The Five Trials of Ari Lomond

[wavydavy123]

[[I'm really unsure of this piece: it was part of a thing me and my friend where we agreed just to write and write until we had a finished article. So there was no planning involved...just a write and write situation...Now of course i went back and read over it to make sure it was coherent and make a few links come back into it but overall I'm disappointed with this. Planning is very important! Anyway I decided to put it up just to see what people think. There are some stronger bits, I suppose, but overall a weaker effort than if I had planned out a piece. ALso I lost most of my italics when I copied this over from Word...anyway hope some of you find something to enjoy in this]]

also it's split into 2 parts cause it's so long...I am aware that it is a big ask for anyone to get through all of this...you can take it in parts or just give up because it waffles (because it does i fear)

[wavydavy123]

The Five Trials of Ari Lomond

The Wise Father

Ari Lomond had always been advised not to read reviews of his own films. It was advice that he had taken from his father. At seventeen years old, he had been sat down, just after the release of his first ever film, Just One of the Guys, and told that he had only to listen to what he felt in his heart when it came to his performances. ‘Only you know what effort was put into that role,’ his father had said, ‘only in your heart will you know the truth behind that performance’. As a teenager Ari had blindly trusted the advice. It had sounded so profound that he had not questioned it at all. Now, a little older - a little wiser -Ari knew that it was self-righteous crap.

He supposed it might have been true for his father. John Stephen Lomond was generally considered the greatest actor of all time. It was somewhat hypocritical of him to say that he did not read reviews of his films when he owned more Oscars than he did shoes. He had known that the critics raved about him and therefore his rule only meant he did not know quite how much they loved him. It had been deserved praise. When it came to effort, John Lomond had been the master. He had mastered the Italian language in order to play Mussolini, even though his lines were in English. Ari had grown up watching his father learn languages, lose and gain weight, even work for a few months in various professions, all in the name of ‘getting into a fictional character’s head’.

The most effort Ari had put into a role was when he had to gain fifteen pounds in order to pay a ‘slightly podgy’ character. It had required having a few more milkshakes and cheeseburgers, and even that had taken him longer than the studio had asked. He owned about ten Razzie statues (‘worst actor’, ‘worst on-screen couple’ etc), and also held the underwhelming record of being the actor present in most films in the IMDB Bottom 250 movies of all time. He no longer referred to motion pictures as movies, but simply ‘pay cheques’. For fifteen years now he had picked up pay cheques. While life was comfortable, it was also miserable. He had to go out every day and see others in their various professions: directors; shop-owners; binmen; and each and every one of them was a million times more proud and skilled at their profession.

Lately, he had even started to consider the possibility of rejecting a ten million dollar pay cheque just to try and shake the shackles of mediocrity. He could see where his career had gone wrong. It had been one too many straight-to-DVD action movies (e.g. One Man Army and The Mercenary from Hell). The animations had pretty disappointing too: the worst being a modern reinvention of MacBeth called MacBeef. Ari had played the titular character, but instead of being a Scottish warrior, he had been an animated 20 oz. sirloin steak. He had picked up fifteen million dollars for MacBeef; the movie had only brought back two. He had even considered paying some of his money back, such was his embarrassment. But he hadn’t. He had never even gotten as far as calling the studio about a potential repayment.

It was shameful.

Benji’s Walk

Ari sat in his kitchen. A plate of blueberry pancakes with banana, strawberries and maple syrup lay on the table underneath him. Ari thanked the chef – a portly Mexican woman whom he forgot the name of – and examined the meal. It was brilliant. It was far, far too brilliant for someone like him. That was for sure.

“Morning Alma,” a female voice said, entering the kitchen.

Alma – that was the chef’s name. Sharon had always been good with names, which Ari found odd considering she had hardly said his since they had married fourteen years ago. She had done some modeling in her late-teens but had never brought in a significant amount of money. Everything she owned had come from Ari’s fortune. The gratitude he received was an emotionally distant creature with no conversation, unless she was after money.

“Hi Sharon,” Ari said.

She collected her pre-made plate of low-fat yoghurt and grapes, brought it to the table, and sat down. Eventually she murmured something that resembled good morning.

They had met at a nightclub in Paris. He had been shooting a stupid thriller in the French capital and gone partying at the end of the shoot. He had got one of his security personnel to invite a whole load of women into his private lounge at the club, and three months later he ended up marrying the prettiest one. Looking to her now, despite her perfection, she was not attractive. It was probably because she never smiled. Unless when they were doing a photo-shoot or the paparazzi caught them on the street. Then, of course, she was a completely different woman.

“I was thinking about rejecting The Exterminators,” Ari said.

Sharon looked up.

“The what?”

“It’s my latest pay-cheque.”

