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John Samuels · (03-10-2014)

“This is stupid.”

“No! It’s excellent!”

“Couldn’t I have at least kept my pants on?”

The annoyed face of John Samuels opens the scene. His eyes slowly scan the room as the camera pans out, revealing a bright white screen him. The shuttering of cameras can be heard over the music loudly blaring through the set. A woman with a brush is applying a thin layer of makeup to his cheek, with each stroke he shoots her a twisted glare. Samuels clears his throat and purses his lips, causing the woman to make away slowly.

Samuels: We’re shooting a video, not walking a street corner. If I wanted to look like a gutter whore I’d ask Ann Thraxx to help. Why don’t you make yourself useful and go grab me a few of those fancy little queer sandwiches that you movie types like to snack on?

A slight snickering is heard off camera. Samuels’ head instantly turns to the direction of the laugh.

Fairchild: Somebody sounds a bit grumpy.

Samuels: Don’t you even start with me, this is your fault. What in God’s name am I doing here, anyway? I’m not some hussy that humps every swinging dick within’ arms length.

Fairchild reaches in and attempts to straighten Samuels’ hair, but is met with a hand slapping her’s away.

Fairchild: Quit your fussing.

Samuels: You want me to quit my fussing? Get me a damn drink and get all these cameras away from me. And this music...it’s terrible. Shut it off. I’d rather listen to the sucking sounds that come from Eli’s bathroom when he’s dropping a growler and Sid Feder is ‘supervising.’ You do remember that there is a somewhat important event happening this weekend, don’t you?

Fairchild: Yeah, yeah, I remember, your big important wrestling game against the guy that looks like--um…

Samuels: For crying out loud, he looks like Chunk from the Goonies! Remember him? The fat little boy in the Hawaiian shirt that did the dance with his fat jiggling around. Ah, what a classic moment in cinema history. Maybe once I put the boots to Eli bad enough I can make him recreate it.

Fairchild: Absolutely darling. Now can we get back to the task at hand? I know that your match with Chunk is a big deal, but so is your re-election bid. You’re golden, as far as the thirty-five and up demographic is considered, but you’ve gotta reach out to the youth. We need you to reconnect with the younger voters so they can see that you’re right for them too.

Samuels: By making me stand around in my fucking underwear?

The camera zooms out. Samuels is wearing a tight, white tank-top that shows his stomach. Below his stomach, a tight pair of briefs colored like the Texas flag are fitted to his waist. In an attempt to hide the bulge hidden by the lone star on his underwear, Samuels holds the head of a sledgehammer tightly against his crotch.

Fairchild: It’s an iconic image with the young voters today. Everybody knows this scene. It’s hot. It gets people talking.

Samuels: I look like a bloated bull in a codpiece. You might as well start calling me the Crimson Dong. This isn’t even remotely necessary. Can’t I just do some kind of hippy hop thing with some big ol’ rims on a truck and some big booty hoes?

Fairchild: Not without a sexual harassment lawsuit.

Samuels lets out a laugh and nods his head in agreement.

Samuels: Good point, I’d be happier than a sissy with six dicks.

Fairchild: You might want to--

Samuels: What? Watch what I say? Big deal. Sid Feder and Dimallisher are going to use their three collective brain cells and call me a

. Who cares. Sid’s a cripple; mentally, emotionally and physically, he’s about as scary as herpes is to a leper. He’s just a crusty old man, trying to make it between prostate exams without breaking a hip. And Dimallisher? God he’s so far up Sid’s ass he should be able to register his temperature. Where does Eli get these clowns, the clearance aisle in Walmart? Tell me it’s difficult to picture Sid in sweatpants, arguing with a pimple-faced virgin about his expired Vagisil coupons. Dimallisher standing next to him with a big, shit-eating smile and a handful of Beggin’ Strips that he’s snacking on while he’s waiting on upskirt photos of elderly women to develop from his disposable camera.

Fairchild: That is kind of a vivid picture. As much as I’m absolutely loving this, however, we are paying these guys by the hour and they aren’t cheap.

Samuels: Cheap like Eli? You’d think the guy would spend a couple bucks to get himself a decent entourage, but no. Look at the rest of his help, it’s a fucking joke. It’s like he got back from picking up those two shitsniffers at Walmart, then reached his fat little sausage fingers down his beard-hair clogged shower drain, and pulled out a grimy, disgusting, moldy, probably semen covered, group of scum that would make the average man gag and wretch at the mere sight of them. He’s a stinky, mangy dog with fleas that gravitate toward his wrinkly beanbag. Disgusting critters.

