Shark Beast 2: Paranormal Sharkitivity Read online

  Katherina.

  Looking all serious, David Mamet-y, and smokin' as usual. With her surprisingly sexy glasses. Behind which glistened a luscious pair of eyes that sweetly sang ... Nothing But All Business.

  Standing there, transfixing raven-hair pulled back in a tight (but, of course, very sexy) ponytail. Creamy skin.

  (-- blink --)

  "Hello, uh, there," Mike said, in his usual clumsily charming way, still taking her in. "How'd you know I was in here?"

  "I heard all this squueeking."

  Mike smiled a tiny smile, reached into the box, gave the plastic shark a squeeze, attempting to prompt a raven-haired smile.

  -- squueek! --

  Clumsily charming.

  Clumsily ineffectual.

  Shrugging, Mike chucked the -- squueek! -- shark back into the box. And sat there. She just stood there.

  (Welcome to showbiz.)

  Finally, she managed a very unimpressed look.

  Her gaze traveled to the box of sharkorabilia.

  Then back to Mike.

  Looking even less impressed.

  "You know," she said, with crisp, direct -- and inescapably sultry -- enunciation. "I realized what I was getting into, with this film. I harbored -- believe me -- no illusions. I knew I'd be asked to wear tiny bikinis, and be photographed from ... exotic, if uninspired, angles. I knew the dialogue would not be Shakespeare, and I knew the direction -- no offense -- would not be David Fincher."

  "Fair enough," Mike said, not really offended. Now, if she'd said Stanley Kubrick, well...

  "But I feel I have to speak up with this latest script change."

  Mike gave her a sympathetic here-it-comes look: and that would be...?

  She went quiet for a moment.

  Then:

  "Tara wasn't a lesbian."

  Mike sat there, rearranging her words. It took a moment to make sense of it -- and even then -- (blink) -- yep, still confused --

  "I've got nothing against lesbians," she said, firmly, in a tone that expressed disappointment that Mike would probably think that. (He didn't -- to be honest, he hadn't gotten that far yet, was still rearranging hot chick words.) "And I have nothing against playing lesbians."

  Mike nodded, waiting for more.

  But she apparently was done.

  "So what's the problem?" Mike asked, finally.

  "The problem is, Tara wasn't a lesbian. I know we're not making a documentary here, but I think it's kind of disrespectful to change her sexual inclination for exploitive, sensationalistic reasons. Don't you?"

  Of course I do. This whole movie is disrespectful, exploitative, sensationalistic -- the very idea of it is disrespectful, exploitative, sensationalistic -- not to mention just plain dumb. It's a Beddlam "make it quick make it naked" schlockflick about a shark monster that supposedly ate real people. What did you expect?

  That was what he wanted to say. But Mike had to admit that even though he was all professional on the set, even a Beddlam set, and as a (with one ill-chosen exception, far in the past, thank you) strict rule kept his hands and glands off the talent (unlike certain producers), well, he was just as susceptible to the judgment of a pretty women as the next guy, and he had to admit he felt a bit of a sting that she'd think he was not only approving of these changes, but perhaps she even thought the changes were his idea--

  (what do I care what she thinks)

  (what? shut up)

  (-- blink --)

  Still stinging, he went on defense, resorting to the boilerplate Hollywood response (or at least his lame version)...

  "Well, I hear you, your voice is valid, nothing's written in concrete, here, we're just blue-skying, trying to be fresh and edgy, putting a stylistic spin to make the story resonate... plus, there's the matter of covering ourselves legally, if our characters are too recognizable we could open ourselves to vulnerabilities of not only a dramatic nature, but civil actions of a defaming scenario--"

  "Thank you for your time," said Katherina, in a severely clipped tone. She turned on her shapely heels, and leaving nothing linger but her distaste, promptly disappeared into the hallway.

  (oh, the look on her face)

  (unimpressed didn't begin to describe it)

  After staring at the empty doorway, Mike let his gaze drift to the box. All that shark crap.

  All that creamy skin.

  All that--

  (-- half-a-sigh! --)

  (-- half-a- squueek! --)

  "How did I get to be the bad guy of this thing?" he muttered, giving his bottom lip a bitter pinch. "I'm not even a producer."

