Read by Scott Sigler
Redmond laughed nervously. His face had too many freckles, his skin was too pasty, his personality too slippery. “A lot of people are trying to get into this new movie business, but not usually by killing themselves on film.” He sheathed the blade and handed the slim katana back.
Michael frowned at how low he himself had fallen, how disappointed the spirits of his own dead family must be. “Most directors do not wish to photograph such a spectacle either, and most patrons do not wish to see the result. But there are exceptions everywhere.” He gave Redmond a cold stare. “You and I know how to find them.”
The director raised his chin, pontificating. “Fifteen years ago, people flocked to nickelodeons to see a man sneeze, to watch a waterfall or a running horse. Today, we’ve got to give them something more for their money, eh?”
“I’m sure we do.”
With a deaf ear for his assistant’s sarcasm, Redmond strutted around the floor, looking at the natural light, at the position of the white blanket, but Michael had already set everything up perfectly. The three Japanese followed the director with their eyes, like animals in a cage.