MADE TO ORDER
(Came to me in a dream. A really good dream. Thanks to all the writers here for their inspiration.)
1. THE REQUEST
Brendan Dorsey lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair. Erotic feature-length fantasy videos -- made to order -- only $300 each. And two years into the business, Brendan now could afford a studio space, filming and editing equipment, semi-professional actors and actresses, decent special effects, and a 1982 green Porsche named "Leslie." He made more money in one week than everyone else in his NYU film school class had made since graduation. Life was so good, that Brendan didn't mind it anymore when his parents told him he was going to Hell. He lived in Los Angeles -- how different could Hell really be?
Scratching his goatee, Brendan clicked on his p.c. and checked his e-mail. He received, on the average, twenty-seven point five requests a day for a custom-made movie. He made quality work, and got repeat customers. And as he clicked onto "New Mail," he recognized some of the names on the screen. Or at least the silly pseudonyms his customers used: KandyPorn, CumHither, Solomon. Every fantasy was different, and every fantasy was satisfied. Two years into the business, and Brendan had not received one complaint.
He skimmed through the requests. Yes, every fantasy was different, but in essence, they were all just variations on the same theme. Very few of his customers had any imagination -- that's what they paid HIM for. And he gladly served his duty.
When he came to Solomon's latest request, he paused. This was REALLY different:
Dear F.G.S. Productions,
Uh, hi. This is Solomon again. I've, um, been very satisfied with your products in the past and, uh, would like to order another film. I would like it to take place in, um, high school or college. I want the main characters to be pretty young women who discover a serum or a pill which can make them, um, you know, grow whenever they get aroused. Bigger. Taller. With muscles...and stuff. But not their, um, clothes. You know what I mean? I know you'll come through for me. Charge my account. But not the Discover card.
Brendan scratched his moustache. A film about female growth? But where was the sex? Sure it was a fetish but...
He picked up the phone. "Marty? I think we have our next project. Something really new."
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2. THE CASTING
Brendan had not done research on a film since he finished his graduate thesis at NYU, but he spent hours researching this new project, which he had named, with usual originality: "Growing Passions." He went to the library and read -- or at least browsed the covers of -- every text on amazons and giantesses. He surfed the net for all articles and stories involving female growth. And slowly, he was beginning to realize how real and erotic these kinds of stories were. And just how large this audience -- THIS UNTAPPED AUDIENCE -- was.
He could start a whole new sub-genre of erotic films.
But first he had to start "Growing Passions." So he locked himself in his office, sat down at his desk, lit a cigarette, scratched his goatee, and began to draft the treatment and his introductory notes.
"We have three girls: Kara the athlete, Madelaine the brain, and Debra the beauty. Three friends since they had adjourning cribs in the nursery. Our setting: Hayes High School. Debra's into the qb, Harry; Kara's into Debra; and Madelaine thinks she's too nerdy for any guy to like. No casting problems here. Then one night, working on her science project, Madelaine accidentally creates this new compound and it explodes all over her. The janitor, a real lech, comes in to see if she's all right, 'helps' her up -- more like feels her up -- and she grows. They have sex. They have sex? No, scratch that. She hits him, and he runs away squealing. Better. Then..."
Brendan stopped. Stared at the screen. Casting WOULD be a problem. HUGE problem. Literally. He had to find doubles for his lead actresses and the doubles would have to be beautiful amazons. The casting pool was big, but not THIS big. And there was just so much that could be done with special effects.
"Damn," Brendan thought, "I think I'll have to write my first rejection letter. Sorry Solomon."
Then his computer beeped. Someone had sent him an e-mail. He clicked it open.
We understand that you will be making a film about female growth. We may be able to be of some assistance regarding your "special effects." Please respond if interested.
Brendan frowned. First of all: how had "N" found out about this project? His studio was not tiny, but nothing he had done had ever been reported in any of the trade magazines. Second of all: since when were fx guys coming to him for work? Third of all: "N?"
Maybe this was Good Fortune. Maybe this was deus ex machina in effect. Maybe it was a scam. What did he have to lose? So Brendan sent back a message saying he was interested and then continued to write his notes and treatment for "Growing Passions."
About thirty-eight minutes later, he received a response to his e-mail.
We're glad you're interested. We would like to help make your film of as high quality as possible. A representative from our group will be at your office tomorrow with details. Thank you.
Brendan scratched his goatee. Something bothered him about all this. It wasn't the way he worked. As far as he knew, it wasn't the way anyone worked. But he had a job to do, and he was going to do it. Deleting N.'s message, Brendan returned to his treatment and spent the rest of the night, and the rest of his carton of cigarettes, writing and, come dawn, finishing it.
It was good stuff. Hackneyed? Of course. Riddled with cliches and stock characters and implausabilities? Like there was no tomorrow. But nevertheless, it was good stuff. It was very, very good stuff. Solomon would be pleased.
If he could film it.
And then someone knocked on his door.
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3. THE REPRESENTATIVE
Brendan rose and unlocked his door. Standing there was a small, thin, dark-haired woman, attractive in a pixie-ish sort of way. She wore a navy blue silk dress. Yes, Brendan had done three films involving women of this type -- he knew their appeal.
"May I help you?" he asked.
"I'm the representative."
Brendan frowned. "I'm sorry, is this an election year?"
"I'm the representative from the group. You received our message. Requested our assistance. I'm the representative from the group." She spoke with an odd, clipped diction, not necessarily foreign but definitely something.
"Come on in." He closed the door behind her and sat at his desk. She stood in front of him. Then he noticed the briefcase.
"We'd like to provide the special effects for this film. We have the means."
"But you'd like the money. Right. I know the deal." Brendan scratched his goatee. "So what's your price?"
"No price," the representative replied. "No financial price, that is."
"Uh-huh. So do you I give you for your services?"
"An advertisement for our group. At the beginning of every film you make using our services."
"Every video? Lady, this may be a one-shot deal."
"It won't be. We will guarantee that. You will guarantee an advertisement for our group, at the beginning of every film. A brief advertisement, no more than two minutes."
"For your fx group?"
She offered a tiny smile. "For our group. Yes. That's our only price. In return, you will have full and unlimited use of our...'effects.'"
Brendan pulled out a contract and a ballpoint pen from his desk. The representative signed her name: N.
"Oh, so you're N. How big is this operation of yours?"
"We're growing," she replied. She handed the pen back to Brendan. "Thank you, Mr. Dorsey."
"Hey. Thank you. Anyway, we should begin shooting next Wednesday. Do you know where our studio is?"
N. nodded and left. Brendan picked up the phone. "Hey, Marty, guess what? We just started pre-production on 'Growing Passions.' Let's round up the usual suspects and move on this thing."
He hung up and scratched his goatee. Something definitely was out of the ordinary about this whole project. But what did he have to lose?
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