Undead L.A. (Book 2)

by Devan Sagliani

  ***

  David Lord sat behind the bank of video monitors and sound equipment he'd affectionately nicknamed “video village,” going over changes to the thick script. His shaggy black shoulder length hair had already taken on a slightly oily hue from too many days of shooting with little or no turn around time between one days wrap and the next days call time. His lucky t-shirt featuring a pin up model-gone-zombie, with the words DEAD GIRLS ARE EASY, was soaked through in the pits with sweat. He changed it out for one bearing a JUMBO'S CLOWN ROOM logo, slamming down the remains of a sugar free Rockstar energy drink in the process. He emitted the nervous energy of a man headed to the gallows looking for one last chance at his escape.

  If I had known how much drama this show was going to be, would I have passed on it?

  A twenty-year veteran of the industry, he could honestly say he'd seen just about everything that could go wrong on a show—and so far this shoot had blown them all away. When he got the offer to helm Raw Blue for Hive Mind, he could barely hide his excitement. For years he'd toiled in the trenches, starting as a camera man and editor and working his way up from there to arguably being one of the biggest producers and directors in the business. He'd shot gonzo titles in the beginning, low budget shows where the cameraman talks to the girls while filming them stripping down and showing off their naughty bits before having wild sex with a stranger. He was good at it. Unlike some of the creeps who almost seemed to enjoy freaking the girls out or making them uncomfortable, David made them feel both relaxed and sexy. He believed it was part of why his scenes came out better. They were hotter because the girls could really let themselves go and forget he was even there.

  I kept the crew to a minimum and just got the job done, David fondly remembered. Most days we were wrapped by four in the afternoon, and that was with us all fucking around.

  As time went on, with good reviews and strong sales, he'd earned the trust of the company owners and eventually got his shot to direct adult features—scripted mini movies with explicit sex that could be sold in softer versions on cable channels and hotel on-demand service. It was about as close as the business came to Hollywood, even if most of the adult features being shot these days were nothing more than knock-offs and parodies of popular films and televisions right down to the titles. He'd gone from doing one-day-wonders, with scripts that were little more than random notes scribbled on a single sheet of paper, to filming shows with hundred page scripts full of dialogue, special effects, car chases, and even explosions. The biggest of these was a seven-day show that came in just under a hundred thousand dollars, and got nominated for Best Feature Release at every single adult awards show that year. Still no matter how great the movies turned out or how great his reviews were he always lost to the same people: Brad Armstrong and Axel Braun. It was enough to drive a sane man clean out of his mind.

  Let's see them try to top this, David thought with a smirk. This year it's going to be my turn to take home some trophies and give the speeches.

  David looked up to see his behind-the-scenes guy for the day, his old friend and former performer, Evan Goodman, standing patiently waiting for him to respond.

  “I'm sorry bro,” David said. “I spaced out there for a minute. What did you say?”

  “No worries,” Evan said pleasantly. “We're all starting to feel the burn a little.”

  “You can say that again,” David moaned.

  They'd had their entire shooting schedule derailed by the production moratorium imposed by the Free Speech Coalition. David didn't have the luxury of just being able to move the shoot to another month. He'd painstakingly managed to get the biggest stars in the adult industry into the same two-week window, forgoing not only other shoots, but feature dance events and paid appearances as well. He knew it was a rare thing, like the alignment of the planets, and that his chances of having it happen again in this lifetime were about as good as his odds of winning the Powerball. He'd turned his shooting schedule upside down to knock out all the scenes that didn't have sex in them, taking stacks of instant pictures in the process so he could perfectly recreate the sets, wardrobe, and makeup for continuity purposes. The result was that he'd now have to shoot the sex scenes back to back in order to keep up. He'd already burned the crew out by giving them little to no turn around time between one day's wrap and the next day's call time. They were all fried out, which meant they were moving slower and putting the show even further behind, but there were no other options. They would all have to simply push through it. David knew they would. After all, they were professionals. They were more than used to it by now. They knew taking the job meant doing whatever they had to in order to complete it, even if it meant not sleeping at all or taking naps in the lighting truck at lunch. They also knew damn well that there would be bonuses and maybe pick up days at their full rate if they didn't bitch about it.

