by Nathan Allen
“What do you mean?”
“Those are her Instagram numbers. She has seventeen million followers, most of whom are in the prized sixteen to twenty-five demographic.”
“I don’t know, Martin. I’m sure she’s a perfectly capable actress, but should social media numbers influence our casting decisions?”
“Listen, Mike.” Martin leaned forward in his seat. “I know you’re the undisputed king of the box office. Your films have taken, what, seven, eight billion dollars?”
“Nine-point-two billion worldwide,” Michael said with a modest smile. “But who’s keeping score, right?”
“Right, so I get that you have a track record that’s second-to-none. You obviously know what you’re talking about. But you have to trust me on this. If we cast actors with significant online followings, that gives us direct access to a massive audience. It’s equivalent to a hundred or one-fifty mil in marketing dollars. I know it might be different from how you’ve cast your films previously, but it’s the way of the future. New media is here to stay. We can either embrace it or get left behind.”
“I guess you’re right,” Michael shrugged. “To be honest, I’m a little out of touch with most of that stuff. I don’t really understand it.”
“You don’t need to understand it. That’s my job. I can relate to young people. I know how teenagers think.”
“Great. Bella it is, then.” Michael used a napkin to wipe some sauce from his mouth. “So what about the role of the farmer? I was thinking Samuel L. Jackson would be perfect.”
“Yeah ... I don’t think that’s going to work out,” Martin said.
“Really? I know Sam can be a bit selective when it comes to what films he agrees to do–”
“I don’t mean it like that. I was talking more about the character of the farmer, and how he fits in with the context of the story. Think about it. He’s a mysterious figure of indeterminate origin who helps the young people overcome the evil threat.”
Michael nodded as he chewed his food. “So ... what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that certain racial implications come into play if we cast an African-American actor in such a role. An uneducated but wise black man who rescues the white protagonist, and who ends up dying to save the lead girl? That has Magical Negro stamped all over it. The PC police will eviscerate us if we go down that road. You know what it’s like once the Twittersphere latches onto an issue and every self-righteous moonbat with a smartphone and a half-formed opinion throws in their two cents’ worth. The last thing we need is that kind of negative publicity poisoning the first film in the franchise.”
“Right, right, sorry.” Michael went for an egg roll. He made several failed attempts with the chopsticks before placing them to one side and using his fingers. “So how about this? What if we make the farmer white – someone like Chris Cooper, or Jackie Earle Haley – and the college kids black?”
Martin shook his head. “I’ve thought about that and it won’t work either.”
“It won’t?”
“No. If the farmer is Caucasian, the character then becomes a White Savior – the heroic white man who ultimately finds redemption by saving the lives of the minorities. Meanwhile, the supporting black characters are only there to be killed off one by one. There are people in this world who love nothing more than to be offended, and if we go down that path we’ll be giving them plenty to get off on. We’ll probably have Jesse Jackson and Armond White picketing the premiere.”
Michael frowned. “Do you really think anyone will notice something like that?”
“Are you serious?” Martin nearly choked on a dumpling. “Of course someone will notice! Do you even know what Twitter is like these days?”
“Well, um ...”
“That’s all anyone ever does on it now. They scour the universe with a fine tooth comb, looking for the most minor infractions to be offended by. Even if it’s completely innocuous, they’ll leap on it and ‘call it out’ just to make themselves feel better. Extreme outrage is basically the new form of entertainment.”
“But we have the best of intentions here. We’re trying to do the right thing. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“I’m afraid there’s no such thing as the benefit of the doubt anymore. Our intentions are irrelevant if someone can twist it in a way that suits their own agenda.”
Michael took a moment to consider all this. He made another attempt at his Kung Pao chicken and rice, before setting his chopsticks aside and using a plastic spork.
“So why don’t we remove the issue of race altogether and make it an all-white cast?” he said. “That will avoid any unintended racial slights. Won’t it?”
