Day 34.

A Faint Signal In Manhattan.

It's been ten days since Justin was lost during production. Everything went on as normal, of course, but I started to fear what might be happening. He did have my shoes at the time, and I loved those shoes. I guess the rest of him is worth saving, also, but that's beside the point. During production in New York we were all given GPS indicator systems to activate if we ever became lost. They were injected into the back of our neck, which was inconvenient because the "On" button couldn't be reached unless you pulled it out again. Which would be very painful.

But the signal was activated. A man, General R. Lee Ripstein, was sent to Sydney with us to monitor the recovery process. He was a lazy man when nothing was required of him, and for ten days it went absolutely nowhere. Then a beeping sound. Ripstein thought that meant his Pizza Pop's were finished in the microwave, but I realized it was the signal. Justin was alive, and in Manhattan, and conscious enough to activate the system. Fernando was there with us, and he didn't seem very concerned.

Fernando: Is this mission cost coming out of the film budget?
Brandon (Me): Yes, sir, very much so.
Fernando: Forget about him, then. I don't want to lose that crane shot I had planned.
Brandon: But Fernando.
Fernando: It comes out of your pocket or no pocket!

So I spent a thousand dollars on the American Powerball, won 300 million dollars, and went on with the mission and Ripstein, who was clinically insane.

Ripstein: We need to break down this entire city, Manhattan, or whatever it's called. We need read-out's and vertical break downs and machine guns and killers and everything!
Brandon: Or we could just buy a map at the airport.
Ripstein: Yes, yes of course. But that wouldn't be any fun.

So we went to the local K-Mart (Yes, they have one in Sydney, it is very small.) and went into the gun section. It, being an American store, was stocked with a vast panoply of weaponry. So Ripstein and I settled on buying an array of Laser-Fire Auto Super Cannons. They shot these strange little caseless beams that could burn through any surface. Which, you would think, meant that it would burn clean through the surface of the Earth, but we were told otherwise.

K-Mart Employee: No, they have a super-laser deterrence system which causes the laser shot to eventually stop going forward. It defies physics, of course, but it's only a movie.
Brandon: This is real life, this isn't a movie.
K-Mart Employee: Why are all the camera's here?
Brandon: That's the documentary crew we hired to chronicle or mishaps and adventures for a movie. But I don't think this will make it into the DVD. Buying thirty lethal weapons to travel to America and kill things is thought of as being... illegal.
Ripstein: F*cking liberal bastards.
K-Mart Employee: Really? This isn't a movie. I was so sure... I can't live anymore.

He later committed suicide. But we bought the weapons for twenty seven dollars, thanks to a sponsorship clause that we'll include the guns somewhere in the movie. So with three hundred million dollars, less twenty seven, we went out to hire a crew. Being a nihilist and a film-maker I knew that we had to hire the cliche crew of Marine's, or volunteers (whichever was cheaper), to go on our quest. So we went out to audition.

No, This Still Isn't A Movie.

Ripstein was convinced that we needed a token black man for the squad. His name was Bruce and he was a socialite from Sydney, and a very wealthy man. He volunteered his services because he thought it would lead to a role in the Watchmen film. Sadly it didn't. For some reason Ripstein insisted on calling him 'Shaquain', and his 'brother'. Bruce died inexplicably the day we hired him because of food poisoning. The doctors would later claim that it was from the bucket of Fried Chicken that Ripstein forced Bruce to eat. He found it hysterical. We didn't pay his family and our lawyer covered up the mess.

The second man we hired was named Elias Stephenson. Ripstein called him White-Bread. He didn't have a reason but the nickname stuck. He was tall, handsome, and had strange cutting blue eyes. He was also very adept with weapons, being a model and an avid reader of Bret Easton Ellis novels. We didn't ask very many questions and he would often strike poses in situations that didn't require them. He was perfect.

The third recruit was Chang Chung. He was Chinese and very dignified. But he was also a master of Martial Arts and had known Ripstein from a past meeting in something Ripstein referred to as "Effin' Chinese Invasion". He was nicknamed Chang Chung. Ripstein was convinced that Chang could hurl ninja stars and would constantly try to get him to throw some. This would lead to quite a few cuts on Chang's hand. But Ripstein just bandaged him up and continued auditions.

The fourth member was Henry Berger, he was eighteen years old and very spry. He was a very funny young man and would constantly crack jokes about a certain Rabbi Shmuley and his hilarious group of back-up singers. We figured he was the plucky comic relief. Which is why we theorized that he would live for most of the mission but would eventually die when cracking some emotional joke and passing on. Only time would tell.

The next man who entered was Steven Wright. The actual actor. He was sweaty and deadpan. For some reason he was also very good with a gun, and would come to call it "Lassie."

Steven (Wright): That was the name of my dog. It never yelled at me or called me fathead. I loved that dog.
Ripstein: I'm going to yell at you and call you fathead.
Steven: Well then I love you too.

Then we were off.

Six Men, One Plane, One Bathroom, No Prisoners.

I rented a jet from the Low-Brow Hi-Sky company based out of Sydney. The plane was a little rickety and cheap but it served it's purpose. Sure, Steven was forced to duct tape the wing back on a few times and actually did serve as the wing for the crash landing, but we made it out okay. Ripstein noted that it was lucky Bruce wasn't on the plane otherwise he probably would've died. I called Ripstein a racist.

Ripstein: Sue me, producer boy... Now, Fathead, go out there and be that wing again.
Steven: Kiss me.
Ripstein: You start up that 'kiss me' shit again and I'll pound your vagina with my fist 'til you can't feel pleasure anymore.
Steven (To Me): Is he always like this?
Brandon: No, his pillow talk is much more fresh.

After crashing in JFK Airport, we all got out of the plane and moved into the city with weapons in hand. Being New York, no one really flinched at the fact that we were wielding giant guns that fired off lasers. Ripstein also bought a missile launcher device that was shoulder mounted and could 'Take out a whole damn city, just make sure you aren't standing in it.' Which is a fundamental paradox, of course, but I didn't want to argue with a suicidal K-Mart employee.

New York At Night.

The critters were out, the moon was out, and we were drunk and armed. It was your typical night in New York. So we walked along the streets quietly, Ripstein was following a GPS readout system that would beep, less frequently or more frequently, depending on how close we were to Justin. It was an annoying sound but it works as a cinematic indicator device to foreshadow an oncoming threat of movement. It was all in the manual but I didn't take the time to read it.

Ripstein: The signal is beneath us now, it must mean Justin's in the sewers.
Elias: I am not taking my Gucci's down there, boys. This stuff is not worth the eight bucks and a hooker.
Steven: You guys got a hooker out of the deal?
Chang: They gave me buckets of chop suey.
Brandon: That's beside the point, we need to find Justin.
Henry: Why, though? It'd be so much more cost effective to just stay home and let him find his way back... Did I ever tell you about the time the rabbi tried to get back-up dancers?
Chang: Yes, eleven times. Now please, shut the f*ck up.

The manhole was opened, Henry made a wisecrack about male assholes, and we were inside the anus of New York. It didn't smell very good, as you'd expect, and we were about to encounter the greatest horror this city has to offer: [Censored until dramatically impactful]

Long corridors of darkness lead in all directions. Faint light would pour in through the manholes providing a path to follow every hundred feet or so. We continued out, with guns ready, and the beeping steady in our ears. Henry made a few more well timed wise-cracks:

Henry (Continuing): So the doctor said to the hooker. 'You need to buy a 'Closed' sign, bitch --

The ground fell out from underneath us. We plummeted hundreds of feet, or so it seemed in the darkness, and finally landed in a pile of shit. A literal, actual, pile of shit. Elias wasn't very happy and pulled out his shitty handkerchief to clean the shit from his face. It was a fierce cycle of uncleanliness as he seemed to only smear it around. Steven accidentally hit his gun off of the ground and activated a flashlight armed on the weapon.

Ripstein: That wasn't in the manual.

We activated the flashlights. The sight unveiled was horrific, and incredibly cost-effective. A single maimed and raped human body rested across the floor. We flipped it over and, to my horror, I realized it was Alf the cab driver. Despite being savaged anally he had a peculiar smile on his face when he died. The beeping was becoming incessant, so we knew we were close. That is when the first horrific event occured.

A hobo lowered from the ceiling and plucked Steven Wright up from the ground.

Ripstein: Fathead! No!

The hobo let out a wild screeching while holding Steven up. It looked at all of us, it's pupils looked like minature slits in the darkness, and it tore Steven's head clean off, and consumed it. Elias screamed and started firing wildly into the air. The bullets would eventually tear clean through to the surface of New York and later kill two astronauts in the International Space Station. His deterrence device was broken.

Chang unleashed a gigantic samurai sword from his back and swung it around wildly. I mean very wildly, he had absolutely no idea that it was there and had no idea how to use it. He swung so wildly, and eventually lost his grip, cutting Elias' head clean off. (This is when most of the women leave the theatre screaming as the only matter of sex appeal had just been killed.) Chang cursed aloud:

Chang: Curses!

Finally Ripstein unleashed the fatal blow to the hobo, and it's body flopped to the floor. Steven was maimed and Elias has suffered a Samurai Warrior death. We were now only four, although we had six guns. Also, the God damn beeping wouldn't stop, so we were obviously getting closer. But now we had the constant threat of wild hobo's. That is precisely when a beautiful female scientist appeared. Her name was Betty. (This is also the point where all of the men in the theatre, since their girlfriends are gone, begin to masturbate wildly.)

Dame Exposition.