  “I was just letting you know that Samantha has arrived on set,” Evan repeated himself.

  “Sweet baby Jesus, it's a miracle,” David crooned comically. When Evan didn't respond he added, “what aren't you telling me?”

  “All I can say is that I was in the parking lot doing interviews when she came flying in and almost hit Duke,” Evan retorted. David made a face. Duke Mulholland was the best production assistant he'd ever hired and a hell of a nice guy to boot. Losing him would spell certain disaster for the show, since he kept the other P.A.'s in line and on point.

  “Is he okay?”

  “He literally dove out of her way,” Evan spat out. “The whole side of her brand new Benz is scraped off and she looks high on crack or flakka or something. I tried to ask her what happened, but she bolted past me and ran into the bathroom locking herself in.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” David felt a healthy jolt of anger surge through him, bringing him out of his stupor. “Get her agent on the phone now and find out what's going on!”

  “I'm already on it,” Evan assured him. “I've also sent Cindy to go talk to her. She's pretty good at calming girls down. Whatever the issue is, we'll get it fixed. We got your back, bro.”

  “Thanks, man,” David said, feeling the stitch in his chest relax a little. “We're still an hour away from being set ready. If we can get her into makeup in the next ten minutes… will you do me a favor and run lines with her so she knows her dialogue?”

  Evan held up a folded and highlighted copy of the script with a grin.

  “One step ahead of you, boss man,” he chuckled. “This ain't my first rodeo.”

  On top of being one of the few genuinely nice people he'd ever met, Evan was also the kind of guy who didn't mind pitching in and helping on set. He was also one of the funnier guys he'd met. David always made sure to find a place on his crew for him.

  “Game on,” David said. “I'll buy you a blow job from a real life downtown crack whore over in fecal alley when this beast is put to bed.”

  “Careful,” Evan teased. “I might hold you to it.”

  Evan turned and headed back to the girls bathroom on the other side of the sprawling warehouse they were shooting in for the day. It was one of the same locations Club Jenna had used to shoot Janine Loves Jenna, and David had picked it for a similar reason. It was cheaper and easier to start with nothing and build all the sets in the warehouse than it would be to find suitable matching locations in the real world. Plus, he'd rented the jib arm so he could do those high arching crane shots throughout the show and he didn't plan on missing a single opportunity to use it. Last but not least, the gritty and largely empty streets of downtown made perfect backdrops for the exterior shots, since the storyline was supposed to take place there anyway. He'd gotten a jaw dropping shot the night before of the main male actor Stephen St. Thomas walking out of an explosion with the Los Angeles skyline in the background. One of the few drawbacks was having to hold the action again and again working around planes flying into LAX, so they wouldn't end up ruining the sound. At one point after being nearly delirious from shooting the same
scene over and over to get a clean take David simply stood up and screamed. The cast and crew turned in fear to await the tantrum they were sure he was about to unleash, but instead he surprised them with a long laugh.

  “Fuck it,” David said at last. “There are planes in real life, too. Moving on.”

  The rest of them burst into laughter as the tension melted away.

  The other serious drawback was the need to hire a security team to protect the equipment and walk the girls to and from their cars. The streets of downtown were literally swarming with homeless people, not to mention other film crews with guys so unscrupulous they wouldn't think twice about buying a 5K light from a homeless guys shopping cart for twenty bucks. David had purchased his own lighting truck a few years back and spent a small fortune upgrading all his equipment. He'd made back his investment by using it on his shows and renting it out cheap to friends over the course of the next year. Since then it had turned into another revenue stream for him, along with the two tattoo studios he owned (one in the Valley and the other in Hollywood) and the barbershop he'd opened on Ventura Boulevard that catered to hipsters. Despite being one of the few people working, who stayed flush and didn't blow their money, David never wanted to get too comfortable. He'd seen what happened when guys stopped being hungry. Younger, newer guys came along every day that were willing to try to do it cheaper to get their foot in the door with the bigger companies. The only way to stay ahead of them was to keep moving, keep shooting, and keep being better.

