Page 29 of All That Glitters

As if on cue, Carl’s battered pickup truck rumbled past them in a thick cloud of smoke that made Lauren step back with a grimace, fanning the smoke from her face.

The decrepit vehicle turned onto the cemetery grass, heading deeper into the chaos, its tires leaving fresh ruts in the already abused lawn.

The truck parked on the lawn with a final, shuddering cough that sounded like its last automotive breath. Carl and Roy hopped down from the cab, while Jethro handed them a cardboard box from the truck bed. Inside it were what looked like lumpy, red, elongated water balloons.

Craig strolled over. “You boys get the makeup effects?” he asked, eyeing the box.

“Yep. Got ‘em right here,” Carl said, proudly holding up one of the ketchup-filled condoms for inspection. “Also picked up a bunch of slingshots to shoot ‘em with.”

He reached into his back pocket and produced a handful of plastic slingshots, the kind sold in dollar stores to kids whose parents didn’t value household windows.

Just then, Lauren and Justin walked up, with the cautious hesitation of explorers who just stumbled across a tribal village in a remote jungle. Lauren flashed her press badge.

“Hi, I’m Lauren Zales, with Hollywood Gossip,” she said, her professional smile firmly in place. “Is there someone I could speak with about this... thing... you’re doing here?” She gestured vaguely around them.

Craig squinted at her, recognition dawning in his eyes. “Ain’t you the show that’s always got that skinny blonde girl wreckin’ her cars?”

“Yes,” Lauren said, slightly taken aback by this unexpected recognition. Her show’s coverage of Frenchie Marriot’s vehicular misadventures was apparently reaching a wider demographic than she’d realized. “You’ve seen us?”

“Hell, yeah,” Craig chuckled. “What’s the matter with them folks? Ain’t they never learnt how ta drive? My nine-year-old niece got better car control, and she’s only ever driven them arcade games.”

“That’s a good question,” Lauren said, sidestepping his critique. After all, celebrity car wrecks paid a significant portion of her salary. “Would you have time for an interview?”

He looked around at the bustling disorganization, clearly torn between the opportunity for publicity and his responsibilities as director. His eyes landed on Tony, who sat on the steps of a trailer texting someone. Most likely, that klutzy friend of his he was always sending photos of the shoot to.

“Don’t have no time myself,” he said. “But if you catch the writer, Tony, betcha he’s got some time for you folks. He’s the fella sittin’ over there by the trailer, texting his not-girlfriend in San Diego.”

Craig had called it right. Tony was, in fact, sending Debbie yet another text of the film production’s misadventures.

He’d been sending her daily updates since he arrived in LA, complete with behind-the-scenes photos of this masterclass on how not to make a movie.

She would be coming up that weekend, and he couldn’t wait to show her around the set and what little of the city he’d had a chance to explore.

He made her promise not to break anything if he took her to Beverly Hills, to which she responded instantly with three frowny-face emojis.

He chuckled as he attached a photo of the headless mannequin and hit the send button.

“Hi. Is your name Tony?” came a woman’s voice.

Tony looked up to see Lauren and Justin approaching, the lanky boy lugging a camera that had to weigh as much as him.

“Yeah,” Tony said.

She extended a hand as she stepped up. “Lauren Zales, Hollywood Gossip. The man over there in the flannel shirt said you might have time for an interview.”

Across the set, Todd and Kevin wandered over to where Craig, Carl, and Roy were examining their new ketchup-laden special effects with the interest of boys admiring a really cool frog collection.

“You guys get the slingshots?” Todd asked.

“Yep. Got ‘em right here,” Carl said, handing Todd a brand-new slingshot with neon green plastic and a red rubber band. “Five for a dollar at the Dollar Tree. Manager gave us a funny look, but didn’t say nothin’.”

“So how’s this thing supposed to work?” Kevin asked.

“Lemme see one of them condoms,” Todd said. Roy handed him one of the squishy red projectiles.

“Careful with them things,” Roy warned. “They’s loaded.”

Todd loaded the condom into the slingshot and tugged back the thick rubber band. “What’cha do is shoot the condom real hard at the person, so’s the ketchup explodes all over. Makes it look like a gunshot.”

“How come we ain’t just shootin’ real guns at Carrie?” Kevin asked with sincerity. It was a sentiment shared by the rest of the crew over the daily difficulties of dealing with a particularly entitled B-list actress.

“That might not go over so well with the union,” Craig said, although it made perfect sense to him. “But this here still looks pretty cool.” He nodded at Todd. “Show him.”

