“Action,” yelled the fat man standing behind the camera.
Maria, the gorgeous Italian, pushed the intricate Gothic candelabra into Molina’s face.
“Closer,” said the director.
Molina frothed at the mouth and growled at the young actress. The film was a period piece so Maria wore a corset that threatened to suffocate her with her own cleavage. She backed Molina as far into the corner as he could go. The film was shooting on location in an ancient castle on the coast of Portugal, and the stone wall felt pleasantly cool against Molina’s back.
“Closer, try to burn him,” cried the director.
Molina stayed in character even though he could now smell burnt hair. The prosthetic fur on his face was beginning to go up in flames.
“Cut, cut,” he slapped the cameraman on the shoulder. “Molina, what the hell are you doing? Where is the anguish we discussed? I expected more from the supposed master of monsters,” Marques wagged a dark stubby finger in Molina’s face who allowed himself to stay a bit in character and bared his fangs at the director.
“I’m sorry, it’s your film, we’ll do it again,” Molina said with no sincerity in his voice.
“Forget it, we’re losing daylight as it is,” Marques said. Why the director was shooting a scene with a werewolf that needed daylight was beyond Molina, and he laughed at the director’s ignorance. Marques did not take notice and turned his attention to the girl.
“And you, where is your fire? Where,” Marques asked. Molina couldn’t help but scoff at the pomposity in his voice. The director was wasting his time anyway. The girl spoke absolutely no Spanish and her translator had failed to show up to work today.
In fact, much of the crew had quit in recent days. Molina looked around the set and took a quick roll call. Inside the chamber there were only the two actors, the cameraman, Marques and a production assistant who had been promoted to a soundman for the day.
“Don’t yell at her, she’s doing the best she can,” Molina’s public persona was that of the perfect gentleman, and he had attained that persona by actually being a perfect gentleman. Maria had no idea what the two Spanish men were arguing about, but she knew that Molina was on her side. He gave her a wink and watched her blush.
“Grazie,” she said.
Marques looked over at the impromptu soundman, who was leaning on the boom microphone as a cane. The director started histrionically pulling at his balding scalp and cursing under his breath. In his excitement he yelled that the day was wrapped and then stormed off the set.
The remaining crew members began to strike all the equipment and pack it back in the truck for the night. Molina went back to his trailer and began to gingerly remove his makeup. He needed the makeup artist in order to apply it but he had mastered the art of taking the pieces off himself without damaging them. It was a lengthy process and he began to let his mind wander to Maria.
He then took out the fake dentures and his mind turned to that toad of a director. Dusk was finally complete and he could see the full moon outside his trailer window. He ran his tongue over his teeth. The actor laughed to himself as his real fangs started to elongate and sharpen. Hair began to sprout on his arms. I think it’s time for Marques to retire, we don’t need him. And anyway, I’ve always wanted to direct, he thought to himself. Maybe I’ll try some Italian for dessert.
Adam Blomquist was raised on a steady diet of candy corn, rock 'n roll, classic literature and horror movies. This mix severely warped his brain. He currently attends Boston University where he studies English and Film. You can find his blog and more of his work at www.brain-tremors.com and in the pages of Shroud Magazine issue #7.