  ~ ~ ~

  Speaking of hardly-being-a producer, Mike stopped upstairs by Jake the P's "office."

  "I got iPad fever, man. Look -- angry birds." Jake the P swiped his fingers over and over on the iPad, as he leaned back, feet on his desk. "They sure are angry."

  They'd been here barely two days, and Jake the Producer's office--The Black Hole--was a mess, a raging, irredeemable, tax deductible mess.

  Barely 48 hours and his office looked exactly like all his offices, temporary or otherwise: disaster zone. Papers and files and materials of all kinds strewn everywhere, almost every bit of which had nothing whatsoever to do with producing a movie. Mike paused. Even though he'd seen this office phenomenon many times before, he still couldn't help being a little in awe at this whole out-of-nowhere messy-mess J the P seemed to conjure up as if out of nothing. Just another of his many weird talents that at first glance seemed pointless and detrimental, yet -- somehow -- always managed to work in his favor.

  That's why he gets to sit in here playing 'Angry Birds' all day, while I go around movie-izing bad shark novels and antagonizing the cute talent, Mike mused. Then, with a shrug, he handed over his pages for the night:

  "Here's the changes."

  "I trust you."

  "You shouldn't."

  "Fine. I'll look at them in the morning. Camera Bob's not going to be around, so you should go shoot with the hand-held, background stuff, whatever."

  "I already did-done that," Mike said, annoyed by that particular bit of news. "Where's Camera Bob gone to?"

  "He's heading uptown to bail out the two goth girl lesbian twins. Get 'em before they do something else, rack up more contempt of court charges."

  "Nice. We can't ever hire normal people?"

  "They're actors, dude. I think you just answered your own question."

  "Fine. Hand-held, then. Well, I've got some ideas for some more ominous water shots, for the opening titles. You'll hate it though -- it involves creativity."

  "Well, don't get so ominous or creative you forget to put in some bikini babes. Matter of fact, why don't you take a couple of the girls, get them swimming or something."

  "How is that ominous? I'm trying for atmosphere. It's the start of the whole picture."

  "Take one of the fog machines, then. That's butt-loads of atmosphere. We got those new high powered ones, the turbos, they look really cool."

  "White smoke is white smoke."

  "And -- white smoke is cool. You can have the girls swimming around in the early morning mist, diving and disappearing in and out of the fog. Make it look all James Bond and whatnot."

  "That's actually not a bad idea. I always wanted to do a James Bond opening credits sequence."

  "Hey, coolio -- go retro. As long as the girls are bikini-ed or less. I believe in this concept -- so much so you can take two fog machines if you want. Just don't mess with the footlocker."

  "What footlocker?"

  "The one you're not supposed to mess with."

  "Why? What's in it?"

  "Why are you all of a sudden so curious?"

  "Because you all of a sudden just mentioned it. And then said I couldn't mess with it. Twice. That's how that works, you know."

  "Fine -- I was going to save it as a surprise for later, but ..." He swiped his fingers a half dozen more times. "Man, those are some angry birds."

  Dumping the iPad on a pile
of crumpled scripts, he walked over to the footlocker, which Mike hadn't even noticed right in front of him, in all the mess. It was an army footlocker, all right. Which, since they'd never made an army film, had nothing to do with movie-making. Smiling (of course), Jake the P unlocked and popped it open.

  "What are those?" Mike asked, eyes bugging, more than a bit of a worried expression beginning to bloom.

  "These, my friend," Jake the P grinned, "are state of the art flash grenades. Impressed?"

  "Appalled, more like it. What are you planning, a Beddlam version of 'Apocalypse Now'?"

  "Sure. If this was twenty years ago. No, this is for us, now, here, our movie."

  "So ... those are real? Or props. Please say 'props.'"

  His smile got ever more producer-y. "They're real props, let's keep it at that."

  Mike blinked, not able to turn away from the footlocker full of grenades. "What part of our movie needs artillery? Most likely illicitly obtained artillery?"

  "The exciting action-packed ending of course. As soon as one of us writes it."

  "But --"

  "Look, Mike, you know all our movies end with either hot chicks getting naked or stuff getting blown up. Now, with these" -- He smiled as he gazed into his treasure trove of weapons -- "we can have both." His gaze glazed. "The motherlode."