“Why? How much would they pay?”

“Only seven million.”

“Oh. Where is it filming?”

“Mexico.”

“For how long?”

“Six months.”

“I think you should do it.”

Ari nodded, “You’re probably right.”

Ari had learned not to question her decisions. If he did she would end up throwing something, which was always somewhat distressing.

They finished their breakfasts over the next ten minutes, but said no more. Ari peered out the huge glass windows to the city of Los Angeles. It was a beautiful day. It always was. In fact, for Ari, it was so constantly beautiful, that it had become disgusting.

“I think I might walk Benji,” Ari said.

“Why? Marcos will do it later.”

“I know, but I need some time to think. I could do with a walk”

Sharon shook her head, but agreed.

“Smile for the cameras,” she said, “and try not to talk to anyone.”

Ari nodded. He picked up a phone and dialed the internal number for the Brazilian housekeeper who lived in a small shed next to the mansion. He asked him to wake up Benji and to get him to the front door. Ari went upstairs, took a glance at himself in the mirror, then went back to the front door. He found the Brazilian servant holding Benji leash at the door.

“Thanks...”

“Marcos,” the Brazilan finished.

“Yeah, Marcos.”

Marcos smiled and handed over Benji’s lead. Ari studied his pet. Benji was an old Tibetan Mastiff. He had once been described by a dog-trainer as ‘the kind of dog all the other animals look up to’. Now his expression was one of angst, his once fibrant, orange fur now a fading disappointment.

Ari remembered when he had first set eyes on Benji. It was about ten years previous, in a dusty animal compound in downtown Los Angeles. He had been looking for a guard dog – one big and scary enough to protect his mansion from crazed fans and stalkers. Somehow he thought a big dog might garner him some more respect from everyone. When the animal workers showed him the fierce, strong Benji, baring his teeth through the bars in protection of his mate and puppies, Ari had known this was the dog for him. He had taken Benji but refused his family out of nothing other than selfishness – he had not wanted the hassle of puppies or the distraction of a mate; only the male. Benji had always been distant for this very reason. It had taken Benji many years to stand the sight or smell of Ari without raging. Marcos had dealt with the dog for these years, but eventually when Ari regained interest in the animal, Benji had no reaction to the sight of him. Ari figured that he had finally forgiven him. The truth was that he was simply too old to remember or care, or both.

It took Ari five minutes to reach the gates of his house, such was the length of his drive-way. The gates were opened by a heavy-set Uruguayan security man whom Ari could have swore he had never seen before. On exiting the mansion grounds, he was met by three young photographers who immediately began to take pictures. They followed Ari and his dog as they made their way down the hill towards Los Angeles. They continued taking photos until one of them received a phone call and, from what Ari could make out, was informed of the whereabouts of another unimportant celebrity. It transpired from the journalists’ conversation that this new celebrity was out for a jog with a mysterious man and, since a new romance sells papers better than a walk with the dog, the photographers were off in heart beat,

As they walked Ari began to feel the full force of the Californian sun. It was getting to that uncomfortable stage where sweat starts feeling strangely like a shower. Before long Benji was slowing as well. The once-mighty dog’s walk degenerated into a half-walk half-stagger. Noticing the dog’s state, Ari decided to walk back and started walking back towards the mansion. As the dog got worse, he walked faster, desperate for the press not to see his pet wheezing for oxygen with all its strength.

“Hey, Lomond!” a voice called from across the street, “AAARRRI!”

Ari looked across. It was a kid in a Lakers’ shirt, khaki shorts and New York-themed cap. The kid darted across the street, a smug smile on his face.

“You’re Ari Lomond.”

“Yes,” Ari said awkwardly.

“I saw you in that movie the other week,” the boy went on, “what was it called again? Death by Stoning 3.”

“That’s good. Nice to meet the…”

“It was crap!” the kid said, laughing, “You admitted it yourself! I mean that bit where you twist-kicked the zombie was cool, I’ll give you that. But overall, let’s be honest – it was rubbish!”

Ari frowned. He had been paid twenty million dollars for that movie and the only bit of effort he had put into it was that twist-kick. At the time he had been proud that he had actually had to learn something for a role, but it hardly seemed like a huge success now.

“I read you were paying fans back it was so bad,” the kid continued.

“I was misquoted on that one.”

“Still, come on, it was awful.”

Ari looked at the boy and they were left in an awkward silence. The kid looked on expectantly. Ari sighed but, looking to the tiring Benji, decided that paying this kid was the fastest solution.

“How much did it cost to get into?” Ari said, fumbling open his wallet and flitting through notes.

The kid looked to the wallet with a grin, “Like…twenty dollars.”

Ari handed over a twenty.

“Hope this helps,” he said and began to march off.

