Attack of the Thespian!
By
Max Booth III

   I stumbled into the waiting room with whiskey on my breath.  Looking around at the other ‘actors’ sitting in the line of lonely chairs, I smiled.  They were pathetic.  Just look at them!  All of them with their sad, depressing business suits.  This was a movie audition, not a damn courthouse.  I looked down at my own, dirty attire: my ripped blue jeans and sleeveless tee-shirt.  The hole in my Chuck Taylor’s -- specially constructed for breathing room for my big toe -- made my smile widen even further.  This was going to be a piece of cake.  The director would absolutely love me and hire me on the spot.

    I strode towards the clipboard hanging from the audition room door and signed my name in neat cursive: Gory Feldman.  Of course, Gory Feldman was not my real name, but in the Zombie Business, you didn’t use real names.  It was very similar to porn actually.  You had your Demi Morgues, your Toby Magores, your Melt Gibsons, and even your Arnold Corpseneggers.  Gory Feldman was mildly creative; plus, I thought the Lost Boys was the greatest movie on the face of the earth.

    I walked back to the line of chairs and sat at the very end of them, giving my competitors another stare down.  They had nothing on me, that was for sure.  All these poor lost souls with their combed hair and brown striped suits were just yuppie assholes looking to have a side life of acting.  Not me, though.  No sir.  Back in Seattle, I had lost my apartment, my job, and my girlfriend.  My father died, my brother came out of the closet, and the local bookies were threatening to break my legs.  So, I figured Los Angeles was the place to go.  I had hitchhiked from Seattle all the way to Hollywood with the same exact clothes on my back, along with a pocketful of change and an acoustic guitar I had no knowledge of playing whatsoever.  Anyways, isn’t that how Johnny Depp (or in Zombiwood, Johnny Death) become a star?  Actually, I had no idea.  I had just recently learnt he was in the first Nightmare on Elm Street as a matter of fact.  How come I never noticed that before?  You never do until someone points it out to you.  Isn’t that how it always works?  Nevertheless, I still strummed the shit out of my guitar at random street corners, making some pretty decent cash along the way.

    I was leaning back in the plastic chair, tapping my foot on the gray rug, and thinking about taking a step outside for a quick cigarette when they entered the room.  Through the front door walked three tall, muscular men in different -- yet brilliant -- clothing.  They wore real, special effect type masks with blood colored corn syrup dripping from the skin like rubber.  It was obvious that these masks were not the kind you would buy in your everyday Halloween costume shop.  This was some grade A quality zombie equipment, my friend.  Their ripped bloodied up attires were perfectly crafted to fit a post-apocalyptic movie scene.

    I knew two things right away.

    The first was that these three folks were the Three Bloodytears; a group of cameo actors that were nearly in every horror movie made nowadays.  There was Athos, Porthos, and Aramis -- apparently, those particular names were a little too difficult to zombify.  Their specialty: zombie flicks.  Which just so happened to be the movie I was auditioning for.

    The second thing I knew was that I was screwed.  There was no way they would hire me now.  Not with these three bastards hogging up the spotlight.  The rest of the actors in their business suits sighed, moaned, complained, and humbly left the building.  There was no use in even trying once the infamous Three Bloodytears arrived.  It was almost a Zombiwood rule to hire these three.

    I watched in disbelief as two of the zombies sat down while the remaining one pranced towards the clipboard and happily signed their names.  What was it so happy about?  Zombies weren’t supposed to be happy.  They were supposed to be hungry.

    The standing zombie collapsed in an empty seat next to its fellow comrades and rested its gory scalp against the back of the chair.  I glared at them with pure hatred.  These bastards had shown up at my last five movie auditions.  Each time they had stolen the cake from underneath the icing.  It just wasn’t fair.  What kind of world was this when only the rich and famous were allowed to dress up and pretend to be zombies in front of a camera?  It was nothing but madness.  There was no way I was going to let this continue.  Not if I wanted to eat for the next week; not if I wanted a home to sleep in.

    I jumped to my feet and stormed across the room to where the Three Bloodytears were sitting at.  “What the hell is wrong with you guys?” I snapped, getting their attention as their murky eyeballs rolled towards me.  “Do you really have to be in every goddamn movie?  Don’t you know there are other people trying to make a living out here?  Are you guys really that fucking selfish?”

    The middle zombie cocked his head sideways like a confused dog and replied in a very empathetic tone, “Whhraallg?”