  "Do you have permits for all -- or any -- of this?"

  Now Jake the P wasn't just smiling, he was laughing. "Mike, you sound like you just got off the front car of the Hollywood rube train. We've been working for Beddlam for, what, how long -- have you ever in that time seen a permit? For anything? You start waving permits around, people start expecting to get paid."

  "I know, I know, lights, camera... run! The Beddlam Moviemaker's Motto."

  "Exact-o."

  "But sneaking locations, that's one thing, running around armed to the gills, that's a whole different footlocker full of--"

  "That's the beauty of these beauties," Jake the P said, with his trust me, buddy! grin strapped real tight. "They don't make any noise. Well, hardly. Mostly, it's a whole lot of light, sparks, and sweet-sweet orange-y smoke. The kind that looks sweet-sweet on the Big Silver as well as your friendly neighborhood Netflix app. It's a tasty bit of high-grade production value, in a convenient tossable package. It'll look great on camera -- and totally cheap too. And -- leaves no trace. No more canisters filled with gasoline and black powder, wires, blasting pins, firing boards, all that. Guaranteed not to wake the neighbors -- unless they're asleep. And in a three mile radius."

  "What if someone gets hurt? Especially the girls --"

  "Nobody's going to get hurt," J the P said, with just a hint of you're killin' me, dude! tinting his crafty grin. "And you know how I know that? Because the only people who know about this powerhouse pinata" -- gesturing at the footlocker -- "is you and me. As long as we keep it that way -- no problemo, am I right?"

  Mike looked dubious.

  "Am I right?"

  Mike looked dubious.

  "Am I right?"

  Mike looked dubious.

  "Am I -- look, what's the snag?" J the P asked. "Are you going to mess around with these things on your private time?"

  "No. Of course not."

  "Well, neither am I. So what's the problem?"

  "The problem is every time you ask me 'what's the problem' some problem happens."

  "Look, Mike, it's just light and smoke. But, hey -- if it'll make you feel better, let's do it this way: you got two weeks minus two days. I'll let you be in complete control of the whole ending. You scope out the visual location, muse up the action-packed scenario, where and how you feel comfortable. All you, baby!"

  "I'm in control? Did those angry birds get you high? Because you sound high."

  "Sure, total control, you're the director, why not? The studio doesn't care what blows up, as long as something blows up. So we'll leave it to you to find that very special something -- that's right, m'man: you choose. Maybe some deserted bit of beach, maybe we chuck these flash-beauties into the waves and blow up some froth and water bubbles, or maybe you find some abandoned, I don't know, air field or something -- totally up to you. You come up with it, you film it, take whatever precautions make you cool with it, and" -- slapping his palms together -- "boooom! -- totally in your hands. Coolio?"

  Michael's eyes narrowed a tad. "You serious? You won't override me?"

  "Absolutely not. All you, baby!" J the P laughed. (A bit of a happy and yet mysterious laugh. He even had different laughs, this guy!) "Look, buddy, I'm no pyro, I just want a happy studio, a happy crew, and a happy -- you. So -- deal?"

  He stuck out his hand.

  Mike's eyes narrowed a bit more, but he stuck out his hand, and they shook.

  "So cool?" J the P asked.

  "Cool."

  "Cool?"

  "Cool."

  "How cool?"

  "Cool. Cooler than cool. Exponentially cool."

  "See?" grinned Jake the Producer. "Everybody's happy." Carefully, he shut and locked the footlocker.

  "So I'm in control. Wow. That was easy," Mike said, getting used to the idea. "This doesn't sound like you, though, I have to say."

  "All you, baby. All you."

  "Yeah I hear ya, but ...seriously, though, this totally doesn't sound like you. I know you like explosions, and all -- but this totally sounds ... not like you."

  "What can I say, I'm me, and I don't know who else I can sound like. These are my words, m'man, those are your ears, all you gotta do ... let 'em in. Let 'em in."

  "Well, okay." Mike stood there. "...Still..."

  "I keep telling you -- Welcome to showbiz, kiddo. It's not all low budgets and compromises," J the P smirked. "Though it is low-budget. Now, go rest up, you've got movie magic to make. Just remember, Camera Bob's picking up the goth lesbos manana, so you're on your own -- don't forget to take the lens cap off, you crazy auteur you."

