by Alan Spencer
T-Rex
Alan Spencer
Copyright 2016 by Alan Spencer
Prologue
All you need is your big break. You can't start at the top. I may be in the gutter, but I'm sure as hell not in the sewer. I don't have to work with A-listers right from the start. Place me in front of a camera and film me, baby. That's what I really want. You got to climb the rungs of the industry ladder to get somewhere. This is Hollywood from the bleacher seats. Call me a roughneck actor. Grit, blood, sweat, and poverty, baby.
I'll get a SAG card for this stupid movie. This'll lead to other things. Better things. The world will see my face on cable TV, and they'll know Mark Rodman has finally arrived. The audience will want more Rodman. They'll demand Rodman until they get their fill of me. And by then, I'll be a millionaire.
The same encouraging sentences repeated in Mark Rodman's head throughout the long trip across the ocean. He was combating nerves and questioning his choice in participating in the film Dino Buffet 3: Gorgers. The term "career killer" kept popping up in his head alongside "this could be the biggest mistake of your life".
There was more going on in Mark's mind than movie jitters. The concerns really set in after he pulled the boat ashore. Saying he screwed this gig up was the understatement of the year.
When the crew of thirty-five persons unloaded from the big boat, Mark excused himself from the crowd. He stepped beyond the white sandy beach, trudged up a hill, and stood on top of a rock ledge. He overlooked the crystal blue Caribbean ocean and really hashed out the problem banging around in his head.
The issue was easy to identify.
He lied to director Bruce Ryder.
If he could work through that lie, maybe, just maybe, he could enjoy his first acting job. It could serve as a fun story to tell his kids when he finally had them. The lie was simple and had snowballed into something colossal.
Take it from the top, man. Hash through it. Think it out, baby.
Mark tried to dissect the situation.
It wasn't good from any angle.
He watched the various actors and small crew lift up a blue canopy onto four poles to create a shaded break area. The crew were opening coolers and setting up for a late lunch before today's film shooting began.
You have to figure this out for these people.
You've put them all in danger.
Just take it from the top.
There was an open casting call for the movie Dino Buffet 3: Gorgers two weeks ago. He auditioned for the part of Surfer Friend #2. He was perfect for the role. He had long blonde hair that ran down to his shoulders. He had the surfer's physique. He wore neon green rimmed glasses. Mark was cool 80's all the way, baby. That day, he dressed in a bright shirt with the sleeves ripped out and tight cargo pants. He added another touch that he knew would win over the director. Mark hit the tanning salon and kept his sunglasses on to create tan lines on his face. He was now a true surfer dude. Every other word out of his mouth was dude, man, boss, tubular, Rastafarian, awe-some, and groovy. In the business, they called it method acting.
The audition was held in an empty high school auditorium in Tampa, Florida. The line of hopefuls ran all the way outside the front doors. During the audition, Bruce Ryder, the big director himself, didn't seem at all interested in his method surfer act. The hotshot gave him a sigh, an eye roll, and a tepid, "We'll let you know. The door's on your left."
On his way out, Mark accidentally dropped his wallet. He dropped it just right so that his left foot kicked it at Bruce's sandaled feet. The director picked up the wallet. It was open, showing his driver's license and a picture of his father's fishing boat.
The director's attitude changed instantly. He removed the picture of the boat and held it up to Mark. "You know anything about boats?"
"Sure, man. I've sailed all my life. My father owns several boats. He taught me everything I know."
The director ignored most of what he said. "So you can sail? Can you borrow your dad's boat?"
Before he realized it, Mark had volunteered himself to sail the cast and crew on his father's boat to an undisclosed island. After he agreed, Bruce Ryder promised him the part of Surfer Friend #2.
He didn't have a problem doing the director a favor. And what was the big deal anyway? Mark knew how to sail. His grandfather was a commercial fisherman, and his father was a stock market champion who owned a whole fleet of boats, and Mark had played captain on all of them growing up.
