by Alan Spencer
They won't listen to me, but they'll listen to something else.
He was a special effects guy. He created practical effects and doubled as lighting and boom guy when needed. Blast thrived in the '80's when horror movies were churned out at a hundred miles an hour, and now he survived on a threadbare basis working with Bruce Ryder. He was grateful to still be doing his craft at the age of forty-five. But he wasn't here to babysit horny youngsters who didn't respect having a job in the industry.
He was here to do a job.
Bottom line.
Blast skulked off to a corner under a small set of palm trees where he set up his work station. He had a fold out table up. On top of it were four boxes heaping full with rubber limbs and human pieces. Underneath the table, he had his make-up kit and what he called his "slaughter simulation" tackle box full of glues, appliances, and random tools he needed to create fast effects for cheap. He couldn't forget the biggest necessity: four huge plastic jugs of fake blood and gelatin guts. He used gelatin instead of actual slaughterhouse guts to avoid the terrible smell. Among the items, he also kept a 9mm pistol.
He double checked the 9mm for bullets.
She was fully loaded.
I'll scare some sense into them.
They'll see my steel and poop.
Wave this baby around, and they'll respect me.
I'll shoot a round into the air and get their attention.
Let's do this!
"Whoa, hold up!" Bruce snatched the 9mm out of his hands. "I'm not going to ask you what you were going to do with that. Just put that bad boy back where you found it. End of story. You got to promise me not to bring that thing back out again, you got me?
"We go back a long time, Blast. I know these kids are out of control. They're not professionals. They think acting's a breeze. By the end of our three days, they'll be new people. Some will bow out and never be in a movie again, and others, they'll keep on acting with new vigor. Thanks for trying to tame the herd. I owe you one, Blast. I'm giving you a bonus."
Blast went from snarling mad to laughing. "And how much is that bonus?"
"A three percent cut from the gross DVD profits we make in Japan. How's that?"
"Basically, a case of beer and a hearty handshake."
"I'd be grateful if I were you. I don't hand out bonuses. Not even to myself."
Blast put the 9mm back into the box. "Believe me, I know you don't. I'm grateful. I'm honored."
"Good." The director held up his arms and marveled at the surroundings. "This island is really something. Very tropical, and very free of charge. I'm glad the studio gave us this lead. Nobody owns it. Pagoda Island will be cheaper to shoot on than in the Philippines and a lot less dangerous. It's perfect. I might shoot parts four and five here too."
"You signed a deal for two more Dino Buffets?"
"You betcha. These dinosaurs are hungry, and they're going to eat. Now follow me. There's no time to lose. It's time for one of my cast and crew speeches."
Oh God, Blast thought. Not another one of his speeches. I've heard the same speech five hundred times.
"Are you sure I shouldn't take my 9mm with me?"
The director gave him a crooked smile. "Hah hah. Very funny. Nothing can go wrong on this shoot. We've got a tight schedule. I need you sharp. And unarmed."
"You got it, boss."
"That's what I like to hear. Now help me wrangle up everybody under the canopy. I'll give them the brief version of my speech. I'll go easy on them."
"Thank God for small favors. Bruce Ryder, the merciful!"
The Ryder Speech
Shortly after actors Helen Kidd and Eddie Lumley returned from the woods after their sexual romp, Blast, Candy, and Bruce gathered the crew under the big canopy. The thought of the two actors banging made Bruce laugh to himself as he studied the actors who were doing exactly as he told them to do before they set sail, and that was to get in character by getting drunk, horny, and stupid. He should've told Blast about that plan. That might've saved the special effects maestro's blood pressure from spiking.
The minor 9mm hiccup aside, he was proud of himself for spending the extra money on booze, because this bunch couldn't act. If he was going to get a half-way respectable product out of this, he would have to deliver a speech that would make Shakespeare want to hang it up for good.
He had his one speech.
The speech of all speeches.