Fairchild looks down at her watch and shrugs her shoulders at a man in a director’s chair holding a megaphone. The man throws his arms into the air and collapses back into his chair.

Fairchild: Look, we really need to get this ball moving. This guy directed a Huggies commercial, he came highly recommended.

Samuels: Come on! I’m on fire here! Leave connecting to the youth to Morbid Angel, that fatass pedophile.

Fairchild: On. The. Ball.

Samuels: But…

Fairchild: Do it.

Samuels sighs and tugs his shirt off. As he reaches for his underwear the lights all go black for a moment, turning on to reveal a naked Samuels, save for his Stetson, seated atop a large steel ball suspended from the ceiling. Samuels is gripping the chain with one hand, in the other he holds a large, lit cigar between his fingers.

Samuels: Do you have any idea how cold this is on my balls? I’d rather tie myself to a chair using Rose Smiths’ panties and listen to Eli mouthqueef for an hour than be up here. How did that poor girls giblets not stick to this damn thing while she was up here? How am I gonna get off of here? My ballskin is going to stick this giant analbead when I get off. I can’t have that. I have got the most important match of my career this weekend, and I don’t think a chapped sack is gonna help me out at all.

Samuels takes a drag off his cigar and blows the smoke straight up into the air.

Fairchild: How can you be so worried about that when you’ve got an open flame and exposed testes within 3 feet of eachother?

Samuels: I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to burn my balls with my cigar.

Director: Action!

Samuels: Wha--WHOAAA

Before he can finish his thought, the large ball begins to swing back and forth. Startled, Samuels reaches for the chain with both arms, dropping the cigar in his lap. Letting out a loud shriek, he reaches for his groin, causing him to fall several feet from atop the ball, face down. He springs to his feet, his hands covering his crotch. Frantically, Samuels runs around the set, slapping his hands at his crotch.

Fairchild: I told you you’d burn your balls!

Samuels: No! It’s my pubes! They’re on fire! Get me some water!

Fairchild: I told you to start waxing.

Samuels: SHUT UP!

Spotting a large punch bowl on the catering table, Samuels bolts towards it and leaps. Extending impressively in mid-air, Samuels’ crotch lands directly into the bowl before he flips the table over. Samuels stands with the bowl covering himself and lets out a sheepish grin.

Samuels: I told you I wouldn’t burn my balls.

Fairchild begins to wretch.

Fairchild: Oh my God. Burnt pubic hair is the worst thing I’ve ever smelled.

Samuels: Have you ever met Lazarus? You’d think that mask would filter some of the stank but that breath… My God, it smells like he pleasures dead seals and tries to mask it by eating mustard and onion sandwiches.

Samuels is cut off by the a ringing phone. Fairchild grabs the phone and takes a look, and quickly rushes it over to Samuels. Samuels takes a look at the phone and smiles.

Samuels: Well, well, Mr. Pryce. What can I do you for?

No, this isn’t a bad time at all. I was just acquainting myself with the catering table here.

Not particularly, the sandwiches are smaller than the penises that Morbid Angel likes, and the punch tastes like dick.

The billboards! I almost forgot! Yes sir, I rented sixteen billboards all across the city to let people know exactly what Theo Pryce stands for. I had Ms. Fairchild design them like president Odumbo’s old ones, to connect with the kids, y’know? Here, I’ll send over the image now.

Samuels hands the phone over to Fairchild and shrugs.

Fairchild: Just a moment, Mr. Pryce.

The camera zooms in on the phone, and of the image that Fairchild selects to send to Theo:

Fairchild hands the phone back to Samuels and walks off, holding her nose in disgust.

Samuels: What do you think Theo? You like it?

Yessir, fifteen of those bad boys all over the city.

Well, yes. Fifteen are yours. And one, well… One I thought I’d do special. It’s a billboard just before the off ramp to my ranch. It’s just a little motivational piece that gets me through those long commutes, you know?

Exactly. Exactly. We’ll be seeing you real soon, Theo.

The scene goes black and reopens to Samuels driving down the interstate in a large, white pickup. Stone-faced for several seconds, he suddenly bursts out into laughter. With a hard crank of the wheel, Samuels’ truck veers off the side of the road. As the dust settles, Samuels steps out and circles around the front of his truck. He places his hands on his hips and lets out a loud laugh.

Samuels: Oh number sixteen. You are by far the best money I’ve ever spent.

With another chuckles, Samuels heads back into his truck. The door slams as the camera moves upward. The truck peels away as the camera reaches the image from the sixteenth billboard.

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