Ass on Fire （It’s Not What You Think） #3
“Buzz can be good, particularly when it involves fresh faces. New discoveries. Audiences love someone they can relate to, someone to… believe in.” She held his gaze. “Tell us about who you’ve cast as Mary.”
Sarantino leaned back. A smile slowly spread across his face, the kind that suggested he enjoyed holding information just out of reach. “The role is still open.”
“You haven’t cast Mary?”
“I have a question for you… How’d you like to go for dinner with me sometime? I could put you in the movie you know, I’m the director—I do what I want.”
“Charming. But fortunately I’m in a very committed relationship with Ryan Gosling.”
“The Mickey Mouseketeer?”
“That’s the one.”
“That’s a pity Tess Tickles, we could be magic.”
Thankfully for Tess, the First Assistant Director knocked on the door, “Sir, we’re ready for you. The ass is back.”
Tess politely shook hands and then shook her head at her team as Sarantino left the room. Her sound person leaned in conspiratorially as he de-mic’d her, “What are you thinking Tess?”
“I’m thinking Mr. Big-shot director isn’t the angle on this story, it’s these three.” She plucked the Trinity flyer from the bulletin board and folded it into her purse.
Across the city, miles away from soundstages and manufactured miracles, the air felt different.
Cool and still carrying the last trace of day.
Rebekkah stood at a bus stop, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
The bench behind her was damp from an earlier rain.
The street smelled faintly of asphalt and something fried from a restaurant down the block.
A car passed too fast, tires hissing over wet pavement.
She pulled her jacket tighter around herself.
The zipper stuck halfway, as it always did. The fabric had softened over time, worn thin at the cuffs where her fingers worried at loose threads.
A grocery bag hung from her wrist. Plastic stretched around its contents. A carton of eggs. Bread slightly crushed at one end. A can of soup rolling gently with each movement.
The bus roared up in a gust of diesel and impatience.
Doors folded open and she climbed aboard.
Inside, the air was thick. Warm bodies. Miserly applied deodorant.
A faint sweetness of a soda can spilled and never fully cleaned.
She moved down the aisle, fingers brushing cold metal poles, and found a seat near the back.
The window beside her was fogged at the edges.
She wiped a small circle clear with the side of her hand and watched the city slide by in fragments.
Neon reflections in puddles. A couple arguing on a corner.
Friends laughing loudly outside a bar as they blew out cigarette smoke.
And her reflection painted a streak over it all.
Tired eyes. Hair pulled back without much thought. A smudge of a murdered mayfly near her jaw she’d swatted but didn’t fully smear away. She leaned her head lightly against the glass. Closed her eyes. Just for a second.
The bus lurched to a stop. Rebekkah’s eyes opened.
“Last stop,” the driver called, not unkindly.
She gathered her bag, stood, and stepped back out into the evening. The sky had deepened to a heavy blue. Streetlights hummed to life one by one, casting soft halos that barely pushed back the dark.
Her house sat halfway down the block. She climbed the front steps. Fished her keys from her pocket. They jingled softly, metal against metal. For a moment, she stood there, staring at the door. Something felt off. Not wrong, exactly. Just… different.
She shook it off. Inserted the key. The lock clicked open.
“Blessings on this house!” she called as she walked into her home. Inside, the air was warmer than she expected. And brighter. Too bright. She stepped in slowly, the grocery bag rustling against her leg.
“Hello?” she called, her voice cautious. No answer. But there was a sound. Electrical. And then—movement. A shadow shifting across her living room wall. Rebekkah took another step forward. Her grip tightened on the bag.
“Hello?” she said again, louder now. She turned the corner into her living room and then it hit her—
Makeup powder. Poof!
Hot lights. Blinding. White.
And pointed directly at her—a camera. Already rolling.
“Rebekkah,” her mother announced proudly, wheeling into frame like a pageant mom with a mobility aid and a mission, “ET Canada is here for you.”
And next to mom in her medi-chair, on the living room couch like she owned the place, sat Tess Tickles.
Waiting.
Smiling.
Hungry.
“Rebekkah,” Tess said warmly, as if they were old friends. “Welcome home.”
Behind her, a camera crew shifted into position. A boom mic dipped slightly into the frame, then corrected. Rebekkah stood in the doorway, her grocery bag slipping from her fingers. A soup can rolled across the floor. No one stooped to stop it.
Tess tilted her head, studying Rebekkah.
“Tell me,” she said, voice smooth as glass. “Who’s the daddy?”
The camera lens stared at Rebekkah. Unblinking. Waiting.
Rebekah paused.
She looked at the floor then back at Tess. Adjusted her cardigan where she was showing.
“It’s a funny story…” And she began to share it.
Order Bless This Hell Yes!