  They shook again.

  "So cool Take 2?" J the P asked.

  "Cool."

  "Cool?"

  "Cool."

  "How cool?"

  "Cool. Cooler than cool. Exponentially cool."

  Mike nodded, headed to the hall as Jake the P took his seat and his iPad back behind the desk. "...Man, these are some angry birds."

  ~ ~ ~

  Man, that was easy, Michael mused, as he headed down the hallway.

  Pausing, for just a moment:

  A little too easy.

  ~ ~ ~

  But, still tingly about being promoted to "total control" (All you, baby!) -- he let his suspicions slip away.

  ~ ~ ~

  While a few hours and a few more miles away, Camera Bob's own suspicions were about to come to exponentially painful fruition.

  Tentacle FOUR

  Cameraman Bob

  the Goth Lesbian Twins

  I bet they're going to be a couple of ungrateful pains in the freaky place.

  And guess what?

  They sure were.

  A couple of real charmers.

  ~ ~ ~

  They were two Goth skanks with hey-baby bodies, doped-out expressions and 3 a.m. attitudes. That's how it looked to Cameraman Bob (Camera Bob, for short), anyway, out in the waiting area of the rank, stanked-out cement hole of a jail. Emphasis on the stank. To be honest, though, he didn't have the best attitude when it came to sizing up women, in prison or otherwise, and it sure didn't help that he'd been on the road for the last six hours to bail these freako bimbos out. And what's he get for his trouble -- gratitude? Fuhgeddaboudit.

  Just those zombie-goon expressions, a couple of twenty-whatever twits that never grew out of their "sullen woe is me teen" funks. Still, pretty hot bods, even for a couple of Tim Burtonettes.... Might even be worth holding his nose and trying to get a li'l of the ol'--

  "Are we done yet?" Goth Kasey grunted, sullenly.

  "Yeah, can we, like, go, or what?" Goth Casey grunted, sullenly.

  (Yeah, both of them were named Casey. Or Kase
y. See what I'm dealing with? Camera Bob mused.)

  "Hard to believe you guys got convicted of so many contempt charges," Camera Bob grunted back. "You're such a couple of real charmers."

  They got real sullen after that, more than usual, and decided not to say anything more while they waited for the bail paperwork to go through.

  Which was more than fine with Cameraman Bob.

  Who was content to sit there, staring at their fine bods, and deciding if it was worth making a move later on the way back. They were hot, but ... that attitude, man. Got on his nerves. Still, if Camera Bob passed up sex every time a couple of women got on his nerves...

  Fuhgeddaboudit.

  So: they all sat there, quietly, and waited.

  ~ ~ ~

  "'Bout time," Goth Casey grunted, as they headed out of the station -- sullenly, of course.

  "Yeah, took long enough," Goth Kasey grunted, just as sullenly.

  "Just get your rumps in the car already," Camera Bob grunted.

  The girls got in the backseat, as Camera Bob rolled his eyes. Then, with a sigh, he took his seat behind the chain-link steering wheel. He still hadn't decided if they were worth the trouble of getting naked.

  Glaring into the rear view, he sized them up.

  Hot bods.

  Annoying attitudes.

  Pain in the --

  "Are we ever going to go, or what?" said either Kasey or Casey, sullenly.

  "Yeah, do you know how to drive or not?" said whoever the other one was.

  Cameraman Bob's reflection in the rear view didn't change, one iota. Slowly, he cranked the engine. Then he smiled.

  I am going to oomph the "sullen" outta these chicks.

  As the car left the chained-in parking area, Casey and Kasey just exchanged puzzled but still sullen glances.

  And off they went.

  ~ ~ ~

  About twenty minutes or so later:

  Oomph!

  ~ ~ ~

  Camera Bob grunted, "Thrillsville." He sniffed, gave the girls (who were still topless -- yo! nipple rings! -- and still vaguely making out with each other) a dismissive glance, then drained his beer in one smooth head's-back. He chucked the empty can out into the parking lot of the rest stop they were crookedly parked in, savoring the moment.

  He let out a rude burp; the girls just continued sorta making out, looks of sullen satisfaction still on their goth faces.