. As he struggled to get his arms up to push them way he could only manage to free one. A page flapped as he swung his arm free. When did he pick up the script?

He threw it and began to rampage! He thrashed and punched and kneed those smiling, comforting, welcoming faces. He made his way to the man at the door who stood in the doorway. He plowed right through him and tumbled over him out of the door. Now outside he could breath, he could think. But the script was still there in his hands.

Destroy it. He had to. He broke into a mad dash. The crew and the man followed him right on his heels. Now they grabbed, now they yelled and screamed. Where were the cops, where were his neighbors, why was he alone facing this tidal wave of co-workers he had such a joy working with? He broke free. He ran and ran and didn't fully stop until he reached the studio. He wheezed trying to catch his breath. He ignore the ache of old bones and stabbing pain of his lungs. He stumbled around the studio and tried to find any pyrotechnic supplies he could. He spread the script that would stop appearing in his hand onto the floor, every page.

And he set it ablaze.

From the lawn across the street he laughed and laughed as it burned. The whole studio. And as it crumbled he felt his mind clearing. He felt this weight lifting up off him. The joy he had working with the crew was gone but... he thought of his parents who nodded and smiled in his dream. And he felt content.

The Director was released from jail after months and months.... Fines. Community service. Talk of this being his first offense. Talk of no lives lost. Stress being a factor. Trials. Hearings. Agreements. The Director only half heard any of it.

He decided it was time to write. Take some time off from directing. And maybe publish a pre-teen book. Something else. Something new. And something he'd do on his terms. When he was good and ready.