“Hold on!” the kid said, “I saw the first and second movies as well. They were pretty bad too, man.”

Ari sighed. He could not help but think if he had hated the first two so much why in the world did he go to the third film as well. Still, though, with Benji in mind, he thumbed out another two twenties and handed them over.

Before Ari could leave, the kid spoke again: “You got any movies in the works at the moment?”

“Just a couple,” Ari replied neutrally.

“What are they called?”

“One is The Exterminators. Look I’m sorry but I really have to go.”

“You may as well pay me for that one, too,” the kid interrupted.

Ari laughed but stopped when he garnered this was not a joke. He just stared blankly.

“Think of it as…an advanced payment?” the kid said with a grin.

Ari threw another twenty to him and forced himself away with a severely struggling Benji.

“What about One Man Army?” the kid shouted after him, “that was the worst! You got to pay me for that!”

Ignoring him, Ari started jogging with struggling Benji back to the mansion. He heard the kid shouting again, something about him being a rich **** who was an arrogant **** to think he could simply throw money at things and they would go away. Ari could only shrug. The kid had a point.

Ari began to half-drag Benji as he proceeded along the hot Californian sidewalk. All he could think of was getting the big dog back to the house. He peered round to Benji as he ran and smiled encouragingly.

“Come on, Benji. Almost there.”

Benji fell before they reached the gates. His legs failed and he crashed into the asphalt concrete below. There was a brutal few seconds where Ari had not realised Benji had collapsed and had dragged the dying dog by the leash at its neck. Quickly noticing the increase in weight in his hand, Ari turned and saw his pet sprawled on the ground, mouth agape in surprised horror. He stood above the animal awkwardly. If it had been a human he might have checked the pulse, but he had no idea where a dog’s pulse could be felt. After the deliberation, Ari decided to press his finger on Benji’s neck area, hoping to feel some sort of pulsation. There was nothing but he thought that was probably due to the fact that he had no clue what he was doing, rather than the poorly dog’s heart had ceased to pump blood round its veins. Nevertheless Ari panicked, and in his panic decided to run for help. He sprinted to the gates of his mansion and shouted for the overweight security guard.

“Help!” he called, “Benji! Benji’s collapsed!”

And so, with Ari screaming for help of employees he did not know the names of, and the photographers miles away taking the picture of some C-List celebrity, the great dog was left with no one at all.

Benji, filled with sadness, died alone in the Californian sun.

The View of the Agent

Ari wept a little for the loss of his dog. The next day, the sadness was gone. He could not help but feel guilty. Was that all Benji had meant to him? Ten minutes of crying and that was it?

At the breakfast table, with a plate of the chef’s best efforts, Ari once again considered his old man’s advice. When he thought it through, it had been his father’s fault. If he had never told him not to read reviews, then he would have known that he could not act all those years ago. He could have made something of this life other than make-believing all the time. He could have had a real job. He could have had a real family. Maybe, just maybe, he could have been happy. But he had taken the advice blindly, believing the great John Lomond was as infallible as his multitude of Oscar statues suggested. And with that, Ari Lomond needed to know. He needed to know just how bad the reviews were. He stormed out of the kitchen and phoned through to Marcos.

“Marcos, fetch me a newspaper,” he shouted down the line, “I need to read a review of Evil Ghost Killer.”

Within minutes Marcos was scampering along with a copy of USA Today, placing it under Ari’s nose turned to the correct page. Ari saw a picture of himself in his latest film holding a grenade-launcher with the caption underneath, ‘Shakespeare it is not…’. Ari rose an eyebrow. What the hell did that mean? He read on:

‘Ari Lomond’s latest pathetic attempt at acting makes us wonder with renewed vigour just how this man could possibly be related to the amazing John Lomond. His son looks melancholic in the role of Jack Sharp. In many scenes it seems as if he is about to burst into tears! When battling Balthazar, the malicious ghost king, his facial expression suggests that he has just watched Titanic for the first time. This bizarre acting allows me to come to the conclusion that Lomond, like the rest of the world, has come to know just how awful he is, and as such cannot muster a shred of emotion, other than misery. Ari Lomond manages to tarnish his father’s name even further than before. I can only conclude that he must be adopted.’

Ari closed the paper. Paused for a second. Then he erupted.

“MY FATHER!” he roared to Marcos, “WHY DO THEY KEEP HAVING TO MENTION MY FATHER?”

“Sorry, boss.”

“THIS IS MY LIFE! NOT HIS! HE’S DEAD! HE’S LONG DEAD!”

Marcos stood silently.

After a few minutes, Ari shook his head and apologised to Marcos, adding, “My dog died yesterday.”

“I know,” Marcos replied, “I buried him for you.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s why I’m upset.”

“I understand.”