Bruce gave Candy Sweet a loving glance before speaking. He wanted to marry this woman. He knew all about flings and movie set romances, and Candy Sweet wasn't either of those. Her long natural blonde hair, natural double d tits, and the Angelina Jolie lips and Pamela Anderson bubbly girl attitude stirred up many things in this old man that no other woman could. Candy Sweet was the ultimate babe. Once this movie was over and Dino Buffet 3 premiered on cable, they would watch it with their friends, and that's when he would propose to her.
That would be a different speech altogether.
This speech was business.
"Thank you all for signing on for the film. I have a few things to cover before we get to work. First thing, I know some of you people want to call me a smut peddler or a second rate crap-fest movie man who is overly obsessed with the female mammary gland. That's fine. It's accurate. Go ahead. Call me a hack. Dub me a smut king. A B movie loser. Say I'm washed up. Get it out of your systems. I'm serious. Go ahead. Take your best shot. Really. Do it. Let me have it. I know I deserve it."
Candy Sweet got the ball rolling, because no newbie actor trusted it when a director made this request.
"Washed up loser," Candy smiled big. "A second grader could write better scripts than you, buddy. I'd rather have my kneecaps broken than watch one of your movies again. Your movies are turds."
The drunk cast got the message. Their collective words hit him as a drunken barrage of joyful punch lines and criticisms. This lasted a good five minutes. The last line from Candy, who made her voice intentionally louder than everybody else's, said, "Your movies suck hairy balls."
Bruce clapped his hands together once. "Okay. Wasn't that fun?"
Everybody agreed that yes, that was very fun.
"I do this to not only humble myself, but to let you know I'm aware we're making an ultra cheap trash film. I'm okay with that, and you should be too. You're working. You're in front of the camera. You're doing your best to achieve your dreams. It's a great thing.
"Real quick, I started in this business by a happy accident. I was in my early twenties. I dropped out of film school. I was broke and unemployed. I shared an apartment with another aspiring film student. Then destiny happens. There's a knock on our door. I open it up, and there's this guy who looks like a used car salesman, and he talks like one too. He asks me this one question. This one question got the ball rolling in my career, and I haven't looked back ever since.
"That question was a rather simple one. Can you hold a light over two people fucking for about ten to fifteen minutes? I said, Hell- yeah, I could! I went next door to the porno shoot in progress. I held that light over two people fucking for ten to fifteen minutes. I had unknowingly replaced a crewmember who had walked off the set because his values were being tested.
"Throughout my career being a crewmember, scriptwriter, and a director, I've followed a specific set of rules. Know who you are and what you make and accept that. If you're okay with what you do, and you have fun, then great. Who cares if you win an Academy Award or not?
"That porn director who gave me my start offered me some words to live by. He simply said, "Bruce, there's one thing that has kept me thriving in this business. You can't always read between the lines, but you can most certainly read between the legs." What he meant, of course, was not to take yourself too seriously.
"So as far as you beautiful, charismatic people are concerned, I say this to you. You signed on for this project. I told you exactly what you'd be doing, how you'd be doing it, and how much you'd get paid to do the said above. I don't trick peopl
e or lie to you; I don’t coerce people with bullshit Hollywood glamour talk to get what I want. I expect you to deliver your side of the contract. Have fun, put in your work, and make the best out of this low budget experience. Imagine it being a fun camping trip. Now I want a hundred percent from you people. Okay, let's get organized."
Candy helped him gather fifteen of the actors, and together they unloaded beach chairs, rolled out beach towels, and put up a volleyball net.
The director told everybody what was happening. "Everything gets in position. This is the scene set-up. You're on an island. You're lost, drunk, and suddenly realizing this is a beautiful day. So why not have fun?"
Bruce got the camera operator and the boom man in place. He didn't need the extensive crews the other productions required. This was the bare bones of the skeleton.
The scene in progress was the padding of the film. He would insert a good five minute shot of these young idiots spiking, serving, and diving for the volleyball. Anything to reach the ninety-minute mark.
