Shark Beast 2: Paranormal Sharkitivity Page 8

  "It's also lame-lame, but I see your point. Plus, if she shows up drunk and passes out, we can roll her onto the bed and make it part of the film."

  "Yeah! It's like method acting, or something!"

  More happy dancing.

  And it wasn't getting any prettier.

  "Yeah -- or something," Mike sighed, trying to focus on a seagull or some weeds or pretty much anything else but his prancing producer. "So who's playing the husband? Or, wait, what am I thinking -- it's lesbians now, right? Well, that's convenient, we can just edit in bits of her sex tape and-- wait. Oh no. Oh, don't tell me you've hired some other tabloid refugee -- Please don't say Charlie Sheen. Please don't --"

  "It's not Charlie Sheen. And it ain't lesbians. That's old school."

  "Then who? What? You're getting ominous. I hate when you get ominous."

  "Wellll," he said, sporting a Jake the Producer grin Mike had never seen before. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. In private..." Another grin. "In private private."

  ~ ~ ~

  They slipped into the editing van.

  "You want to what--?"

  "Look," Jake the P said, sporting that new odd smile. "I'm going to lay it on the table. I want to hook it with that chick. And when I say 'hook it'--"

  "I know what you mean by 'hook it.' Even though you're saying it wrong."

  "--well, however you say it, that's what I want to do with her. There. I said it. You heard it. Let's deal with it. Like every other red-blooded boy, I've grown up watching Sadie Sienna grow up in front of me. First, in all those talking gerbil movies on The Disney Channel, then the singing skateboard cable series on Nickelodeon, then the country-western rap album videos, and then the sex tapes, then the police arrest videos, the shoplifting footage, all those up-skirt no-panties completely shaved pics --"

  "Okay, okay, I know her resume."

  "Point is, I've been going out of my mind with this girl. All these years, man. She's why I got into making movies -- yeah, blame her, it's true. All this time -- totally obsessed with The Sienna. Even though, I always knew: no chance. Totally: no chance. But I accepted that, didn't like it, but accepted it -- because I knew there was never any chance I'd get to be in the same dance club with this chick, let alone get a chance to actually date this woman. Or star in a movie... as her horn-dog hubby ... in a bedroom ..."

  Oh oh. The beginnings of a happy dance. Mike put a stop to that with a look, then: "You think Beddlam is going to okay you as her co-star? Since when have you ever acted in a movie?"

  "Are you kidding -- Beddlam is in love with me for getting that slutty nutcase in their stupid movie in the first crazy place. They just want her name on the front of the DVD, man. Publicity golden gold -- better than the usual 80's one hit wonders we usually get catfightin' in these masterpieces of ours. We could cast her opposite a sock puppet, they don't care."

  "Oh, that's good, then, works out, because we have one, in the shape of a really bad-looking shark. So, why are you telling me this?"

  "Because... I'm going to need your help."

  "That sounds ominous. I told you, I hate ominous."

  "Doesn't have to be. Doesn't have to be at all, m'man."

  "That sounds even more ominous."

  "Look, all you have to do is direct it so we have a lot of scenes in bed, and even more scenes of us rehearsing scenes in bed. You don't even have to be there, I'll pretend you're directin' us over one of those ear thingies or whatever, like you're in a booth somewhere. You just agree to whatever I say you said, if she checks up with you. Try to avoid that, by the way. She's crazy, but she's sly. Neither of us needs none of that. But anyway, you pretend you're there, directing, and I'll let nature -- and assorted drugs and alcohol -- take their course."

  "Wow, that's sleazy and awful. You are a producer."

  "Welcome to showbiz, kiddo."

  "That's why you gave up so easy giving me final control of the ending, isn't it?"

  "Welcome to showbiz, kiddo."

  Mike sighed. "I think I want to deport myself into a less creep-ifying line of work. Like prison guard."

  "Look, I'm not going to drug her or anything. If her rehab actually worked, then fine, what it is is what it is, I'll just rely on my natural charm, general proximity, and sensual persuasion."

  "I think I'm going to be nauseous."

  "Don't hate me because I'm sexy, m'man--"

  "Ugh, stop that. I just pictured you in a thong. Quit talking."