    “Jesus Christ,” I muttered.  “It’s like talking to a fucking zombie.”

    “Awrrooog!” the zombie on the left exclaimed.

    “No!” I yelled, pointing my index finger at him as if I was his master and he had just defected on the carpet floor.  “You fuckers are not doing this to me again!  You think you’re funny, don’t you?  I’ve had enough!  Rent for my new apartment is due in a week and guess what, I’m going to have the money this time.  You’re not taking this from me again, you bastards!”

    “Herroug,” the zombie on the right laughed.  It laughed at me!  Can you believe it?  Here I was, telling them what’s what and this fucker laughed right in my face.  There was only one option I could think of: I would have to get the most awesome of awesome zombie costumes imaginable.  Then we’d see who would be laughing then.

    “Who will be laughing then?!” I screamed, and stomped off into the public bathroom. 

    I stormed back and forth in the shit reeking lavatory, (which had a light green florescent light connected to the nicotine stained ceiling).  The doors to all three toilets were snapped off the hinges and brownish liquid slowly surged from underneath the graffiti stained stalls.  I ran my hands through my dandruff-infested thick black hair as my image appeared and reappeared in front of the half-shattered mirror above the porcelain sink.  What the hell was I going to do?  They would be calling my name any second now, since the other actors had left the building in anger due to those goddamn glory hogs.  My costume didn’t even qualify in their league.  I was screwed!  No, not screwed.  I still had a chance.  Just a little improvising and maybe I would make it.  Maybe.  Just maybe … .

    Okay, since I didn’t have a lot of time, I would have to act fast, but at the same time, quite effectively.  I spun around in a complete circle, inspecting my surroundings.  What the hell was I going to do?  I needed something to make me appear more like a zombie, right?  Okay … what in a public bathroom could I use as a prop, or better yet, as an article of clothing or glob of makeup?

   Well, maybe the real thing would impress the casting directors even more, right?  Yeah, that sounded good.  Now, the only decision left was what to do to my body.  What do zombies look like?  Their throats are usually torn out … but, uh, that didn’t sound like such a bright idea at the moment.

    As I raised my arms towards my head to run my hands through my hair again, I took noticed of my dirt-crusted fingernails, and a wonderful thought crossed my mind.  I quickly slid the fingernail of my left index finger in-between the knob of the faucet in the sink, and holding my breath and closing my eyes, slammed my right fist down upon my hand, snapping the nail off the lunula in one rough instantaneous motion.  As I jerked my hand back in sudden pain, tiny droplets of blood squirted away from my finger and across my cheek. 

    Good, now that was progress.  No matter how stupid and painful it might be.  However, it wasn’t enough progress.  I was missing a fingernail with blood leaking from it.  Big whup.  So what?  Nothing too special about that.  You could heal that with a simple band-aid.  I needed something else; something much more stimulating.

    It was then that I heard the voice out in the waiting room.  “Gory Feldman?  Calling a Gory Feldman …?”

    Shit!  I was out of time!  No, wait … there had to be something else I could do.  I looked down at the sink and sighed.  This might have been the most idiotic thing that had ever crossed my mind -- and that was saying a lot.

    “Fuck it,” I whispered, and opened my mouth as wide as it could possibly go.  I then, wincing ahead of time, lashed my face downward; my teeth shattering against the porcelain sink.  A sharp pain stabbed into my jaw and like a fighter jet, shot up to my head.  A loud, deafening ringing bled through my ears.  I immediately regretted my decision.

    Grasping the side of my head with both hands, I jumped up and down around the bathroom, trying to overcome the urge to scream bloody murder.  The pain was incredibly excruciating.  I’d imagine this was very similar to childbirth.  Taking a mental note to ask my mother about it, I let out one deep long-awaited sigh, and globs of blood and teeth instantly fell from my mouth and burst along the piss tarnished linoleum floor.

    “Fak!” I cried out, trying not to choke on my own teeth.  Jesus Christ, I couldn’t even talk!

    “Gory Feldman!  Last call for a Gory Feldman … .”

    Okay, there was no time to panic.  This was a pretty awesome costume, was it not?  I was leaking real, believable blood.  I would get the part for sure!  There was not a doubt in my mind.

    I exited the bathroom to become face to face with a small plump woman with glasses, who flinched back from the sight of my disastrous appearance.

