Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  "Hey doll, I was just having the nastiest wet dream about you. Why don't you come over and I'll see how nasty it really was in person?"

  "Sorry, darling, I’m headed to a meeting. I just wanted to let you know that you should call Kevin over at Metro. He needs a sexy-fine lady and your name is on the tip of his tongue," Emily told her. She hoped Lauren wasn't too out of it to pull herself together and secure the Metro gig she’d just turned down.

  "Really? What happened? I thought you were going over there to meet with them about something."

  "I bailed," Emily admitted. "The offer was nice, but I just didn't want to commit to that much. But they still have a hole in their schedule, so I told Kevin that Simply Cynful sounded like a good idea. What do you think?"

  "Ooh, I like it. When does he need to see me?"

  "Since you're in his neck of the woods, I told him to give you an hour. Can you

  manage that?"

  "An hour? Ouch! That’s tight, but then, so am I.” She thought about it for a second, then sighed. “Yeah, I can make it. What about you? Why'd you turn them down?"

  "You know, I'm not even sure, really. Dave at Sextreme called, said he had something he wanted to get me on board for. Promised to make it worth my while, so I figure if he says it's gonna be better than Metro money, I get to make him live up to it."

  "That, sister, is good thinking. They must have something really good going. They closed the studio down yesterday, moved the last few scenes of Cum Freaks to that ranch house they rent out in the canyon. For them to do that, they must really have something hot. Getting you in on it’s a no-brainer. Did you hear that the new Cum Freaks outsold the last Gag Factor and Crème de la Face combined?"

  "No, but I'm not surprised. Dave really knows his shit. Anyway, take Kevin for every penny he's got, sweetie. I'll talk to you soon."

  Emily didn't want to admit it, but somewhere deep inside, some part of her knew the truth. She hadn't just handed her friend a plum.

  More like a good-bye present.

  Sextreme Sinema was one of the few production companies left willing to spend the money to maintain both an office on Wiltshire and professional shooting studio, as opposed to a warehouse where the landlord got paid in cash to keep the building’s purpose hush-hush. The studio was the very last building in a commercial park located on the outskirts of L.A., and had formerly been the base of operations for a fly-by-night rap record label. Dave had recognized its potential and swooped in. He'd spent hardly anything converting it into a fully-functional soundstage, and Sextreme’s first porno was in production before Dave’s initial rent check was due.

  With most of the shooting taking place at night, when the commercial park was practically deserted, the studio doubled as an out of the way party playpen. Dave had had to grease the wheels a little bit with Peter, his main director, who had been planning quite the bash for the wrap on Cum Freaks 14. The title was Sextreme's jewel, their most profitable franchise. Renting out the canyon property had been an olive branch, and the extra two grand Dave had thrown in for "party favors" made Peter considerably less hostile over being bounced. Dave expected that Peter would bust his balls when it came to the budget for the next Cum Freaks, but it didn't bother him. If he could swing Emily for this one video, the money Sextreme had spent on all of its releases this year and the year before would be negligible. He was poised to make the most incredible porn flick ever, and having to free up the studio was the least of his concerns.

  He'd been working the phones non-stop since just after one, when he and TJ , his production manager, had come up with the idea. Though it was the middle of the night, he'd instantly shifted into overdrive, calling on the investment partners who’d helped him launch Sextreme. He’d offered both men a significant piece of the action on the new project—if they could come up with six figures each to bankroll it. By noon, just before he'd called Emily, the cash had shown up in the Sextreme coffers, via wire transfer.

  As Dave swung around the building to the narrow parking strip in the back, he strategized how he was going to handle his superstar. She hadn't outright denied his insinuations about her wanting to retire. At least, not convincingly. Dave knew he'd guessed right, Emily was looking to get out. She'd been talking to his friend Anneli Adolffson about doing some more print work, which she certainly didn't need unless she was looking to stockpile some cash. Anneli also thought she could get Sextasy to shoot for the sexkittens.com Web site, something she hadn't been able to get Sextasy to consider before. Dave knew from a dealer who supplied most of his talent that she’d stopped doing coke, and was only smoking a little pot these days. The near-overdose had really made her clean up her act.