Betty: I've been tracking this threat for over five years now. After a mad science experiment gone wrong, a group of Wild Zombie Mutant Hobo's were created and they now live underground. They fear light, and have an insatiable hunger for anal sex and human flesh.
Henry: Sounds like my wife.
Ripstein: You don't have a wife.
Betty: Anyway, they are everywhere. Why are you here?
Brandon: I could ask you the same question.

There was an immediate romance blooming between the two of us. I was sweaty, drunk, and carrying a gun. She was (absurdly) clean, beatiful, and sexy. I knew that, at some point, I'd have to fit a sex scene into this. But it's the sewers and that would be disgusting. So she gave me a quick hand job, as the others watched, and we moved along.

Ripstein: Your form was amazing, Betty, where did you learn to do that?
Betty: My father was in the military.
Ripstein: Oh... I see.
Brandon: We're looking for our producer, he got lost a few days ago and we found his signal.
Ripstein: It's uh, right here.

He handed the device over to Betty and she studied it, the distance, and the direction of the signal. She theorized that Justin is being held, unfortunately, in the den of the hobo lair.

Henry: They have a lair? So technically they aren't hobo's if they have a place of residence.
Brandon: Let's not get technical.
Henry: No, hey, I just don't want to tarnish the good name of hobo's across America.
Ripstein: Will you shut the f*ck up, White-Bread.
Henry: I thought Elias was White-Bread?
Ripstein: He's dead motherf*cker and stop asking questions.

The Hobo Lair.

Darkness, absolute and unflinching. The echo was loud and cavernous and the screeching of crackified hobo's was resonant. They were there, and so was Justin. That was when Ripstein initiated his plan. All of our flashlights were activated and we blasted them into the lair. It was horrifying: Thousands of frigidaire boxes stacked on top of each other. Forming a series of gigantic Hobo Hi-Rise towers. Hundreds of them spread across a vast distance. They were everywhere, and the hobo's were out in power. Hundreds, if not thousands, of eyes started staring at the lights. (This is the moment where John Williams choral music is cued and gives you a great sense of epic scope. This is a low budget project and 80's synth music will have to suffice.)

Ripstein: Unleash hell!
Henry: But I don't have a key.

Ripstein killed Henry by firing a single laser blast in his head. The laser shot would eventually destroy an Italian race car at a FIFA tournament in Europe. His deterrence device was also broken. Hell was then aptly unleashed. We all started to fire into the pit. Hobo's started diving towards us, screeching and yelling wildly. Betty picked up a gun, and fortunately had time to pull her hair back into a ponytail (to bitchin' effect), and started firing. She was the best shot of the bunch and killed at least a hundred Hobo's.

It was silent, and the Hobo Hi-Rise Towers were all burning. So we decided to lower ourselves down into the lair, among the dead Hobo's, to try and find Justin.

Ripstein: Justin!
Betty: Justin!
Brandon: Justin Graham!
Chang: How many Justin's do you think are in this lair?

A Hobo popped up from behind a box, hissing out words:

Hobo: My name is Justin.

I shot him. Mainly because I wanted to be able to yell 'Justin Graham' without interference. That and I wanted to prove Chang wrong. That is when the flying Mutant Zombie Hobo's appeared. They swooped in from above, screeching and swinging wildly. They hurled fecal matter (aka gobs of shit) and urinated on us. They moved too fast, we couldn't hit them, and Chang was plucked up into the air. Being a cowardly bastard he set off a grenade, because he didn't want to be anally savaged or eaten. The explosion sent us a few hundred feet across the lair, slamming through hundreds of Hobo-boxes and Zombie Mutant Hobo corpses.

We landed on another pile of shit, now a man short, and moved on.

Betty: I have a plane waiting in the tunnels on the far end of the lair. If we can get to it, we can survive!

That's when another Hobo went to pull Betty into the air. He was quickly gunned down by an unseen force. It was Henry, still alive, even with a laser hole piercing the side of his head.

Henry: Now, finally, the rabbi said to the back-up dancers --

Ripstein shot him again, and also killed a bird in Iceland. This time he was dead, but he started beeping. I ran to investigate and discovered a bomb strapped to his chest, it had a smilie face glued to the surface. It also had a note: "Much love, from Pookie." It was ticking down.

00:00:59

And counting... We made a break for it as the Zombie Mutant Hobo squad started to form into a chasing cluster again. Suddenly we stepped over something, it was a pile of something, in fact. A pile of Justin.

Justin: Guys! Hey, guys, help!
Brandon: F*ck you man, we're running!

Betty and I ran off towards the plane. Ripstein turned back, lifted Justin's emaciated body over his shoulders, and started running.

Ripstein: Come on motherf*cker!
Justin: Thanks, I could've run but my ass is killing me.

The plane was, in fact, resting right on the border of the lair. We climbed up a steep rock wall, with Ripstein right behind us, and started to prep the plane. A female voice, for some bizarre reason, started talking:

Plot Device Woman: You have twenty five seconds to evacuate.
Brandon: Shit, we've gotta go!

Ripstein tossed Justin into the airplane and moved to close the hatch when a Zombie Mutant Hobo reached in and pulled him outside. He started screaming wildly as Justin limped to the door and slammed it shut.

Justin: Call me motherf*cker? Bastard.
Betty: Get it sealed, we're moving.

Betty and I dropped into the cockpit and activated the plane by randomly jamming buttons.

Plot Device Woman: You have fifteen seconds to evacuate.
Brandon: Betty, punch it!
Justin: Where is that coming from!?

The plane zipped off. Somehow maneuvering through the Hobo-Lair as if it was the open skies. We tore through the main tunnel and slammed through the surface of the New York streets, taking a cab with us.

Plot Device Woman: Five... Four... Three... Two...

Henry had a last moment to murmur.

Henry: We'll meet again.

An explosion rocked through New York City, rupturing the sewers and causing fecal matter (even more gobs of shit) to be launched hundreds of feet in the air. The entire city was covered. But Betty, Justin and I were okay, and sailing off in the plane back for Sydney.

Come Sail Away...

As a means of celebration, Betty and I were moving to the back of the cabin to have sex properly in a more idyllic setting (that and I was interested in joining the mile high club). But Justin stopped us. So both Betty and I sat in the chairs of the private jet and listened to him speak.

Justin: Look, you guys, I encountered a great many things on my journey. But it all comes down to this... Thank you, thank you for saving me and thank you for bringing me back.
Brandon: Don't worry about it man, it's cool.
Justin: Who is this woman?

I turned to introduce Justin to Betty, but something was wrong. She smiled, and then her face crinkled in a way I recognize only as determination (also reminding me of the hand job). Suddenly a craggy old boot was thrust through her chest, from the back of her chair. She screamed and started spitting out a white milky substance that I recognized the scent of (reminding me of the hand job, and finale, again.) That's when she was lifted into the air and torn in half by Ripstein. But this was no ordinary Ripstein, it was Hobo Zombie Mutant Ripstein with red eyes, a terrible smell, and poorly cleansed teeth.

Justin quickly ducked to the ground as I scrambled for a handkerchief to clean off my jacket. But Ripstein was determined to kill Justin for some strange reason. So Justin, being incredibly swift, ripped a cover from the floor of the private jet and hid in the storage compartment below. I distracted the attention of Ripstein. He made eye contact with me, and I with him, and we were locked in a Super-Ultra Staring Match of Death. That's when I made a mad dash for the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

Outside Ripstein turned back to the floor where Justin was hiding, whimpering like a little girl. Ripstein smashed his hand through the floor and grabbed at Justin, he missed. He did it again in another spot, and missed again... That's when I made my entrance.

I kicked open the bathroom door in dramatic fashion (with suitable backlighting) and stepped out in full bondage gear (which Betty had in the bathroom, probably for such an encounter).

Brandon: Get away from him, you bitch!

We embraced suddenly. And not the fun embrace that usually later leads to sex, the embrace of death. Hobo Zombie Mutant Ripstein and I clashed and smashed around the jet. I slammed into a chair and he jammed his fist clean through the backing. I tossed an ashtray at him and he got a small bruise. That's when we both collided with the hatch of the plane and slammed through it. Luckily the chains of the bondage gear were caught on the handle and I was grasping for dear life. Ripstein was doing the same, trying to tear off my brand new Nike kicks. I wouldn't let them go.

The pressure inside the cabin started to tear things from the inside and hurl them towards Ripstein and I. Another ashtray, a seat, Justin's shirt, and finally a big rubber dildo that Betty had secretly (not so much anymore) kept in her "Fashionably Secret" mini-purse. It slammed Ripstein's forehead and sent him flying off into the atmosphere.

That's when (to the Aliens cue by James Horner) I started to dramatically pull myself back into the plane, grasping at each link of the caught chain. I did this very slowly to milk the time and fit the alotted space the cue provided. Finally the music came to a climax and I fell inside, and slammed the door shut. It was sealed, we were safe, and I was sitting in a pool of my own semen that had just been flung from the mouth of a woman who is now dead.

A Typical Day In New York City.

Justin and I manned the cockpit and watched the clouds approach ahead. It wasn't a blissful reunion but we were alive, and well, and Justin was shirtless.

Justin: We aren't going to tell anyone about this, right?
Brandon: I don't think anyone would believe us... Do you still have those shoes I gave you?
Justin: Oh, no.
Brandon: ...I should've tossed you out that door too.

We flew off towards Sydney, our pseudo home. The sun was on our faces and a rotting corpse was in the back. Somehow Ripstein's Zombie Hobo Mutant body died before impact. He was struck by a laser beam from the gun he fired while underneath Manhattan earlier that day. Apparently it has something to do with cosmic gravity and a random-recursive splicing mechanism or something like that.

Oh, the mysteries of life.

Day 24.

A Cameo Appearance.