  "Well, no worries, your delicate sensitivities shall be preserved. Chances are, it won't come to that anyway. You know how effective celebrity rehab is. And hey, we're all grown-ups here. It's not like she's some kind of--"

  "Okay, okay, quit trying to explain yourself. You do whatever it you producer guys do, and I'll focus on making the other stuff work -- you know, the parts of the movie that actually have something to do with a shark beast."

  "Cool! I knew you'd be copacetic."

  "Fine. So when's this redheaded disaster zone gracing us with her presence?"

  "I'm hopping into town as we speak -- then, catching a flick until midnight, that's when her parole's up, and they're cutting off the house arrest bracelet. Then she's all ours. Plus, to let you know it's not all about swingin' n' lovin', I'm picking up some newly-designed props for the newly-expanded bedroom portion of the flick. They're these sassy electric rubberized little round--"

  "Please, no more details, I just ate. I've heard enough sleaze for the night. Just -- do whatever. Film it. Go crazy. Do it in 3-D, whatever, fine. Just please, please, please..."

  "What?"

  "...no more dancing."

  "No can do," Jake the P said, giving a wiggle. "But anything else, it's all yours."

  "Fine, Worth a shot. Have fun with your celebrity debauchery."

  "Thanks, you're the man, Mikey. Mikey the Man -- that's you. Anything I can do for you, you got it. You... got... it."

  "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind when I need a ride to the Oscars for all the Academy Awards we're sure to get out of all this. Or to jail, whichever comes first. Now, if you don't mind, I think I'm going to just call it a day, go to my room, and you know, wash my conscience out with soap."

  "You're the man. And you're not just the man, you're ... da man."

  "Yay for me," Mike muttered, as he stepped out of the editing van, and was about to close Jake the P and his dancing self all up in it, when he actually had a movie-related thought. "Oh, one thing," he said, off-handedly.

  "What's up?" Jake the P said, all cluelessness and producer-smiles.

  "...no big thing, just something I noticed. Not that I care, I just don't want to be blamed for it."

  "Do tell--?"

  ~ ~ ~

  "One of the cameras is missing. You wouldn't happen to know where it is?"

  Tentacle EIGHT

  The Smokin'-est Lesbian Nerd

  Sex Scene... Ever.

  The camera in question was currently down on a secluded area of beach, way past the rocks and those two "weird trees," filming two girls making out.

  The two girls in question were Britnee and Alysia. And they were going at it. Like crazy. Their lips pressing hard together, their fingers running through each other's hair, their tongues, like craz--

  --at least until Britnee pulled her still-puckered lips away and, in a vaguely bored tone, called out: "Cut!"

  Alysia, just as vaguely bored, leaned back and let out a yawn. "So, was that, like, a good take, or whatever you call it?"

  "Let's replay it and see."

  So they huddled around the tiny monitor (Mike hadn't noticed that was missing as well) hooked to the camera with gobs of duct-tape, and after a moment or two of furrowed brows and pursed lips as they tried to make sense of all the stupid camera buttons, they took a look at the replay of their make-out fest.

  "Not too bad," Britnee offered.

  "I'd believe it," Alysia nodded.

  Still, to make sure, they replayed it again. Two more times.


  "How do you make it stop?" Alysia asked, tried of seeing the same scene over and over again.

  "I'm ... not ... sure," Britnee said, looking at all the camera buttons and menu commands.

  "Here, try this," Alysia said, giving the camera a whack. That seemed to do it.

  Britnee smiled, and said, "Well, okay, let's do the next thing."

  Alysia nodded, gave her nose ring a tug, then nodded again. "And that was what again?" she asked.

  "We do the same thing, except this time, without tops. Are you cool with that?"

  "Hey," Alysia shrugged. "Something to do."

  She started to untie her bikini top --

  "Wait, wait," Britnee said. "Let's film this bit as well."

  "Okay, sure," said Alysia, dutifully retying her bikini top.

  The two girls spent the next five minutes trying to figure out how to get the camera to work again.

  ~ ~ ~

  "So why are we doing this again?" Alysia asked, after a few minutes of topless kissing. (They had finally figured out how to get the camera to work again.) "Not complaining -- something to do -- just wondering--"

  "I've had it with these so-called movie makers. That's why." Britnee flicked some beach sand off her breasts. "If we waited around for them to come up with scenes, we'd get nothing. They exploit us, and what do we get out of it, nothing. That's why. That's why."

