Buxby was sick to his stomach after another days work. It didn't show on his pale grey face. He wiped it hard with his hand, removing the makeup. He felt his muscles sag under the depression. He had turned away when the director yelled it- 'arrright guys and gals, that's a rap up for the shot! That's all folks!' His mouth was too dry. Too many lines. Too much sarcasm in Tinseltown. He got himself extricated from the underlings combing about, with their clipboards and earphones. He had heard the director the first time he announced the schedule. The night was his- if he wanted it. He could have his chauffer drop him at the Playboy mansion, give the bunnies a show. One long night of debauchery.

He found his first safe haven for the crawl away from madness. It was a life of little islands for him. Small safe-havens were deposited in the open and all around- he didn't care who saw. Vintage scotch. He had the trailer, the pool house, the basement, the glove compartment, the bedroom, the parlor, the kitchen, the living room, and here he was back behind the set. In the dark contrast and blinding gaffer lights- he found himself twitching at the edge of the blade of living. He slouched into his favorite chair and the day seeped partially out. On a good day it was his favorite place- when he was dead-nuts on with a quip or a straight man line- on a bad it wasn't. It was gunshots and mass murders, cheating dames and the clap from some drunk cross-eyed hooker picked up near Slauson. It was the double barrels swinging in place for a better view of destiny. He had a recent check-up which was regulation set by Mr. W- but he was an actor and that was part of the gig. He personally didn't find anyone putting their hands up his boned hairy-ass very funny. Here came another gag, like the other night on the ride home- a vision in foreshadow- like the eyes of a coyote crossing the street in the night- looking at him, all sick and yellow. A permanent smile in sodium lamps. It came from the desert just to tell him: he'd get him someday. He wasn't clever like he used to be, he felt his descent too far back to remember. He was old. Older than the swill in his bottle.

Bad break, sonny. He remembered the fat faced doctor telling him. The one that looked like Elmer Fudd. He kneaded his bruises and winced at the pain. He was a stuntman as much as an actor. He wanted to keep it authentic. And in this town- you have to go big to make it. You had to go big to keep your head above the filthy canal water. There were so many rules to follow. If you put a toe out of line- if you weren't one of the greats, you were out. If you couldn't pretend to be a role off the set- you were out. If you mouthed off to the wrong big-shot, you were out. If you didn't sign the bosses kid's baseball-cap for a bar-mitzvah, you were most definitely hasenpfeffer to some fat cat's oval table.

He preferred cigarettes, and so he pulled one off of a broad in passing, a hint of appreciation of his whiskered jowls. He lit and sat there letting it burn at rest on the ash tray- gifted to him by one of the girls who kept the set clean. She doubled as a waitress at the Kitten Trap, but he'd never been- they had fleas there. She was alright, though. Still innocent. Still making her way and still fresh from middle America.

He occupied himself with the cigarette's companion, a thick bottle of Meyers's. The date wasn't what he'd asked for, but who the fuck was he anyway? He came all the way from that hole in the ground to the big city. The City of Angels- and he hadn't seen any yet. Closest thing were a couple waitresses he wouldn't bang on a dare. He remembered talking about it with his pal, the only black feller he knew allowed in the business. He wasn't out there parading on stage all 'Yes, massa.' He was building his own empire of a sorts. It would take a while, if he didn't die first for the color of his backside. Not many people could be that daff, just a bunch of grinning dead ducks. There were good people somewhere, somewhere other than here. He figured his only out was in a coffin. One that wouldn't have air holes. He was originally built for speed in this life, a country boy with bright lights in his pan. He'd get his, at the end of a rope, not a false one. Not a gag anymore. No more feeling like some two-dimensional fucka.

What burned him so bad was the daily mockery of his personality- unbeknownst to anyone. He came off that Acme bus-line one stop through Albuquerque and before that Decatur, before that Toronto. They shook him for all he was worth, when he had no pennies to pinch, looneys or twooneys.

"Bugs, Mr. Warner wants to see you, hot-shot." A man in a cheap monkey-suit said. A blend of worsted stage security and CIA. "What- are you 'is brotha?"

Someone who'd paw through his financial records for the company, follow him in a day-car, making sure he 'minded his P's and Q's, buster.' Fuck 'em all.

"Quit the bull-shit, smart-ass. Let's roll" The man replied with gold-tooth glinted.

He lifted his smoke wreathed head and mimed "Do I look like I got two carrots in my ass? What's up Doc?" He didn't laugh. He wasn't supposed to.

He hopped down and snubbed the butt on the mans lapel, then slipped it's crumpled remains in to the breast pocket, he patted it good against the smoldering statue- smoke billowing out his ears, silently.

"Just try and hit me, I'm untouchable." He jutted out his bottom teeth this time. Letting the worlds linger. Then he strode by him like a breeze.

The man followed him a bit too close passing the gargantuan red curtain. I guess it'll be just re-runs from here on- he settled himself for the inevitable. He made it to the heavy waxed infinite double-doors. the dog at his heels was still fuming.

"Smoke em if ya got em... it's just show business" He said back over his hide the first part- the latter he'd muttered to himself.