  So, the money wasn’t for drugs. That left bad legal trouble, which he knew Emily didn't have, or amassing a nest egg. He was sure it was the latter.

  Dave got out of his Escalade and headed for the back entrance, where he noticed small pieces of broken glass on the ground by the dumpster. He'd have to get TJ to take care of that, and maybe see if there was anything he could do about the freshly laid skid mark there. No reason to leave the parking strip looking like that.

  Inside, the air conditioning was going full blast. Any other day, he'd think they were shooting Eskimo porn. He checked his watch. Three-eighteen. Perfect. Emily was a pro. She was always on time. All he had to do now was convince her to take the money.

  TJ materialized from the prop room, looking like warmed-over dog shit. He was sporting forty-eight hours’ worth of stubble, and even with the air making the studio frigid, there were sweat rings under his arms and a damp band around the collar of his tee shirt. Dave could tell that TJ hadn't slept, nor had he used anything as a pick-me-up. His right hand man walked over, stifling a yawn.

  "Any problem with the fridge company?" Dave asked.

  "Nope. Little pricey, but on such short notice..."

  "Where is it?"

  "I had them put it on the other side of the prop room, where it wouldn't look too out of place. Told them we were filming beer commercials the next two weeks."

  "Good thinking," commented Dave. TJ was the best production manager he'd ever had, and it was days like today that reminded Dave why TJ was the highest salary on his payroll. You got what you paid for, especially in this business, and TJ was worth every penny.

  "Everything is ready to roll, all we need is the go ahead. I got the tightest crew we know, skeletonized, if you'll pardon the expression. Bare bones all the way."

  "Good. Why don't you show me the set-up and knock off for the day. If I get the word, I'll call you on the cell. Keep it close...time's a factor."

  "You got it. So, what do you think? Will she go for it?" TJ asked, leading Dave to where the refrigeration company had set up a huge, walk-in cooler.

  "Christ, what a behemoth. Isn’t this a little more than we need for our...uh, beer?"

  "Yeah, I know,” explained TJ. “But when you need something at two in the morning for a shoot, you're kinda stuck with what’s available.” He rapped a knuckle on the cooler to emphasize the point. “What’s the story? You think you can sign her?"

  "I think so," Dave nodded with confidence. "Have you ever known an actress to turn down this kind of money? For any sex act?"

  "Not even close," said TJ, eyeing the cooler. Both men fell silent when they heard the sound of a car pulling up outside.

  "I'd love to stick around for this one," lamented TJ , tugging at his filthy T-shirt. "But..."

  "Don’t worry about it. Go on, get out of here and get some rest. I’ll buzz you later."

  TJ flashed a wolfish grin. "Man," he laughed. "This is gonna be the most crazy, fucked-up shoot we’ve ever done."

  "No shit,” agreed Dave. “Hey, when you leave, do me a favor and take a look by the dumpster, all right?"

  "The dumpster, huh? Will do."

  TJ pulled out his key ring and slipped out through the prop room. Dave headed for the studio entrance, where he welcomed Emily with a peck on the cheek.


  It was three-twenty nine.

  TJ caught a glimpse of blonde hair and firm, round ass disappearing into the studio as he exited the building. He'd seen thousands of naked chicks since he began working on pornos, but he still had a thing for this one. There was a reason she’d burst onto the scene and been instant gold. Bigger than Chasey Lane, hotter than Kobe Tai, hotter than even the legendary Jenna. Years from now, he thought, using a dustpan to scoop up the broken glass he'd failed to see in the wee hours, they would be writing articles about her the way they had about Traci Lords. He wondered, given the way things were going, if she could possibly become more infamous.

  Tossing the last of the pebbled glass into the dumpster, he doubted it.

  "Holy shit, Dave, it's a meat locker in here," complained Emily, stepping into the studio. “Let me guess, you’re shooting a Christmas movie. Santa’s Naughty North Pole?"

  "No, not quite. C’mon into the office, it's a little warmer in there."

