Thanks to Tim Woodman—@ProVillian himself—for inspiration and support
Prologue.
THE PRESENTATION had gone as well as it could, and it was down to the decision, the moment, the pregnant pause in the meeting that hung everything in the balance. The air fell dead in the room, and the expressions around the table were dull and blank as everyone waited for someone else to say something. The first inhale happened, and everyone stopped breathing.
"I like this."
And that was all it took. The acceptance went around the room like a virus, like a ripple, and everyone was on board with the proposal, the project, and it was suddenly noisy, with thoughts and suggestions and ideas, and it all came down to the same question:
"Can you really do this?"
The Villain smiled that wry smile he would get at times like these with the signature head movement that was somewhere between a nod and a shake and said that yes, yes he could.
"You know someone—someones—who would actually do this?"
"Believe it. I got people begging me to be part of this."
"Interesting you put it that way. As always."
Laughter chortled into the waves of hummings as they bounced off the walls of the conference center.
"Alright then. Make it happen, my friend. Make us some money."
The Villain breathed a slow sigh of relief after everyone had left and savored the moment, the victory before he headed back to the office to start filling in all the blanks for the production costs, and began printing contracts, and making calls.
###
Act One, Scene One.
THE HARD part was getting all the guns. The Villain had begged, borrowed and stole every prop gun he could get his hands on. Everyone in the scene had to have one—man, woman, child—and the steadycam made its trek down the street, making it clear that everyone did.
"Cut. Would you all listen, please? I know how much fun it is to be in the background and draw your weapon, hoping someone pays attention to you, but if I haven’t told you specifically to, you have to leave them holstered. Visible, yes, but this isn’t a shot that establishes how easily they can come out. This is before any of that can happen. We just want to show how it looks for everyone to have one. Should be fucking scary enough on its own. Quickkdraw McFunnypants is not the point here. From the top, please."
The camera operator trudged back up the block, and everyone got back in position.
"Remember: it’s normal. So please. Don’t make a big deal that you have a gun. Nobody is special in this shot." The bullhorn cackled. "Everyone where they need to be? Alright. Annnd…Action."
The camera operator began her walk, rolling high-def, and The Villain followed behind. They passed the young woman with the sniper rifle slung around her back, pushing the baby carriage.
"Nope, cut. Don’t look at the camera, darling. One more time."
The day was lovely, the sun sparkled through the trees, and the extras had to work against their nature, against their own narcissisms; it was difficult to be transparent, casual, not the center of attention, let alone be simply unconcerned that everyone in the world was armed to the teeth. A plane flew overhead, and there was now suddenly extra need for foley in the budget. The camera turned, and approached the door to the restaurant. An arm reached into view, and opened the door, and the camera went inside, where it was dark.
"Beautiful. Cut. I think that’ll do. Thank you everyone. If you’re not slated to be in the next scene, please turn everything in to props."
The hustle and bustle of movie making carried on as the light got harsher and brighter outside, and the next scene was set up for in the bar.
###
Act One, Scene Two.
THE LOUNGE was packed. Various colored waters filled all the glasses, and all the men and women on set were working hard to make it look like they were having a good time in the meat market today. There would be more sound problems to fix in post, as the acoustics generally sucked. The sound guy shrugged, and the process continued.
"Action."
The camera followed the woman up to the last empty table, and circled her as she sat down. The waitress dutifully came up and took her order, sashaying her unreasonably short skirt and thigh-holster hard enough in a way that almost got the scene stopped—but not quite; the randy little bitch who didn’t get the lead still knew how to play the line between being important and not being important in a shot to her slight advantage as she disappeared into the crowd—and the woman, the starlet, The Actress once again in focus glanced around the room.
The Actor—fresh in from Broadway—was cued, and he approached the woman at the table with a mock-beer in hand. She glanced up and smiled at him, and nodded to the empty seat.
"Jesus, that’s a big one," she said, tipping her head to view the side of his leg as he sat. Glasses clanked in the background along with the cliché of low laughter.
"Do you like it?"
"Makes me wonder if you aren’t maybe over compensating for something. Do you drive a shiny red sports car, too?"
"Nah. Truck. A big one. But yeah. Rrrred." He crinkled his nose, and there was well-rehearsed pause. "Show me yours."
The Actress went coy. "Gee, mister, I don’t even know you."
"Oh, come on."
"If you insist." She opened her purse, and took her own piece out, and laid it on the table.
"Christ, that’s an antique."
"Still totally works. Can’t miss with it if I try." She leaned over the table and hoisted it up, running her fingers up and down the long narrow barrel, tipping her head toward her would-be suitor. "This is the best part right here. Imagine what that would be good for." She made a circle with her finger and thumb, and moved it around and down the gunmetal slowly, tightening her grip when her hand went the other way as she popped her hand off the end, before trying to nudge the weapon, twisting it back through the very tiny opening she symbolized that she had left in her otherwise empty hand. She wiggled slightly in her chair.