A flight to New York City from Sydney, Australia is like being dragged through a gutter by a group of angry pedestrians. You don't like it, it smells, and the pedestrians could be a little less courteous than the stewardess, or steward-person, whatever they call themselves these days. But we needed to shoot some stuff in New York for exteriors, so there we were, on the plane, waiting for New York to land beneath us. It would take a while and Fernando was a restless kind of guy, so we put on some music.

He taught me how to salsa, and I taught him how to dance like an American. That meant groping the ass of the girl you're with, and looking around at the other (more attractive) women on the dance floor. Fernando thought this was funny and tried to grab my ass. I punched him, and he cried, but he got over it. Justin didn't like to salsa, or dance, he was just incredibly nervous. For two reasons: A. He was terrified of New York City and 2. We were going to be making a cameo appearance in the upcoming footage to be shot. As bums in the background, but being committed to celluloid is scary for a man of his patronage. Camera's steal his soul, at least he thinks, and actors are all soulless vessels of hatred and spawns of Satan. Of course he kept that private (until now), so he wouldn't offend any of the heartless actors.

They were on another plane. And, although it was denied by the pilot, I swear I could hear the music pumping from the actor's plane (which was behind us, since most of them arrived late). But being in a plane with a nervous producer and a hopeleslly flirtatious director was surprisingly entertaining considering the timespan. But finally, it happened, New York landed beneath the plane.

The City That Never Sleeps (Unless Under The Influence)

The door of the plane opened up and I stepped outside. I felt something on my back, and it hurt me very much. It was too early for me to get mugged, so I assumed it was back pain. Instead, it was Justin clinging onto my back. At first I thought it was a nuisance, until I realized that if I was to be stabbed Justin would get it first. It was reassuring and provided a hefty workout as I made my way through the long empty tunnel. Fernando was dancing along behind us, mouthing the words to some vague Spanish song and spinning wildly. I would've laughed at him if my lungs weren't slowly being crushed.

Slowly the pain became unbearable and I just crashed into an airplane chair. Due to bizarre physics and the human physical makeup, I landed on Justin's lap and sat there for a moment. I contemplated what I wanted for Christmas, and tugging on Justin's (non-existant) beard, but it was too late, a big burly man was there.

Mickey (Rourke): I knew there was something strange about you two.

He was there, in all his gritty glory, wearing a silly limo driver's hat and holding up a sign that said: "Meirlleae..." and the last few letters dragged off into a strange hand-written haze. He just gave up spelling, I suppose. But he smiled, grabbed my bags, and looked back to Fernando who was still inexplicably dancing.

Mickey: He join the mile high club? All right, which one of you two put out?

Justin and I pointed to each other in unison. Mickey chuckled a Mickey Rourke chuckle and turned back, still carrying our bags.

Mickey: Fernando sent me here early and got me a job at a limo company for research. So I figured I'd take the assignment to pick you losers up.
Justin: Did... did anything happen?
Mickey: What do you mean?
Justin: To you? In New York?
Mickey: No, why?
Justin: When I was a kid my daddy took me here to the New York City Zoo. "Best in the world!" he said, over and over again. I was a kid back then so I had no reason to not believe him. I show up and there's nothing here. The animals were all sitting around doing nothing, and looking stupid.
Brandon: Like most animals do.
Justin: But then, out of nowhere, some guy ran up to a chimpanzee and started having sex with it.
Mickey: Lucky chimp.
Justin: So my dad covered my eyes and took me to Central Park to get some real sights. Then I saw a guy pissing in his own mouth, trying to get something to drink.
Brandon: Awesome, I could never do that properly.
Justin: So I started crying and then it got worse, my dad was mugged on the way back. I got picked up by a cop later on. Which wasn't too bad. But I found out my dad was dumped on a side street and was repeatedly raped by the same chimpanzee that was raped before. It somehow escaped.
Mickey: Monkey see, monkey do.
Brandon: Lucky chimp.
Justin: It changed me forever.
Fernando: My balls are sweaty. All this dancing has put me into a sex craze. Where can we find some bitches?
Mickey: Sounds like the zoo has some good tail. We should go there first.

But we didn't. We went to where they had better tail, a seafood restaurant. Yes, Lobster Tail, that is. Although I did see Fernando stuff one of the tails in his pocket, go to the bathroom, and come back with a very disturbed look on his face. That's another story altogether though, of course. No, wait, no it isn't, I'll tell it right here.

You see, when a man loves a fish, he wants to express that. So, to express himself fully, he decides to take the fish into the smutty bathroom and rape whatever orifice it has until he reaches climax. He then proceeds to clean himself off, flush the man-handled piece of fish down the toilet, and return to his daily schedule. Love, such a beautiful thing.

So I broke the lobster tail I had, and started to chew on it. The juice inside dribbled down my face a little bit, which caused Fernando further discomfort, and I refused to wipe it off. The food there was great, but the bathroom smelled like my mother's closet, it was terrible. Mickey didn't much care for fish.

Mickey: I'm more of a meat man myself. I don't trust anything you catch in water. Unless it's syphillis. (Undeciphered mumbles) damn you Lateesha...
Fernando: When do you think the actors will get here?

Just then, a hummer limo pulled up. And up. And up. And up. It had at least thirty five doors and the music inside (continuing exactly where it left off in the plane) was shaking the glass windows of the restaurant. Guy Pearce walked out with a bevy of women and the limo pulled off. A Honda Civic arrived immediately after with the rest of the cast squished inside. (It, in fact, took them twenty five minutes to get out. Daniel Craig had to exit through the sunroof and Rachel unveiled some incredible acrobatics while getting out of the passenger side window. Liev almost suffocated, but no one really cared.)

Rachel was the last to find a seat after half of the restaurant emptied. All of Guy Pearce's "Pussy Posse" (his words, not mine) found seats. One of them found a seat on Mickey's lap, the other found a seat at the base of his chair, and third was... Well the third one I don't even want to talk about because the physics of it are mind-boggling. Anyway, the only remaining seat was next to Justin. The only remaining member of the cast standing was Rachel. It was fate. Or so Justin thought.

In an awkward display of manliness, Rachel hopped over the back of the chair to sit down, letting out a whispery giggle once she landed. The moment played to Justin in slow motion. This is how it played in his mind:

Justin (Thoughts): Oh, she's jumping over the chair. Her legs go so high, I could make use of that in bed... Natch! Okay, she's flipping forward and her skirt is, oh my God her skirt has flipped up. Wow, she's wearing polka-dot panties, I thought those went out of style years ago. Wow, them titties are in mid-air too, bouncing upwards still while she starts to go down. What a wonder of physics, oh, I love it. Oh no, wait, I missed the rest of the skirt show. But she's now landed, her tits have settled, and my penis is very much erect.
Rachel (Out Loud): You pervert! The rest of them can look, you can't.
Justin (Out Loud): ...natch?
Rachel: No, no natch for you.

Natchless, Justin continued to fork through his girlie salad. Rachel ordered a steak, which pleased Mickey, and she then took the place of the third member of Mickey's chair tandem. The physics of that are still mind blowing to me now, and Justin (as usual) found the position to be incredibly erotic. He vanished into the bathroom for a few minutes afterwards and came out with a smile on his face. Although he said he just urinated, I was sure I saw him tuck a lobster tail in his pants before. But maybe I was just being suspicious.

Guy, speaking through ample bosoms, was very pleased with the treatment he was getting in New York. Surprisingly pretty much everyone else was depressed by the end of the night. We had yet to shoot a single frame and we were all getting very incredibly drunk. Rachel, at one point, got so drunk that she made out with everyone in the restaurant. Well, with everyone aside from Justin who would remain natchless for quite some time.

She made out with me, also, but I got sloppy twentieth, and by then she started to smell (and taste) like a strange mixed ale I had in Ireland once. It didn't taste very good and it reminded me of that fateful night in Ireland.

(The fateful night: I was talking with this very short Irish gentleman who I said should dress up like a leprechaun, get his ukelelee and play us tune. Something that involved Lucky Charms, and such things. He was rather angry at me and tried to beat me with a small walking stick. I was angered by this and spun him around by that same cane, and tossed him into a ceiling fan. There wasn't much remaining once the fan was turned off.

But I'm not kidding when I say that I found a gold coin in his pocket, and I heard him laugh a final time, a whispy little laugh. So I looked for his pot of gold for two years after that and never found anything. I still carry that gold coin with me, but it's now a gold filling on one of my back molars. I can get radio stations on it every once in a while, they play in the rear of my brain cavity and it gets interpreted as a splitting pain by my earlobes. Revenge of the fightin' Irish, I suppose. But I'll never forget that little midget and his lucky f*cking charms.)

The hotel room was crashed. Worst part was we just arrived to discover that it was trashed. The maid was complacent and never realized that the "Do Not Disturb" sign had been hanging there, unmoved, for a week and a half. The previous visitors were the 'Rolling Stones', who were apparently on tour or something. So we made the best of it and laid out to rest on what was left of the beds and floor.

Mickey turned on some actual Stones music, since their entire discography was resting next to the complimentary stereo, and complimentary bar. It was good music, and Mickey (still slightly sober) dipped down into the bar fridge and complimented it himself. His logic was that a complimentary fridge would rarely get complimented back, so he felt obligated to do so. Mickey was a strange guy.

So I woke up the next morning with eleven used condoms stuck to my face. I had slept on the floor next to the bed, since Rachel, Mickey and Guy had all crammed onto it first. Well actually both Mickey and I arrived at the bed at the same time, but he threatened my life so I gave in. I figured it wasn't worth it. After picking the condoms of my face, I must admit that I had to reconsider my decision. I stood up to tell Mickey this, but he wasn't there. Neither was anybody else. Suddenly a used condom flicked out of the bathroom and hit me square on the face.