Sailing wasn't the problem.
Borrowing the boat wasn't a problem.
Navigating was the problem.
Bruce Ryder handed him a map this morning and said, "Take us to Pagoda Island. I'm going downstairs to get drunk and play with Candy. Do not disturb me."
Mark thought he was reading the map correctly. After hours of scrunching his brow and drinking one too many of the beers flowing between the various crew on the top deck of the boat, he realized he was lost. Drunk, nervous, or just plain stupid, he had put everybody in a bad position.
The nervous hours of sailing passed, and he kept heading towards a nothing horizon on the ocean. He was about to break down and cry and tell everybody the truth when an island finally did appear. He didn't know if it was Pagoda Island. Mark wasn't sure how the hell they would get back home. Sure, he could use the radio and call for help, but would he get himself fired from the acting role if he admitted his mistake?
The tiny voice in the back of his head kept saying, Tell them after you're done shooting. This is your shot. It may be your only shot. Get in front of that camera, get your screen time, and go from there. And maybe, just maybe, you can get them home after all. You're all worked up over nothing. It's an island. For all I know, this could be Pagoda Island. It might not be, but so what? I'll get them home. I know I will. Relax. Slow your roll, baby.
Mark kept his gaze on the crew along the beach. They were enjoying their cooler lunch of cold cut sandwiches and sodas. After thinking for a while longer, he decided it was best to keep his mouth shut. Things would work out. He needed a moment to clear his head, and he did that. Mission accomplished. Groovy.
His bladder ached. He downed he couldn't remember how many beers on the way to this mystery island. The ground was a mix of sand and dirt the farther he walked away from the beach. He entered the edge of what appeared to be a dense collection of trees that went on and on for miles. The trees were a hybrid of palm trees and sap bearing trees. The bark along many of the trees were wet with syrup. Bugs were crawling over the tree to enjoy the golden brown sticky stuff.
The bugs themselves were very strange. He imagined a rhinoceros beetle matched with thick leathery wings. They were hulking. Double the size of his thumb, if not bigger. He'd hate to have those suckers crawling all over him. Would they eat his flesh or inject him with poison?
Don't think about it, baby.
He searched for a tree that didn't have sap or bugs covering it. He imagined whipping his thing out and one of those nasty insects crawling up into his peter.
No thanks. I've watched too many documentaries on the Discovery channel. This kind of stuff really does happen.
After relieving himself, he felt a vibration at his feet. It sounded like two loud stomps, and then a low growl. He couldn't make sense of the noises. It would take a semi-truck, a real diesel engine, to come even close.
He heard trees creak and bend. The steps were spread out and quieter the longer they carried on. Something was trying to sneak up on him. When he turned around fast, he gasped at the standing towering creature twenty yards out from him.
The size, the enormity, the impossibility of its existence, it had Mark taking off in a mad sprint. He fled deeper into the thick of trees. He di
dn't know which way he had come from or which way to go. He was lost with no idea of where to turn next. The foliage varied. He imagined a rain forest, met with paradise, met with a bad science fiction movie. Giant oversized plants and green pods that looked like they could open up and eat you like a Venus flytrap were everywhere.
Mark vaulted faster. He was out of breath, but he had all the motivation in the world to keep picking up speed. He dodged a neon blue crab creature the size of a dog. It snapped its pincers and came half an inch from snapping off his arm.
Where have I taken these people?
I have to go back and warn them.
Everybody's in danger.
THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING!
The giant beast was stomping after him. Trees were punched and in half like nothing twigs. Debris was flying in all directions; even crashing ahead of him from the sheer force of the creature's blows. He was the prey in the game of cat and mouse, and the way things were going, he was most certainly going to lose this game.
One hope waited up ahead.
A running stream with frothy burbling water appeared nearby. That stream carried on for a short distance and abruptly changed into an enormous waterfall. That was his best shot.