Candy was hamming it up during the volleyball game. She wore that tight lime green bikini and stuck out her giant shiny globe breasts freshly covered in baby oil, giggled when she chased after the ball, bent over to show that g-string butt floss action, and flirted with the guys. This entailed a lot of licking of the lips and laughing overmuch at things that were mildly to not funny at all.
"You spiked it so hard!"
"Wait, Chad, show me how to hit the ball?"
"Guys, what's the score again?"
"I feel like my sunscreen's wearing off. You should rub some on me later, Brad."
"Did you see that? Bobby hit it so hard he about busted the ball!"
"Oh my! I keep hitting the ball into the net."
God love her, Bruce thought. She was giving a hundred and ten percent. God love her again, because she couldn't act worth a damn. Even by Baywatch standards. The funny thing, the audience still loved her. She was fucking cute.
The porn queen had starred in all twelve Suck It films. She also had roles in Sloppy Firsts, Sloppy Seconds, Sloppy Thirds, and the conclusion of the Sloppy series, Sloppy Fourths. Then there was the ultra hit, Stay Hard that was a Die Hard rip-off featuring hardcore sex.
All of this was courtesy of Bruce Ryder and his production company. He made hardcore films again for a brief period when normal movie work had dried up in the early 2000's. Thank God for that short lived return because he wouldn't have met his favorite lady.
Candy Sweet was obviously older than the rest of the eighteen to twenty-five-year-old crew. She had turned the dreaded thirty a couple of months ago. She was gorgeous and remained a bombshell, but she could no longer pass as that fresh out of high school and stepping into college kind of girl. He didn't care. She had the goods and delivered them.
The director kept the scene rolling. They played volleyball for another fifteen minutes without stopping. That should be enough padding, he thought.
"Cut! Great job everybody. I love your energy. Now let's shoot the gory beach scene."
Blood Beach
Squirt a little more on that, and let's call you dead.
Blast was on his haunches. He shoved a severed woman's head made of latex with its wet mop of fake blonde hair into the sand. He rubbed a version of KY Jelly along the rubber face called Good Goo to make the skin shiny and more lifelike. The final step, he took his fast food ketchup container—the one with the tiny hole at the tip to make a squirting sound—and slathered the head with fake blood. He sprayed around the sand liberally to simulate real dinosaur wound blood spatter.
He covered a large section of the beach in human pieces. The parts from fifty people were spread out along the special section of the beach. From a distance, it might look like a successful massacre. Up close, people would think a dime store Halloween shop had been pummeled by a tornado.
Bruce called out from his beach volleyball scene in progress, "You almost done over there, Blast?"
"Another ten minutes. Finishing touches."
"Gotcha. Ten minutes."
The director was angling around the volleyball game getting his bouncing and jiggling shots. Candy was doing the most with her body. He envied the old bastard. Bruce was living the good life. All the glory to him, he thought. The bastard was as ugly as a troll, but his dick lived like a handsome hunk.
And this is my glory. Blast hurried over to his effects table. He dragged out the plastic bucket full of gelatin guts. Long intestines, livers, spleens, hearts—everything inside the body the gory fans wanted to see, he would supply it in dripping fashion.
The method was simple. Take each of the gelatin guts and dip into the blood bucket once, hold for ten seconds, and scatter them between the fake body parts. Take. Dip. Hold. Spread. Repeat. He did this until Bruce called out to him again.
"Ready over there?"
"It's a go."
"Good. Give us another minute. We're taking down the volleyball net and moving the chairs so these kids can get a running start towards the death and dismemberment."
Blast didn't hear the director.
In the corner of his eyes, he swore he saw something.
Not something.
Somebody.
There was the beach, and then there was the line where the beach stopped and the palms trees began. Between the trees, he swore he saw a head peek out and then quickly dart away.
Maybe he was working under the sun too long.
Maybe he was staring at dead dummy heads for too long.
You need to hydrate.
You're seeing things.