Luckily the contents didn't spill anywhere, but Guy peaked his head out and quickly apologized for the mistake. I didn't mind very much, until I saw the two beautiful women leaving the bathroom and exiting. They were still naked, short of a single towel between them, and Guy was smiling more so than usual. So I was angry and I tossed the condom against the window, with the other condoms. I then realized, by a fluke, that the condoms had stuck in the formation of the crucifix. So I grabbed the polaroid camera and took a photograph of it to show Liev. He would be angry, of course, but it was another sign. (The cult is right, damn it.)

Guy: Fernando and the others all took off early this morning. You looked comfortable, and pretty soiled, so they left you alone.
Brandon: Why are you here, then?
Guy: I wasn't finished f*cking those chicks, mate. I wasn't going to leave without getting my 'Guy' on.

That was all I needed to hear. I was going to use the shower but another one of the Pussy Posse was passed out in it, and I just washed myself quickly in the sink. I was a bum anyway, no one was going to care if I smelled like Guy getting his 'Guy' on anyway. I got into a taxicab, and headed for the set which was already being blocked off. The cab driver, Alf (not the alien who eats cats), told me about all the people he has driven around. The names were pretty impressive. Strangely though they were all pornstars, some dead for twenty years. Alf was roughly twenty, so, I'm not entirely sure how such a feat was accomplished, but I wouldn't be surprised to see a fetus driving a cab next time in New York City. So I paid my fee (*) and was out on the set.

(*New York Cab Driver's fee. The fundamental paradox of life in New York is based on the fact that you can't make it economically feasable to own and sustain a car in New York city. It is a sad fact and a complete impossibility. That is why cab companies in New York are thriving so well. The problem is that most of the driver's are from [CENSORED] and don't know a God damn thing because their stupid hat, whatever they call it a [CENSORED] is touching the top of the f*cking roof. So they drive frantically around town and get you nowhere very quickly. How they do this would defy Einstein's theory of relatively. In fact, I think that I spent twenty years Earth time in that car, and only aged a few minutes.)

Everyone was on set, looking smashing, the lights were being set up and Fernando was still dancing. I couldn't figure out why until he later confessed that he had taken an absurd about of 'Crystal Champagne, or methane' as he called it, and it had caused a serious increase in energy. It did interfere ever so slightly with his directing abilities and I was forced to lead the set for twenty five minutes as Fernando danced the day away by a juke box at the nearby Burger Bros. Barn. And so it goes.

Once Fernando returned, I felt a sharp pain on my back again. I flailed wildly and smashed the culprit in the face, thinking it was Justin. It was Rachel who was sweetly trying to surprise me. She was as cute as ever, once we stopped the blood flow from her nose. The shooting began with Fernando resting as a sweaty mess in the director's chair. Bill Pope was fixing lenses, and I was standing around doing nothing, looking like a typical writer, with Justin now firmly attached to my back and quivering like a poorly adjusted school girl.

Fernando: And, action!

First take went horribly wrong. Mickey was supposed to walk past the frame, and Daniel was going to follow him. Instead, Mickey passed out from a severe alcohol induced coma, which lasted only a few moments, actually it lasted a tenth of a second, this is what he thought on the way down:

Mickey (Thoughts): Whoa, I can't really see anything. Man, the camera is... Oh, I'm falling. The ground is getting closer. [Tenth of a second of black] Hey, whoa, what happen --

His face smashed into the cement. He was the second person to suffer a severe amount of blood flow from the nose. We were quickly running out of Kleenex. Rachel was constantly switching the ones in her nose, as was Mickey, and Fernando stuck half of the box to the surface of his skin and walked around calling himself 'The Mummy Returns!'. Everyone laughed the first few times. After ten minutes of constant repetition, we sat him down in his chair again and made him direct the film.

(Note: The assistant director refused to remove the Kleenex from Fernando's crotch and I am told it remains there to this day.)

The sun started to dip behind the skyline again and we were losing daylight. Bill was getting ever angrier as the lighting systems were constantly failing due to the fact that Daniel Craig was obsessing over the lightboard and was continually messing with the appropriate levels. It turned into a screaming match which Bill, quite surprisingly, won without much fuss. Everyone was surprised and applauded. Daniel sat in his chair, arms crossed, for the next hour and refused to move.

A Long Break In Between Bold Chapters.

This was it, the last bum suit we would ever want to wear. Tattered clothing and outfits that actually had an aroma of day old urine and the essence of heroin needle excretion. (Which would be heroin.) We were assured repeatedly that it was safe and that the essence wouldn't get us high, but the first twenty minutes were a laugh riot. The sad part was we were only staring at a cat that was continually licking it's crotch. For some reason this was hysterical. (We would later learn that there was no cat and we were staring, laughing, and pointing at nothing. Somehow we had a joint delusion.)

Daniel readied himself under his mask and started walking down the street, back and forth, as the sun finally set and went into total darkness. Bill set up the lights as we sat down on the curb and waited for our signal to "Act like f*cking wino's." Action was called and we acted like wino's. My immediate reaction was to play it entirely in character and be method. So I stood up and urinated on the street corner, while waving into the camera shouting "Hi, mom!" Fernando yelled cut and started to berate Justin for not having such creative ideas.

At this point Justin was still bemoaning the loss, or lack of ability to lose, Rachel Weisz. She was flirtily chatting it up with Mickey Rourke about the night before. She admitted to remembering very little but was trying to confirm whether or not Justin had touched her in any specific place. But the argument between Fernando and Justin got so heated that we were asked to leave for a bit, so everyone could cool their heels.

It made sense, at least to me, but I was high on heroin fumes at the time so who the hell knows what was right and wrong? Anyway, we walked away from the set in full costume and smell. It was interesting to see the perspective of a wino in New York City. Going from the limo and private jet treatment to getting yelled at, jeered, and spat upon. Of course we spat back, and a spatting contest occured as people spat all over the damn place. It was a mess, but we didn't have to clean it up.

So I told Justin I wanted to go to the store to get some Pall Mall's. I didn't smoke pretty much at all, but I suddenly had a craving for them after staring at a man smoking, wearing a trenchcoat, while underneath a single overhanging lamp-post. I said that it looked like something straight out of a pulp magazine.

Justin: It was a pulp magazine, Brandon. There was no overhanging light, we passed by a newspaper vendor and it had that picture there.

I didn't f*cking care, I wanted my smokes. So Justin stayed outside the store and I went inside. I bought the cigarettes, and heard a fuss outside. I went to run to help someone or something, but I was too late. Justin was standing there with a paper bag in his hands. He claimed a kid had left it to him so the police wouldn't find it. A cop car whizzed by, and Justin stuffed the bag into his pocket, smiled, and the officer's spat at them, and drove off laughing. (They would later crash into an overhanging lamp-post and kill the man who would be standing there smoking at some point in time. God chose it, and it shall be done. And so it goes.)

So we ducked out into an alley and cleared it of people. Which meant that we had to beat up a few bums to get them to move from their 'only homes', but we didn't care. They were poor, we were just in character. Inside the bag was something rather amazing, at least to the virginal eyes of Justin and I. It was a pound of cocaine. The real deal, as far as we could tell. (Although it could've been sugar for somebody's momma and we wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.) So Justin got an idea.

Suddenly I felt like I was in an episode of Honeymooners. Justin would sell the dope to make a quick buck and we'd go back to the set. It sounded like a terrible idea, so I was up for it. So the game was on.

The Game Is/Was On.

Cocaine is pretty expensive, although we didn't know that, and we were selling at the low low price of O.B.O (or best offer) and we didn't even have an initial offer, so it was a learning process. We sold half of the bag to a street hustler for eleven bucks. Then a few street-wise kids approached us and offered fifty for just a smidge of it. So fifty a smidge O.B.O became the sale price. At one point we almost sold a smidge to two little kids. I refused to do so with parental permission. So we asked their parents (both were stoned out meth addicts, standing in a bemused fashion behind their wayward flock) and the parents agreed. So we sold it to them. I figure if we're going to f*ck up a twelve year olds brain, we might as well do it while their young.

Justin: This has to be the best business venture I've ever been a part of. I can get used to this New York thing. I mean, I just made three hundred bucks and we still have half the damn bag left. Fastest three hundred bucks I ever made.
Brandon: We should get back to the set, it's getting scary out here. I mean, there are crack addicts scuttling about.
Justin: Don't be such a pussy, we need to sell this first.

So I decided to amble. It wasn't my game to play with cocaine, kids, and smelly ass coats. I tried to find the set (or the hotel) all over again. But nothing was there. I had a feeling that I was in the rough part of the neighbourhood when I was being followed by a gang. Then that pursuing gang was met by a rival gang once I entered another territory. A finger-snapping, ballet-dancing, song-singing number would take place. After that they'd fight each other to the death. But most of the groups seemed to be homosexual and they'd just slap each other to death. It was bloody, ruthless, and high pitched. It happened twice.

Then I entered the better part of town. I could tell because there were three hundred police officer's on every corner. In fact, there were so many, that they were helping old women across the street and even walking other people's dogs. This was the 'Brownstone' area where million dollar houses were located. It was quiet and serene, and I realized that I was still dressed like a bum. A nice police officer stopped me and asked me what my business was. I told him that I was trying to find a place to sleep, or find a movie set.

He thought I was insane. So he and the other three hundred police officer's decided to stamp my face in as hard as they could for some sort of cathartic pleasure. These were all hard-bitten police officers who had been helping out dogs for months. So they had a lot of stamping left in them and my chin is still feeling the bruises from a cheap, work-issued boot. But someone saved me, someone burst in through the police force and pulled me from the crowd. It was a tall man with jingling change in his pocket.

DAVID F*CKING KOEPP!