The man started heaving his chest, staring at the gun and the flirtation she was playing with. He licked his lips, and unholstered his own well-protected right, pointing it up to the ceiling. She lifted her eyes to what was in his hand; her breath caught. He bent his fingers over, still pointing the gun up, so that he was holding it upright by the grip with his fingertips. Keeping it completely vertical, he began an up and down motion with the service revolver.
"I, uh, don’t want to brag—"
"—Yes, yes you do."
He smiled, relaxed a little, and measured the tip of the barrel down toward the trigger with his other hand, spanning a length of it with his middle finger and thumb. He rolled his eyes toward hers, and waited for her to look at him before he nodded and slow-blinked.
"Oh, fuck." She straightened up and thrust her chest out toward him.
"Wanna get out of here?"
"God, yes. I thought you’d never ask."
The couple stood and put their weapons away, and made for the door.
"Cut! Beautiful. That’s a wrap for today, people, thank you."
The crowd of actors and crew started hooting and hollering. All the weapons in the room got drawn, aimed at whoever was nearby, and everyone made explosive gun noises with their mouths. Giggling and sniggering danced around, and the bristling set in as to where all the real booze was.
###
The Screening.
THE VILLAIN was nervous; the big day had come. He had thrown everything he had at this one, and had cut and reshot and re-edited the bejesus out of his budgets until even he was satisfied. The backers started arriving, and were delighted to meet the principal actors. They were very complimentary, especially of the woman, about how big a fan they all were of all her work. She smiled and tittered and thanked everyone for coming. At the nod of command from the host, and without further ado, she introduced The Villain and his latest effort. The room filled with shrugs and smirks through the mercifully short first act. Which, of course, was not what they had put so much money up for, even if they did acknowledge its necessity for the setup for the sake of art and literary merit and all that rot.
No, the real expense of the production saddled on up to cuddle with the director, as the Name Actress was about to earn all the money they paid to get her after the next cut.
The Second Act began in an apartment, with the couple stumbling through the door, desperately kissing at each other, clawing at each other’s clothes until they were in the middle of the living room, out of breath, standing, waiting for the other to make the first move.
The man drew first, aiming the gun directly to the middle of her chest. "Take off your fucking clothes."
She glanced over toward the coffee table by the couch, where her purse had fallen.
"Don’t even think about it, whore."
She looked at him, dead-square in the eye with a vile hunger, and began unbuttoning her blouse. Her fingers threw the cloth away from her, little by little as she quivered and rocked her torso side to side, breathing a sharp exhale through her nose with each button she undid. "You, too, outlaw."
"Not yet," he sneered.
She whipped her blouse back off her shoulders, and settled her arms down to her side, letting it slide and fall off her slowly as she continued her slow rocking, her breathing running jagged. She let him look a good long time.
"Keep going, sllllammmpig." The last half of the insult exploded from his mouth, falling dead in the room. The actress absorbed all the disgust, all the filth that went with it like a sponge, and relished what it did to her core.
Her face went flat, her eyelids drooped as she reached up to the middle of her back and undid her bra. It practically burst open from behind, and she hunched her shoulders forward to slow its way off her. She opened her mouth to breath deeper and faster as she let the cups fall forward into her hand, as she pulled her arms away from herself, revealing her breasts slowly, before she tossed it off to the side, not even looking toward where it landed, staying riveted on him.
"Ffffuck," he wheezed out, practically drooling at her for a moment before he screwed up his demand. "Are you rrrresting?" He thrust his chin and his lips forward.
She exhaled once, and slid her hands up to the front of her jeans, undoing the buttons on the front of it. She shimmied her hips from side to side, letting her pants fall down to the floor.
"Leave the shoes on."
"Like those?" She smirked as she bent over to wrestle her ankles out of the trousers before she stood back up, erect and straight, her hands ramrodded down at her side, with her head tipped down so her chin was practically on her chest, rolling her eyes up with all the smoke she could throw, thrusting her breasts up high and proud toward the man with the gun.
He appraised her body and approved of how her jostling made her boobs wiggle. "Show me." He made a circling motion with the nozzle toward the one piece of clothing she had left on, that did little if anything to cover her wax job.
Her eyelids fluttered as she slid her thumbs into the straps of her thong, and she bent back over, pushing it down to her feet, lifting a knee.
"Leave them there, around your ankles. I like that."
"Oh, you bad boy; hobbling me." She licked her lips.
"Shut up." He stepped around her, trailing his open hand over her stomach and around to her back, down toward her buttocks as he passed her on his way to the sofa. He plopped down, sure to keep his weapon directed toward her. "Now impress me."