“Oh, God no!” Martin looked around to make sure none of the other diners had overheard. “No. Whitewashing is the worst crime of all. That’s just asking for trouble.”
“Oh. Okay then.”
“You may as well make a pro-Hitler anti-Oprah film. That’s how serious it is.”
“Alright, calm down. We’ll just do the complete opposite then. We’ll cast the most diverse group of actors ever assembled on screen. Every color and hue and ethnicity will be represented: black, white, albino, East Asian, South Asian, Latino, Middle Eastern, Eskimo – sorry, Inuit, if we can find one. No one could criticize us if we did that.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Martin said. “No one could criticize us. But only because barely anyone would see the film you just described.”
“You really think so?”
“Oh, I know so. A cast like that would be box office kryptonite. The public will think it’s some weird Sundance art house experiment. Middle America would freak out at such an extreme display of onscreen diversity.”
Michael tossed his spork down and leaned back in his seat. He could feel a headache coming on. “I give up then,” he said. “Seriously, is this all worth the trouble? We’re trying to do the right thing here, but everything we do is either unintentionally racist or commercial suicide.”
Martin nodded. “It’s hard, for sure. If it was easy there would be no need for those seminars.”
For the past year Michael Bay and Martin Krauth, along with several other prominent Caucasian film industry figures, had taken part in Ava DuVernay’s bi-monthly Racial Sensitivities and Privilege-Checking Workshop (also known as the “Woke Shop”). This was a gathering for filmmakers fully committed to producing progressive films that, in addition to the usual explosions and action sequences, conveyed a positive message of tolerance, diversity and inclusivity. But this was never easy. There were so many rules that had to be taken into consideration, and the rules were always changing. What was acceptable three years ago may now be considered offensive, and many of these rules contradicted one other.
A bowl of fortune cookies sat in the center of the table. Michael reached for one.
“The Chinese are our second-biggest market,” he said as he cracked the cookie open. “Maybe some of their ancient wisdom will guide us on the path towards enlightenment.”
He unfurled the piece of paper inside. It read:
We are born alone, and then we die alone. Anyone you give your love to will ultimately betray you. The end.
Michael read the fortune several times over. “That’s an odd message to find in one of these things,” he said. “Don’t you think?”
“If you ask me, I think we’ll have better luck finding the answer at the bottom of a bottle of Armand de Brignac,” Martin said. He snapped his fingers to summon a waiter over.
“You go ahead, but I’m not drinking,” Michael said. “I have a Pilates class after this.”
“Suit yourself, but this is an issue that needs to be resolved sooner rather than later. The longer we leave it, the harder it’s going to get for us.”
Martin ordered a bottle of the six hundred dollar wine, and the waiter scuttled off to fetch it from the bar.
Minutes passed without either one speaking. Michael played with his food, pushing it around
the plate with his spork. The clattering of plates and sizzling of woks from the kitchen provided the background ambiance. He scooped up another mouthful of his chicken.
Straight away, he knew something wasn’t right. Within seconds he felt the inside of his mouth burning up. It started on his tongue and quickly spread to the rest of his mouth, nose and throat. The level of discomfort approached nuclear levels. He must have inadvertently bitten down on a concentrated clump of chili and spices.
Tears welled in his eyes as he reached for his glass of water. He emptied the glass in half a second, then refilled it. He was well aware that water did nothing to extinguish he burning, but he still continued to do it.
“You okay there, Mike?” Martin said.
Michael nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was now a silent rasp. He dabbed his eyes with his napkin and wiped the sweat from his brow.
And then something strange happened. The pain and discomfort lessened, and he was able to think with greater clarity. His headache was gone. All the issues that had been troubling him seemed to evaporate. He felt as if his mind had expanded, or his brain had been cleansed. As bizarre as it sounded, he believed he had reached a higher state of consciousness.
Martin immediately noticed the change. Michael seemed like a totally different person. There was a light behind his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“What is it?” Martin said.