  Most people will never know what a cutthroat business adult entertainment is, David mused. They think people fall into this industry, but the truth is it's a hard job to get in the first place, and even harder to keep once you've got it. No one ever wants to leave, either. No one ever wants their run to end, but that's exactly what happens to the guys that slow down. They flunk out fast.

  The monitors suddenly came to life in front of him with a clear view of the next set—the office of the Chief of Police. He could see his first assistant director, “Razorblade” Russ, fiddling with the cameras and setting them in place, while several lighting guys scurried around in the background placing blue gels over the lights. Razorblade gave him the thumbs up sign, letting him know they were ready. Just off camera he could hear his director of photography, Jack French, gabbing away about his iPhone with one of the production assistants. Razorblade and Jack were both talented directors. They'd all been working together for years, which wasn't uncommon given the exclusive and somewhat secretive nature of their work. There were only so many guys truly good at doing the job, guys who could handle the grueling hours day in and day out for years on end.

  They'd unofficially formed their own clique, taking turns being director, cameraman, lighting, sound, and sometimes even stepping in to perform if need be. They were still competitive as hell, no question about it—each of them fighting to become the most successful of the group at all times. David understood that well enough. He knew that given the chance, Razorblade or Jack would gladly take his place as the director of Raw Blue, no matter how crazy shit got or what it might take to finish the movie. He also knew that despite being pitted against one another, these same guys would always give him their best and go the extra mile for him when it was his turn. Like men who have spent time in battle in the trenches fighting for their lives, they'd formed deep bonds—the kind that can't be broken by a shoot gone off the rails, or a run of bad production luck.

  “We're all clear on this side,” Razorblade sang into the microphone, making sure David heard him.

  “Game on,” Jack roared in the background in reply.

  “Picture's up,” Razorblade hollered as Stephen St. Thomas walked onto set with Jessa James, the actress hired to play the sexy female Chief of Police. Since they'd already shot the dialogue for the scene the day before, along with all the soft-core sex, all he needed now was the hard-core. He assumed this would be relatively easy since he was working with performers who were seasoned veterans and had shot hundreds of scenes. He'd left Razorblade and Jack in charge of filming the explicit stuff so he could try to get ahead of schedule, another upside of hiring talented directors as his primary crew. He knew now that had been a smart decision, and that he'd need some time to sort out whatever Cherry's problem was. Granted, they wouldn't actually need her for at least another hour, but David knew that if he didn't get her squared away she'd potentially derail his whole shoot. He didn't plan on letting that happen if he could help it.

  “Roll on camera one,” Razorblade yelled, hitting RECORD on the static camera they'd set up to get a wide shot of the action. David saw the red RECORD button come to life on monitor one in video village.

  “Roll on camera two,” Razorblade yelled, signaling Jack who played with his focus for a moment before hitting his RECORD button which flashed the scene across the top left side of monitor two.

  Stephen and Jessa ignored the cameras, leaning in for a slow, sexy kiss. Stephen stroked her face and let his hand run through her hair. He kissed his way down her throat and she let out a sensual moan.

  “Sound speeding,” Razorblade yelled.

  “QUIET ON SET,” Duke shouted out in response to a titter of female laughter coming from nearby.

  “Scene twenty-six hard, take one, aaaaaaaaannnnnnnd ACTION!”

  Stephen and Jessa continued making out while Jack searched for an angle he liked, the picture dancing around on monitor two as he jostled back and forth.