Todd adjusted his aim, swinging the slingshot away from the tombstone and toward Roy, who was distracted by a crow pecking at one of the dropped ketchup packets. With the focus of a marksman, Todd released the rubber band.

SPLAT!

Red ketchup exploded across the front of Roy’s leather vest in a surprisingly realistic gunshot wound, if gunshot wounds smelled like fast food condiments.

“OW!” Roy yelled, more from surprise than pain. He looked down at his ketchup-splattered chest. “What the hell, man? This is my good vest!”

“Cool!” Kevin exclaimed. “I wanna try one.” He reached for the slingshot, like a kid at a carnival game.

“Payback’s gonna be a bitch,” Roy growled at Todd as he dove for the box of ammunition. Todd danced backward, laughing, while Kevin grabbed another slingshot and joined the fray.

From a safe distance, Carrie watched Lauren interview Tony.

The B-movie actress had been touching up her makeup when the news van arrived; and for the past ten minutes, she’d been watching this guy get all the attention.

Hello? She was the star here; all the interest was supposed to be on her — not on whoever this guy was.

This was injustice on a cosmic scale.

Nearby, Steve was chiseling away at a tombstone with a hammer and screwdriver — a real tombstone he was altering the date on to make it appear older for a closeup shot.

Carrie strolled over. “Hey. Your name’s Steve, right?” she asked, her voice honey-sweet.

Steve jumped, nearly dropping his tools. “Uhm, yeah. But if you’re looking for the guy who put the mouse in your trailer, it wasn’t me.”

Carrie froze. Her friendly demeanor evaporated. “You guys put a mouse in my trailer?”

Steve swallowed hard, realizing his mistake. His eyes darted left and right, seeking potential escape routes from the fury he had inadvertently unleashed. “Uhm... maybe a little one? You didn’t know about it?”

“I do now,” she hissed, ready to blow. Her expression promised retribution of biblical proportions.

Steve gulped. “So... what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Who’s the guy over there talking to the reporter?” she asked, nodding toward Tony. The mouse had apparently been forgotten for the moment as her attention returned to her original mission.

Steve relaxed, relieved to be off the hook. “Oh, him. That’s Tony. He’s the guy who wrote the movie.”

“Why’s she talking to him?” Carrie said, clearly feeling snubbed.

Steve shrugged. “Have to ask her.”

“Right,” Carrie said, but her mind was already doing the calculations.

In the Hollywood hierarchy, writers often became directors, and directors became producers.

And producers controlled careers, a fact she was already annoyingly aware of.

And this particular writer was already getting the media attention she felt was rightfully hers.

It was time she met this writer and found out what his deal was.

Then, something ticked in that famous blonde head —

Carrie spun around, her face once again a mask of fury. “Now, let’s talk about this mouse. And who’s going to get it out of my trailer.”

Before Steve could respond, or throw one of his fellow crew members under the bus, he was saved by a latex missile.

SPLAT!

A ketchup-filled condom burst squarely on her butt.

“OW!” she shrieked. She spun around and saw the entire inmate gang, now covered in ketchup splatters from their own ketchup-condom war, frozen in wide-eyed horror. They looked like a bunch of kids just caught drawing on the living room wall.

“Oops...” Todd grimaced, trying to discreetly hide the slingshot behind his back.

Back at the trailer, Tony was doing his best to sound professional as he answered Lauren’s questions, unaware of the chaos unfolding behind him.

“I think they’re about halfway through the shooting schedule,” he explained to Lauren, trying to convey confidence despite having absolutely no idea how film production actually worked. “So unless there’s any more... accidents, it should wrap in a week.”

Lauren leaned in, her journalistic instincts tingling at the mention of ‘accidents.’ Like any good entertainment reporter, she could smell a story about on-set disasters the way a shark detects blood in water. “Do you anticipate any more... accidents?”

Just then, the entire Rif Raf gang tore past them at a full sprint, led by a ketchup-stained Todd. The group’s expressions ranged from terror to inappropriate amusement as they fled for their lives.

Close behind them came Carrie, a vision of pure, unadulterated rage.

“C’mon, darlin’, it was an accident!” Todd yelled over his shoulder, his voice high with genuine fear.

“I’ll show you an accident!” she screamed back.

Tony, Lauren, and Justin just watched the chaotic chase disappear behind a mausoleum, the sounds of threats and pleas fading as the pursuit continued deeper into the cemetery.

Lauren slowly lowered her microphone. “Scratch that last question,” she said.