The director cursed under his breath for the fourth time.
“Goddamnit! He’s shaking again.” He turned to his assistant. “Does our star have a problem that I don’t know about? Is he taking something?”
“Not that I know of, seems a straight-talking, straight-shooting guy, I don’t think he’s into drugs or anything.”
“CUT! Okay, get his ass up here, there’s something wrong that needs sorting out, and I’m getting it sorted right here, right now!”
The actor appeared shortly later, wrapped in a silk dressing gown, face lined with stress and bags under his eyes.
“What the hell is going on, Augan? You were shaking like a goddam leaf. That’s the fourteenth take this morning, I’ve had enough!’
“Sorry, Tony, it’s the weed, I’m trying to quit.”
“Pot?”
“No, cigarettes. I’m trying to cultivate a more clean-cut image: Augan the organic.”
Tony thought briefly about the Viagra that was diluted into Augan’s drink supply, the plastic surgery and bionics that the studio had invested in to keep Augan at the top of the porn trade.
“You’re a jackass, Augan — do you really think people who watch porn are really into things organic?”
“Well, there was that scene with the carrots…”
“For God’s sake, Augan, just have a smoke, will you, then let’s get it done.”
“Okay, boss.”
“Augan?”
“Yeah?”
“With all the women, the fame and fortune and everything, why did you start smoking in the first place?”
“Stops me masturbating, boss.”
Douglas Pugh lives in Northern Ontario with a logical wife and an insane menagerie. He likes to believe that he fills the gap in the middle. Bleeding words onto a page help with his delusion. When he’s not writing, he’s probably painting or out riding his bike. He writes poetry, short stories and has two thriller novels for which he’s looking for an agent. During 2009 he has been published in The Smoking Poet, Leaf Garden Press, Every Day Poets, Mnemosyne Journal and Short Story Library. He hopes to one day publish at least one book of his words.