The two men stood, looking at each other for a few minutes.

“If there’s nothing else, your wife has instructed me to go and buy her some new jewellery.”

“Has she now?” Ari said sarcastically, “what’s new, eh?”

Somehow out of the sadness, both men managed a little chuckle. And then Marcos was gone as quick as he had arrived.

Ari finished up his breakfast before moving to the television room. He turned it on and found himself on E! NEWS! It was a stupid American show about celebrities: their relationships, their families, what type of toothpaste they used etc. Normally Ari would have turned it off immediately, but this time he did not, as the camera was zoomed in on a picture of him. The headline ran, ‘Ari Lomond lets dog die.’ Next came an interview with the kid he had given money to.

“You saw Ari Lomond walking the dog yesterday. Did the dog seem healthy to you?” the interview asked.

“No it did not,” the kid replied, “I was concerned for him.”

“Did he seem concerned?”

“Not really. The dog was unhappy. I’m pretty sure that he didn’t want the dog to die, although he didn’t seem to mind that much.”

The reporter turned to the camera, smiling, “Well that is reassuring, although news this morning suggest that animal rights activists want Lomond investigated for depriving the animal of food, water, and most importantly, love. I’m Wilson Banks, and this is E! NEWS!”

Ari, red-faced with fury, threw the remote control at the screen.

Oddly, it was this action out of uncontrolled, rage that changed Ari Lomond’s life forever. With the remote strewn halfway across the room, Ari had no choice as he overheard the next story on E! News , which just happened to involve him as well:

“Another person interested in Ari Lomond is fifty-nine year old Helga Hellard from Bucharest, Romania. This crazy lady has claimed that she will commit suicide if Ari Lomond does not marry her! It truly is turning to be a bad day for Lomond. Here’s a clip Hellard released by a member of staff at the hospital, to the internet.”

What came on screen was a woman who looked more like one hundred and nine rather years old than fifty-nine. Her hair extended from her head at strange, wild angles and her eyes peered out from snake-like slits on her grey face. As she opened her mouth Ari noticed that she had more gold teeth than natural ones.

“Ari Lomond,” she cackled in the poor quality video, “I want to marry Ari Lomond! And if I don’t, I will jump! JUMP ALL THE WAY DOWN! Can you live with that ARIII! Marry me! Marry me!”

At the end of the second ‘marry me’, a number of Romanian men in white-coats, either doctors or, more likely, mental-institution workers, started grabbing her away from the camera, one of them eventually able to inject her with a calming substance.

Back in the studio, Ari was astonished to see the presenter laughing, yes laughing at the woman’s threats.

“Something tells me Ari Lomond won’t be taking her up on that one…”

With that one comment they had moved onto another news piece. Just like that, Helga Hallard’s life was dismissed. As if it did not matter at all. Ari sat there, the crazy woman’s red eyes haunting his mind.

The phone rang. It took Ari a few minutes to answer. He noticed the voice straight away.

“Lomond! How’s it going my man?”

“Yeah, Reynold, not too…”

“Good to hear it, look we gotta’ talk, I sent a car, it’ll be at yours in ten, okay?”

“I’m sorry Reynold I’m having a bit of a…”

“I don’t the like of this, buddy. Get a smile on your face and get down here. I’ve got some great news!”

Before Ari had a chance to ask what on earth the good news was, he was off the phone, no doubt speaking to someone else on his expensive Bluetooth headpiece. Ari went upstairs and changed into a Calvin Klein t-shirt, leather jacket and jeans. It was a casual look that the paparazzi would not lambast if they happened to snap him as he left his house. He examined his handsome face in the mirror and, content with his look, went to the front door.

Sure to his word, Reynold Spark’ s long black limousine was waiting at the front door.

Ari told a dark-skinned servant that he was going to Reynold’s office and would be back soon. The man nodded and informed him that he would clean the pool while he was out. The servant opened the front door and locked it after Ari had exited.

Once outside, he saw an overweight Mexican rush out of the drivers seat of the limo, waddle over to the passenger door, opening it with a large grin. Ari got in and muttered a late thank-you as the door was shutting. The Mexican toddled back over to the drivers seat and rolled the car smoothly out of the driveway. There were a few photographers today, but not many. Ari kept his head down and found himself thinking about his Reynold Spark.

Reynold had been his agent for about ten years now. He had shared an agent with his father for the first five years: an Italian-American by the name of Peter Lovezzi. Lovezzi had managed all the great actors of the past twenty years, finding them superb roles and in return being mentioned in countless Oscar speeches. Ari had fired Lavezzi after his father had died, thinking that Lovezzi had failed him. What he did not appreciate was that Lovezzi truly had been the best at what he did. He had tried his very best for Ari but it had never quite worked out. Instead, Ari had hired the Texan cowboy Reynold Spark, who had promised women, money and Oscar glory. He should have listened to the age-old rule: if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

When he arrived at Reynold’s office, his secretary told him to go right in. When Ari entered his agent was sitting in his chair, fiddling about with a skull some poor animal that he kept on his desk. He was speaking to someone through his Bluetooth earpiece, but on seeing Ari, ushered him in with his hands.

