“So, Rodriguez. You think you can waltz into my neighbourhood with your fancy guns and armoured trucks and take over?”
Rodriguez chewed on his toothpick, flipping it around with the tip of his tongue.
“No one can take my spot, you conejillo de indias. I own this territory. I own these men. The policía follow my command.”
The heat of the sun bore down through the Columbian rain forest. Sweat ran as rivulets from their foreheads to their soaking vests. Two small armies faced each other in a line, waiting for their commanders to give the word. Del Blanco grimaced through his beard. His beady eyes narrowed as the toothpick was tossed to the sides of his enemy’s mouth with the skill of a juggler. The silence reached even to the animals who incessant squawking and screeching vanished in the midday light.
Rodriguez reached up to extract the toothpick.
“You’re an old man, amigo. Why don’t you retire gracefully? Jump into that white limo you love and drive off into the sunset. It’s time to let the new sangre take control.”
Del Blanco drew in some phlegm to the back of his throat and spat. The mucus flew to land beside Rodriguez’s polished shoes.
“I will spit on your grave,” he screamed.
“And I will dance on yours.”
Rodriguez pushed the toothpick between thumb and forefinger and flicked. It hurled into the air and both sides watched as it speared Del Blanco’s eye. His howl sounded the battle cry.
Bullets ripped from sub-machine guns as both sides pulled their triggers. Bodies slumped to the earth as the rounds found their marks. Rodriguez took out his pistol and charged. The tackle caught Del Blanco off guard and both men fell to the ground.
“You think you can kill me? I am Del Blanco. I am immortal.”
A fist shot out to catch Rodriguez on the chin. He held the pain in check and rained down a blow of his own. It caught a golden molar that flew out of Del Blanco’s mouth with a thick mix of spit and blood. But the old hand wasn’t finished yet. He replied with a knee to the gut causing Rodriguez to lose his grip. He reached up to claw at his face but was countered by a headbutt. Both men rolled along the forest floor, each determined to destroy the other and claim the prize.
An explosion broke the ranks of the armies as a grenade fired. Others stepped forwards to take the spots of the fallen. The Columbian sky became ablaze in orange with the screams of the injured drowned out by the hail of bullets. Del Blanco had his hands wrapped around the usurper’s throat. He had managed to gain control and now straddled the younger man’s chest.
“Pathetic rana. No one comes into my patch to take what’s mine.”
Rodriguez was fading. The grip was getting tighter. He had one chance to reply.
“You’ll…never…”
Del Blanco paused as if waiting for his enemy to speak.
“You’ll…never…”
Rodriguez was turning scarlet. He tried to mouth something.
“Never…Oh shit. Line.”
The director drew a line under his throat. “Cut,” he yelled. The film crew stopped the cameras and the bell sounded to end the scene. Del Blanco stood up and shook his head.
“Damn you, Jack. We almost had that one in the can.”
Rodriguez sat up and ripped off his wig. The dark locks dropped to unveil a mass of blonde hair. He was gritting his teeth. The director stomped over to his two leads.
“What the hell was that? You know how much this shoot is costing me? That’s fifteen takes of one bloody scene. That’s it. I’m calling it a day. I need a shot of tequila.”
He threw the script up to catch the breeze. The page floated down on the C-lister’s face. Jack Stiller Junior pushed himself to his feet while Del Blanco stomped off to join the rest of the cast.
“Hey, guys. You should have kept rolling. Haven’t you heard of post-production editing?”
The cameraman wiped down the lens as Jerry gave him a hopeful look. With no reply, he snorted and made his way to the trailers.
“How many times do I have to tell them to keep rolling. All these ridiculous lines. They just don’t get it. The audience knows when we’re faking and when it’s real.”
His minder José turned the page of his newspaper and folded his legs. Jerry rubbed at the fake blood on his nose with a wipe.
“I mean I know it’s acting but come on. This isn’t the eighties anymore. People want real. They don’t want stunts or phony accents.”
José scanned the sports page as Jerry ripped out another wipe.
“What that lot don’t realize is I have a pedigree career. Jerry Stiller Junior is more than just a two-bit Hollywood hack. Method acting is in my blood, man. I was up for that Oscar until Eastwood stole the spot. God damn westerns. I’m trying to make a southern, José. José? You listening?”
José ruffled down the sheets of the tabloid to read the headlines. Jerry flung another wipe onto the pile in the bin.
“If it were me I would redo this whole shoot. Go guerillastyle. Down in the trenches, dirty and mean, you know? I wouldn’t tell the cast too. I’d just light the place up one day and throw them in the middle of it. Just imagine. Toss in a grenade and see what they’ve got. BOOM.”
As Jerry closed his mouth the earth shook.
