by Nathan Allen
Chapter 4
A stabbing pain shot through Fr. Gerdtz’s right forearm as he sat at his desk preparing next week’s sermon. The pen fell from his hand and he scrambled for his arthritis pills, swallowing two with a mouthful of water. He opened and closed his palm a few times and gently rotated his wrist in a circular motion, hoping to alleviate the raw discomfort. He winced as he did this; the aching was still there, and that was his third dosage for the day. He hoped his arthritis wasn’t getting any worse. Maybe he was developing a tolerance for the medication, if that was possible, since it didn’t seem to be as effective as it once was.
He did his best to ignore the pain and push through with the sermon. He had hoped to come up with something that summarized his many thoughts and feelings, especially in relation to his recent spiritual awakening. But there were simply no words that could possibly encapsulate the whole experience. He had been at his desk for hours now, and all he had to show for it was a page filled with crossed-out words and false starts, and an overflowing wastepaper basket. He had planned on opening with Luke 18:27, one of his favorite biblical passages – That which is impossible with man is possible with God – but he was yet to progress any further beyond that.
His concentration was interrupted by an urgent rap at the door. Before he could speak, a thirty-ish redheaded woman dressed head-to-toe in designer clothes invited herself in.
“Hello Father,” she said.
He looked up from his desk. He had never seen this woman before in his life. “Yes?”
She settled into a seat opposite and offered her hand. He noticed her face was shiny with perspiration, and she appeared slightly out of breath. She smelled of expensive perfume and stale cigarettes.
“My name is Madeleine Davis,” she said. “The location scout. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
“We did?” Fr. Gerdtz scanned his memory. He had made several phone calls earlier that morning, but this woman’s name wasn’t ringing any bells.
“I appreciate you seeing me at such short notice.” Her voice was pitched at a volume several decibels higher than a regular speaking voice. Fr. Gerdtz wasn’t sure if that was how she normally spoke, or if she thought he was half-deaf. It was most likely the latter. “This is an incredibly urgent matter. As I explained to you over the phone, we require a church to shoot several scenes for an upcoming Judd Apatow film. We’ve been having trouble obtaining permission from the other churches nearby. It won’t take up any more than two or three days of your time, and we are offering very generous compensation in return.”
It took a moment for Fr. Gerdtz to catch on to what was happening here. This woman apparently failed to hear the question mark at the end of his previous sentence. When he said “We did?” she assumed he was simply confirming that they had earlier conversed on the phone.
It wasn’t until later that it all finally clicked into place. Madeleine must have been speaking with Fr. Jenkins from the United Church on James Street, whereas she was now at the St. James Church on United Way. It wasn’t the first time such a mix-up had occurred. The two churches were constantly receiving each others’ mail, and barely a week went by without at least one guest turning up to the wrong wedding or funeral.
“I have the shooting script here,” she said, digging around inside her bag. “You mentioned that you wanted to review it before making your decision.”
She produced a document and handed it to Fr. Gerdtz. He studied the title page.
“Where’s the Love?” he said, reading the film’s title.
“Yeah, like the Black Eyed Peas song.” Madeleine lit up a cigarette, oblivious to the no smoking sign directly in front of her. “Although we may have to change that due to the trouble we’re having obtaining the rights.” She inhaled a lungful of the noxious fumes, then carelessly blew out a cloud of smoke in Fr. Gerdtz’s direction. “You know your film’s in trouble when even the Black Eyed Peas refuse to license one of their songs,” she muttered to herself.
Fr. Gerdtz opened the script at random pages and ran his eyes over the text. It didn’t take long to get the gist of the plot. It centered on a lifelong bachelor, a lothario who wasn’t ready to settle down and behave like an adult yet, and how his whole world is turned upside down when he falls for a bridesmaid while best man at a wedding. Throughout the course of the film he is forced to confront his own issues regarding commitment and monogamy, as well as being hassled by an overbearing mother and stalked by a crazy ex-girlfriend.
It was easy to see why every other church in the area had refused to allow this to be filmed on their premises. Blasphemy and vulgarity filled almost every page. In one scene, the lead character has a deviant sex act performed on him by a female wedding guest inside the confessional while a clearly aroused priest listens in. Three pages later, a drunken old man stumbles naked through the church and relieves himself in the holy water. And the less said about where the bride and groom’s wedding rings end up after a raucous bachelor party, the better.
Fr. Gerdtz did his best to hide his distaste. He liked to think of himself as a fairly open-minded person; he enjoyed the odd risqué joke or dirty limerick as much as anyone. But this was a piece of writing so utterly loathsome and completely devoid of wit. If this was what masqueraded as popular entertainment in this day and age, the modern world was in a lot more trouble than he initially feared.
“I’ll be completely honest and upfront with you,” Madeleine said. “You’re kind of my last hope. Every other church I’ve approached has rejected us outright due to the film’s content. I respect that, and I imagine much of what is depicted here may not be in accordance with your teachings and values. But as I said, we are prepared to make a very generous offer in exchange for just a few days of your time. That’s money that could do a lot of good for the many wonderful programs you run here.”
