If you make it, they will come. What a load of shit. The refrain repeated in the mind of the director. An inspired dream of a script. A world without fear, without scarcity and sacrifice. A new world. And he planned to put it in his picture. If man’s troubles had been even remotely related to scarcity or lack, our troubles here would have long been over, he thought. And maybe this story is the one that gets through to the audience, his audience that finally sees themselves. No humble gesture. A story about an obscure man who discovers and shares the sublime. A story about himself. The man god as he is, desolate, despairing, inconsolable, and beautiful. This would be his masterpiece, a gift to his audience, a shock, a surprise to be sure, after a long career of directing explosions and horror. This would be his calling card, something to see, one final piece that came to him from a dream, like a woman emerging from the shadows with the cup. Then he could rest.
But the reality of production was another thing. He was shooting at the studio with a small crew. A simple interior scene—what should have been simple—between a man and a woman in a bedroom had reached its 120th take. The crew was seething and weary, the actors fatigued, the lines now rote. He was thinking that the first take might ultimately be the only usable one after all this time, but there was something missing. Did he need a close-up? What had gone wrong here? It was the sixth month of shooting and his crew was on the verge of mutiny. He wondered what was keeping them from the set of the Godfather. They are paid to be here. The director was in quiet contemplation after a break, the whispers of the annoyed and annoying crew echoing back to him from the stage, when the old black janitor with mop and bucket started cleaning up some spilled coffee from the floor about three feet away from our director.
“What are you doing?” the director inquired softly.
“What?” the old man replied meekly.
“Jesus in heaven, what are you doing?”
“There’s coffee.”
“You have to do this now?”
“What?”
“Say what one more time. What are you doing?”
“If I don’t clean it, someone could fall. Hurt themselves. Sue us.”
“What? You’re some kind of fucking lawyer now, mop man?”
“I’m just telling you what they told me.”
“You’re telling me?”
“The production company. The company that pays—”
“Listen, you dumb nigger, get the fuck off my set.”
“I work for the company—”
“Get the fuck off my set! If I see you on this set again, I swear to God. Get your mop and pan and get the fuck off. Can’t you see we are working here?! Can you?”
“I just—”
“Don’t say another word, you crazy coon. Just get your shit and go. I’m begging you. I don’t know what I’m likely to do.”
The janitor exited, the director watching him the entire way. The rest of the crew stood stunned but silent. They continued working for many more hours that day, and he finally thought he’d found the shot he was looking for.
Late that night, another driver picked him up, not his usual. Sitting in the back of the SUV, he asked the new driver what happened to his usual guy, but he didn’t listen to the answer. He interrupted to ask where the brand of bottled water usually reserved for him was. There was only something else, another brand of water, which he drank down. “Take me home,” he sighed. The city night was heavy.
The director woke up to find himself tied, naked, hanging upside down from his hogtied feet. He could not recall how he got there. Another man was standing in front of him, not his driver. A man with a ruddy complexion and eagerness on his face that he was trying to conceal.
“Hi, you’re awake,” the ruddy man said.
“What’s going on?” the director asked groggily.
“You can ask any questions you want, but we have to begin now. Feel free to scream,” the man replied.
“What are you talking about? What is?”
“This. Torture and death.”
“What?”
“This won’t be pleasurable for either of us, but we will enjoy it.”
“Why?”
“You know why. You’ve been well-prepared for this. If you don’t mind, we can talk while I work.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Of course. That’s why we are here. Do you?”
The man approached the hanging director, his tools laid out on a rolling table nearby. The director, still hanging upside down, caught glimpses of shiny objects: sharp tools, some large, some larger, delicate, detailed. Was that Venetian red velvet they were displayed on? And how many trays were there?
“It’s important,” the man continued, “that you know what is going to happen here.”
“Nothing, nothing, we can forget this, I can pay you, I’ll do anything—”
“I want to answer your questions before you ask them, to save me time. First, I will castrate you, then cauterize. You will watch me eat you raw right in front of your face. Then do you see that camera set up over there? I will record the rest of this session for later.”
“You’re making a big mistake. You have the wrong person. I don’t deserve this—”
“Then, as I was saying, I’m going to peel the skin from your face and take your scalp too, and then carefully bandage your wounds to make sure you don’t die. This will go on for the rest of your body. And while you heal, the screen over there, look to your right, it’s right there, can you see? I will play back your skinning for you to enjoy, and I will watch some of it with you. That sort of thing is quite nauseating to me, actually. At that point, I will let you know that not only will you die, but your humiliating death will also be replayed endlessly for others to enjoy. Indeed, among them will be some very beautiful women, women you have dreamed about fucking and some you have. They will watch this with delight. And you will have this knowledge as you beg to die. I will cut out your beating heart, old school. But before we are complete, I will sustain you. Your piss and shit will be collected. Do you see the silver basin below? I will then feed them to you and feed you antibiotics through a tube, and some over-the-counter painkillers so you don’t go completely mad or die from infection. If you resist me, we will do this entirely without painkillers. I’m no surgeon. And rest assured you won’t be sodomized.”
“This is crazy. I can’t understand.”
“If any of it bothers you, think to yourself, it’s only a movie.”
“Tell me what this is about.”
“I have.”
“You nutjob!” he screamed. He screamed this repeatedly, to silence. The man went over to his tool display, examining which he would use.
“I forgot, I will also collect some of your blood to be drunk later by your audience. And this camera is recording sound as well.”
“I know what this is about. How could I have known? I can give the money back, all of it and more.”
“Is that so? I have no clue what you are talking about. Any other questions before we begin?”
After a long pause, the director said, “How could I have known? She didn’t look like a child, she didn’t act like no child!”
“That’s certainly very interesting,” the man said, approaching.
“Wait! Listen, I can be a little mean on set, a little bit of a bully, I don’t mean to, I have a job, a vision, I have to get all these people, I have to interweave all these ideas, please wait no!”
“We have already crossed the line. There is no going back, my friend. Try to enjoy yourself.”
“Wait, wait, are you English? I can hear it. We can work something out. I have some English blood. It’s not my fault my mother loved niggers. WAIT. I’m just an ordinary man.”
“Don’t say wait one more time,” the man said.
“What are you going to do, torture me, kill me?”
They laughed together.