He lifted me up, shoo'd off the raging police force, and brought me to my feet. He stuffed Kleenex up my nose and wiped the tears from my eyes. He was kind, and gentle, and I started speaking.

Brandon: I need to find something to eat, a place to sleep, something.
David: Where are you from, sir?
Brandon: Sydney, Australia. Well, my home is there now.

I was going to tell him that we had encountered each other before but he was far too kind, so I just went along with it. He took me to a diner and gave me soup, and then he took me home to meet his fiance and two kids. They were all very nice and welcoming people, and I was showered, clothed and given a plane ticket to Sydney, Australia. All on Koepp's expense account. Again, I was going to say something, but he was rich and I didn't give a shit.

So I got back, after getting unloaded from the cargo bay (okay, so maybe Koepp's a little cheap) and rolled right into the crew again. Fernando was sweating, a fresh scar was across his forehead. The actors all looked trashed and tired, and I was the cleanest of them all. (They packed me in with moth balls, so I was also moth free and lemony fresh. Although it might lead to Cancer in later years.)

Mickey leaned on me, and puked all over the tarmac. It wasn't a fun couple of days. Finally it struck me, Justin was nowhere to be found.

Fernando: He just vanished with you, and we thought he'd meet us here. I guess we were half right.
Mickey: I think I left one of my testicles in that hotel room.
Rachel: Should we go back and find him?
Fernando: No, he'll get to us eventually.

Back In New York City.

Justin was having the time of his life. He was smiling ear to ear, getting laid by a beautiful woman. It was Rachel Weisz, which at that time was impossible since Rachel was in Sydney. That is, of course, until Justin slowly realized that this was a heroin induced dream. He was, in fact, mounting Alf the cab driver. Alf passionately leaned down to Justin's ear after giving it a little nibble.

Alf: Did anyone ever tell you that you look like John Holmes?

The arresting police would disagree. As did the judge, the jury, and the guards at the State Correctional Facility. The inmates did agree.

...I knew of this situation. It took me a week to get bail. Although I did have it, I just chose to hold back for a while.

And so it goes, and goes, and goes...

Day 23.

Two In The Shoulder, A Kick In The Teeth.

...and a partridge in a pear tree. That was the life. Today was the same as every other day, I was sitting in my office going over photographs. The contents being set photos from the day before. Liev was there, growing more and more disturbed by the pictures. His weeping was a nuisance but I put up with it for a while. That was, until, he went through the last photograph, tore it up and ran over to my potted plant. He slid his face into the base of the plant pot, and then up the side of the plant. He mouthed the leaves, and started to cry.

Brandon (Me): All right, Liev, enough is enough. You can't eat my prize Begonia's, I just had 'em put there this Wednesday.

He got back up, gathered the photographs, and slapped them down on my desk. His face was cold, and calculated. I was as morose as one could be expected to be looking at such photographs. But Liev, he had an agenda. All of the photographs featured Justin talking to a first assistant who was a woman. For some reason this made him angry, very angry, in a way I've never seen an actor get angry before (at least off camera).

Liev: You know something, Brandon?
Brandon: What's that, Mr. Schreiber?
Liev: I'm going to kill someone.

Ambiguously, he left. Strangely he did a skip before exiting. Oddly he also blew a kiss before turning around to leave. Bizarrely, I couldn't find the candy bar I had stashed in my desk drawer. So I decided to go outside, get some air, and maybe breath in a few Pall Mall's while I was at it. It was that kind of day.

Outside the production office I saw the usual hustle and bustle of the set. Fernando was yelling at everyone, trying to overcompensate. I know the guy likes to act tough, but he's obviously hiding something, I mean the man drives a car that literally looks like a giant penis. I think it's some I-talian car. A what'sit? Linganatta, or something. I didn't mind the car, but the way he drove, and everything, his posture, it was just all wrong.

I took in the last cigarette I had in the pack, and took a whiff of the evening air. It wasn't evening outside, but for some reason it's always magic hour on a movie set. Which is fun because that means a magic show is usually going on somewhere. So after getting balloon animal shaped like a rhinocerous, I walked outside to get some real Sydney air.

Outside, and The Big Empty.

It was approaching nightfall. The sun was falling behind the city in an inky darkness that's best described as an oil spill. The moon was rising on the blue side, and the street lights were just starting to flicker to life. This is a city where, if you know the right people, you can get the right things. I didn't know anybody, but I did have an American Express (*) card, which helped quite a bit. Sadly, gang-bangers don't accept American Express. So I had to get cash.

(*Note: American Express did not reply to my request of mentioning them in this blog. So I took the liberty to include them, for the sake of this testimonial, and include a disclaimer which you are reading now. Frankly, I find this disclaimer to be a waste of time because we all know that the American Express Business Card is one of the most widely marketed and often used in the world. It's a phenomenal card and I highly recommend it to anyone who breathes in oxygen. I only breath in Pall-Mallian, so I wouldn't know.)

Justin approached me from inside the studio. He seemed disturbed by a conversation he just had with Liev and informed me that his assistant, Evelyn, had just went to the 'Big Empty' dump station to find some of the old set pieces that were accidentally disposed of. It was second unit photography and I was one of the only free hands that day, like usual, so I decided to go after a quick game of rock, paper and scissors. (I won).

I got into my car, a black BMW (as paid for by "Paramount") and started the long drive down the twisted roads of Sydney, Australia. A wino there, a neon sign there. "Free Love" it said, in neon lights, on one store. I knew that the love they sold wasn't free, love always came with a price and Liev knew that. He loved Justin, more than anything before, and Justin didn't love him back. So what would that cost? Who would pay the price? My bet was Liev, he'd chicken out and do nothing. But, I'm not a betting man.

The sun was gone. The eye of God had already set and the catarac of the devil was out. The moon stared down at me in the car, chasing me along the freeway out of town. The Big Empty was ahead of me, a giant place where all the old things were left behind. Things that movie sets would leave behind. Old Jar Jar Binks outfits, some Matrix guns, and maybe a few sets of Superman tights. They were all there, and waiting for me to find them. Film archaeoligists would raid the place all the time, trying to cash in a quick buck, but I wasn't interested in the items. There was a girl there, I needed to make sure she was okay, and I would do that.

She wasn't okay. I drove my BMW up behind her little white sedan and saw that the doors were open and the keys were still twisted in the ignition. Really twisted, the damn key was almost snapped off. So I reached into the car and turned it off, the silence was nearly deafening. Not a crackle or a pop, or a Jack or Suzanne, it was empty. The Big Empty, heh, it was named right. So I started calling her name, and then a little louder. Nothing.

There was a loud rumble on the far side of the lot. A huge car went peeling off in the opposite direction. I couldn't make it out, but it looked fast and agile. It was a getaway car. My pace went from a walk to a jog. I didn't feel like running since I'd probably drop my cigarette. So I get to the other side and I find what I expected.

Evelyn was dead. A bullet wound in the back of her head. I pulled out my cell phone to call the police, and then realized that if I waited another twenty minutes I'd get the call for free...

Twenty minutes later I made the call. The police showed up. It was f*cking chaos.

Badges? I got your f*cking badges.

Cop (Idiot): So she walks in trying to get some props back, right? Then she gets popped by some gang bangers who wanted what she had. She dies here, and then, boom, it's over.
Brandon: No, look. There were signs of a struggle by her car. The keys are almost broken and she left pretty suddenly. That would lead me to believe that she got hassled when driving up here, someone was expecting her.
Cop: Nah, she got popped by gang bangers.

His refusal to believe me lead to a theory of corruption within the Sydney police station. But I realized that no one gave a shit about the Sydney police and this guy was just a dolt of the highest order. So I employed myself to investigate the murder and figure out exactly what was going on. So I drove back to the set and made sure everybody was there. I walked up to Liev's car, the first suspect, and felt the hood. It was hot and the engine block was still crackling from a newly turned on engine. The rest of the cars were as cold as ice.

So I sat down on the cinder block heading up the one empty parking space to think. I lit up another cigarette and watched the smoke billow over my shoulders, up past the set building, and float into the catarac of the Devil. Bastard wasn't going to watch me think anymore. That's when he spit on me. It started to rain.

I flipped my jacket hood over my head and ran into the building. Everyone stopped and stared at the wet man. I was washed clean of my sins and I felt like a better man, but everyone was grim, and I wasn't getting any smiles. Suddenly I was a suspect. Justin walked up to me suspiciously and said that he had heard the news about Evelyn, and asked if I saw her on the way. I said no, I called the police after finding her body. All by myself, of course, but she was dead and I wasn't, tough luck, babe. Her killer was still on the loose.

Suddenly, Liev came smashing in through one of the set doors. Blood was pouring from his hands. He was weeping, bellowing so loud that I flinched from the echo, and finally he started laughing maniacally. I was about to reach for my gun, which I smuggled in from the United States, when everyone applauded. He was rehearsing, he had been here the entire time. I pulled out a little notepad and scratched off Liev's name. He couldn't have done it, unless he had a twin brother named Jacob or something.

One Down, One Million To Go.

Everyone was a suspect for this girl, and I mean everyone. She had no enemies so it would have to be some sick ass friend, some strange bastard who wanted a joy kill. I couldn't even comprehend what would lead someone to do something like that. So I decided to call her family, which was living in Australia, to ask them a few questions.

Helen (Her Mother): I just, I don't get it. Why her?
Brandon: Why anybody? You tell me.
Helen: She was a good girl, a grad student, everybody loved her.
Brandon: Maybe somebody loved her a little too much.
Helen: Maybe.

