A flash.
An actor vs. writer dilemma.
“You expect me to pay you eight hundred grand to write my autobiography. Are you crazy?” says the famous actor.
A wild run through the woods took place six days earlier. Both men were naked to the bone(r), and an albino gorilla was chasing them down. They had inadvertently woken him up from a deep sleep with their in the moment noises.
“Look out! He’s right behind you.” The gorilla grabs the ghost writer by the neck, and rips his head off. Blood gushes out, and the head rolls away into the thick part of the forest, like a bowling ball about to strike ten pins.
“Remember, I know what you are. I’m one, too,” says the writer to the actor. “Fact is, my butt is still sore.”
The actor’s face blushes, he squints, and drops his lips down into a nasty frown.
“Shit! Ok, ya got me.
Still hurts, huh?” He shoots a wide open grin at the writer. As an actor, he goes from pissed to happy in a millisecond.
“Told you long time ago. You’re way too big for me, remember?”
“Yes, yes… of course, I do.” The actor pounds his fist on the desk. “So, you promise you won’t tell anybody? I’m Tom Cruiser, the stud. The ladies would be so disappointed. Goodbye, fucking career.”
Pulls out his checkbook from the middle drawer, and writes one for four hundred grand, and hands it to the ghost writer.
“Half now, half when it’s finished. Make me look fantastic, which I am of course. “ They both stare into each other’s eyes, and burst out laughing.
“What you gonna do with the money. You don’t need it where you’re living.”
Tom slides his baby blues to the side, and admires his reflection in the wall mirror, smiling back at him with perfect white teeth, and a lady killer face.
“Damn! Stop looking at yourself. You’re not that great. Mr. big shot stud muffin. They’d shit if they knew you wore a toupee, and were flaming gay.
Don’t worry. Your self righteous secret is safe.”
The vain writer glances at himself in the mirror, just like his twin brother.
“Oh yeah, the money.
The Devil loves cash. Addicted to gambling and prostitutes in Vegas. Goes under the name Jack Nickelsin.
Need to buy my way out of Hell, so I can get my life back, and write your book of lies. I’m a ghost writer, remember, brother?” They both adjust their toupees, turn their heads sideways, and stare again at their handsome reflections.
They really are pair to draw to. Ugh… cliche
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