"Mmmmm." She looked over her shoulder as she turned toward him, lowering herself to her knees slowly, gracefully, in one smooth motion, spreading her thighs so he could see between them before bending over then arching her back to make a show of her cleavage towards the floor, before she began to crawl across the room towards him, breathing slow and deep in time to how she rocked, making a seduction of her approach. When she reached him, she climbed up his calves, running her hands up and down his thighs, keeping her eyes on his face, accessing, planning, reacting to what he wanted.
"Use your teeth."
She inhaled long and hard. "Wicked man." She bent over his crotch, and put her face down into his lap, and began using her mouth to open his belt. She had trouble with the tops of his too-tight pants, and had to resort to looking back up to him, pleading that he allow her to succeed in what he asked of her by any means necessary.
He moved the pistol toward her face, and nudged her to open her mouth. She quivered, but complied, and he inched the barrel into her lips as she fought with his pants. For the first time, she looked worried, and she moved her hands faster, to get him exposed, to free him, so she could direct her mouth away from the gun.
"I shot a cunt last week, for doing this so god damn badly."
She shuddered, and wrapped her fingers around his cock, directing it up into the air between them, stretching him out, holding him, pulling gently up and stopping until his asshole contracted enough to pull the tip she so delicately held out of her fingers, getting her to do it again, and again, making him hard, easing her way back from the threat, lowering herself, widening her mouth, licking the barrel so he could see what she could be doing for him directly, instead of through the substitute he had aimed through her throat. She managed to pull herself off the weapon, and, keeping her mouth open wide, she finished closing the space between her mouth and his sex, and heaved her chest, pressing her breasts into his thighs.
As soon as her mouth made contact with him, he slumped back into the cushions. He absorbed her heat, her wetness, and his eyes rolled back into his head as she engulfed his cock into her mouth, taking him all the way in all at once, compressing his dick against the roof of her mouth.
"God, fuck, yeah," he rasped out.
She sucked him in, and drew him out, stretching his erection out further, bobbing her head up and down in his crotch several times, making murmuring sounds as she blew him as though her life depended on it. She pulled back, and let him fall out of her mouth, making a smacking sound. His dick smacked against his stomach.
He jerked, and startled, and flopped around on the couch. "What the fu—"
"—I killed a motherfucker last week for failing to make me cum." Her shoulder yanked up; the barrel of her own gun was completely buried in the man’s asshole. "Consider that your warning, you son of a bitch." She heaved her chest, and panted. His jaw fell, and he leaned forward, keeping his own gun at her neck.
"Fucking slut."
"Pansy-ass bastard."
He continued his forward motion, pushing her down toward the floor. Somewhere in there, she wrenched her gun out of his ass, getting him to lurch, and she pulled it up to the side of his head, under his jaw the same way his gun was directed towards her. They laid out flat, with him on top, jostling his cock in toward her pussy. She spread her legs and rolled her hips and had to reach in between them to get him where they both wanted him to be, to be inside her.
She wiggled and relaxed as he slid in; they both kept their eyes directed at each other, intently, both of them showing their teeth—his upper teeth, her lower teeth—as he fucked her, and she fucked him back. Both of their breathing cycles serrated, and the intensity of the intercourse mounted as he lunged into her harder and faster.
Their abandon was rampant—no stunt cock, no stunt pussy: this was the real deal, no question, actual penetration, insertion, thrusting, god, fucking, they were hate-fucking each other’s brains out—and the aggression and the lust was thick, and they fucked, and they threatened, and they swore, and they fucked more insistently, getting wilder as the fucking continued, on, and on, and fucking on, fucking, fucking, fucking, grunting, moaning, fucking. As he was about to orgasm, he cocked his gun. She responded in kind, becoming noisier, calling on him to fuck her harder, daring him to fucking fuck her like he fucking meant it, telling him to do it, come on, just fucking do it, lolling her head around, committing, ready, this was going to be it, nothing else was going to matter.
His cock pulled back, and out of her, and he came. Like a race horse. As he splashed her pussy with semen, she came, too. Came like she meant it.
The scene faded to black, and the end note flickered across the screen: "Another Villainy Production." A gunshot was heard.
###
Aftermath.
THE SCREENING room, filled with actors and backers and production people, exploded with applause as the lights came up. The Villain smiled, and put his hand to his chest, and took a small bow. "I hope it served."
The Principal Backer stood with a big grin on his face, the kind he got when he foresaw the bright and shiny future of money pouring in from these things, as he had so very often been rewarded with such splendors by his faith in the director, and reached his arm out. "Outstanding."
The men shook hands, and the crowd broke into buzzings of excitement, congratulations, and laughter. Milling about happened, drinks were refreshed, and The Actor and The Actress were clamored around, besieged with questions.
