Sparkles and Blood

Fake Blood

Blood covered everything.

The blond chick in the white T-shirt screamed and danced around like she'd seen a mouse. She was supposed to be screaming because her boyfriend had just been decapitated. Martin hoped that the director wasn't really paying attention.

"Cut!' Quentin banged his hand on the arm of his director's chair. He immediately tried to hide the fact that he'd hurt himself. "This is a horror film, you stupid cow!" he said as he walked through the blood bath, "You need to look horrified. Not like some girl who got a bug down her cleavage." He demonstrated the little dance that Clarisse had been doing. It was funny really, as long as you weren't Clarisse. It was really too bad that his five hundred dollar wingtip shoes didn't have better tread.

He slipped in the fake blood, and his feet took out Clarisse. She landed on top of him and was swearing like a trucker as she peeled herself off of the director. Martin would have expected some noise from him as well, but he was silent. The special effects man didn't think anything short of death would stop that mouth.

Turns out he was right. Quentin had cracked his skull wide open on the terrazzo floor of the school they were using for a set. Martin smelled the change in the air before he noticed the slightly darker colour leaking from behind the director's head. All the fake gore looked ridiculous next to a little of the real thing.


Clarisse started screaming again. This time Quentin would have been delighted. She was a regular Faye Ray once she got going. Martin swore under his breath and walked back to his truck.

He climbed up into the camper that sat on the back of his truck, closed the door, then sat cross legged on the bunk and started his yoga routine. The shaking in his gut gradually slowed and dissipated. He was as addicted to yoga as he had ever been to the booze. The upside to the yoga was that it didn't show up on a breathalyzer. He hated death, which made his chosen career of faking death a little odd.

He was half way through the routine when the assistant director banged on the door.

"Martin" Brad shouted and banged some more, "Cops are here. They want to talk to you."

All the calm of the yoga left Martin in an instant. He stood up and climbed out of the camper. Brad was hopping from one foot to the other.

"You have to explain that it was an accident. Clarisse didn't mean it."

"Right," Martin said, "Why me?"

"You're the special effects guy. It's your blood all over the place. Well not your blood but.."



"Easy, Brad," Martin patted him on the shoulder, "I know what you mean." He left Brad dithering behind him and went to face the music.

The police were taking pictures and samples of all the blood and everything else. Martin recognized the officer in charge.

"Fancy seeing you here," the officer said.

"I'm sure my parole officer informed you that I was gainfully employed."

"Don't you find fake murder tame after the real thing?"

"It's a job." Martin said and tried to relax his hands. "I'm good at it." Detective Philson could always get his blood pressure up.

"I'm sure you are," Philson ran his finger through the fake gore. "But you should know that blood isn't really this colour."



"If you make it darker, it looks fake on screen."



"Really?" Philson said and looked for something to wipe his hand on. Martin tossed him a rag from his pocket. "So you spread this all over the place and hope no one falls and kills themselves?"

"Clarisse was on her mark," Martin pointed to a space on the floor that was clear of blood. "So she wouldn't slip. All she had to do was scream." He crouched down by where Quentin lay and waved at the shoes. "The director walked through the scene with leather soled shoes and tried to do a sissy dance. He slipped and fell. Clarisse fell on top of him. End of director, end of movie."

"What happened to 'The show must go on?" Philson said.

"It isn't my show," Martin said.

"So it was just an accident?"

"Just a stupid accident."

"Like that other stupid accident."


"That wasn't an accident," Martin said, "It was murder. You proved that, remember?"

Philson waved his hand and Martin took it as a dismissal. He didn't really think that Philson was going to try to make anything out of this. The man just liked to pull Martin's chain at every opportunity.

After the police left, the health and safety people came and looked at the set up. Martin showed how he'd created a safe mark for Clarisse with clear silicone on the floor. They tried to find something to complain about, but the set was made for the actors on their marks, not for a director in overpriced shoes. What finally sent them away was the video on youtube of the entire rant and its lethal conclusion.

A suit showed up shortly after that and expressed the producer's regret, but the project was being scrapped. Twenty minutes after that Martin's truck was packed and he hit the road. He had no illusions about any money from that fiasco ever showing up in his bank account.