So I shook down her boyfriend. His name was Oliver Smitty and he had red hair, bad teeth, and an agile sportscar. It was starting to click together. Until I found out that he was out of town until that very morning, which was convenient, and was driving a rented car the day before anyway. The agile sportscar had been parked outside his house the entire time. Didn't move an inch. I inspected the tires, they were clean, it had to be true. Plus he was a dough-eyed punk if I had ever seen one. But he lacked remorse, he wasn't telling me the whole truth, but he didn't have blood on his hands.

Actually, I did. After touching the body I had yet to shower. The rain didn't wash off my hands all that much. That's when the police showed up. Two officer's were stalking me most of the day. It would've been more subtle if they hadn't accidentally hit their sirens several times. So I knew they were there, and now they were pouncing. I was a suspect, one of the main suspects. I found the body and blood was on my hands. I didn't have a motive, but that didn't matter, they wanted to take me downtown.

I knew I was close, real close, so I did what any logical man would do at that time. I pulled out the gun I smuggled, shot one cop twice in the shoulders and kicked the other in the teeth. They both flopped to the ground and I made a run for it. I wiped the prints from the gun and tossed it into the broken back window of the sportscar, knowing that I looked rather similar to the boyfriend and could hope for a mistaken identity plea. It worked for Hitchcock, it could work for me.

Fish In A Pond, Surrounded By A Great Big Sea.

The cops were out and it was the middle of the day. My hat, trenchcoat, and mysterious disposition wasn't helping me at all. Glances here and there would set me off, but I could smell the perpetrator, or my deodorant, and I knew it was coming. So I kept running, kept moving, and arrived at where I wanted to. The Big Empty Security Post, which was a block away from the scene of the crime.

The guy working there was an obvious stiff, your average tough guy with a few extra inches around the waist. He was ready to talk to me, throwing back shots of Jack Daniels beneath the desk. He looked up at me, as startled as ever, and the answers would flow from him like water from an unclosed mouth. Okay, bad example, but Teddy was a talker.

Teddy (Bear): Yeah, that night. I saw this sweet little Honda zipping around. The guy driving was a creepy looking dude. He looked all worried. I think, I'm not sure, but I think I saw a second guy in the car. It was dark and he was dark, but it might've just been one guy.
Brandon: That's all you remember?
Teddy (Roosevelt): All I remember, bub. It was a pretty hazy night but gunshots can wake a brother up if you know what I mean... But are you sure it just wasn't gang bangers? I mean, that would make the most sense.
Brandon: It would, but it wouldn't make for an interesting plot.

I headed back to the house of the boyfriend. He was being arrested as the two injured officers were thrown into the ambulance. Seeing an opening I popped by everyone, put on a different hat, and started talking to mother. She was a little more shy, but she told me something very important.

Suzanne: I know it might sound strange, but I saw a car outside here last night. I don't think my boy's car vanished, but I saw this really wild car out the window. It looked like a giant penis... It actually kind of turned me on.

I wasn't even there to hear the last part. I was on my feet, running for the set.

Requiem For A Spanish Dictionary.

I burst through the studio door and jumped at Fernando and tackled him to the ground. Sadly it wasn't Fernando, but it was the very nice Janitor who had a dark complexion, and was easily mistaken for Fernando. I stood up, dusted him off, and looked around for Fernando. He was already running away, and I was ready to get him. I pulled out my gun and tried to fire, but nothing happened, it had jammed. God Bless America.

So I started chasing him again on foot, after throwing the gun, and he got out the doorway and slid into his penis car. I jumped into a van to chase him, and we were spun around in wild circles. Finally the penis car slammed into the rear doors of the van, breaking them wide open inside. The tip of the penis car hit my arm and caused it to bleed. He had popped my cherry. But the chase was over.

I got out of the car and faced down Fernando. He was weeping, his face in his hands, trying to tell me something in Spanish, or Mexican, or whatever. But I couldn't make it out.

Fernando: El club, olia de atun. Pero no desee ir. El productor hizo que lo hace!
Brandon (Clueless): I don't speak freaky deaky Dutch, Fernando!
Fernando: Justin! Justin made me do it!

I turned around to find Justin, but he was already there, holding the jammed gun to my head. The chase had lead us in a circle to the sutdio parking lot. That's when it all started to make sense. Right after I left, both Fernando and Justin headed out in the penis car. They stopped off at the boyfriends house and both stole the car. They parked the penis car outside the house and took off. They drove to where they knew she'd be, and had Justin cut her off. Chased her across the junkyard to the other side, where Fernando would be waiting with the sedan and the gun.

They shot her, ditched the gun in the prop gun pile, and left. They drove off with each other, obviously, explaining what Teddy saw. Justin must've been dropped off first. The exchange was made and Fernando got back to close up shop. It was the perfect crime. Perfect until I solved it, of course. But Justin Graham? The Justin? Why would he do such a thing?

Brandon: Why would you do such a thing?
Justin: My love for that girl was causing a rift between Liev and I, and Fernando. We need this movie to come out and be perfect, Brandon. We can't have you sticking your nose in everyone's business. You know what happens to nosy writers, don't ya'?... They lose their noses. But I forget my knife, so... Just pretend like it's gone.

I held a hand over my nose in compliance. Everyone was gathered outside now, watching the scene. Fernando was weeping on his knees and Justin was ready to shoot me. He fired the gun, click-clickity-click. It jammed. I knocked the gun out of his hand and took a few steps back. Baffled, he didn't respond, and neither did I.

Justin: So, what now?
Brandon: I don't know, we should just blame it on the gang bangers. I barely knew the chick anyway. I just wanted to investigate the murder for something to do, figure I'd make a good movie out of it, or something.
Justin: Oh, okay.
Brandon: It's not like I alotted enough time into the story to care about her anyway. She's just a MacGuffin... A device to get the plot moving.
Justin: I know what a MacGuffin is.
Brandon: So yeah, forget about it.

I took the hand down from my face and found a cigarette. It was broken, but I didn't care. I lit it, and sat down on the curb where Ferando had gathered himself, in a pool of his own tears. Justin warily walked back into the studio, telling everyone it was just a joke. They applauded mindlessly until the door was closed. But one person remained outside, blood still on his hands. It was Liev, he was staring at the two of us (mainly me) and he shook his head deliberately. Until a man, strikingly similar, walked up to Liev and hugged him.

Liev: Jacob! You're here!

Jacob, his mysterious twin brother, had just appeared with a Hispanic man following him. Jacob hit an alarm on his keychain, causing the white sedan he just got out of to beep accordingly. When embracing his brother, Jacob's shirt had lifted a few inches and a gun was tucked into the back of his pants. The Hispanic man was suspicious, and dark, but generally seemed friendly to Liev.

Jacob: Hey, just got here last night. Took care of that business you wanted.

They walked inside. I turned to Fernando who was just clearing up his face. He seemed puzzled at first, but finally looked to me.

Brandon: When you said Justin made you do it, what did you mean?
Fernando: He made me pick up Guy Pearce and Rachel Weisz at a strip club last night. I was so embarassed. I didn't know about a murder or anything. What the hell was he talking about?
Brandon: I don't know. But I'm going to find out.

I lit another cigarette, after stamping out the first, and came to my feet. There was six hours left before the catarac would rise again, and I had some people to shake down.

Just another day in Sydney-town.

Day 21.

A Lifetime in a 2x2 Cell.

Brandon (Me): Where the hell am I?

No, this isn't some existential realization of life. I had absolutely no idea where I was. It was dark and cold, while being a little murky and fogged up. But I couldn't see a thing. I waved my hand in front of my face, and then waved back, trying to be polite to those who say hello. This got me nowhere so I felt around for walls. As expected, there were four of them, all the way to a roof a little out of my reach, and a floor beneath my feet. I came to the obvious conclusion: I was buried in a coffin.

Brandon (Me, again): What the hell is going on here? Why am I in a coffin? Am I dead? Did I die? Oh, God, please don't let me die in a coffin, it'll completely mess up the order of events. It's die first and then the coffin. This is just, you know, convenient.

No answer. I didn't expect one either. At this point I had accepted death, despite weeping, and was ready to take in my last bit of air. Until there was a knock at the door. It was a knock I recognized. The nice janitor who worked on the set had a very particular knock where he'd knock twice, and pause, and knock again with a little flutter of his fingers.

Janitor (Janitor): Hey, Brandon.
Brandon: Yes.
Janitor: You got locked in the closet, there, and we're going to get you out. Is he okay?
Brandon: My penis? It's fine.
Janitor: No, Liev, he's in there with you.
Brandon: Schreiber? I hate that guy.
Liev (The Actor): I hate you too.

This startled me, and I let out a whimper. Liev was sitting right next to me the entire time. I believe his acting abilities convinced me that he was a wall, but it was just him, Liev, in contempt of everyone around him. The Janitor had left to get some sort of device to pry open the door and we were left to talk with each other. I'll have you know that after the incident at the restaurant I had discovered that Liev was a very angry man and actually had no idea who I was.

He wasn't hired on the fly or anything, it's just that he didn't really care at all about the writer's or the rest of his cast. He consumed the frame (almost literally, he's become rather chubby lately) and acted without anyone else in most of his early scenes. I'm not sure if that was a matter of strategy on the part of Fernando, or just bad preparation on the part of Fernando. Either way it was his fault and I wasn't taking any of the blame.

Brandon: So, we're stuck in here. I guess we'll have to get along until the janitor comes back with the crowbar, or whatever.
Liev: I didn't say that you could speak to Liev. Don't speak to Liev unless spoken to.
Brandon: Well, Liev, I don't care what you think because this is a public --

-- He hit me twice in the face. I was amazed at his accuracy considering how dark it was. But this wasn't a surprise once he told me that he spent a lot of time with men in dark closets. I couldn't properly interpret that statement until finally I felt something wet touching my ear. It was my own finger, of course, I had to clean out a bit of ear wax again to understand Liev. He was gay, very very gay, or at least he claimed to be.