    “You Gory …?” she asked, clearly frightened.

    “Ya, ‘hat’s ‘ee,” I replied, with a string of blood dripping from my chin.

    “Well, uhh … follow me.  It’s your turn.”

    “Eh!” I said, grabbing the woman by the shoulder and nearly scaring the literal shit out of her rectum.

    “What?!”

    “ ‘Ow or ‘ast ‘ombi?” I asked her.

    “Huh?”

    I spat out a chunk of blood into a small rectangular aquarium placed on a desk and very carefully, asked, “Slow or fast zombie?”

    “Well, fast of course.  This is the Dawn of the Dead remake after all.”

    “ ‘Eeake?  Uh?”

    “Yes, you’ve heard me, we‘re remaking the remake of Dawn of the Dead.  I don‘t like the idea, personally.  All these remakes are destroying cinema … but, uh, this is what sells nowadays,” the woman informed, as she led me towards the door.  I noticed the Three Bloodytears slumped over in their chairs, waiting for their own turn.  You really couldn’t ask for a more challenging competition.  They were the bee’s knees of Zombiwood.  The sight of my costume made their blood-crusted jaws drop. They couldn’t believe it.  They knew I was going to take the role from them this time.  I would be the winner; and just to prove that, I made a quick jacking-off gesture to them and smiled as their jaws dropped even further.

    We entered the auditioning room.  Nothing unique about it, really, just an average size room with a desk occupied by a couple chairs at the far end.  The woman sat down at the desk (along with a man and another woman) and told me to go ahead.

    “’Otivaon?” I asked, spilling more blood drops.  It was pretty obvious to me I had asked what my ‘motivation’ was, but I hoped the directors understood it as well.

    “You’re a zombie.  Act like one,” the man said.
   
    “Oh … ‘ight,” I mumbled, and elevated my arms even with my chest.  Just like Frankenstein’s monster.  “’Raaaaaiiiiiiisss,” I groaned.

    “Zombies don’t talk!” the man bellowed.

    “’ight, ‘ight,” I said, struggling back my nervousness.  Man, I was blowing this!  Clearing my plasmatic throat, I began to perform quick dashes back and forth, or what some people -- especially the basketball society -- would call ‘suicides’.  As I ran, I shook my cheeks back and forth like some sort of retarded Saint Bernard, allowing blood particles to splash against various locations along the auditioning room.  My confidence was beginning to return, allowing me to execute better acts of zombism.  I mimed biting an invisible pedestrian on the neck and eating their flesh.  Running more suicides, I leaped around the room like a rabid rabbit, growling ferociously and showing off my horrendous grin.  I was pretty sure the judges were really digging my performance.  The movie role was mine for sure.  I was a shoe-in.

    I was nearly out of breath when I noticed their faces.  I saw disappointment, which caused me to stop in my tracks and ask what was wrong.

    “Well …” the man (who made it obnoxiously clear that he was in charge) started, “I don’t think you’re what we’re looking for.”

    “’Hat?!” I shrieked.

    “Well, you see, uh, Susan here just informed me that the Three Bloodytears were outside waiting for us.  And … uh, you’ve seen them in the movies, haven’t you?  They’re the absolute best, you know?  So, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.  I did like your performance, however.  Just, we have someone better.  Sorry.”

    “No no no!” I grimaced.  “C’mon … gimmie a ‘rance, uh?  ‘Eeeaasse?”

    “No, I said.  Now leave before I call security.”

    I lowered my head as one melancholy tear attempted an escape, but I locked the gates before it could become successful.  This was my last shot.  Everything was fucked now.  Rent was due, my girlfriend had dumped me, and I didn’t have a job.  I was just a lowlife drunken piece of shit.  What the hell did I ever do to deserve such social torture?

    Wait a minute.  What if this was some sort of test?  A test to see how compassionate I was in my work?  It was a tough call, but I was betting it was a test.  Yeah, that’s what it was.  So, okay, if was one, then what should I do?  The man was moving his hand towards the telephone, on the verge of calling security on my ass.  Was this a sign that I was supposed to stop him?  Now, the question was, how would a zombie stop a human?  Well … that was a pretty simple -- yet grotesque -- answer.

    “Rrrrraaaaa!” I roared, and charged towards the director, spearing him against the wall like a star football player.

    “Ahh, what the hell are you doing?” the man yelped.  “Susan, call the goddamn police!  Now!”