  “Find a shot and settle in,” David yelled out across the warehouse, cupping his hands so his voice would carry.

  “I've got it, Aquaman,” Jack shot back. “This isn't my first pig fucking.”

  St. Thomas stifled a laugh and did his best not to react.

  “Stay focused,” Razorblade lightly chastised. “We've got a lot to shoot today and I'd like to get home and feed my cat at some point.”

  “Good luck with that,” Jack teased, settling into a comfortable position with a clean shot of the couple. Soon Stephen was undressing Jessa, playing with her huge fake breasts while he improvised dialogue befitting their characters.

  “Aquaman,” David mumbled, shaking his head. It was a little known story about him, one he rarely told, but it still managed to pop up from time to time. He'd earned the nickname after evading arrest on a shoot by swimming to freedom. He'd been the camera guy on a show for Jimmy Pow, a well-known gonzo director who shot almost every day and loved taking big risks to push the envelope. Jimmy had set up production assistants on Pacific Coast Highway with walkie-talkies, and had them signal when beach goers were heading down the dirt trail to the secluded beach cove where he'd decided to film a sex scene. They were well into the shoot with Jimmy shooting one camera and David shooting another when “the cavalry” arrived in the form of sixteen cop cars and a police helicopter. A voice from the sky boomed down on them as they stared up in shock.

  “This is the Los Angeles Police Department. You are under arrest for lewd behavior. Put your hands up and stay where you are until officers reach you.”

  In an instant it was every man for himself. Crew members tore off in different directions, most scrambling up the rocky cliffs to where they'd left their cars only to find over a dozen pissed off cops waiting for them. The male talent did his best to cover his costar who had begun to cry and scream at the top of her lungs like the Coppertone baby. Jimmy ran with his camera in hand, but was tackled by two officers, dropping his camcorder into the soft, white sand. David knew if he didn't do something fast he'd be joining his pals in the back of a police car. He dropped the camera he was holding and turned in the opposite direction, running as fast as his legs would carry him into the cold water of the Pacific Ocean. It was a hard swim, especially wearing heavy jeans, but the fear of being arrested spurred him on as he kicked and splashed his way out over a hundred feet into the break. When he could no longer go without gasping for air he stopped and began to dog paddle, turning back to shore to watch the chaos on the beach. To his surprise, the
y didn't seem to notice his grand escape.

  I thought for sure the helicopter at least would have chased me, he remembered, but they never even turned around.

  David drifted for a while, catching his breath, before swimming slowly back towards the shore and eventually climbing out of the water a few miles down. He took his time walking back up to PCH and then along the highway to where his car was parked. By the time he got back they were all gone, cops and crew alike, and he was nearly dry again, the hot sun beating down overhead having evaporated most of the moisture from his now salty clothes. David climbed into his truck and drove off. He went straight home, poured himself a stiff drink, and went to sleep without even drinking it. The next day when he got up he discovered he'd ruined his cellphone. That afternoon, when he finally got a new one and checked his voice mail, he learned he was the only one who got away and that the rest of them were facing big fines and court dates. Ever since then those who knew about the incident had called him Aquaman.

  The phone rang and David answered it.

  “What have you done to my girl?” Benjamin began by way of greeting. “She called me, crying so desperately that I can't understand a word she's saying.”

  “Whatever the fuck is wrong with your girl happened before she got here,” David shot back angrily. “She showed up in a mangled car and promptly locked herself in the bathroom. I've got another actress in there now talking to her, but you better get your ass down here and set her straight. I don't have the time to hold her hand right now, so either she cleans up her act in the next hour or she's gone. I don't think I have to explain to you what Hive Mind will do if that happens.”

  It felt good to put the screws to Benjamin for once. The arrogant prick had, on more than one occasion, stuck it to David and all of his crew just because he could. It was nice being able to turn the tables on him and make him squirm.

  “Fine,” Benjamin said after a lengthy silence. “I'm on my way now.”