Michael cleared his throat, and his voice returned. “I think I have the solution to all our problems,” he said.
Li Qiang cut a desolate figure as he sat slumped in his chair, alone in the basement of the Shan Xi Chinese restaurant, ninety minutes into a ten hour shift. He was supposed to be working, but there was no way he could concentrate on the task at hand. Not with everything that was happening. Not with his whole word falling apart.
He refreshed Yu-jun’s Facebook page. They had broken up two months ago, but he couldn’t help himself. Every thirty seconds, again and again, an OCD-like need to check for updates. He had to find answers. Why did she leave him? What had he done wrong? How could she have moved on so quickly? Not only that, but with his best friend? Wing Wei had been like a brother to him. They had known each other since childhood. He would have taken a bullet for him, and vice versa. Now they would never speak again. This was an act of betrayal that would haunt him until his dying days.
Heavy footsteps came clomping down the stairs. He knew who it was, and he knew how furious he would be. But he didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. Life was without meaning.
“Li Qiang!” his father shouted. “The next batch of cookies is ready! I need those fortunes now!”
Li Qiang expelled a deep sigh. “Yes, father.”
He refreshed Yu-jun’s Facebook page one more time, then switched off his phone. He pulled his chair up close to the typewriter.
The massive armory of weapons on display at the Second Amendment Hunting and Fishing store in rural California was truly a sight to behold. There were enough pistols, rifles, shotguns, knives, machetes, crossbows, arrows and samurai swords hanging on the walls and encased in glass cabinets to supply a small African militia. It was a militarist’s paradise, but a little confronting for the two writers nervously examining the store’s merchandise.
“I’m not sure about this,” Eric said. He spoke in a hushed tone, as he would at a library.
“Neither am I,” Cameron said. “But we’ve passed the point of no return. There’s no going back from here.”
He continued on down the aisle. Eric trailed a few steps behind, dragging his feet and staring at the floor like an unruly child brought along by his mother whilst running an errand.
“It’ll be okay,” Cameron said, sensing Eric’s consternation. “This is something we need to do. In the end it’ll all be worth it. Trust me.”
“You know, ‘trust me’ are the two least comforting words in the English language,” Eric muttered to himself.
Eric was still shaken by the events of the previous night, where their attempt at experiencing first-hand violence and executing bloody vengeance on Robert Maxwell Faulkner was nothing less than an unmitigated disaster. As the instigator and architect of this deranged scheme, it was decided that Cameron should go first. He selected the largest of the available kitchen knives and, after several shots of vodka to calm his nerves and strengthen his resolve, he stepped forward and jabbed the knife out at his target. The tip of the knife struck Faulkner directly on his hip bone, and the flimsy blade snapped in two. Faulkner grunted a deep animalistic moan, even if his heavy sedation blocked the majority of the pain.
Eric became woozy at the sight of the relatively small amount of blood spilling from the wound. Cameron quickly patched up the abrasion with duct tape, then shoved a couple more painkillers down Faulkner’s throat to knock him out again.
This was their first lesson learned in stabbing: a simple kitchen knife was designed for chopping vegetables, and was not meant to be used on living humans. They would need something a lot sturdier and with a little more heft if they wanted to get the job done.
As soon as the sun came up they jumped in Cameron’s Jeep and drove two hours to this small-town hunting store in search of an implement more conducive to their needs. They could have visited any one of the dozens of stores closer to home, but they didn’t want to run the risk of bumping into anyone they knew. They even went so far as to adopt elaborate disguises, donning fake beards, plaid shirts and trucker caps, as well as using lower-class speech patterns, to avoid standing out in a place like this.
“These look dangerous,” Eric said as he viewed the wide range of weaponry on sale, some of which appeared sharp enough to cut you just by looking at them.
“I certainly hope they’re dangerous,” Cameron said. “They’d be pretty useless knives if they weren’t.”