    The police?  Another test, no doubt.  I sprung my lips open and placed my bloody mouth around the director’s neck, and crunched down upon his flesh.  Aching in my teeth immediately shot back to memory.  That was not a very good idea, was it?  Another regret!  Damnit, what was wrong with me today?

    I tore my grizzly face away from the director and looked down upon his mangled throat.  Gore and blood were spraying everywhere -- especially along my face and clothes.  The man cried his eyes out, making it all the more obvious that he might have a heart attack if he didn’t stop.  Therefore, being the generous man that I was, I bashed the back of his head against the blood-spattered wall to knock him out.  I was very effectual in this quick thinking act of benevolence.

    Turning around I took noticed of the two women hiding in the corner.  Hiding from me, I wondered.

    “’Het’s ‘ong?” I asked, spilling more blood.  “’Old on,” I said, fishing my fingers into my mouth and pulling out a flab of skin.  The director’s skin.  I let it drop to the floor and looked back up.  “Ohight, ‘hat’s ‘ong ‘ow?”

    “Get away, you fucking freak!  The cops are on the way!” one of them screamed at me.

    “Do I ‘aveja job?”

    “No!”

    “”Hat?  Why not?” I asked, pissed off.

    “Get away!” they shrieked.

    So, I followed orders and hightailed it out of the building -- making sure to give each one of the Bloodytears the bird on the way out.  The blinding sun rays from outside drove my hand hovering under my brow, aiding my eyesight.  I wobbled along the sidewalk, trying to retrieve my balance, and when it came back to me that was when I heard the police sirens off in the distance.  For me, I wondered.  When the squad car pulled up along side me, I knew the answer.

    “Hey, stop right there!  Put your hands up!” the cop bellowed, as he stepped out of the car and raised his pistol towards me.  I stared straight into his eyes, straight down the barrel, and fright devoured me whole, resulting in me spinning around and running at full speed down the road, despite the cop’s yells to stop.  As I crossed the corner, blood sprayed out of my mouth and against the brick wall of the building.  I was really bleeding badly, wasn’t I?  Well, the next stop for me was the hospital, that was for sure.

    The next block went by so fast, and as I turned another corner, I found myself colliding into a woman pushing a stroller, sending both of us sprawling along the pavement of the sidewalk.  I watched in horror as the baby came tumbling out of the stroller and falling towards the hard ground, but luckily I used my super quick speed and caught him -- literally centimeters from land.  It still didn’t stop it from screaming its precious head off, though.

    Sighing in relief, I stood to my feet with the baby cradling in my arms.  The mother still lay on the ground, her muscles tensed and nervous.  She stared at me with fright.  “Give me back my baby,” the blonde haired woman ordered, but with heavy caution.

    “’Ee go,” I said, attempting to hand the baby to her.  However, she screamed bloody Mary once my mouth leaked some of its red fluid on her baby’s light blue onesie.

    “You freak!  Monster!  Monster!  Everybody run: there's a zombie on the loose!” the woman croaked, shot to her feet, and skedaddled across the street into a doughnut shop, abandoning her baby altogether.

    A zombie?  She had called me a zombie.

    I raised the baby to become eyelevel with me.  “Didjer ‘ear ‘hat?  See ‘ad I’s a ‘ombi!” I exclaimed, dribbling more blood on the baby’s cheeks.  It was okay, though.  I didn’t have any diseases or anything.  Nothing transmittable.  Well, there was that one time in Tijuana … .

    Then it hit me.  The woman screaming I was a zombie; the cop chasing me; the frightened cast directors.  This was all still my audition!  The moviemakers had set all of this up to examine if I was zombie enough for the big leagues.  And I think I’ve proved I was, hadn’t I?  I tilted my head and discovered a camera on the side of a red traffic light.  Bingo!  They were watching me right now, weren’t they?  Those sly bastards.  They had really scared me quite some deal.

    I carefully placed the scarred baby for life in a trash bin, which was currently being occupied by the waste of McDonalds and Starbucks.  It would be okay there, right?  Fuck it; at least it wasn’t a dumpster.

    I turned back around and smiled.  I had gotten the part; no doubt about it this time.  I lowered my head in a very similar fashion of a rhino and charged down the block towards the police officer.  His threats of firing his weapon were very impressive; I hoped they used this guy in the movie as well.  He was very convincing.

    Little did I know just how serious he was.