Husk (13 page)

Between keeping myself on a strictly regimented diet of raw earthling and having to appear in public, it was all I could do not to unleash myself on the nearest actor and feel the galvanizing zing of fresh lifeblood coursing down my gullet. The new pages of dialogue weren't helping to ease the tension, either. The dailies were proving my statements about Duane and his cadre of he- and she-pretties correct; there was barely a shred of acting talent to be found in front of the camera aside from yours truly. I've never been one to brag, but I was bringing it. The director, Zed — despite constant allusions to the work of Kurosawa, Tarantino, Hitchcock, Kubrick — was a twat, practicing utter hackery, betraying his music video beginnings by emphasizing camera angles and blue lens filters over content. You direct one Beyoncé video, get nominated for one
MTV
award, suddenly you're an auteur with twenty-five million dollars to fritter away. Zed was a poor leader of men, unable to corral his actors into actually trying or to encourage his cadre of set designers, lighting technicians, cameramen, and key grips into doing anything but the absolute minimum necessary to collect their pay. All told, it was a dismal set, professional journeymen biting their tongues as over-indulged starlets pretended to the glamour, preening and gossiping and demanding when they should have been, I don't know, acting.

At least Zed understood that when I was onscreen, the feeble efforts of his main cast were drowned by my sheer presence. Death had provided me an unsettling and savage charisma I had lacked in life, leastwise in the sphere of fictional cinematic serial killers. Around me, the cast seemed to step up their game; in actuality they were simply reacting to the feral dread I instilled. I had gotten so good at tonal modulation that I could bring a woman to tears with a mere whisper of her name. My voice was a doorway to terrors long thought extinct, buried deep within the subconscious over countless generations of civilization. I was a trigger that allowed primeval fears to resurface and rattle bones and hiss curses as they pranced up and down the spines of anyone in earshot.

Accordingly, the movie was now mine front and center, and only my lack of stature kept my name from being placed above the title alongside the likes of luminaries such as Duane J. Linwood and Raven Sullivan, oldest daughter on the
CBS
dramedy
The Diner
. Zed pushed me on the backers as being the next Robert Englund, the new Kane Hodder, hell, the next Christopher Lee or Anthony Perkins. He also demanded that my role be substantially beefed up, driving the screenwriter batty as he mangled the plotline to give me more screen time yet not push the “stars” off to the side altogether. After all, they were there to get gullible paying asses in the seats. I would keep them there.

But Duane (D.J. to his friends) was becoming a wee bit of a bother. I had thus far managed to keep myself relatively apart from the rest of the cast and crew save when we were on set. I had Rowan make it part of my contract, that there be as little contact with people outside of filming, a concession to my craft that would better allow me the time and isolation to hone my preparation and work my method upon the character. I was also to be in sole charge of my own makeup, lessening the possibility that people come into direct contact with my skin. I had insisted on this after the special effects artists had made a silicone cast of my face for some grueling damage Lester took at the hands of Raven late in the film. They coated my head in goop, wrapped the mess in plaster bandages, waited until it hardened, and then cautiously cracked it open. They were pros, they wouldn't let any normal subject come to harm, but they couldn't know I felt my skin tug loose from its moorings at the bottom of my chin and near the cheekbones. I let them finish, praying for adhesion, and instructed Rowan to demand I be allowed to do my own makeup for the duration of the shoot.

What utter bullshit, but actors are known for such idiosyncrasies. Wanting alone time, makeup demands, eccentric catering requests; these were nowhere near the weirdest contractual obligations ever made on a film set. I could have demanded that homeless children be rounded up and served to me cold and writhing on platters of stainless steel and garnished with peppermint; it would still be more reasonable than Brando's stipulations near the end.

