The stage was set. The scenery and props were a mess, looking like the leftovers of a place where a bomb had gone off, which was, actually, exactly as they were supposed to look. Fans created a strong wind. Lights were placed in a bizarre arrangement that suited the chaotic set, and cameras were ready to roll. The two men who were the focus of the scene were in place. I sat in my chair on the side of the set, a visiting writer, admiring how tall, athletic and handsome they both were. One was dark, and held a prop gun; the other was platinum-haired and held a fake sword. Spike and Vicious, and the final showdown – I'd been waiting for this a long time.
Then I adjusted my glasses and squinted. That sword looked awfully real.
Spike looked over at the director. "Any time," he called, with an insouciant impatience.
Vicious smiled. I didn't like that smile.
The director muttered something about prima donnas, got confirmations that everyone was ready, and called for action.
At once the two men started fighting, and I was admiring the choreography of the stuntwork. They looked as if they were really going at it. I didn't get nervous until I overheard a cameraman mutter to the director, "This isn't how it was rehearsed."
"Shut up and stay with it," the director said. "This is gold."
Then, like the rest of us, he gasped as the sword struck the gun and sparks flew. Sparks that were supposed to be added in later by a special effects team.
"Hey!" Spike yelled, then aimed and fired the gun. An upward cut from the sword made the shot go wild, and the bullet plowed into the wall just over my left shoulder. A shower of plaster landed in my lap.
"CUT!" the director shrieked.
I admit it, I lost my temper. I jumped up, brushing plaster dust off my slacks, and stomped onto the set. The director was two steps ahead of me, demanding, "Is that a real sword? And did you put real bullets in that gun?"
Both men looked as if they might lie, but simultaneously they both decided to just admit it.
"What is the matter with you two?" the director yelled, waving his arms over his head.
"It's his fault," Spike said, pointing at Vicious. "I heard he was going to bring his real sword today, and I was just defending myself. He wants to kill me!"
"Why would he want to do that?"
"He's jealous because I'm the star of the show and he's just a bit player."
"Bit player?" hissed Vicious. "I'm a guest star, not a bit player. And if it weren't for me, your show would be dull as dishwater."
"How can it be dull, with me in it?"
"Easily, you obnoxious, no-talent slacker."
"I suppose you could do better? It's easy to be evil. You just have to sneer and look cool, you and that stupid bird. You have no idea how hard it is to carry a show on your own."
Vicious smiled slowly. "I'll have to quote you to Jet and Faye, on that one."
"I can't believe how petty you can be."
Vicious lifted the sword. "You call this petty?"
"Well, yeah, I guess wanting to kill me isn't really petty," Spike admitted, backing up a step and lifting the gun.
"Knock it off!" I bellowed, wading in between them, shoving the director out of the way. "Honestly, you two. What a pair of babies. Vicious, that was a really nasty, mean thing to do, plotting to kill Spike like that. And Spike, once you heard Vicious was planning something bad, you should have reported it, not brought your own ammunition. The two of you should be ashamed of yourself, endangering the lives of everybody here for such a stupid reason. And don't give me that excuse about who gets top billing. You're fighting over that bimbo blonde, Julia. Just admit it. And get over it. She's probably got a new boyfriend by now, since I'm sure she knows you two are going to kill each other." I snorted. "Now, put down those weapons and try, for once, to act mature. Look at how you scared everyone. You've ruined the scene, my day, and my new slacks, too."
With a last glare at them, I stalked toward the exit, muttering, "Babies. Nothing but babies."
Vicious looked at Spike. Spike looked at Vicious. Vicious said, "Lets kill her first, and then we can go back to our own fight."
"Good idea," Spike grinned.
You know, for an overweight, middle-aged, arthritic woman, I can run really fast.