  "Well, you should just do what I do, which is avoid all the men involved. My strategy so far is permanent evasive inaction, which involves me keeping in and out of sight, getting paid, until they find me, and fire me."

  "Yeah, but then they just hire someone else. We're interchangeable to them, and they keep all the money, which they use to make another movie exploiting girls."

  "Wow, you sound so political."

  "I just want what's mine, is all."

  "So how's getting naked on the beach and filming it help us, then? Not complaining, or even curious, really."

  "I've got the feeling that Jerk the Producer and Moron Mike have got something up their perverted sleeves, that's what."

  "But isn't being perverted, like, their thing, whatever?"

  "Perversion that's not in our favor."

  "Like what, like?"

  "Another actress. A real one, even, maybe."

  "Really? Who?"

  "I'm not sure. But they seem pretty excited, at least the producer sure is. I overheard him on his cell."

  '''Overheard?'"

  "Hey -- I do what I have to do."

  "Cool. Cool. I'm with you. I'd totally listen in if I had the energy. Or cared to."

  "So it wasn't bad enough that Crap-erina Katherina chick or whatever her name is, Miss I'm A Real Acting Studio Stage Whatever, Little Miss Meryl Streep, is grabbing all the attention from us, now we're going to have a third one to deal with. That dark-haired junior college reject -- the way she's playing the director, it's pathetic, really."

  "She gets on your nerves, don't she?"

  "If she was prettier, I'd give her a second thought," Britnee sniffed dismissively. "But she's got the director by the short ones -- I don't know, some guys are into that so-called pretend intellectual act." Another dismissive sniff. "But -- her type, I can handle. But this new one, if they cart in someone with name recognition -- forget about it. And if she is really famous, whoever she is, forget us having any chance to shine, even in this lame shark movie. She might even have the producer cut out what we've already done, wouldn't put it past those types."

  "Yeah. I've seen that happen, loads."

  "Yeah, 'welcome to showbiz, kiddo,' whatever," she said, with a mock Jake-the-P sneer. "Well, I say it's our turn to 'welcome his jerk-face to showbiz, nutbone.' Turn the tables, let us be in control for once. Look out for ourselves, instead of getting used and forgotten."

  "Yeah! Stick it to 'em!"

  "Exactly. We wait around for them do give us a shot, it's never going to happen. Worse, they give it to Crap-erina and we might as well be extras. Or worse, working the catering department."

  "But how, exactly? How is what we're doing 'stickin' it to the man' Wouldn't the man want us filmed naked making out on the beach?"

  "Very much so," Britnee grinned. "See, I 'overheard' the director saying how one of the big scenes in the movie is going to be the nerd couple, the one with the dude nerd telling a short story he'd written to the chick nerd, trying to hook up with her."

  "Has that ever in the history of sex worked?"

  "Well --" Britnee shrugged. "-- they're nerds."

  Alysia nodded. "Oh. Right. I suppose it has to happen somehow."

  "Can't see it, myself, but supposedly that's what really happened." Britnee raised a palm, cluelessly. "Anyway, Moron Mike, the big loser director, his plan was to film the nerd-couple as nerd-lesbians, I guess, but the two lesbians they hired are in jail or something -- they sent the camera guy to bail them out, but it don't look like any of 'em are coming back. So, I figure -- now's our chance."

  Britnee leaned in, real close, real conspiratorial, their four combined naked boobs nearly touching.

  "We ... you and I ... Britnee and Alysia ... film the hottest, sexiest, smokin'-est lesbian nerd sex scene... ever." Britnee whispered, huskily, "One so mind-jolting, so freakin' hot-hot-hot, so filled with naked raw sensuality that no male director could ever hope to possibly inspire out of any pair of actresses..."

  She gave Alysia's lips a quick, saucy lick.

  (Alysia let her.)

  "... and then we do a quick edit..." said Britnee.

  (another lick)

  "... and we put on some hot club music as a temp track for the score..."

  (another looong lick)

  (boobs definitely commingling)

  "... and then..."

  Alysia's eyes widened, her throat went dry -- so dry that when she spoke, it came out as a tiny squeak, like from a plastic shark, "... and -- squueek! -- then, what?"