  Dave led her to the small office he kept at the studio. It was sparse, four sheetrock walls painted a dull, sour-milk grey. Eggshell, the can had said. Dave wouldn't cook an egg this color if he were starving. The furniture consisted of a modular desk, leather chair, computer, and two wingbacks for guests. Usually this was where TJ did his paperwork, filing copies of model releases, photo IDs and the requisite HIV/AIDS clearances. When Dave was on set, it was his office, but for all intents and purposes it was TJ's command center.

  "Something to drink?" Dave offered, pulling a bottle of iced tea from the small fridge.

  "No thanks," Emily declined. Dave thought she looked a little antsy. Was it because she was trying to determine if he was as sure as he sounded about her wanting to retire, or was she just anxious to get down to business and see why she’d left Kevin hanging on the franchise deal?

  "So," she said, skipping the small talk. "What have you got lined up that's worth me giving up a year’s worth of easy money just to meet with you here in the tundra?"

  Dave sat down in his chair and locked eyes with his biggest star. He went right after her.

  "First things first. You're looking to get out, aren't you?"

  "What are you talking about?" she asked. There was denial in her tone, but it was half-hearted at best. Dave knew he was right the moment the words tumbled out of her mouth. He felt good about that, although her departure would leave a hole that wouldn’t soon be filled, no matter which up and comer he signed. Still, confirming it was a positive. It meant he was halfway home.

  "C'mon. Last year me, the guys at Metro, Leisure Time, Vivid, everybody was knocking down your door. You did what, eighteen videos last year? All for top-dollar. Now, you're shooting two or three times a month, like you just started making movies, for anybody who has the cash. You sit there and tell me that you're not looking to get out."

  Emily wasn't going to lie to Dave, one of the few legitimate friends she had. After a beat, she nodded.

  "Yeah," she admitted. "I'm thinking about it."

  "How close are you? How long you think you have until you're ready?"

  "A year, maybe less. Depends on the paydays between now and next September," she told him.

  "September? Why? What happens in September?"

  "Believe it or not, tax problems."

  "Em, if you have—"

  "No, not my problems. At least, not technically. It’s my mom. She’s been in an assisted living place for the past couple of months. She seems to have let a whole lot of years go by without paying any property taxes on the house I grew up in. She owes a hundred thousand and change on it. My accountant says I can get everything straightened out and taken care of for about eighty. I want to be able to cover that and have at least another hundred in the bank until I decide what I want to do next. I can live off the merchandise, autographed stuff, and the Web site for a while, but the longer I'm gone, well, you know. They're not gonna care about me forever."

  Dave considered what she’d revealed to him, letting the air between them grow heavy with the silence. He chose his next words carefully.

  "What if I told you I could get you six figures for just one more flick, and I could guarantee you had the money in the next twelve hours?"

  "I'd say you were crazy. But, I'd give you the twelve hours."

  "Come on," Dave said, rising from his seat. "I want to show you something."

  He led a skeptical Emily back into the studio. The soundstage was familiar to her, she'd done most of her work for Sextreme here. The last time she'd been on set was for Sextasy and the City, where she'd delivered such vapid and ridiculous lines as, "Who wants to meet a nice guy and settle down? I just wanna date guys who know how to ass fuck." It had been a video she'd done with Lauren, who did a good job in the bitchy Kim Cattrall role, while Emily struggled to mimic Sarah Jessica Parker's tics and mannerisms. After watching several episodes of the show they were spoofing, she wondered why anybody would want to see either version. Both were pieces of shit.

  She shivered as Dave walked her past the prop room. The studio must have purchased some seriously-pricey new equipment, she assumed, taking note of the enormous, steel storage locker. That certainly hadn't been there during the City shoot.

  "Is there anybody in the business you wouldn't work with, Em? I mean, if the money was right?"

  "I wouldn't relish the idea of having to do a scene with Rodney Rivers," Emily said. Rodney was legendary in the biz for torrential orgasms—geysers of cum that literally swamped girls' faces. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Rodney loved to go for the nose. If he clogged a girl’s nostrils to the point she gagged on inhaled cum, he got off even more.

  "But,” she acknowledged. “if the money was right, I’d do it. I'm not working with Max Hardcore, though, not for anything. I'm not going to let him piss in my ass or stretch me out enough to get a wide-angle lens up my pussy. No way. Unh-unh."

