Clark takes enough of a break from admiring himself in the mirror to notice that the little hand and the big hand are both pointing to the 12. His mind races: "How am I going to get to the audition on time? OK. Breathe. Relax. Breathe. One hour. I can do this." The locker room door bangs open as he dashes through, quickly undresses, and throws his sweaty clothes into the rusty interior. He flashes his smile to the mirror before quickly bounding into the showers.
Twenty minutes later, Clark is racing down the highway in his old beat-up Civic. His eyes glitter. His lucky outfit--jeans and a washed-out green vintage t-shirt of some half-rate 80s band--give him the slightest swagger. "Today is my day. Finally!"
He swings his car around into a spot right outside the appointed building. Five minutes to spare, but the parking lot seems mysteriously empty. "Fashionably early is the name of the game, I guess." Still, the empty lot exudes an unnerving glow. Clark grabs his script and verifies the studio name with the sign in the lobby. Three stairs at a time, he bounds to the fourth floor, heart pounding, script in hand.
A bundle of energy bursts through the studio door, only to find an empty room. "PLEASE STATE YOUR FULL NAME." A deep, robotic voice vibrates off the walls.
"Clark Isaac Ackerson."
"THANK YOU CLARK. WE HAVE BEEN EXPECTING YOU."
"We who? Who are you? I'm here for my audition. Now, if you don't mind, I've prepared a bit of classic theater: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, cree..."
"THAT'S QUITE ENOUGH. THANK YOU. BUT THERE IS NO AUDITION HERE. THERE NEVER WAS, AND YOU KNOW IT."
"Excuse me! Who are you? And what fucking right do you have to waste my time like this?"
"WE KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. THIS WILL MAKE BALANCE. DO NOT WORRY. DEATH WILL COME QUICKLY."
Then, a crash. The sound of gears grinding.
Twenty minutes later, Clark is racing down the highway in his old beat-up Civic. His eyes glitter. His lucky outfit--jeans and a washed-out green vintage t-shirt of some half-rate 80s band--give him the slightest swagger. "Today is my day. Finally!"
He swings his car around into a spot right outside the appointed building. Five minutes to spare, but the parking lot seems mysteriously empty. "Fashionably early is the name of the game, I guess." Still, the empty lot exudes an unnerving glow. Clark grabs his script and verifies the studio name with the sign in the lobby. Three stairs at a time, he bounds to the fourth floor, heart pounding, script in hand.
A bundle of energy bursts through the studio door, only to find an empty room. "PLEASE STATE YOUR FULL NAME." A deep, robotic voice vibrates off the walls.
"Clark Isaac Ackerson."
"THANK YOU CLARK. WE HAVE BEEN EXPECTING YOU."
"We who? Who are you? I'm here for my audition. Now, if you don't mind, I've prepared a bit of classic theater: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, cree..."
"THAT'S QUITE ENOUGH. THANK YOU. BUT THERE IS NO AUDITION HERE. THERE NEVER WAS, AND YOU KNOW IT."
"Excuse me! Who are you? And what fucking right do you have to waste my time like this?"
"WE KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. THIS WILL MAKE BALANCE. DO NOT WORRY. DEATH WILL COME QUICKLY."
Then, a crash. The sound of gears grinding.