Nevertheless, Duane was a problem in the making. He was a boy, barely old enough to grow sexy stubble-beard over his baby fat, yet a boy already used to getting everything he wanted, and double portions to boot. And what he wanted by the end of this evening, I was sure, was me. He could gussy it up, sheath it within the guise of a mentor/student relationship, the inexperienced newcomer idolizing the wise old professional, the whole
All About Eve
or
Showgirls
thing, but Duane wasn't smooth enough yet to hide his real intentions. Duane was a young predator testing the limits of his pack leader's strength. This wasn't about sex; this was a power move. Duane was thick as beef stew, but he wasn't completely without a native cunning to better serve his own ends. He could hardly be unaware of the buzz I was getting, and it frightened him.
Basement
was his shot, his one great step away from family television movies and guest appearances on sitcoms into something approaching a serious career. He was the hero, I was the villain, and that was to be that. But when
Fangoria
came to visit, when the bloggers from Chud and Dread Central and JoBlo and Ain't It Cool found their way on set, Duane was all but ignored. The villain always gets the attention, both on and off-screen. Ergo, as the natural order of things was in danger of being rearranged to his detriment, Duane would fall back on a tried-and-true method of career salvation; he would tempt me, romance me, hold me in thrall to his sexual prowess, and then he'd whittle my role down to nothing.

What an ass. I could have told him, even Johnny Depp fell to Freddy in the end. Kevin Bacon didn't prove immune to Mama Voorhees and a spike through the neck, so what possible chance did an Efron-weight like Duane have? He'd be lucky to survive the night.

I should simply have gone home, claimed to have forgotten the invitation. Would have been the safer choice. But I was lonely. Sofa was only so good for companionship. On the set, only Zed talked to me off-camera, and he was an idiot. The crew mostly kept to themselves, and the rest of the cast was insufferably young and pretty. I was little more than a special effect to them, a lurching horror they screamed their lines at on-camera and ignored at all other opportunities. High school all over again. So Duane's sudden attention, while self-serving on his part, was a chance to have meaningful if shallow interaction.

Also, I was flattered he'd go to the trouble of seducing me.

I had to make sure that I could control myself. I ate every last morsel of roadside vagabond as I carefully applied a base to my cheeks. I never had to do much in the way of makeup for the movie, but to actually go out and walk among the normals, I'd have to give my face a bit of false vitality. The food would help keep my urges tamped down.

He knocked on my door at seven, rapping shave and a haircut with his knuckles. I slowly swung the door open and took him in. He had changed into a tight white T-shirt and jeans combo, topping it with a trucker hat emblazoned with the studio logo. The shirt clung alluringly to an absurdly prominent set of abs. His arms were overly Soloflexed, veiny, and they pushed against the confines of the cotton. It was cheesy, but I had a soft spot for the look. I could never pull it off myself. He was a finely shredded slab of ham, I had to give him that.

“You 'bout ready, dude?” His eyes were wide, fixed, and hyper-focused. He hopped from foot to foot, perhaps to make sure the sizable cocaine reserves swishing through his bloodstream weren't settling in his feet.

“Of course, Duane. I'll just. Get my coat.”

“D.J., remember?”

“D.J. Yes.”

“Hey, are you still in makeup?”

“No.”
Damn.

“Right.”

“Shall we go?”

Duane practically pushed me into the back seat of the limo and climbed in next to me. It was an opulent affair: fully stocked bar, television,
DVD
player. We were, I noticed as the driver put the limo into gear and pulled away from the curb, the only people inside.

“Weren't there others. Coming along?”

“Hm?” Duane put on a dumbshow of forgetfulness. “Oh, right, the others, they, they all had to cancel. Some other thing, somewhere. Chicks, right? Always a party somewhere else.”

“A shame.”

“Well,” Duane continued as he tapped out a healthy amount of snow on the back of his hand and did a line, “it's just you and me, then.”

“No entourage?”

“Gave them the night off. Ordered them to have fun without me.”

“Where are we headed?”

Duane took another snort and lay back on the chair. “Oh, I don't know, man. You know, I'm kinda played out right now. You just wanna come over to my hotel room, watch a movie or something? I've got a Wii.”

Subtle. “I thought you wanted to. Talk about acting.”

“Oh sure, that too.”

Why not? “Why not?”

“Cool.” He opened the bar and fetched himself a Bud Lite. He twisted off the top and took a tiny sip. “Mm, that is good, nothing better after a hard day.” Even dead, I shuddered; Americans have no concept of good beer.

