Monday 7 December 2020

Beat To a Pulp

 Edited by David Cranmer and Elaine Ash, this site publishes hard hitting, punchy tales.

The Show Must Go On (Originally entitled Porn Again Kristen) - 2010

The Show Must Go On

by Mark Robinson

"How's Kristen doing, doc? Ready to go, again?" The producer watched the huddle around his leading lady split revealing her bloated red body.

The doctor removed the stethoscope from his ears and turned to face him. "She's had a type-one reaction to the peanut butter. Any further exposure could lead to anaphylaxis."

The producer hissed a breath through his teeth. That was the whole idea. Allergy-porn was the next big thing and this feature would be his latest money-spinner. "Can't you just dose her up with another batch of antihistamines or something?" He was no expert but it worked for his leading man who had been allergic to bee stings on the last shoot; his body covered in red welts, throat constricting but the guy kept on pumping like a pro until the director yelled cut.

The doctor kept shaking his head, "She's way passed that now. We're looking at a possibility of an adrenalin injection."

But, they only had one more scene to go. His leading man was waiting in the wings. Heading off toward the huddle where his assistant was standing, clip-board in hand, "Is she still conscious?"

Tom gave him the thumbs up.

Satisfied, the producer called for the set to be cleared. The safe in his office held Kristen's signed contract, together with a list of her allergies. She was perfect for this project, a woman borne of almost every twenty-first century ailment plaguing society from common hay fever and dust mites to the not-so-common eczema and peanut allergies. From their pre-shoot meeting, he even suspected her of being lactose intolerant.

They were about to find out for sure.

Desperate for fame, Kristen had begged Dane for a part in his next film, "I'll do anything, please."

She was attractive, blonde but nothing he hadn't seen before. He was casting for a couple of run-of-the-mill films that required women who could lure the punters, those who had a bit of a following from reality

Right up close, Kristen was a state. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Her puffy, half-closed eyelids struggled to make him out. Tom, his assistant, bent to hear her whispers.

"Three," he answered for her.

"Okay, nod if you're good to go?"

Only a fraction of movement, but movement it was all the same.

"You see that, doc?" He was behind the camera, shaking his head in the shadows. "The money-shot, that's all we got left to do."

Leaving Kristen on the bed, swaggering over to his leading man ready for action, those welts red but not as angry as they were a few days ago. "You all set, Champ?"

A concentrated nod as he handed a runner another empty milk carton.

"Please, can't you finish this tomorrow?" The doctor said.

Hands in the air. "We're all out of money. We need this wrapped and ready to go."

Holding up a syringe, the doctor asked if he could at least administer it as a precaution.

"You got one minute, doc. Then we're rolling." Allowing the doctor through, he took his seat next the director behind the monitors.