Eric fidgeted with the mullet wig beneath his cap. “Are we even allowed to purchase these? It doesn’t seem right that we can just walk in off the street and buy something like this. What if it’s illegal?”
“You’re right, Eric. Maybe it is illegal. Maybe this is all one big sting operation. I’m sure the police are watching from a van parked across the road, waiting to arrest anyone the moment they try to purchase something.”
They moved along to the next glass case. Inside was a machete the size of a squash racquet.
“But what if they ask us what we’re going to do with it?”
Cameron let out a dramatic sigh. “Why in God’s name would they ask us that? Think about it, Eric. Interrogating their customers would probably not be good for business.”
“Yeah, but what if they do? We should have an answer prepared, just in case. It’ll look suspicious otherwise.”
“Then we’ll tell them the truth. We’ll say we have a murderer chained up in our basement, and we plan on chopping him up into tiny pieces all in the name of art.”
Eric’s face turned a shade of white. “Don’t even joke about that!”
“Or we could say that we’re going hunting this weekend,” Cameron said, stroking his fake goatee. “You think they’ll buy that? This is a hunting store, after all.”
“Okay, but what about follow-up questions? What are we hunting? Where are we going to do it? Is it even hunting season now?”
Cameron didn’t respond. He had stopped listening the instant he laid eyes on the Bowie knife displayed on the wall in front of him.
“Now this,” he said, gently lifting the weapon off its rack. He was surprised at how lightweight it felt. “This could do some serious damage.”
The knife was almost the length of his forearm. It boasted a gleaming serrated blade and a hand-carved wooden handle. It looked like it could gut a moose – or eviscerate a bunch of movie teenagers – with the slightest flick of the wrist. The attached price tag valued it at $599, but that was immaterial. The most important factor was it looked like something an iconic slasher villain would use to carve his epic trail of destruction.
Cameron tried it out a few times, thrusting and twisting it into the air as he sliced up his imaginary victim.
Eric tugged nervously at his sleeves. He looked around the store, growing more and more uncomfortable the longer this ordeal dragged on. He didn’t want to be here, and he definitely didn’t like the demented smile that had appeared on Cameron’s face as he handled the deadly weapon.
The smile was still there as Cameron brought it over to the counter for purchase.
“You fellas plannin’ on doin’ some huntin’?” the store owner asked as the they pooled their cash together.
“Something like that,” Eric nodded, a little too quickly.
Chapter 20
The terror was reflected in Robert Maxwell Faulkner’s eyes as Cameron slowly removed the newly-purchased knife from its sheath. The effects of the OxyContin had diminished significantly since their last encounter, and the further the numbness receded the more his fear increased. His jaw moved as if he was attempting to speak, but the duct tape covering his mouth allowed nothing more that the occasional muffled grunt.
Eric affixed the camcorder to the tripod. Lucidity struck him for one brief moment, and he struggled to comprehend just how he had come to be here. Cameron could be persuasive, he knew that, and he was accustomed to getting his way. But how he managed to talk him into something this insane would forever remain a mystery. One day, with the benefit of hindsight, he might be able to adequately explain the precise sequence of events that led to this very moment. He assumed that when this day came he would probably be wearing a straightjacket, relaying his story to a criminal psychologist.
“Remember to pay close attention to everything you see here,” Cameron said. “No matter what happens, no matter how uncomfortable this becomes, do not look away.”
Eric responded with a quick nod. He focused the camcorder, zooming in until Faulkner’s bare-chested body filled the entire frame.
“Even though we’re recording this, we can’t rely on the footage,” Cameron continued. “That’s just for backup. We need to make a mental imprint of every detail as it happens. Every sight, every sound, every smell. The look on his face as the blade goes in. The sound it makes as it cuts through human flesh. The smell of blood as it drains from his body, and the shade of red when it hits the floor. Someone should be able to read our screenplay and it would be like they’re right here in the room with us.”