"Was it scary?"
"How many takes did you have to do?"
"I can’t believe you actually did this; will there be a followup?"
"Can I have your autograph?"
"How do you stay in such good shape?"
"I must extend my kudos," the Principal Backer said, "to your props people. Those mockups were quite convincing."
The Actress tipped her head into a blank look, and smiled wryly toward The Villain. "Mockup?"
"The gun."
"You mean this?" The Actress reached under the table, and pulled out the weapon she had used in the film. She checked the clip, and cocked it.
The Principal Backer laughed. "Yes. An excellent piece."
The Actress’s usual easy and engaging smile morphed into mockery. She whirled the antique around, and fired it. The bullet flew from the end of the barrel, striking the Principal Backer’s wife in the chest, bursting blood onto her cocktail dress. The victim fell back directly, flat, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, crashing into the coffee table, shattering glasses, splaying out on it, dead on impact.
The Actor pulled his own gun out from the couch cushions, and fired it into the crowd as well, wounding the camera operator.
"Everybody!" The Villain shouted, jumping up on coffee table, kicking the dead woman off. "Now do what we say!"
The room went still, and the whispering died out, and the attention settled down and focused entirely on the man who was apparently in charge.
"Take your fucking clothes off. Every last one of you. Right god damn now." The menace was thick.
Another shot rang out from The Actress, and another backer fell down, writhing and groaning, and everybody immediately went to work.
"All of it. Every stitch."
A couple of the men —extras that managed to finagle their way into the screening—refused, rearing fists back, and The Actor dispatched them. Compliance became the word of the day. Various women were crying, and everyone was quaking, trying to hide their shames with their hands.
"W-why would you do this?" one woman—The Waitress—tried to ask. She didn’t get to finish her last sentence on earth before she, too, took her place among the fallen. The Actress blew smoke off the end of her barrel.
"A fair question. You all thought it would be entertaining—or maybe even arousing—to see a famous couple fuck each other at gunpoint? Well, now you get to find out what it’s like for yourselves. You will all fuck each other, right here, right now. Every man in every woman, every man in every man, every woman in every woman. The first time you fail to get off, will be your last. Start fucking, start sucking, start fisting, start licking, start getting your hands and your cocks and your tongues into each other. Nnnow." The scowl meant business.
Another shot rang out, and another man slumped to the floor. Cries to The Lord began to bubble through the home theatre, as the people left at the screening began to turn towards each other, in fear, in trembling, tentatively reaching out for each other, touching each other—lightly at first, then more and more aggressively—shuddering, with faces crumpling everywhere as they all began molesting each other.
"This guy ain’t coming on to the guy next to him," The Actor said, reloading. "Think he’s afraid of being called a fag, afraid of sucking a little cock?"
"Ask him," The Villain said, crossing his arms.
"Hey, dipshits. Why aren’t you two sucking each other off? Are you prepared to die for your precious sexual orientation?"
"No, wait, please, I’ve never done this!"
"Your point? Show us. Right fucking now."
"Oh, god." The man fell down, crashing onto his knees, and opened his mouth.
The Actor came around to the other man, thrusting his gun up to his chin. "Stick it in. Put your god damn cock in this asshole’s fucking mouth." He cocked the gun. "Unless you’re ready to meet your maker right god damn now."
"Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit." The man on the floor waited, and nodded, palpitating, and the man under threat moved forward, his lips trembling as his penis, limp and useless, got enveloped by an unwilling mouth.
"You better fucking cum from this, you hear? Make our new little homosexual here gag." The Actor backed away, and turned his attentions around the room. The men were left to pleasure each other, as such as they could, as terrified of failing as they were of succeeding.
The cast and crew and executives were working on the demands, committed now, and The Villain, The Actress and The Actor leaned up against the wall, and watched, and approved, clinking their glasses. The trio pointed and elaborated on how fucking good one couple seemed to be doing, getting along—famously, at that—really going at it, getting into it, how maybe they’ll get a part in the sequel, look at ‘em go, and they all three laughed and drank, and pointed out how another couple might need more encouragement, more direction, more…motivation. Which was provided. Efforts were redoubled in the remainder after the guns got reloaded.
But overall, the sobbings and whimperings slowly melded into sounds of passion, as hips were being thrust, profanity was being gasped out, and heads were being thrown back from more than one kind of desperation.
The Villain turned and raised his chin with a leer and a squint, making a small head movement that was somewhere between a nod and a shake. He took a long slow breath, his gaze boring through the souls he looked directly into. His nose crinkled. "Any day now, assholes, any day now."
Fade to black, and the words "Another Villainy Production" crossed the screen. There were gunshots and screams in the dark.
###
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