(I'll have you know that the REAL Liev Schreiber is allowed to be whatever he wants to be in sexual orientation (gay), and that is his freedom (gay), and I support any choice (gay). But I'm very much straight and I really didn't appreciate him grabbing at my legs for the first few minutes and passing it off as claustrophobic clamoring.)

The Long Shadow.

After a few more minutes of awkward silence, I decided that I couldn't take all of this and I completely exploded.

Brandon: Oh, I'm sorry. God, it's everywhere, eh? I can't clean it all off.

I accidentally shit on his face. It didn't make things easier.

Liev: Just stop, okay, stop. I have a handkerchief in my pocket, and I'll clean it all off myself. Oh wait, it's in my back pocket... Can you get it?

I slapped him, this time with deadly accuracy. He wept a little and I slapped him again to take him out of the closet. I would later learn that the people outside of the closet couldn't help but laughing at "Stooges in the dark" as they called it. (Those people, who were laughing, would later appear in a reservoir outside of Sydney. I have nothing to do with their deaths and I do not claim to be at fault in any way. Although I would recommend checking Liev's glove compartment for *evidence*.)

Brandon: Have you been rehearsing some of the lines we've written for you? Justin and I? I mean, we pretty much hand-picked you Liev. I remember when I saw that movie you were in with the guy in the mask. What was it?
Liev: (Sighs) Scream? The Scream movies?
Brandon: No, Sphere. Dustin Hoffman, that mask he had in the movie was great.
Liev: He didn't wear a mask.
Brandon: There is no way a human nose can be that big and sustain physical space. How does he not tip over? I mean, Jesus.
Liev: He's very talented. He also doesn't believe in Jesus.
Brandon: You mean like I don't believe in the Easter Bunny?
Liev: I also don't believe in Jesus.
Brandon: But he was a man nailed to a wooden cross for your sins. How could you not believe something like that? That shit is way too f*cking crazy to make up.
Liev: (Shakes his head) The script, so far, is pretty great. But I think it needs work. You need to kind of underwrite my character a bit. I think you have him pontificating too much. Way too much. I like silence, an actor who can be still and silent and intriguing is great. I like that.
Brandon: You aren't good enough for that, Liev.

I couldn't see it, but I knew he was staring straight through me. I was going to ask him to guess what I had for supper, since he could see into my stomach, but I'm not a fan of parlour tricks. That and the smell of the shit was starting to get really terrible, and I felt as though my supper would land all over the floor of the closet, and really lessen the talent required for the guessing game.

I couldn't help it, I puked. Then Liev puked.

Resting in a pile of puke and shit.

For most actors, this would be a normal day. For me, it was hell on Earth. Liev was writhing around in the closet trying to figure out where to sit. There wasn't an unmarked spot in the entire place. (That was after I decided to urinate because, well, I didn't feel like holding it.) As if coming from a spectral world, a light poured into the room. Standing there, like Jesus (Not real, pfft, he's all over the place he has to be real. Since when has the news and a cultish [but large] group been wrong? Huh?! That's what I thought.) was the Janitor. He smiled at me behind his craggy beard and lifted me up.

Before I could come to my feet I was dropped back down again as the smell started to emanate from the room. The Janitor puked all over my shirt and I slipped back into the closet as the door was slammed shut. Liev sighed rather loudly (which I first misinterpreted as a 'lazy' fart.)

(Note: A lazy fart is when a human being has a very "ample" anus and, when farting, it comes out like a soft spring breeze. Although the breeze is also wafting the horrid smell of rotting descendants of food.)

Liev: I swear to God, if I am exposed to another God damn motherf*cking pile of shit and puke, I will f*cking kill everyone I ever see for the rest of my life. Jesus!
Brandon: ...I thought you didn't believe in Jesus.

And so it goes.

Day 14.

A Collision of Interest.

After awaking from a ten day sleep, I hit the alarm (which was gathering cob-webs) and got ready to appear on the set. After the events with Daniel Craig I found myself being incredibly tired all the time and it stopped me from updating this blog, or moving. Feeling lighter I decided to put on my less baggy clothing (now baggier) and head off to the set to see if I missed anything.

Turns out I missed everything. (This is where the tirade ensues.) I get to the God damn set and I realize that I've already been replaced. I'm not sure if many of you know of this, but David Koepp is a pretty hot writer in Hollywood right now. I'm a peon in comparison, and who do I see on the set when I arrive? David F*cking Koepp. Big tall guy, pretty lanky, with glasses and a strange little goatee. After gasping slightly, being loosely attracted to the man, I stormed up to Justin who had no idea what I was talking about.

No idea? Yeah right.

So, trying to act hardcore, I approached David with a very angry look on my face and made sure to clarify that this was my territory. So I urinated on his leg. He was upset because he had new pants, and he also didn't like the fact that I turned away and kicked dirt on him (Where the dirt came from, I don't know). Justin, quite frankly, was livid, because a bit of the piss splashed up into the punch that he liked so much. But I didn't care. Justin and I were the only writer's on this script and it's going to stay that way. The studio (also known as 'The Man') was going to keep their noses out of it.

So Koepp turns to me, smiles, and introduces himself. Apparently he didn't mind the stains after a few moments and eventually he just shook my hand, turned, and left. I was greatly pissed (pun intended, my urine is amazing), to a degree I hadn't even experienced before. So I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down at the WRITER's CHAIR(!) and went over the script. Nothing had changed and Koepp's name was nowhere to be found. The coffee tasted a little strange, and I quickly looked around the room to find what I was expecting: Daniel Craig was looking at me, and laughing, covering a goofy grin with his hands.

He would visit the hospital again that day. (But on a completely unrelated note because he went on to kick my ass after I splashed the coffee, with hairs, in his face. The visit involved a bit of a problem with a stunt where he tripped over a pipe and hit his head on a curb. I laughed justifiably at the accident but his assistant slapped me repeatedly. To get beat up by Daniel Craig is one thing, but I'm not taking anything from a female assistant. I went nuts.)

Later on, at the police station, I was sitting down behind the bars wondering what was going to happen next. So who shows up?

DAVID F*CKING KOEPP!

I stamp out of my seat and rap up against the bars, swinging wildly at the man like a beast from some... strange place where beasts are known to come from. I started screaming, foaming at the mouth, expecting Koepp to rub it in. But he was doing something I hadn't seen before. He was delivering and stocking pop machines in the prison food room. Come to think of it, I saw him doing the same thing at the movie set. (At that point I thought he was stealing the pop, but putting them back in to throw off the police, some sort of reverse psychology.)

Brandon (Me): David!? David! Why are you doing such a silly and low-paying job when you're one of the biggest screenwriters in Hollywood?
David (Him): I forgot to buy Jingle Pops.

(Jingle Pops were a scrumptious little ice cream number invented in 1941 by the Beckett and Hammerstein Corporation. It was a nutty bar-like composition that was comprised of walnuts, almonds, vanilla ice cream and a touch of caramel. Jingle Pops were widely enjoyed in 1942, but they became a seasonal food source in most areas because people couldn't fit the Pop into their freezer during the summer. So it was only held during the winter months. The Jingle Pop, as recorded, was produced to be the size of a '76 Buick, which was ironic at the time because a '76 Buick had yet to be invented. And so it goes.)

David would stare at me for an hour after making that statement. He would jingle the change in his pocket, and stare, and jingle a little more, staring at me. Finally two police officer's carried him away, after hanging their coats on his shoulders, and I was free from his presence for a little while longer.

So I sat back in my bed, knowing that Justin wouldn't arrive with bail until tomorrow, and I wondered what to do. I started to whistle a song I hadn't whistled since the days of old. The Theme To Green Acres.

Green Acres is the place for me.
Farm livin' is the life for me.
Land spreadin' out so far and wide.
Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.

New York is where I'd rather stay.
I get allergic smelling hay.
I just adore a penthouse view.
Dah-ling I love you but give me Park Avenue.

...The Chores.
...The Stores.
...Fresh air.
...Times Square.

You are my wife.
Good bye, city life.
Green Acres we are there.

I would continue singing the song as two rather large Hispanic men decided to brutally rape me in the cell. They said I had a pretty voice.

(I would later sell 2 million records, covering various theme songs using only my aural talents. The CD is not available at your local record store. Visit www.songsfrommyanus.com for more details.)

Day 4.

Disturbing behavior.

Dealing with actors is probably the hardest thing a producer or director has to go through when making a movie. Don't get me wrong, sometimes actors can be brilliantly nice, and other times they can seem like the Antichrist. But when I arrived on set today we were having a minor catastrophe (also known as a 'misunderstanding' in Hollywood), when Daniel Craig was angry about "something!". He wanted everyone to know, including me, and his yelling almost forced me to dive behind a pile of sandbags (which were somehow placed there earlier that morning.)

Being a man of some taste, I decided to ask Daniel what he was so angry about. Once he settled, for mere moments, he realized that he really wasn't angry about anything. Apparently he blames his ideals of method acting on the outburst, and failed to explain it any further. I tried to ask more questions but he threatened me with a bottle of Ketchup. So Justin, rather calmly, asked me to take Daniel out on the town to get his mind off of things for a while. Settle him down, talk about the script, go over scenes, and come back by the afternoon... ready to act.

I felt this was a good idea. Daniel felt that I was an idiot. I did disagree with him, but he said I was an idiot and my opinion didn't matter, so it was a moot point.

Sydney, Australia Cruising with a quasi-celebrity.