After a half-hour or so of idle talk, as Duane got more and more hyped up on his alternating drug and beer technique and I became increasingly irritated at being trapped in a leather-lined rolling coffin with a drugged-out idiot, the limo pulled into the parking garage of his hotel. It had not escaped my attention that at no time during our trip had Duane prompted the driver with a destination. What a putz. I
was
oddly warmed by his presumptuousness. I don't know that I'd even been stalked so flagrantly. It was like watching a lion cub cut his teeth by tackling his father on one of those nature channel documentaries. Adorable, but useless.

I took a seat on Duane's couch while he went to his bedroom to change. Idly, I tongued a remnant of drifter that was lodged between my molars while I took in the room. For a spontaneous evening out, the room was suspiciously guest-ready. Champagne chilled in a bucket with two long-stemmed flutes nearby, candles already lit upon our entrance. The daily rent on the place could cover an average mortgage for a few months, I was sure. But the hotel provided a fireplace, a widescreen television, a hot tub, a panoramic view of the city, a salt-water aquarium stocked with polychromatic endangered fish, and an unwritten policy of allowing celebrities
carte blanche
when it came to unruly/antisocial/borderline-criminal behavior. The kind of behavior that ruins lesser careers.

Duane bounced out of the bedroom, his outdoor ensemble swapped for white boxer shorts and a clean sleeveless tee. His biceps were festooned with ink patterns, barbed wire and Japanese calligraphy,
très
trailer trash chic. I gave him an approving smile and raised eyebrows, as I hadn't yet re-mastered the sarcastic eyeroll to the ceiling. He giggled. “So, you ready for some tennis?” He caught the confusion that crossed my face. “The Wii, buddy. Remember?” He mimed a backhand swing. “Gotta warn you, I'm pretty good.”

I nodded. “I'm sure. Actually, D.J., I think I'll beg off. But you go ahead.”

Duane put on a pout. “Well, that's no fun, not by myself.” He sat in the recliner across from me. “So, hey, let's talk, right? I don't know anything about you.”

I leaned back. “Ask away.”

“So, what's with all the lumbering? I've watched you — you are always in character. I get it, the acting mystique, keeps the rest of us on our toes when you're around, right? Like Val Kilmer, the method, living your character all the time, that shit? Did you see
The Doors
? Rocked, man. That dude Morrison, he was fucked up. Don't get me wrong, fucking genius, no question. Fucked up, though. Right?”

Not sure to what question I should respond, I chose the silent nod as the best course of action.

“Cool. But,” he said, getting up to grab at the champagne bottle and slouching himself nonchalantly onto the opposite end of my couch, “you're alone now, yeah? No cameras, no techies, no director. You can relax a bit.” He filled the glasses to the brim and handed me one as he sipped from the other. “I won't tell, honest,” he teased.

I put the glass aside. “Would that I could. It's not an act. My walk. I have early onset arthritis. See?” I flexed the fingers of my hands, hearing each knuckle crack as the movement snapped through the crusted blood in the veins. Duane shivered at the sound and took a long swallow of his drink as I continued. “I've suffered from it. For years now. It's like progeria. Advanced metabolic aging. Very rare.”

“Is that why you talk like that? With all the stopping?”

“Yes. The arthritis has affected my. Lungs.”

“That is harsh. I thought that was a, what's it called, an affectation.”

“Afraid not.”

“Wow, I'm sorry. But man, it works here. When the camera's on you, when you get that voice really going, it's like . . . you'll think this is stupid.”

“I promise I won't.”

Duane tucked his legs beneath him, curling himself up. “When you talk, it's like, all I can think of is when my gerbil died. I let Benny run around in my bedroom, and he ran into a heating vent. I couldn't get him out. I was too scared to tell my dad, he'd be so mad, so I, I left Benny in there. I could hear him scratching around, but he couldn't find his way out. Maybe he was stuck or something. I could hear his scratching when I went to bed. It got quieter and quieter, and then a few nights later, there was nothing. And I knew he had died.” Duane wiped at his eyes. “Stupid. Stupid kid, too scared so he lets his pet die. And stupid me, still getting worked up over it.”