Blast returned to his table for a drink of bottled water and a chance to catch his breath. He had been going hard at it to keep up with Bruce's schedule. He wasn't as young as he used to be.
Yeah, he thought. He was only seeing things.
That had to be it.
Man in the Forest
He saw me.
Hide.
No.
Stay where you are.
You have nothing to be afraid of here. This is your home. It will remain your home. Nobody can take you away from here. If they try, you'll know what to do.
Why are they here? They'll bring others. When there's one group of people, another one will be right behind them.
I can't kill them all. I'm outnumbered. One at a time is one thing, but this many at once, I'm not so sure.
You have to kill them. You realize that, don't you? You can't risk the word getting out that you're here hiding out. If anybody tells anybody about this place, it's over. They'll find out you're here, who you are, and where you should be, and I won't be put into any damn padded room. I'll kill myself first.
No. That won't be necessary. You're going to have to kill them all before they leave the island. It's that easy. They can't leave.
They won't.
They won't.
They won't.
This doesn't have to be a problem. There's plenty of beautiful flesh to enjoy for everyone here. Enough skin even for my special purposes. They're all so lovely. I want their skin so bad.
No, no, no, no, this doesn't have to be a bad thing.
He didn't see me.
He went back to work.
Very good.
Nobody knows about me.
My friends will be very happy they have something new to hunt.
I'm so very ready to play with flesh.
Scream!
"On your marks. Get set. Goooooooo!"
Bruce loved this moment. It was one of the main reasons he wanted to be a B movie director. He watched the horde of bikini and shorts clad actors sprint across the beach in terror. His cameraman was capturing it all with his handheld steady cam.
He gave them on-the-spot directions.
"Scream! Yes, yes, yes! Faster! Turn around. Pretend a big T-Rex is behind you. He's stomping his way closer. Oh no. Watch out. Turn around, see it coming, and run faster. Scream again! Really hit those notes. Really blast out our eardrums. The only thing yo
u're thinking about is how close that giant mouth is from taking a big bite out or your ass. And, oh no! The beach ahead of you is littered with human pieces. Your friends are in bits! Dear God, they're all dead. No more fun! It's nasty! It's ghastly! Oh, the humanity! SCREAM! RUN!
"Now there are three more dinosaurs after you. Big ugly green ones the size of Pittsburgh. Doug, jump up like you just dodged getting bit by an inch. Yeah! Perfect! Everybody keep it going. Terror. Fear. Dinosaurs!
"Dart around the body parts. It's okay, Darlene. You stepped on a severed head. Now shamble around like you've twisted your ankle. Now fall. Stay there and keep screaming. The dinosaurs got you. Now lay there dead. Everybody else, don't stop running. Keep moving. Look terrified. You're going to die! Dinos! Dinos! Dinos! Dinos! And cut!
"Wonderful. Everybody go back to the starting line. I'll let you catch your breaths, and we'll do that scene one more time. Darlene, I want you to trip over the same severed head like you did a moment ago. Todd, I want you and Adrienne to fall, scream, and thrash around like you're being eaten by a dinosaur, and then lay still like you're dead on my cue. Very good. This is turning out so perfect, guys."
Bruce thanked his camera operator, Eric Joyce, and stepped aside to have a cigarette. He didn't notice the actress standing there behind him until he turned completely around.
He couldn't read her expression. "Hi there. What's on your mind? You didn't get hurt doing that scene? It'd be easy to twist an ankle on the sand."
He knew his cast and crew by name. This was Zoe Carmichael. She was a great piece of eye candy for the film. She wore a two-piece hot pink bikini. Her breasts were milky and fat, and her nipples were popping like buttons. Her black hair hung down in her face from a gust of wind, and she had to peel a strand of it from her cinnamon colored lips. She couldn't have been more than a hundred and ten pounds and barely nineteen. He had a smoking hot cast in this movie. Even the guys were hunks. Bruce wasn't sure how he got so lucky. It helped he actually held real auditions this time.