“Again?,” he shouted to his earpiece, “pay the bail, for God’s sakes!”

Ari almost began to speak but before he could start Reynold continued speaking.

“What do you mean he can’t be bailed, what did he do?”

Again Reynold was silent, intently listening.

“I could come back…” Ari mouthed silently, but Reynold ignored it.

“Well that’s not so bad, it’s not like he was taking the drugs….”

Ari looked to his watch awkwardly.

“What do you mean dealing the drugs is worse? How is it worse? Here’s my son finally taking steps of his own in the business world and he’s being put in prison for it? He’s not ramming drugs down these kid’s throats is he? Who’s the irresponsible one…you tell me that! Police these days – punishing teenagers for having a bit of initiative…”

He pressed a button of his ear and turned to Ari, who was not sure if the conversation he had just heard had been sarcastic.

“He’s a good kid, my boy,” he laughed in his Texan drawl, “ as my grand-daddy always said, trouble brings experience and experience brings wisdom, right?”

Ari said nothing. He knew that Raymond Spark’s son was twenty-six and had never held down a legal job in any one of those years. He had been charged for several crimes and was a known crack and heroin addict. That’s a hell of a lot of wisdom, Ari thought.

“To business, my man,” Reynold began loudly, “where are we with The Exterminators? You want that?”

Ari said nothing.

“It’s a hell of a lot of bucks, bud. I’d do it if I were you.”

“The thing is…”

“Let me stop you right there, bud, cause I hear where it’s going. And I’ve seen you turning this way for a while now, that I should say right now. I mean, what’s happening, man. You gotta’ speak to me.”

Ari shook his head. “I don’t know, Reynold…Benji died yesterday and…”

“The dog?”

“Yeah, my dog – Benji. But it’s not just that. It’s Sharon. It’s my house. It’s the goddamn photographers outside…it’s the people in the street who spit at me like I’m dirt, Reynold. Can you see why I would be the slightest bit pissed off at the whole world right now? And there’s this woman, this crazy woman in some weird country somewhere who insists that she’ll kill herself if I don’t marry her. I mean, what must she think of me? That I’m some amazing guy who is worth dying for? I’m not worth dying for, Reynold! I’m not worth a goddamn thing.”

“Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Reyold said, “you gotta’ slow down there my man. We can sort this all out – a bit of modeling, maybe adoption…”

Ari would have launched off again if he had not been out of breath from the previous tirade.

“Hold up. Did she say she would kill herself?” Reynold said with a giggle.

Ari looked up. “What?”

“This broad she said she’d kill herself? What a nut! I mean – she hot?”

And that was it. That one stupid question about the attractiveness of a suicidal Romanian maniac was enough to make Ari Lomond break the barrier between thinking about a change and actually making it. For the first time in his life, Ari Lomond actually made a decision of his own.

Ari stood up and pointed a wavering, accusing finger at his overweight agent. “You think it’s funny?” he said, “You find it funny that people are dying? Dying in my name. Only thing I find funny that this moronic industry supports men like you, Reynold. Stop trying to make more money and sort yourself out. Sort your son out. I have to go.”

Reynold shook his head. “Where are you going to go, Ari? Come on, Ari. Ari…come on Ari don’t leave. Don’t do this. I’ve seen this happen before with people like you. People thinking they’re better than this life, Ari. Feeling for themselves. You have everything! Once you’ll leave you’ll know that…”

Ari was already on his way out the door.

“Once you leave you’ll regret it! Crawling back…that’s what you’ll be…”

But Ari had already left. He left hoping that those were the last words he heard from Reynold Spark. And as with all bad people, it was the last words that uncovered the real person behind the mask of expressions and lies and deceit. Unfortunately, though, this time, it would not be the last he heard of him.

Interview with a crazy woman

Once Ari was back out into the clammy Californian outdoors, he had to evaluate the situation.

Here he was, having lost his dog, his agent, his general hope for life, and the only face that he could picture in his head was that of Helga Hellard. Human life, Ari supposed, was the most important thing. He had wasted his life. Now he had to save hers.

Ari did not employ the Mexican driver that had taken him to Reynold’s office, but it said something about the power of celebrity that the driver agreed to take him to the airport without question. As the limousine gently rolled onto the freeway, Ari rang his house.

After several minutes ringing, there was finally an answer, “Hello.”

