Ketchup victims

A week into filming, and we'd become a regular circus act in Ferland City. The Crimson Quarter locals eyed us like we were some new species of demon they couldn't quite figure out. But hey, at least our relative obscurity worked in our favor. We managed to shoot the scene where Don Vito buys oranges and narrowly escapes an assassination attempt without causing a full-blown panic.

Our prop gun, lovingly crafted by yours truly and George, was a masterpiece of demon engineering. It fired with a bang that could wake the dead and spat ketchup with enough force to make any vampire drool. Sure, we had a permit, but I still half-expected the demon cops to show up and arrest us all for disturbing the peace. Or worse, crimes against produce.

***

Two days later.

We bounced from location to location like a demonic road show. One minute we're filming Michael and Kay's shopping trip turned newspaper nightmare, the next we're setting up in a rented restaurant in Gloomstone for the big Sollozzo-McCluskey scene.

I was giving a pep talk to our Sollozzo, an Imp Demon who, thankfully, wasn't actually imp-sized, and McCluskey, a portly Fiend Demon who looked like he ate donuts by the dozen. Perfect casting, if I do say so myself.

But even as I tried to focus on the scene, I couldn't help but overhear the not-so-subtle whispers from the restaurant's actual patrons.

"Is that the exiled young prince?"

"Yeah... Looks like they're filming..."

"Heh. Heard he got disowned 'cause of this picture company nonsense."

"Shh... He might hear you..."

"Who cares? He's not a prince anymore."

I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the judgmental muttering. Instead, I approached the restaurant owner, plastering on my best 'I'm-not-bothered' smile. "We're about to start filming. When can we expect your customers to clear out so we can get to work?"

The owner barely glanced at me. "Just wait a few minutes. Don't be so impatient."

I retreated to my crew, feeling the sting of his indifference. We'd paid good money to rent this place, but clearly, my fallen status meant we were now second-class citizens in the demon world.

Minutes ticked by like hours. The owner was in no hurry to usher out his paying customers, probably enjoying making us wait. But finally, mercifully, the last patron left, and our extras filed in to fill the space.

As I called the actors to their places, I took a deep breath, pushing down the frustration and hurt. "Alright, people," I called out, injecting as much enthusiasm into my voice as I could muster. "Let's make it quick. Places, everyone!"

The extras settled into their seats, the air thick with anticipation. I held up my hand, fingers splayed, and began the countdown.

"3, 2, 1. Action!" I called out, feeling the familiar shift as I slipped into Michael's skin.

Becoming Michael was getting easier each time, like putting on a well-worn coat. Today, though, it felt almost too easy. The recent sting of discrimination, the sideways glances, the whispered judgments - they all fed into Michael's complicated emotional state. Who knew being a fallen prince would be such great method acting fodder?

As the camera rolled, I greeted Sollozzo and McCluskey, shaking their hands with just the right amount of hesitation. Michael was here to discuss the recent tensions, but the undercurrent of danger was palpable.

I took my seat, letting a hint of nervousness flicker across my face. Sollozzo and McCluskey responded perfectly, their expressions a mix of condescension and underestimation. They looked at Michael - at me - like I was a kid playing in the big leagues.

The dialogue flowed, tension building with each exchange. Then came my cue to excuse myself to the bathroom. McCluskey, ever the suspicious cop, gave me a pat-down that was just a touch too aggressive. I bit back a smile - our Fiend Demon was really getting into character.

Once in the bathroom set, I called a quick "Cut!" to reset for the gun retrieval scene. This was where things got interesting.

I'd given specific instructions to Ryan, our props master, not to tell me where he'd hidden the gun. "Make it authentic," I'd told him. "I want to really look like I'm searching."

As the camera started rolling again, I let Michael's nervousness take over. My hands shook slightly as I searched, eyes darting around the bathroom. Where was it? Behind the toilet? Under the sink?

The seconds ticked by, and I could practically feel the tension from the crew. We couldn't film this forever. Just as I was about to break character and ask for help, my fingers brushed against something cool and metallic.

Bingo.

I pulled out the gun, a mix of relief and dread washing over me - over Michael. This was it. The point of no return.

I slipped the gun into my pocket and took a deep breath.

After a quick reset, we dove into the heart of the scene. Sollozzo and McCluskey were deep in conversation, occasionally tossing words my way like scraps to a dog. I'd made it clear to our cameraman to keep the focus on my face. This was Michael's - my - moment of transformation, and I wanted every flicker of emotion captured.

I let the tension build in my body, my face a carefully crafted mask of nervous determination. The weight of the gun in my pocket felt like it was pulling me down, urging me towards the point of no return.

Sollozzo turned to me, spouting some line about guarantees. I mumbled a response, barely hearing my own words. The world had narrowed down to this moment, this decision.

Then, with a surge of resolve that surprised even me, my hand closed around the gun. In one fluid motion, I yanked it out and aimed at Sollozzo's forehead.

"Bang!"

The ketchup explosion was almost comical, but the look of shock on Sollozzo's face was Oscar-worthy. Before McCluskey could even process what was happening, I swung the gun towards him.

"Bang!"

Another ketchup casualty. Our Fiend Demon really sold it, his eyes going wide before he slumped forward, a streak of red across his expansive forehead.

The extras erupted into chaos, screaming and scrambling for the exits. In the midst of it all, I stood there, gun still raised, trying to look both terrified and determined. I glanced down at my handiwork, then around the room, before making my hurried exit.

As I burst out of the restaurant, I was greeted by a small crowd of curious demons who'd gathered to watch our little production. For a moment, the line between Arthur and Michael blurred. Were they looking at the exiled prince or the newly minted killer?

"Cut!" I shouted, my voice a mix of exhilaration and relief.

Just like that, the spell was broken. The tension drained from my body, replaced by a giddy sense of accomplishment. I couldn't help but grin. Nailed it.

"That was... intense," Rocky rumbled, appearing at my side. "For a second there, I almost believed you'd actually offed those two."

I laughed, running a hand through my hair. "What can I say? I've got some pent-up aggression to work out."

As the crew bustled around, resetting the scene and wiping down our "victims," I caught sight of our impromptu audience. They were muttering among themselves, looking at us with curiosity.

"Looks like we might be winning some folks over," George said, following my gaze.

I nodded, feeling a spark of hope. "Maybe. Or maybe they're just wondering why we're wasting perfectly good ketchup."