I found my way to the studio. Hidden behind a fence of shrubberies on a quiet residential street, it barely qualified as a place of business. There were no windows, barbed wire fences surrounded it, and all but one of the doors was secured with a padlock. The elaborate security measures were probably intended to scare away horny teenagers and curious tourists, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was trespassing on a hostile religious compound.

I found an unlocked door, and entered what appeared to be a rather ordinary reception area. It was clean and well lit, and reminded me of a dentist's office -- not the strip club atmosphere I'd been anticipating. But I was reminded who owned these premises when I was greeted by a big-breasted secretary, dressed in a low-cut dress that revealed far more cleavage than I was prepared for so early in the morning.

"Hello," she said brightly, smiling up at me. "Are you here for the gangbang auditions?"

"Uh, no," I said. "I'm a writer. I believe they're shooting my script today."

Her smile vanished and she gestured toward a flight of stairs. I wondered exactly what was involved in a gangbang audition. Was a headshot and résumé required? Would you be asked to prepare a monologue? Probably best not to give it too much thought. That way madness lies. I climbed the stairs and entered an unlit hallway. I waved my hands, searching for something to guide me. I found a cushioned wall and pressed my body against it. I could hear voices, what sounded like rhythmic moaning. I moved toward the sound, hugging the wall like I might fall to my death if I let go even for a second.

As I crept down the hallway, the voices became louder, but I didn't see even a glimmer of light in the distance. I began to panic, certain that I would never find my way out of this hellish abyss. And then, quite suddenly, the wall ended. I flailed wildly with my free hand, but all I could feel was air. The moaning seemed to be right next to me, but I was still blinded by darkness. I jumped into the void and landed with a crash. Almost immediately, I felt the warm glow of light on my face.

"Cut!"

I looked up and saw that I was lying in the middle of a large room built to resemble a hotel lobby. From every corner, strange men were staring down at me. Some of them held boom mics or lighting equipment, others stood behind cameras. In the middle of the room, a scrawny man was sitting on an old leather couch. He was dressed in a bellhop uniform, complete with cap and tux jacket, except he wasn't wearing pants. Kneeling before him was a busty woman, her hair so heavily bleached that it had turned white. She was completely naked, and her face was buried in the man's lap.

"That was one hell of an entrance, sport," the man said, baring his teeth at me in greeting. The crew sighed in unison, perhaps relieved that I was not an unexpected intruder. The man in the bellboy cap extended a skeletal hand towards me.

"Great to finally meet you," he said. "I'm Brandon."

I said nothing. I could barely blink.

"Do me a favor and sit over there," Brandon said, pointing toward a couple of folding chairs behind the camera. "You're in our shot."

Although I couldn't feel my extremities, I somehow got to my feet and scurried out of the glaring floodlights.

"OK, let's try it from the top," Brandon said, adjusting himself while the actress took a much needed breather.

I collapsed into a free chair, relieved that I was no longer the center of attention. Seated next to me was a greasy man wearing an old T-shirt and jeans, his limp brown hair highlighted with streaks of blond. He was studying a monitor, which played back everything the camera was recording, and listened intently to a pair of headphones strapped to his head.

"Exciting work, huh?" I said, trying to be friendly.

He ignored me, so I looked around the room for some other distraction. I pretended to be fascinated by a random crew member who was busy changing a gel on one of the lighting fixtures.

"Roll camera," Brandon shouted.

"Rolling," the cameraman shouted back.

"And action," Brandon barked. His face contorted into an expression of pain or pleasure, I'm not sure which. The actress returned to her task with machine-like precision, making up in technical prowess what she lacked in enthusiasm. Brandon's grinding hips caused the leather upholstery to squeak under his bare buttocks. The actress, as if waiting for just such an excuse, began to titter like a schoolgirl. Brandon rolled his eyes and shot a sidelong glance at the cameraman.

"We can fix it in editing," he said, waving at Brandon to continue.

I found some comfort in focusing on the monitor, as it gave me the illusion that the horrifying sexual act being performed just a few feet away was actually taking place somewhere else. The camera's lens zoomed in and out, searching for the perfect gynecological detail. Every shot seemed like a blur of random fleshy bits, bent in improbable angles that made it impossible to know what you were looking at. A disembodied hand came into view, and just as quickly disappeared. I saw something that could have passed for either a nose or a testicle. I supposed this too would be "fixed in editing."

The muffled moans reached a fever pitch, and I decided that I had seen enough. I tried to force myself into a trance; it seemed the only alternative to watching this gruesome union reach its inevitable conclusion. I let my mind wander, hoping that I'd eventually be able to tune out all the sights and sounds that threatened to drive me mad. But as my eyes drifted around the room, a haunting thought occurred to me. I had not written a scene that in any way involved either a hotel lobby or a bellboy.

I turned to the monitor guy, who was adjusting a soundboard with delicate precision. "Excuse me, " I whispered. "You wouldn't happen to have a copy of the script on you, would you?"

Once again, he ignored me. But I saw a white folder tucked under his seat, with the name of my script scribbled on the front. Careful not to disturb him, I reached under the chair and grabbed the folder. I flipped through my script, scanning the pages for any mention of a hotel. There was none. "Can I ask you a question?" I said, tugging at the monitor guy's sleeve.

Begrudgingly, the man turned to me and glared. "What?" He hissed.

"I'm a little confused. Are you shooting just one movie today?"

"Course."

"And what's the name of it again?"

He told me. It was the same title I'd given my script. Something was very wrong here.

"You're sure?" I asked. "The reason I'm asking is, I wrote it, and I don't remember writing this particular scene."

His eyes widened in mock horror. "Dear God no," he said. "Well, we better stop production right away. We can't finish this thing if the story isn't right."

He sniffed at me, and turned his gaze back towards the monitor.

"Alright, people, let's break for lunch," Brandon announced. The actress had already left the set, and Brandon was wrapping himself in a towel.

"Thanks a lot, pal," the monitor guy snarled at me. "We missed all the good stuff."

I didn't even hear him. I was too busy rereading my script, wondering what else had been changed without my approval.

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