  "How about this then, what if I told you I'll deposit two hundred thousand dollars into your bank account, available before we even turn on the lights, and all you have to do is one scene, one we can bang out tomorrow."

  "Two hundred thousand for one scene? Since I doubt you can line up a three-way with Lindsay Lohan and Justin Bieber, who do you want me to fuck, OJ?"

  Dave smiled, and opened the huge steel door.

  Emily had assumed the walk-in cooler was a secure storage container. She’d worked on a 3-D shoot where the equipment rental house had supplied just such a unit. Ass-Pirates of the Caribbean: In Girls’ Ends. Not a bad payday, she recalled. And, her tits looked absolutely enormous with the glasses on…

  The gust of frosty air that washed over her broke her out in goose bumps. But what chilled her to the core was what she saw inside, standing there in the fog.

  It was a reanimate.

  Emily took a step back, in spite of the chains wrapped around the reanimate's waist and legs, tethering it to a ring welded into the wall.

  "No fucking way..." she gasped. "You can't be serious. You can’t possibly think I’d—"

  She refused to finish. This was Dave. He wasn't kidding. This was the reason he’d shipped everyone responsible for his most profitable series out to the canyon. This was why he knew he could play her against the deal at Metro. Two hundred thousand dollars. He was as serious as a heart attack. He wanted her to fuck a corpse.

  She wanted to turn away, but just like the morbid rubberneckers who slowed to stare at the carnage of a fresh car accident, she couldn't do so.

  The reanimate wasn't a staffer she recognized, although he was wearing a Sextreme Sinema T-shirt. It was spattered in gore, a jagged piece of steel protruding from the dead man’s chest. As Emily took in the gruesome details, the reanimate shuffled forward a step. It was as far as he could go, thanks to the chains. When he turned to look at her, Emily saw that the right side of his head was caved in. She winced. The damage was extensive. It looked like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. His milky gaze came to rest on her, and in that instant, everything c
hanged.

  His eyes grew wide. His hands came up, reaching for her. Emily stiffened.

  Was it possible? Did…did this thing recognize her?

  "Who is he?" she managed. "And what happened to him'?"

  "I don't think it's important to know his name," said Dave. "Probably better if you didn't. You never met him, he's only been working for us for about a month. He knew TJ, and as you can see, he was looking to get into the business."

  Emily’s attention had been on the nameless reanimate's face and his horrible wounds. Now, Dave having alerted her, she let her eyes drift downward. What she saw shocked her.

  The chain around the reanimate's waist wasn't secured through his belt loops, as she’d suspected. No, the chain was fastened tight around bare flesh. When Emily looked carefully, she could see the dark impressions the links had left in the reanimate's cold skin. Beneath that, the reanimate's pants were pushed down, revealing a massive erection, easily nine inches in length, dark and engorged with blood. Blood that wouldn’t drain from his cock because no nerve function remained. It was easy for Emily to make out the discolored outline of the reanimate's grip—the spots where fingers had been tightly wrapped around his hard-on. It was eerie, and reminded Emily of the true-crime shows she liked to watch. Programs covering cases where victims had been strangled, and the murdered had similar marks on their throats.

  Just past the thumb-shaped impression on his shaft, there was an unnatural bend in the reanimate’s dick. Emily began piecing together a scenario to explain what had happened to him. Without asking, Dave confirmed much of her amateur guesswork. All those nights watching FBI Files and the New Detectives on the Discovery Channel had been worth something after all.

  "It happened early this morning,” Dave explained. “After everyone else had gone home. We think he was driving out of the lot and couldn't wait to get back to his apartment to get off. Can't say as I blame him. Yesterday we had Jette Black in, shooting her last scene for Cum Freaks. You remember her? She’s the one I hired for I Love Loosie and Men In Blacks 3. Girl's a fucking throat goddess. She's also a terrible flirt. She had the kid running around for her all shoot. ‘Can you get me a water, sweetheart?’ ‘Bring me my cell phone, would you, babe?’ ‘Would you make me happy and get me the baggie in my purse?' That sort of shit. He probably walked out of here ready to screw his own belly button."