She lit a second cigarette with the lipstick-stained butt of her first. Fr. Gerdtz wondered how a heavy smoker could maintain such gleaming white teeth.
“I’m curious,” he said, trying not to choke on the growing fog of menthol and tar filling the air around him. “Will any celebrities be appearing in this film?”
“Oh yes, we have several big stars attached to this project. The two leads will be played by James Franco and Bella Thorne. Seth Rogen has been cast as the groom.”
He flicked back a few pages. In the short time he’d had to evaluate the script, the character of the groom appeared to do little else but smoke marijuana and make repeated references to his own genitals and bodily fluids.
“Courtney Cox and Billy Bob Thornton are also playing the groom’s parents,” Madeleine said.
A brief smile appeared on Fr. Gerdtz’s face. This woman, turning up out of the blue due to a misunderstanding, promising to deliver a number of celebrities right to his door? This was no coincidence. It could only be a sign.
“I’m sure we could come to some arrangement,” he said.
“I have a meager seven million followers, Bevan!” James Franco said into his phone, his voice rising so he could be heard over the groan of the Jacuzzi pump. “Seven million! That’s nowhere near enough for an artist of my caliber!”
“Seven million is huge, James,” his agent assured him. “Do you know how many people that is? I mean, have you really thought about it? Your fans could fill the LA Coliseum seventy times over! That’s the population of Paris! You basically have an entire European capital following you.”
“You know what else I have, Bevan? I have five million followers less than twelve million, which is how many Chris Evans happens to have. And who do you think was cast as the lead in the new David O. Russell film? Was it me, or was it Captain Underpants?”
“Oh, James. You don’t honestly think Instagram numbers had anything to do with being passed over for the role, do you?”
“No, I think it was his superior acting skills that landed him the part.”
“Well ... he does have a vaguely likeable screen presence.”
; “That was sarcasm, Bevan. The guy couldn’t act if his life depended on it. Have you seen any of those dumb Marvel movies he’s in? That’s some of the worst acting I’ve ever seen, and I watch a lot of porn.”
A heavy thumping against the door rattled the trailer. “They’re ready for you now, Mr. Franco,” a voice called out.
“I’ll be there in a minute!” James snapped.
“I really think you’re overreacting,” Bevan said. “David’s a clever guy. He wouldn’t cast anyone unless he really, truly believed they were right for the role.”
“That may have been the case ten years ago, but times have changed. Social media presence is all anyone cares about these days. The fact that I’m an Oscar nominee, a published author, a philanthropist and a licensed pilot – that all means nothing. The only thing that matters is how many people want to gaze at photos of me when I’m working out and eating my breakfast.”
He reached for the Jacuzzi’s control panel and switched off the bubbles.
“Even if that was true, I’m not sure there’s anything we can do about it,” Bevan said.
“Of course you can do something about it! You can start by buying me another ten million followers!”
The line went quiet. “You want me to purchase followers for you?”
“Don’t act so shocked, Bevan. Everyone does it. Literally everyone. You don’t really believe sixty million people want to see Katy Perry goofing around backstage or having her hair and makeup done, do you? They’re mostly fake accounts. It’s Hollywood’s dirty little secret, like hair transplants and casting couches. The thing everyone does but no one will ever admit to.”
“I, uh, I’ll see what I can do,” Bevan said, just before the call ended.
James tossed his phone aside. He leaned back in the warm water and looked up at his reflection in the ceiling mirror. Not for the first time, he toyed with the idea of parting ways with Bevan. He may have been his agent for the past fifteen years, but times were changing and Bevan wasn’t keeping up. James was growing tired of having to constantly spell out how he should be doing his job.
He held his breath, then slid beneath the water until he was fully submerged.
Today had been an endless cortège of disasters. It all started when he arrived on set to discover the “gym” he had requested for his trailer was nothing more that an exercise bike and some free weights. The Jacuzzi was coated in grime, and when switched on was louder than a lawnmower. The refrigerator was stocked with Diet Coke when he specifically asked for Coke Zero.
But that was nothing compared with the fiasco of having to cancel his weekend in Vegas at the last minute in order to fulfill his promotional duties at Comic-Con for Hemisphere, his upcoming sci-fi film. He honestly could not think of a more depressing way of spending his precious downtime. He hated Comic-Con. Hated it. Every actor did. To them, Comic-Con was purgatory. They would rather have their faces chewed off by rabid AIDS-monkeys than pander to a screaming crowd of excitable film nerds, the very people they had spent a lifetime making fun of. It reminded him of when he was a kid and his parents would force him to attend the birthday party of the most unpopular kid in school. He had to smile and act nice and make it look like he was having a good time, pretending that he hadn’t mocked the fat loser behind his back every other day of the year.