The beast was closing in.
Mark didn't think.
He braced his body and leaped off of the edge of the waterfall. He didn't know what lay below, or how far the drop would be, or what that fall would do to him. Death was a high probability.
He was in the air and falling fast.
He was free of the beast.
Or so he thought!
The enormous monster eclipsed everything around him in shadow. He wasn't careening towards the water two-stories down anymore. He was getting lost in the black hole closing in on him. The T-Rex had taken a dive off the edge right with him.
Mark was spattered with a coating of heavy rubber glue-like saliva. The hot breath was a noxious belch from the deepest sulfur pits of hell. The beast snapped its mouth closed. He was inside its mouth up to the neck. His head was decapitated by the bite-down. The would-be actor's head did a wild bowling ball spin and plunged into the waters below. The rest of his body went down the T-Rex's hungry throat in one greedy gulp.
Part One
Mr. Director
While Mark Rodman's body was being digested by boiling hot digestive enzymes, Bruce Ryder was enjoying a deep alcohol-induced slumber at the bottom level of the borrowed boat. The easy sway of the water made it so easy to sleep. He could've slept during the entire three-day shooting schedule on the island if it weren't for the soft, sexy voice of his long-time girlfriend speaking to him.
Candy Sweet had that kind of silky voice. The words were simple, yet heavy with sex. He didn't open his eyes. He listened to her. The way Candy spoke, she could get a corpse hard.
"Oh Bruce Bruce. You need to wake up."
"A little longer, baby."
"My sweet little man needs to wake up. Won't you wake up for me, baby? Huh, my big man? Won't you rise for me? I know my Bruce Bruce is tired. Can you be a big man and get up for me?"
He groaned, "Come back in an hour, sweetheart."
"You said that two hours ago."
"I know. One more hour. Please. My head is killing me."
That much was true. It felt like somebody had dropped an anvil on his head and dipped his liver in vinegar.
"The actors are eating all the food and drinking all the beer."
"Huh? They're doing what? Why didn't you tell me sooner? Crap."
Bruce lunged out of bed. They couldn't eat all the food. It had to be rationed out over the next three days. He didn't have any other means of procuring food. There were no grocery stores to visit; not that would matter. He didn't have the budget to replenish any of the food stock. Didn't these idiot actors know this?
He had to think fast.
He told Candy Sweet to get Blast on it. The special effects guy was good at being an authority when Bruce was either too drunk or too busy to handle a crew acting up.
Candy rushed back up to the main deck to tell Blast what to do. He could hear her graceful porno girl steps glide off the boat and onto the beach.
He was alone again. He would have to get himself together and fast. If the director didn't get the crew in line from the start, the movie would go down in flames. The actors would consider him a pushover and question his authority. He couldn't afford any hiccups. When it came to low budget moviemaking, it was a world of one takes, lightening quick schedules, and no money to fix issues.
Wake up. Do your thing. You're in control. Take the reigns. You're Bruce Ryder. Start acting like it.
Bruce trudged over to the corner sink and splashed his face. The cold water wasn't enough to perk him up. Three cigarettes and a shot of bourbon later, he was getting there.
He showered and slipped on a pair of tattered jeans and a faded Bon Jovi t-shirt. He worked his long dyed black hair into a ponytail. He made sure his beard color matched his hair. There were slight gray roots coming in on his face, but there wasn't time to fix it. He knew he wasn't fooling anybody. He was fifty-eight years old and trying to look twenty-five. The attempt to look young was what Candy would lovingly call "cute" for a man his age.
He clutched his big belly and sighed. He was an old, greasy, washed up director. Some would call it pathetic. He wouldn't, and that's all that mattered. He loved making movies, period. If anybody had a problem with the work he churned out, they could ride a hot air balloon up his ass.