  Britnee hung there, boobs, lips, tongue.

  (Alysia let her.)

  Their eyes transfixed, sparkled, went dark and deep and secret...Then, Britney, suddenly sat up, and in a very professional, business type voice, stated, simply:

  "We kidnap it."

  Alysia blinked out of her lusty gaze. "Do... what?"

  "We kidnap the footage. Hijack it. Hide it away from prying male eyes. Then we arrange a little meeting with Dick 1 and Dork 2. We show them some still shots, and let them know if they want any of that sweet hot studio-pleasing footage in their rank, stank little monster movie, they're going to have to agree to a few provisos."

  Alysia blinked again. Her blush was returning -- this "straight talking" version of Britnee was even hotter than the "rubbing boobs" Britnee.

  "What, uhmm, provisos, exactly?" Alysia squeaked.

  "WWCG."

  "What's that?"

  "Whatever We Can Get."

  Alysia tried to swallow; couldn't; didn't bother. "That's a good proviso."

  "You bet. And what we will get, is... more money. That's a given. A primo spot in all advertising and trailers, online and theatrical, if they ever show this thing in an actual theater somewhere. We get points, our names above the title -- spelled correctly -- along with whoever their mystery celeb turns out to be. Plus, we get a guaranteed pay-or-play on the sequel, for the same provisos, plus ten percent. Plus, on top of that, we demand WEICTO."

  "What's WEICTO?"

  "Whatever else I can think of."

  She leaned back, hands confidently folded in front of her ever-awesome chest.

  "Wow. Wow." Alsia just stared at Britnee, hearts spinning in her eyes. "You sounded just like a shyster."

  "I played strip poker with a lawyer once," Britnee shrugged. "Very educational."

  "You think this is actually going to work, though? What if they just say no?"

  "Then we say 'bye!' and take the footage to one of the hundred other cheesy production studios in Hollywood. Or we produce it ourselves. I've got a couple of guys who would definit
ely bank us for a project like this, though I'd like to avoid using them if possible. I've still got a couple restraint orders on them, so it might be a little awkward."

  "Oh. Yeah, it might."

  "So, you in? Whatever I get, you get, 50-50. But if it's not your thing, we can totally erase the footage, no harm no foul, just count this as a hazy, crazy girls night out on the beach."

  Britnee smiled -- and for the first time, she looked a little nervous.

  A bit of a pause. Then: Alysia smiled.

  "Britnee -- you had me at our boobs rubbing together."

  ~ ~ ~

  So this is how they set it up.

  They stuck the camera on a wobbly tripod (Britnee had grabbed the wrong one, but Alysia stuck the legs down in the sand, duct-taped the camera to it, gave the whole mess a couple solid whacks -- it was all good).

  Then Britnee set up the little digital recorder, where she had previously dictated "the story" that her character was supposedly spinning for Alysia's character, to get in Alysia's character's pants. Or bikini bottoms, in this case.

  (The story came from one of Britnee's exes -- some dude she got stuck in a college elevator with once -- bit of a nerd, but when he took off his glasses, well, he was still a nerd, but, hey, she was kind of high, and being in a stuck elevator was kind of hot -- anyway, he was a nerd, but he could write good. So good he wrote her Creative Writing Class assignments for her, since he was so 'in love' or whatever, it was one of the many -- many -- ways and chores she allowed him to prove it. It wasn't her type of story, normally, but it took place in a bar and was kind of scary, and it was short enough she could read it without getting bored -- or too bored, anyway -- and Elevator Nerd wasn't going to do anything with it anyway, probably, so he wouldn't cause any trouble, copyright-wise, she assured Alysia. Or he'll regret it. I'm very vengeful, she assured Alysia, who smiled back, in a kind of nervous agreement. Though she did offer to throw in a couple of whacks, if Britnee needed help, venging on him and all.)

  Britnee's directorial vision for this scene amounted to the two of them making out like beach rabbits, while her pre-recorded voice emanated from the tiny digital recorder speakers. She had considered memorizing the story and filming herself reciting it -- had considered that for about two seconds -- but finally, and rather inevitably, settled on doing it this way. Which, while not exactly accurate, was, visually speaking, undeniably the more interesting, and naked, way to go.