The Next Big Thing

The Next Big Thing

Flash Fiction Horror © 2010 by Michael Robb Mathias

"I won't do porn." She brushed her long golden hair out of her mascara laden eyes and sipped the last bit of her margarita. The music had stopped at last call.

"Nah, beautiful," he said as he fondled his goatee thoughtfully. "You're not porn material." She wasn't. Even when the dance floor lights went off, and the house lights came on, she looked great. Curvaceous, he decided. The tight black party dress only accentuated the look.

She pouted as if he called her fat. He caught it. With a glance around the emptying bar he put his arm around her. "You're too hot for porn. Baby, you could be the next big thing."

"Really?" She let her arm trail around his waist.

"You could be." He looked around the bar again curiously. "We're filming a piece later tonight. I can get you a part... If you want it."

"Absolutely!" She grinned, but then stopped and turned to face him. Her elation disappearing as quickly as it had shown itself. "No nudity right?"

"I told you baby. You're way too hot for porn." He replaced his arm around her shoulder and urged her toward the exit. "Didn't you come with friends?" he asked casually. He wasn't sure if she arrived with the girls she had been drinking with or not.

"Yeah, but they left with those lawyers." She stopped them again, right in the doorway, and looked up at him. She knew they weren't lawyers. They were car salesmen, but she didn't care. What she wanted was in this guy's pants, in the back right pocket of them. She put a worried little girl look on her face. She could definitely act, even when she was half drunk. "You think they were really lawyers?"

"Probably not. Let's get to the Caddy." He took her hand this time and gently pulled her out of the entry and into the well lit parking lot. "Maybe you should call them and see if they are alright."

She stumbled in her heels, but caught herself. "Yeah," she acted like it was a good idea. "You drive a Cadillac?"

"I'm a producer, what else would I drive?"

"You look like the sports car type." She giggled. Producer! She thought he was a make-up artist, or somebody's assistant. Maybe he was legit. She decided that he just might be. The Cadillac was old, but in immaculate condition; like a show car or something, all shiny, black, and sinister. She couldn't believe she had marked him for a stooge. He had a confident look, and his suit didn't come off of a bargain rack. It was obvious out here under the harsh street lamps that he wasn't just another pick up artist with a wallet. "Where are we going? Will I get paid for what I do?"

"Wait a minute." He let go of her hand. "You're not a hooker are you? I don't do that. I'm not..."

"I meant for my part in what you're filming tonight." Her tone was indignant, but her look pleading. She wanted him to believe her. "I'm not like that."

He thought about it for a moment. It didn't really matter. "I'll have to call my guy on the set." He opened the car door for her.

She faked her call. He didn't.

"She's the next big thing. I say we give her some cash," he said into his cell.

In a tiny voice that sounded plainly in the quiet interior she heard: "Tell her we'll pay her. I just want to get this done while the moon is full. There are no clouds and Earl is getting restless. Get her over here."

When he hung up the phone, she grinned to herself, but acted as if she hadn't heard.

"Three hundred bucks for fifteen minutes," he said it in a way that brooked no negotiating. She nodded in the affirmative as he fired up the Cadillac. She had only been hoping to pilfer his bills. Three hundred and some real exposure was a far better deal than creeping away with what was in his wallet.

"What's my part?" She asked as he drove. "Do I have any lines?"

"All you have to do is sit in a chair and throw your head around." He reached over and gave her thigh a pat. "Earl will do the rest. He's good at what he does. He's a rock star."

Rock star! "Where are we filming?" She fought to hide her excitement.

"Out in a wooded field behind a warehouse. Don't worry, we have a permit." He lied.

They cut through a lot with knee high weeds growing up through the cracks in it, and then turned behind a building. A van with a light stand in front of it was parked there. A fat bearded guy with a movie camera greeted them. He seemed pissed off.

"Get her in the chair," The fat man ordered. "Earl is tripping out and the moon is perfect."

She looked up and saw the full yellow moon. She was lead to an old steel desk chair that was sitting in the open field. A bank of trees formed a perfect backdrop. When she sat down he pulled her hands behind her back and cuffed them to the chair. The lights flared on.

"What are you doing? What do I do?"

"Just throw your head around like you're jamming." He stood and smiled at her panic stricken expression. "Oh, and scream when it hurts. Scream loud."

"What the fu... Who is that?" She was talking about the huge shirtless man that was stalking towards her with a machete in his hand. The camera man was stumbling along beside him filming.

"That's Earl."

"You said he was a rock star." She yanked at the cuffs franticly, but it was a futile effort. "What are we filming?"

"He's been smoking crack all day, hon. He is a rock star, and he's about to make you 'the next big thing' in snuff."

The End

If you liked this, start reading the free preview of Mathias' award winning horror thriller, The Butcher's Boy, here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004FPYWKU