Our scene opens with your hero and mine, Steelbuddha, sitting comfortably in his study. In this instance, study means a small room, just big enough for two people to sit, nestled among bookshelves and computers and cables. To Steelbuddha’s left, a barely audible beep preludes the rattle of a vibrating cell phone on a pressboard desk.

He picks up. “Hello.”

“Hey Chris. It’s Brad Bird.”

“Hey Brad, how are you?” Steelbuddha greets his friend warmly. This call is unexpected, but not without precedent, as our hero and the creator of The Incredibles have been friends for some time.

Let us take a moment, bedecked in our omniscient perspective, to pan out beyond even the dreamer’s own overseeing presence. We can see the dreamer’s jaw drop, as the Steelbuddha who is now speaking to Brad Bird is nonchalant, but the semi-aware, removed Steelbuddha is giggling in starstruck glee and anticipation of where this call will lead. “This is gonna be awesome,” he seems to say. We return to our story.

Brad continues, “Hey, I’m working on a new project, and I thought of you right away. I still feel bad that I didn’t have a place for you in The Incredibles.”

“It’s no big thing, man. That’s how things go. It would have been cool, of course, but I’m not hung up on it or anything. It was a great movie. No worries.”

Brad sighs, slightly relieved, but still tense in anticipation of his question. “Cool, cool. So this new project… I don’t want you to take offense that I thought of you first. I just thought it would be good to work with you. I need you for some motion-capture and some other stunts for one of the main characters.”

“Sounds fun. Why would I take offense? Is this an animation project? More superheroes?”

“Nope, live action. The character is, well, a gorilla.” Over the phone, one can almost hear Brad wince.

“A gorilla?” Steelbuddha says, surprised but not offended. “Hasn’t that sort of been done? I mean Peter Jackson just did King Kong last year. And really, Andy Serkis did an incredible job as always. Maybe he’d be better for it. I’m sure you can afford him.”

“Well, maybe. But I’d like you to do it, if you’re up for it. I do need some traditional stunts done as well. In a gorilla suit,” He adds, after a brief pause.

“Sure thing, man. I’d love to. Sorry if I did not exactly give that impression. What’s the movie?”

“Congo 2,” says Brad, immeditately adding, “but I’ve got some great ideas for the script.”

“No worries, man. Just let me know when and where you want me.”

“Will do, Chris. Thanks again. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye now.” Steelbuddha hangs up the phone, smiling. Wow, he thinks, My first major film role. Not that it’s spectacular, but it’s my name in the credits and it will be a great time, I bet. I think I’ll call my friend, John. Get his opinion.

Our hero scrolls through the phone book on his decaying Nokia, highlights “John Malkovich,” and presses the green phone button. A few rings pass until a strong, but mild-mannered voice answers.

“Hello, this is John.”

“Hi John, it’s Chris. I just got a call from Brad Bird. He wants me to do the mo-cap for his new project. Brilliant, right? A couple snags, though. I’m meant to be the gorilla in the sequel to — get this — Congo. What do you think?”

“Hm,” A contemplative John scratches his stubbled chin audbily, “Well, I have to say that doesn’t sound like it’s going to be on par with his previous work, but who knows? As for your involvement, I say take the money and run. If it’s something you would enjoy doing, this monkey-work, it’s your name in the credits and a few months of film-level pay.”

“I was thinking much the same thing. Just thought I’d get your opinion on it. You’ve definitely got more experience in the field.”

John chuckles politely. “Yes, well, I don’t exactly have a perfect score either. But, I appreciate the call. I’m glad you’re doing well. Good luck.”

“Thanks, John. And just to say again, your Vicomte de Valmont was stellar.”

“Oh, well, thank you. Say ‘hello’ to Clare for me. So long.”

As Steelbuddha returns his phone to its resting place on the desk, the world blurs in time, refocusing on a day a week later. Our hero and is sweetheart are early for a performance at an outdoor venue. On stage, Henry Rollins and his crew are setting up for a combined spoken word/ Rollins Band show, a first of its kind.

Henry, checking on something near the front of the stage, spies Steelbuddha and invites him backstage to catch up.

“Hey man, how you been?” Henry shakes hands with the force one might expect.

“Not too bad,” Steelbuddha replies, “Are you sure you’re going to make it through tonight? Seems like a lot of screaming.”

“Yeah, you know me. I’ll be hurting, but I’ll also be loving it. So what have you been doing with yourself? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

To the amusement of the Rollins Band and crew, our hero relates the story of his new job, for which he is to fly out the next day. Henry, after some friendly mocking, turns serious for a moment.

“Hey, if you’re doing what you want to do nd making a decent living at it, then fuck what anyone else thinks, man. At least you’re not working in a fucking sweatshop just churning out some useless product or something. I know something about following your craft, no matter the cost. You love it, right?”

“Yeah,” Steelbuddha admits, “I gotta admit. I really love it. Not sure why it took me so long to realize it.”

“Then there you have it. I mean, it’s not your Stairway to Heaven or your War Pigs or what have you, but it’s work and it’s work inside your chosen craft. Take the money and run, use it to fund something you really do care about. And fucking have fun while you’re at it.”

“Thanks, Henry. I was thinking much the same thing, but it’s good to have some encouragement from someone who’s been there. And Bruce Campbell was in the first one, so I’m in good company.”

“No problem, man.”

Henry now notices a friend in the crew deliberately doing something to distract Henry on stage. A harmless prank, but Henry calls him on it and they begin to play-fight, throwing half-punches and putting each other in bar arms and the like. Eventually, it’s a play-brawl, and a beer bottle falls from on top of a Marshall stack onto the stage littering their makeshift ring with broken glass.

“Whoa, guys, knock it off,” Steelbuddha, larger than the two men, if not proportionally stronger, pulls them apart.

Still in testosterone mode, Henry jokingly sneers, “What are you, a pussy? It’s just a little broken glass.”

As the dream fades into collapse, as dreams must, our hero is heard to say, “I took a job lighting myself on fire and jumping off tall buildings for money, and you’re calling me a pussy?”

The End.