He reluctantly hauled himself out of the Jacuzzi and reached for a towel.
The icing on today’s cake came when he learned he had been overlooked for a highly-coveted role in the new David O. Russell film, the one he was certain would deliver his long-overdue Oscar, in favor of a bland waxwork model who was yet to enjoy a hit movie that didn’t involve pulling on a ridiculous spandex outfit and surrounding himself with a more talented and popular cast. Despite being a veritable black hole of charisma, Hollywood still appeared to be doing everything in its power to make Chris Evans happen.
He was midway through drying himself off when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the trailer’s 8x3 ft. wall mirror and decided this was a moment that deserved to be shared with the world. He snapped a quick twenty or thirty shots, his wet hair slicked back and the towel hanging loose around his waist, then uploaded the best one to Instagram.
His Dolce & Gabbana embellished ripped jeans were barely on when the comments started rolling in. Even though they were pretty much the same as every other photograph he had ever posted – “OMG James u r so hott!!”, “I luv your new mustache!”, the weirdos who called him “daddy”, the usual discussion surrounding his nipples – it still delivered the validation and sense of self-worth every performer desires. James smiled. This was the perfect relationship to have with his fans. He gave them exactly what they wanted, but at a comfortable distance. He didn’t have to meet any of them face to face and put up with their inane questions or halitosis or unsolicited critical analysis of his work. Of course, if he did want to meet any of his fans face to face, that could easily be arranged too.
There was a further pounding at his trailer door. He threw on a tight white v-neck tee, then flung the door open.
“I said I was coming–”
Expecting an acne-faced PA minion, he instead found himself looking at a wrinkled old man. He wore wire framed glasses and dressed entirely in black, with wavy white hair that was unusually full for a man of his age. James thought if he grew it out a little it would look like one of those wigs that judges wore in court.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“Are you James Franco?” the stranger said. He had the accent of an eighties action villain.
James let out a long sigh. “Have you read your contract?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Page three, about two thirds of the way down,” he recited in a bored voice. “Background artists are forbidden from approaching the talent and face instant dismissal if they in any way attempt to communicate with an actor.” He offered a shrug in lieu of an actual apology. “I don’t make the rules, man. I’m sure your daughter, or granddaughter, is a huge fan. But if I sign stuff for you I have to sign for everybody.”
This wasn’t the first time James had been forced to reprimand an extra for forgetting their place in the film set caste system. The situation had been getting progressively worse for some time. He believed this was due to many contracts removing the “no eye contact” rule that was once standard. They took it out because it made actors look like prima donnas, but the rule existed for a reason – to keep the extras in line. As soon as it was omitted they began to see themselves as equals. They were given an inch and they took a mile.
James made a mental note to have the rule reinstated for any future films he was a part of.
“I’m a nice guy, so I’ll let it slide this one time,” he continued. “But if you speak to me again, or to any of the other real actors, I’ll have no choice but to have you fired.”
The old man’s forehead creased. “Who do you think I am?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” James gestured to the man’s cassock and detachable white collar. “You’re the dude playing the dirty old priest. Aren’t you?”
The old man shook his head. “No. I’m not.”
“Well, you certainly look the part,” James smirked. He pushed past the stranger and made his way towards the set.
“You know, you really are an arschloch,” the man said as James left.
“So shoot me,” came the dismissive reply.
James took out his phone as he walked. He fired off a quick tweet: Can’t wait for #ComicCon this Sat 2 talk about my new film #Hemisphere. See u all at Hall H!
Seconds after this was posted, a deafening blast rocked the film set.
Crew members rushed to the scene to find James Franco lying motionless on the gravel. He was face down, with blood gushing from the grapefruit-sized hole in his back.
The brutal slaying of five actors resulted in an unprecedented outpouring of grief, sending shock waves through Hollywood that were felt in every corner of the globe. F
ans flooded social media to post their overwrought tributes and mourn the loss of their heroes. They struggled to comprehend how someone could simply walk onto a film set, murder James Franco, Bella Thorne, Seth Rogen, Courtney Cox and Billy Bob Thornton, and then leave without anyone noticing.
Television stations switched to round-the-clock coverage as reporters tried to articulate the mix of raw emotion surrounding such an inexplicable event. The devastating mudslide in Bangladesh, responsible for the loss of over two hundred lives, slipped from the public’s consciousness after being overshadowed by a much greater tragedy.
A period of intense anger and soul-searching followed as the world attempted to make sense of it all. Some blamed violent movies and video games, while others took aim at national gun laws. But until the police made an arrest and uncovered a motive, the public would be left with no real answers.
The one thing everyone could agree on, and the phrase that would be repeated over and over for days and weeks to come, was that today was Hollywood’s Darkest Day.
Watching from the comfort of his couch with a hot cup of Earl Grey and an oatmeal cookie, Fr. Gerdtz could barely conceal his delight. Hollywood’s darkest day? Not even close.
Not if they had any idea what he had planned.
