HELL OF A DEAL, a supernatural satire

Chapter Seventeen

17

Back in Al's sanctuary, the Terra script had not arrived electronically. Smith pushed his treadmill harder. He breathed quickly now. He could run, and he banged the accelerator button once again. Faster he ran. One more time. He was nearing the maximum speed of the machine.

Al yelled out, gasping for breath, "Fuck it!" He took the treadmill to its fastest speed, something he'd never even contemplated before.

The vibrations rattled his brain. The blood coursed like lightning through his circulatory system. Al felt alive. His feet tromped in a blur of surreal motion. One false move and Al would meet a crippling disaster.

He slammed the stop button, or else wipe out and break his bones. The machine settled and went silent. Al hung forward, grasping the handrails for support. His breathing was so hard, his face flustered and red. It seemed like a dream, but indescribably good to be back again, to be alive again.

Al straightened up erect, and he walked out of the sanctuary and off into the studio's office floor.

"Mr. Smith?" Anna said, "Are you okay? You're all flustered."

"No. I'm alive. Call me Al, remember?"

"Of course."

Al continued his stroll toward the elevators.

The intern Ashlyn played on the Internet, believing no one was watching. When she noticed Al Smith pass by her desk, she quickly looked busy, and she sprang into action. "Hello Mr. Smith."

"Hi Ashlyn." Al paused in the lobby.

"You remembered my name!" Ashlyn smiled for him, and her teeth were aligned perfectly, much like the rest of her.

"It's my job to remember names and faces," said Al. His palm slapped the elevator button, and the box arrived immediately with a crisp ding.

Al paused, and he inspected the waiting elevator.

"Are you leaving early?"

"Don't know. Maybe. I need to get out of the office." Al peeked across to the stairwell. "I'm in the middle of a workout. I'll take the stairs."

"Good idea." Ashlyn watched Al stroll across to the stairwell door.

Ashlyn waved. "Bye bye."

"Bye."

Outside the tower, Al turned, and he headed up the manicured pathway toward the sound stages. Curious to see what was shooting today, a few years had passed since Al had last ventured over to a set. The previous excursion had been tiring and counterproductive.

Al walked past the random crew and craft services personnel, none of whom recognized him. He snatched a banana from the buffet of a quirky comedy production that seemed to hold some promise. Al spied in on the scene in progress, a gaffe with firearms discharging accidentally. The bumbling but lovable hero blundered his way through a gun store.

Just then Al's cell phone chimed out with a new dance song that he'd uploaded into it.

The comedy director exploded in a reign of terror. "What the! Cut! Who the hell's got their phone on on my set! Son of a bitch!"

Al snuck off rapidly and out the door without being recognized. A devilish grin on his lips, he skipped around the side of the soundstage building, and he finally spoke into the phone, "This is Al."

Anna was present, and she said, "It's Zach Zane for you."

"Really? Great. Send it." Al scoped out a shady spot to receive the actor's call.