His career was a sordid one. He rode the porno wave in the '80's. He made over sixty skin films. When it came to the adult film industry, he didn't have to cut film anymore. This was all shot-on-video. Ultra cheap. All he needed was a lighting crew, a boom guy, and some people to have sex with each other.
The nineties were a different game. He got out of the bedroom and into the open air. He started to make low budget action movies while riding the novelty of having famous porn stars act in them. The gimmick worked magnificently. He went on to direct various slasher movies like Lake Slash, Body Bag High, Hay Ride Massacre, Dracula Hunt, and Death Dialer. What he couldn't deliver on special effects, he more than made up for it with tits and ass by the pound.
The industry changed yet again in the 2000's. The market shifted. Horror movies weren't as lucrative anymore. Now, it was CGI creature features and science fiction cheapies made for cable that did the trick. All these movies required was a washed up movie star and a CGI monster. He had both for Dino Buffet 3: Gorgers. And to top it off, he still had the tits and ass to back it all up. The movie would make itself. He would shoot the dinosaur island scenes in the coming three days, and the rest of the story could be shot back in Florida.
Bruce could lie to the producers who were funding this film, but he couldn't lie to himself. He farted out the script for Dino Buffet 3. The story went like this: a boat of partying twenty somethings get lost on the ocean and end up on an island where the government has kept secret their biggest weapon: a dozen T-Rexes. Unbeknownst to the world, the T-Rexes were being trained to fight ISIS through a convoluted, ridiculous process. The only problem, these dinos didn't want to eat only terrorists' flesh. They wanted to devour ALL flesh, and these twenty-somethings were in for a night of true terror. Commence the dino buffet.
The director had an easy plan. After shooting these fresh-faced youngsters running from nothing throughout the woods for the next three days, he would go back to his studio in Tampa and add CGI dinosaurs and gore. What he wouldn't later add was the nudity. He had four porno girls including his longtime girlfriend, Candy Sweet, ready to drop their tops and show the camera their wonderful globes. He might as well call the movie Dino Buffet 3: Lost in Fun Bag Island.
The Ryder magic machine was churning bronze. He wasn't big time. Screw the bad reviews and the jokes made at his expense. He was a working director. It was a paycheck. If you didn't like it, there was that hot air balloon ride you could take.
The movie was getting off t
o a great start despite the current situation. Sure, he needed to sober up quick and shoot a few scenes and stop the crew from devouring their food supplies. Once the ball got rolling, it wouldn't stop.
He lit a cigarette and stepped upstairs to the main deck and then walked down the stairs extended from the side of the boat. His hangover was getting better. His head wasn't killing him anymore.
He was starting to feel really good about this movie.
Nothing bad can happen, he thought.
Have a Blast
Henry "Blast" Porter did his best to get the twenty-two-person crew in line. They were still drunk from the partying they did on the boat. The director was nowhere in sight. He couldn't blame Bruce for wanting to dip his wick in Candy Sweet. She was a pretty piece of tail. Nobody would get a lick of work out of Blast if he was married to that woman. But that wasn't Blast's situation. He focused on the real issue. This had turned into a booze cruise instead of a movie shoot. That had to stop and quick.
If that fat ass would get out of bed, he could get these idiots in line.
I've tried to level with them. I told them Bruce wouldn't approve of this and they ignored me. They think I'm a joke. I can only imagine what else they think of me. The way those young punks and valley girl bitches look at me sometimes, they think I'm a washed-up loser. They laugh at me when I'm gone. I know it.
I'll show them who's a joke.
Yeah.
They won't be laughing in a minute.
I'll teach them a real good lesson.
He stomped away from underneath the canopy where everybody was eating, drinking, and joking around. The scene could've doubled as a frat party. Mindy Duncan was pouring beer over Chris Toddy's head. Joey Mingle and David Perkins were playing baseball by using beer cans and a stick they found on the beach. Helen Kidd and Eddie Lumley had snuck off to have sex. He could smell the hormones exude off the pretty young people.
