Ass on Fire （It’s Not What You Think）
Ass on Fire (It’s Not What You Think)
Afeather slipped loose from the heavens and drifted downward, pulled as much by gravity as by the entertaining and bewildering behaviour of humans.
Below it, Jerusalem roared.
Heat rose in shimmering waves from packed dirt streets.
The air smelled like cumin, animal sweat, and something sweet burning just a little too long over an open flame.
Fabric stalls flapped in the dry wind. Voices overlapped in argument, prayer, and sales-personship.
A woman snapped herbs apart with quick fingers.
A man shouted about the firmness of his figs like his entire future depended on it; perhaps it did.
In the middle of it all, a young girl dug her heels into the dirt and yanked on a rope.
“Come on, move, dumb ass,” she begged, her voice thin with effort. At the other end stood a donkey. Obstinate and oblivious to her efforts, it remained a totally unwilling ass. A willful ass, a kinder person might offer.
Its hide was tickled with flies. Its eyes held the ancient grudge of a species that had seen too much and agreed to nothing. Certainly not to this strange game of fetch with no reward the girl was intent on.
The ass did not move. Not a twitch, nor a twerk.
The girl pulled harder. The rope burned into her palms.
The donkey exhaled. Then a thin ribbon of smoke curled out of its ear. Easy to miss if you were not already watching closely, but you, dear reader, are dialled in. Then came the hiss. Then a sharp pop, like butter hitting a hot pan.
The girl froze. The donkey ignited.
Flames burst from its back in a violent bloom, orange and furious, licking upward toward a feather falling from the sky. The smell of burning ass hit the Jerusalem market crowd hard. Singed plastic. Acrid. Wrong.
The girl screamed.
The crowd scattered in a frantic ripple, sandals slapping dirt, bodies colliding, someone knocking over a basket of olives that rolled everywhere like small green grenades.
The ass winked once and then cracked open down its middle with a mechanical wheeze. Its sides peeled apart to reveal wires, metal gears, and a blinking light that seemed deeply embarrassed to be so flagrantly on display.
Silence hung for half a second. Then a voice tore through it.
“Cut! Cut!”
The world collapsed. As did the remains of the donkey.
Ancient Jerusalem vanished like the dream of a sleeper struck upright with fright.
A concrete soundstage replaced it. Overhead rigging. Coiled cables. A faint smell of stale coffee and overheated equipment. Crew members rushed forward with fire extinguishers, white foam blasting across the smouldering remains of what had been, moments ago, biblical transportation.
“Cut!” the voice barked again, louder now, demanding obedience. “What in tarnation was that?”
Trenton Sarantino stood at the centre of the chaos, legs planted wide, one hand gripping a megaphone like it was an extension of his personality.
He was a man who dressed for attention and expected it to be paid.
His designer boots were dusted with fake Jerusalem dirt.
An abundantly buckled blazer strained slightly to keep its buckles braced across a gym-maintained chest. A fur hat stood tall on his head, which may have been sticky-fingered from a wild night with John Phillips of the Mamas & Papas fame.
He pulled his sunglasses from atop the fur hat and slid them on his mug because despite being indoors, the lighting was never his problem.
His jaw was tight. His nostrils flared just enough to suggest creative disappointment (in others’ work) was a recurring theme in his life.
A First Assistant Director hurried over, stepping carefully around cables and the melted carcass of the donkey.
He was short and solid, with a round face and calm eyes that had clearly seen worse.
His Def Leppard t-shirt had been washed so many times it had surrendered any ambition of not being see-through.
Board shorts hugged tightly at the hips and hung loose around his knees.
“Alright, everybody, take a breath,” he called out, voice steady and practiced. “Back to one. Back to one. Alice, can I get your team picking up those olives? They’re a tripping hazard.”
He turned to Sarantino, “Let me check in with the art department about getting another donkey. Do we have another robotic donkey?”
A nearby crew member hesitated, then shook her head.
“Sir,” the AD continued, lowering his voice just slightly, “we are about thirty minutes out from flying in an ass replacement. ET Canada is here. Do you want to talk to them now?”
Sarantino followed his gaze.
At the edge of the set stood a small camera crew.
Polished. Patient. A woman at their centre caught the light in a way that suggested she understood exactly how to use it.
Long dark hair fell in controlled waves over her shoulders.