Most actors like to think that they're the most humble of any species on this planet. They would be wrong since technically squirrels are, but only in small (nutty) bursts. Daniel was driving, since I still don't have an internationally cleared license, and desperately trying to get attention while driving down the strip. At first it seemed as though he was subtley sticking his head out the window screaming "I'm the guy from Tomb Raider! And Lay-four-er Cake!" But after that it was just obscene as he started quoting lines from the film, and saying that Angelina Jolie was actually wearing breast padding for the entire film. (Which infuriated me since it meant that all those personal 'sessions' alone watching the film were based on a lie. It made me feel worse when I realized I had watched the film that morning and never cleaned up properly afterwards.)

Daniel eventually stopped the car and wanted to get something to drink at the local Starbucks. After tearing my pants off of the passenger seat, we went inside. Without missing a beat Daniel stepped in and paused at the doorway, letting everyone take a good look. No one said a word, so he sighed and walked inside for something to drink. This was obviously some sad ploy for attention and I was about to approach him on it when he turned to conspire with me:

Daniel: We should do something really bold. Really silly, I need to do something to get my inspiration back.
Brandon (Me): I don't know, Mr. Craig (which I called him entirely out of fear), I'm here to help you loosen up... Not break anything.
Daniel: No, no, I have a better idea.

Whenever an actor concludes a conversation with "I have a better idea." I usually turn to a producer, which would be me, and immediately excuse it as insanity. This wasn't really any different, especially when I saw Daniel sneaking into the back of the coffee shop. Being such a somewhat physically imposing man, I was surprised at how easily he did it. I was surprised even more when I simply walked into the back of the coffee shop and no one said anything to me, even though I made eye contact with pretty much everyone working there.

Daniel was already at the back sifting through the stock shelves. The strange look on his face was particularly frightening, until he looked back at me and I realized that he usually looks like that. I've never met a man who was seemingly born with craggy features and eyes that could give Superman's laser-vision a run for it's money. I swear I've seen him cut butter with it. So Daniel holds up an empty coffee cup to me, and smiles.

Daniel: Look, I'm gonna drop my testes into this thing. When they use it, it'll be coffee with balls.
Brandon (Me): What?
Daniel: I'm gonna drop my nutters into this cup here, and people will taste my balls.
Brandon: What?
Daniel: Cup, balls inside, taste balls.
Brandon: I hate baseball.

I couldn't understand a word he was saying. Usually his accent is clear and pretty easy to grasp. But he was so utterly excited (in a feminine way) that he wasn't making any coherent sense. That was, until, he unzipped his trousers and dropped his testicles into an empty coffee cup. The idea seemed bunk until a glazed over clerk came into the back, asked for cups, and Daniel handed one over. No one seemed to notice the immense amount of "curly-cues" within the cup.

So, like conspiring Rascals, we tip out of the doorway to see who's going to get the curly cup, as Daniel would call it. As if a sign from God, it was our co-star of 'Watchmen', Liev Schreiber.

Glazed Over Clerk: Here's your coffee sir... Hey, aren't you that guy from Scream?
Liev: Yes, now hand over the f*cking cup of coffee, woman.

He was very rude.

Glazed Over Clerk: I'm glad you died in that third movie. It's certainly reassuring to know that you did die, and you're acting like a dickhead because you're just some apparition with unsettled business or something like that. Like Patrick Swayze... who's an absolute dreamboat.
Liev: I dislike you...

This is when he took a sip of the coffee. Both Daniel and I chuckled. Strangely I think he squeezed out a little fart when he laughed. Which was cute, but it did smell pretty bad.

Liev (Continuing): ... But you do make a fine cup of coffee.

We were both completely stunned. This did make us question which sex Liev held in familiarity. I guessed the missionary position, but Daniel spouted something about the 'Leopard Leg Press'... Safe to say that his knowledge of the Karma Sutra is far more expansive than mine. I read the cliff's notes and got lost. Although I did manage to lodge my penis in a toaster during one session.

(Note: I wanted to say penis in this blog once. The fact that it's my own penis is just a matter of personal aesthetics. Notice I didn't say large penis.)

(Double Note: I have now said penis four... five times. I will cease to say it any more in a matter of good taste. Something I have learned to have after watching Liev Schreiber drink 'Nutter Coffee', Daniel's new invention.)

This is when I was convinced that Daniel was Tyler Durden. But Brad Pitt was also at the coffee shop getting a Mocha Latte (girlie drink) and a few scones (going directly to those hips of his). So Daniel went into the back to stir up a few more sets of 'Nutter Coffee' cups. I went to talk to Brad Pitt.

Brandon: Hello, you are Brad Pitt.
Brad (Pitt): That I am.
Brandon: You smell differently in person.
Brad (Pitt): Indeed I do.
Brandon: I don't like your smell. Get the hell out of here.

We exchanged a cold stare, Achilles didn't move. I was about to attempt to pinch at his heel to take him down, but he walked away with his scones. Once exiting, he turned back to me and smiled a Brad Pitt smile, and did a Brad Pitt walk into his Brad Pitt car. He had a Brad Pitt girlfriend that looked a lot like Angelina Jolie, but I just assumed it was a mirror in the passenger seat. So we can get more Brad than usual. That or it was David Fincher in a wig. All three assumptions would be correct.

A scream echoed from the back of the shop. The worker's didn't seem to notice, although the customers and myself did. I ran into the back (without much fuss, again) and found Daniel letting out sharp hissing sounds by a cup of spilled coffee. He looked up to me:

Daniel: F*cking thing already had coffee in it. I think my testes been fried up like some soddin' eggs. I damn well hate omelettes.
Brandon: You're saying that your balls are omelettes? That would explain the reason why Liev liked the coffee so mu--
Daniel (Rudely Interrupting): Just get me to a God damn hospital.

After the hospital visit (and many shy nurses chuckling) Daniel and I got back into the car and sat in silence. He let out another squeaking fart. I was angry, but he simply shrugged. So I picked up the phone to call Justin to see if Daniel was needed at all today, since he'd probably need some TLC, rest, or relaxation. Justin confirmed that, if Daniel was injured, they didn't need him. So I made a suggestion:

Brandon: Let's go to a restaurant, get a bite, and I'll take you home.
Daniel: No, I hate restaurants. It's all filled with waiters and waitresses who want to be actors. Once famous people show up they start clamouring for attention and the number of my agent. It's all bollocks.
Brandon: Isn't that just Los Angeles?
Daniel: Oh no, no, here too.

I informed him that I was tired of all the swearing he was doing, but he didn't seem to care. Eventually he was convinced to go when I told him I'd do a polish of the script (Yes, only the script, dirty minds) if he'd go and get something to eat. It's most fashionable to be seen in a swanky restaurant with someone who could end up being the future James Bond, that or a future Bond villain... or just end up with a resume of terrible roles and vanish from existance (and my rolodex), but thats beside the point. We went to the Rouge Blanche Avril.

This name sounded really cool, but didn't seem to make any sense to me. Until we went inside and found that every wall (and object) was painted either red or white, and every calender was set to April 1'st. So immediately I thought it was a joke and started laughing, but it wasn't a joke and I was leered at by many customers. One of them was Liev Schreiber, who was having a brunch while drinking his Nutter Coffee. I found satisfaction in knowing that he was drinking liquid testicles while my pride was only mildly damaged.

The Restaurant From Hell, or Sydney.

Actually, that title was misleading, it's quite a fine little restaurant with very pleasant people who worked there. Uncomfortably though, every single waiter or waitress inside the restaurant was inexplicably named "April". Every name tag, almost as if photocopied, featured that name. It was incredibly awkward when trying to order, you scream out the name April, and eleven people walk up to you with smiling faces. The eleven people weren't really disturbing, the fact that they were smiling was incredibly scary.

So we finally get our order and I pull the script out from my napsack (yes, I carry a napsack) and slap it on the table. Daniel was terribly frightened by the loud sound and almost broke out into tears, but luckily I calmed him down and started leafing through the script.

Brandon: What exactly do you want to change?
Daniel: Look, I'm a star, okay? A rising star. Everyone knows who I am --
Brandon: No they don't.
Daniel (Rudely Interrupting) -- Everyone knows who I am and I should be featured more often.
Brandon: Well, you are in it a lot already. Your role is major. It's big, real big.
Daniel: I want bigger.
Brandon: Is this a penis (six times) thing?
Daniel: No, not at all, I just like the movie and I want a bigger role.
Brandon: Uh-huh. Well, we'll have to run some lines with an actor to see what doesn't work.

Stupidly I shouted out to the restaurant, "Is anyone here an actor?". Every single waiter or waitress in the place raised their hands. Somewhat bewildered since they didn't see the source of the question. Watching eleven people named April with their hands in the air, looking around in a bemused fashion is something I don't wish to see again. But someone else responded:

And this last part is completely true (well, not entirely):

Liev Schreiber excitedly shuffled out of his seat and walked over to us, carrying a newspaper under one arm, and his plate of food in the other. Disturbingly (again) he was carrying the cup in between his teeth, while it was flopping around and loosely knocking into his chin (in a bit of subtle irony) until planting himself beside us.

Liev: I'm an actor. I'm an actor.

He plopped everything down on the table, took a sip of his coffee and looked up at us (before pulling a small hair out of his teeth) and said:

Liev: So who the hell are you two?

This time, in unison, both Daniel and I sighed.

Adeus.

Day 3.

Absolutely nothing of any interest happened today.

Well, aside from this fantastic second outing with Rachel Weisz. But that's... well that's far too dirty to be Blog material.

That and a huge thing that happened on the set. It was this amazing thing, so amazing that I refuse to talk about it because it might... Well it just might brighten up your day. To be honest it made me believe in God, who knows what it could do for you.

So, uh, yeah. There you go. Tomorrow something of interest will happen.

Vaarwel.