“Marcos?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Ari.”

“Hello boss.”

“I need a favour. Can you bring my passport to the airport? Also if you could, throw some clothes in a suitcase for me – a shirt, a pair of jeans, some socks and boxers. Is that okay?”

“Yes boss, shall I meet you at the airport then?”

“Yeah, just meet me at the main entrance, okay?”

“Yes boss. Should I say anything to Mrs. Lomond?”

“Sharon? Tell her I’m going away, and I’m not sure when I’m coming back,” Ari said, “I’ll see you soon. Thanks.”

He knew Sharon wouldn’t ask questions. She never did when he was going away – it was just a case of having to leave the house as quickly as possible so she could do whatever it was she did when Ari was not home. When he came to think of it, he could not care less about Sharon. She was a parasite. She was one of many parasites. For now, though, only saving Helga Hallard’s life was important. Dealing with Sharon would have to wait.

*

It took thirty minutes for Ari to get to the airport terminal. He had to oblige to the small team of photographers that hung around the entrance of the airport, but he did not smile too much. He was not here for media attention. Within ten minutes, Marcos was striding through the crowds that entered LAX international, a small black in his left hand. He gave it the Ari, telling him that he had put in everything that he had asked.

“Thank-you Marcos,” Ari said him.

“No problem, boss. How long are you going away for?”

“Not too long, I don’t think so. But really, Marcos – thank-you. I know I forget your name sometimes and I ask you to do so much, but I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem, boss.”

“Well, I have to rush. Goodbye.”

Ari turned his back on Marcos and walked to the American Airlines desk. The scruffy teenager behind the desk immediately sat up when he saw Ari.

“Yes, Mr Lomond, can I help you sir?”

“I need a seat on your next flight to Bucharest in Romania.”

“Bucharest – yes I can do that – we have a flight that leaves in just under an hour. Is that good for you?”

“Yes please.”

“The only thing is, we only have seats left in economy. Is that okay for you, sir?”

“That’s fine. One seat please.”

“That’s three-hundred and six dollars, please.”

Ari paid the teenager, showed him his passport, answered the safety questions, and an hour and twenty minutes later found himself sitting in the economy class of a Boeing 747.

He was sat between two grossly overweight women, who both used his seat for overspill.

“You’re that movie star, right?” the first woman – an African American - said, the plane still stationary on the tarmac.

“Yes I am.”

“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name, sugar,” she said with a laugh.

“Well that’s okay,” Ari said with a confident smile, “because I don’t think I know your name either.”

“I know your name,” the second obese woman said.

“Oh really…” Ari said, but before he could continue the woman interrupted.

“You’re Christian Slater!” she shouted triumphantly.

“No…” Ari said quietly.

“That’s it,” the first obese woman said, “you’re Christian Slater!”

Ari was about to correct them but again he found himself cut off.

“Ooh yes I love your movies! I knew you were a movie star, I just couldn’t put my finger on who you were.”

“I loved you in that one with John Travolta…you know the one about the pilots…”

“Ladies…” Ari said.

“Broken Arrow!” the first woman said.

“Yeah! And that one about Robin Hood.”

“Prince of Thieves!”

“YES!”

“Ladies!” Ari said loudly, managing to break their conversation, “I’m not Christian Slater. I’m Ari Lomond.”

“Oh,” the second obese woman said unenthusiastically, “John Lomond’s son?”

“That’s right,” Ari sighed.

“Okay. I didn’t know you still made movies?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Really? I don’t think I’ve seen you in anything for ages. Had any movies out recently?”

“Actually I was ten movies last year, but most of them were straight to DVD.”

“Oh. Well it’s nice to see a famous face. Especially in Economy Class – not many these days. Work not going well?”

Ari laughed it off.

“I warn you though,” she added, “I get travel sickness.”

And they never talked again for the rest of the flight, although Ari discovered that she was not joking about the travel sickness. Only one other person talked to him for the duration of the flight – a twelve-year-old boy who asked him for a signature. Together they tried to find a piece of paper but Ari had to resort to signing a sick bag.

If the two obese women taught Ari anything, it was that he had been right - people were forgetting him, but his worry was not about losing the powers he used to hold as a well-known celebrity. It was about recognising the shallowness of his career, about changing his way of life if people were to respond to his name with ‘oh’. Most of all, he recognised how he had to move onto different things, more meaningful things, if he was to do actually do something in this life that was worth a damn.

*

[wavydavy123]

The Bucharest airport terminal was not what Ari was used to. It had not been done up for a while and smelled of sausages. Not that he had much time to think about that. The Romanian people were all over him, demanding autographs in heavily accented English. John Lomond had been half-Romanian and because of this arbitrary connection, Ari’s films had always been received well in the country. As a result, it took a long time for him to fight through the terminal. Once the buzz of the celebrity had quietened down, Ari was able to follow signs to the taxi rank, which was outside. As Ari exited the airport, a man in a suit approached him along with another man who held a large video camera.