Her posture was impeccable. One hip angled just enough to imply ease while actually requiring discipline.
Her face held a smile that could shift from warm to watch out without warning.
Tess Tickles.
Sarantino considered.
“Not really,” he said, adjusting his jacket cuffs. “I mean, how important is that show anyway?”
Tess lifted a hand and gave a small wave. It was effortless. Intentional. She winked.
“Well,” he said, as if generosity had just occurred to him, “a couple of questions won’t kill me.”
He checked his watch and briefly admired its sleek, expensive face. “How long have they been waiting?”
“Since just after lunch.”
He nodded. “Let them wait another ten minutes.” He turned sharply. “Jonah! My ride!”
An assistant materialized with impressive speed, pushing a bright yellow scooter that gleamed under the studio lights. It looked cheerful, aggressively so. Like a pacifier for a played out, perpetually pampered Hollywood director.
Sarantino swung a leg over it, settled himself, and pushed off. The scooter hummed as he zipped across the concrete floor, weaving past crew members who parted for him without needing to be told.
Sarantino’s office sat above the soundstage, glass walls overlooking the controlled chaos below.
Awards filled every available surface. Gold, silver, glass.
Plaques with engraved lettering that reflected light in self-congratulatory flashes.
Framed posters from past projects lined the walls, each one a fulfilled promise of popcorn glory.
All of it had been flown in from LA to Toronto so the movie director could feel in his element and at home.
Tess sat across from him, crossing one long leg over the other with practiced ease. Her heels were sharp enough to double as punctuation. She adjusted a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced toward her cameraman.
“Ready?” she asked.
He nodded.
She turned back, her smile settling into place.
“Three. Two. One. Champ or chump. Auteur or amateur,” she began, her voice smooth and deliberate. “These are the words being used to describe my guest today.”
Sarantino leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, already pleased.
“Tell us,” she continued, “are you missing Hollywood, or are you settling into our warm northern hospitality?”
“I would certainly like to settle into your northern—”
“I see etiquette has not followed you across the border.”
“Not yet,” he said, smiling. “But I am open to growth. Maybe if we stay friendly, yours will rub off on me.”
Tess held the smile. Barely. “Tell us what inspired you to make Jesus, Who’s Your Daddy?”
Sarantino’s eyes lit up, eager to share his genius.
“Okay,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. “So I wanted to tell the story of this Jesus fellow—Who he is. What he’s all about. Where he comes from.”
He paused, building importance. “He is the son of G-O-D, okay?” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “and I think it is tragic that nobody knows about him.”
Tess blinked once. “...Nobody knows about him.”
“Exactly,” Sarantino said, nodding. “How many Jurassic Park movies have been made? Who knows, right? A lot.”
“There have been two so far,” Tess supplied. “What does that have to do with…”
“But why keep mining the same old, practically extinct material? I’m a director who seeks out completely original stories. Like what we’re making here. Hollywood has completely ignored this incredible northern legend of Jesus.”
“Legend?” Tess repeated carefully.
“Right.”
“And how’d you discover this northern legend?”
“I was in Saskatchewan, filming next summer’s blockbuster, Bigfoot ‘n’ Me. It’s a monster-sized romance, it’s gonna be huge. Huge!” He reached for a pen. A small crucifix sat on top of it, gold and beautifully detailed with a nearly nude man with arms outstretched as if waiting for a hug.
He clicked the pen’s head twice before setting the scene, “The cold hit me hard and fast. Like someone grabbing your gonads and holding tight. It sliced through the layers of my clothes and went straight for bone. The sky stretched wide and pale above a town that looked carved out of endurance.
Snow covered everything. Thick, uneven, marked by footprints and tire tracks that froze as quickly as they formed.
The air smelled clean but heavy, like it carried secrets it had no intention of sharing.
I walked down the main street in a coat that belonged somewhere else.
Tailored. Sleek. Embroidered beautifully but utterly useless against this kind of winter. Did I mention it’s freezing cold?
This beautiful coat is letting the wind just rip in and my nips are hard tips but my toes are toasty, thanks to these designer shoes made with leather and lined with fur I picked up there called Mukluks.
And you can wear them no problem, no one is gonna hassle you.
Not even the Mounties. Not like the fashion police in Milan and Paris with their no animal product tirades.
Like, what are we supposed to wear if we can’t wear fur? ”