“Ari Lomond?” the suited man asked.

“Yes?”

“My name is Adrian Netrescu. I work for Televiziunea Română. Are you here to speak to Helga Hellard?”

Ari looked at him. “How did you know that?”

Adrian smiled. “Someone told us you were in town. You’re not here to film a movie, so what else would you be doing? Bucharest is not a big holiday destination for celebrities, eh? Helga Hellard’s story has been all over the news here, so we presume, you know?”

Ari nodded.

“Are you going to visit her now?”

“I was intending to…” Ari said, “…although I’m not sure what hospital to go to.”

Adrian looked to the cameraman. They smiled at each other, as if they had simultaneously come up with an idea.

“Follow me, Mr Lomond,” Adrian said.

With a shrug, Ari followed the reporter and his cameraman to a large blue van parked on the edge of the street. There was another man at the drivers seat. Adrian said something to him in Romanian and then ushered Ari into the back of the van. If he had not just got off such a long flight, he probably would not have voluntarily got into the van of a man he had just met, but it seemed to be a good idea at that moment. Besides, these guys seemed to be legitimate, plus they were giving him a quick route to Helga Hellard. Adrian and the cameraman followed him into the back, shut the doors, and the next thing Ari knew, the engine started and the van rolled into motion.

The back of the van was dark and filled with various filming equipment. There were no seats, so the three men just had to sit cross-legged on the uncomfortable van flooring, like children at assembly in school. It did not help that the van driver was somewhat erratic: a stereotypical European, he careered over pot-holes with little regard for the van’s welfare. The three passengers in the back slid around awkwardly, consistently banging into each other, and the walls of the van.

“No seatbelts?” Ari asked sarcastically, but his new acquaintances were busy.

Ari watched Adrian speak to the cameraman in Romanian and tried to decipher their dialogue despite the fact that he spoke absolutely no language other than English.

“We’re live in five,” Adrian said finally.

“What?” Ari replied, “Five what? Minutes? What?”

In Ari’s panic he did not see Adrian’s five fingers count down to one, and a small green light flicker alight on Adrian’s colleague’s large video camera.

“Mr Lomond, why did you decide to visit Helga Hellard?” Adrian asked.

Ari, stunned, was silent.

“Mr Lomond?”

“Oh…well I was worried for her health,” Ari said, trying to keep himself upright as the van turned to the right.

Adrian and the cameraman laughed. “And are you going to marry her?” Adrian continued.

“What? No. I mean, I don’t know. I am going to talk to her. I just don’t want her to take her own life.”

“I hear wedding bells…” Adrian teased in heavily accented English, making the cameraman laugh.

“Well,” Ari said quietly, “I’m not sure about that. Listen, do you know if Ms. Hellard speaks English?”

Adrian looked to the cameraman, who shook his head subtly. “Yes,” Adrian said unconvincingly, and he turned to the camera and spoke in Romanian for a few minutes, before the green light flicked off once more.

“Was that live?” Ari said.

“Of course,” Adrian replied.

“And what did you say at the end?”

“Not much. Just that we were en-route to the asylum and we would have the interview live.”

“What interview?”

Adrian looked at Ari blankly. “The interview.”

When Ari maintained his blankness, Adrian added, “Between you and Helga Hellard.”

Ari swallowed as he realised the price he would have to pay for accepting a lift from a television network. “Your television network,” he enquired, “is it popular?”

Adrian laughed. “In America if you want the news quickly, you go to CNN, right? Well we are a bit like CNN in Romania. Most of Eastern Europe, actually. So I suppose we are quite popular.”

“Right.”

Ari peered out the window at the back of the van. He saw an electronics shop on the side of the street with a dozen or so televisions in the window. All of them had the same image – his big face, in the back of this van, presumably speaking the words he had only said moments before. People were crowding around the electronics shop excitedly, while others were rushing away from the shop.

“Why are they running?” Ari asked.

Adrian laughed again. “They are going to the asylum! Everyone wants to see!”

“Everyone in Bucharest?”

“Everyone in Romania.”

Ari gulped.

This - his life’s first meaningful act - was going to have a bit of an audience.

“I’m not so sure about this, “ Ari mumbled.

“Sure you are,” Adrian said confidently, “just remember to look at the camera, yes?”

Essentially, Ari Lomond had been kidnapped. This would never have happened in America, he thought. By the time the TVR van accelerated into the Colţea Asylum on Bucharest’s grubby East side, Ari had started worrying? What would he say to Helga Hellard? Would he have to marry her? Would she even speak his language? He was no longer so upbeat about the resurrection of his soul. As the back doors of the van were swung open, Ari got out sheepishly, but was forced forward by the ushering of Adrian and his cameraman. A barrage of car horns and inaudible shouts came as people inside vehicles in the hospital car-park recognized Ari.

“Move quickly or we’ll be here for hours,” Adrian warned and hurried onwards, the cameraman in pursuit.

Ari followed them alongside the driver of the van, who acted as a semi-bodyguard, pushing back locals looking for autographs or a photo. This provoked anger in some of the more masculine locals but shouting-matches was as far as it went.

“It’s okay, I can sign autographs…” Ari said in an attempt to quell the angriness.

“No!” Adrian said authoratively.

“Oh, okay.”

Adrian turned, and said with the briefest of smiles, “We don’t have a big slot on the television, Mr Lomond, so we have to be quick.”

“Oh right, okay then.” As they circled the huge stone building, Ari noticed the bars on the windows.

“Looks like a prison…” he said.

“It is,” Adrian said, “for the criminally insane.”

“Oh. I thought it was a hospital.”

Adrian ignored him. They stormed in at high speed through the hospital doors and very quickly they made it to a front desk. Adrian spoke to the woman at the desk, who hurried off and returned with a tall man in a white coat.

“Mr Lomond, this way please,” the tall man said.

“Hold on…” Ari said, “this is all so quick. I mean…is there no disclosure or patient-confidentiality or something.”

The Romanians all looked at each other. Silence. And then they started to laugh.

“Mr Lomond,” the doctor gasped through fits of laughter, “this is Romania, not America.”

“Ok,” Raymond said, unsure on how that was relevant.

“This way,” the doctor said, ushering Ari, Adrian, and the cameraman, through several corridors, and finally into a small white room. Red-faced, flustered and tired, Ari was bundled into a chair behind a table, on the other side of which sat someone else.

Ari Lomond was face to face with Helga Hellard.

The first thing he took in was her face. It was old and beaten looking, filled with wrinkles and scratches and several scabs. She was very frail, Ari noticed, but any feelings of pity he had were dismissed when he saw her eyes. Oh – her eyes! They were extremely narrow, a pale yellow colour and further apart than any human beings eyes should be. Each eye seemed to separately stare at Ari. They judged him. Bore into the core of his being.

“I’m here,” Ari said.

“Not yet…” Adrian muttered, and Ari was silent while Adrian did a little introduction to the interview in Romanian. Then the camera was on Ari and Helga, and he was allowed to speak again.

“So, I’m here,” Ari repeated, unaware of the idiocy of the statement.

She was silent.

“Do you speak En…”

“YES!” she shouted, making Ari, Adrian and the cameraman jump.

“She shouts a lot,” the doctor added, reminding Ari that he was still in the room, he hoped as a protector in case she tried to attack him.

“Please…don’t…kill yourself,” Ari said.

“I WILL TRY.”

“Okay. Good.”

They looked at each other in silence. Adrian watched on, then made a hand gesture which said ‘move it along’.

“So why did you ask for me?” Ari said finally, “I mean, why me out of all celebrities.”

“I thought you might come,” she said quietly.

Ari considered her response. “Why?”

“I think you look sad.”

“Do I?”

“YES!” she shouted.

Ari jumped.

“What do you mean, I look sad? I mean, we’ve never met…”

“I can see it in your eyes. On television. Very sad. I wanted to see why you so sad, Ari Lomond.”

“And why do you think…I am so sad?” he asked opportunistically.

Ari considered that this sounded like he was losing control of the conversation. He had thought he would be playing psychologist to Helga Hellard’s wreck. It was beginning to look like the opposite. Ari was not sure whether or not he liked it.

Helga leaned forward on her chair. Narrowed her eyes even further than they were naturally. Chuckled.

“Because you are terrible. A terrible actor. A terrible man, too,” she winked at Adrian, “according to television.”

Ari frowned. “So I’m sad? Why did that make you think I might come?”

“Because you are not just sad – you are…broken.”

“Okay…and why did that make you think I might come?” Ari repeated.

“Because I know things! You see, you and I are the same, Ari. Because I’m broken too. It’s my mind you see – it’s crazy. It’s broken. But I can’t fix that. Some things don’t mend. But I know, as a broken person, Ari, that you will do anything to try and mend. So that is why I knew you would come.”

Ari shook his head. “You’re wrong. I’m not broken anymore. I’ve turned my back on all that. My career. It was a joke. I accept that. I’m mending now.”

“And you think by helping me you are mending?”

Ari nodded slowly.

Helga nodded too, as if she was considering Ari’s argument.

“You’re not mending. Not yet. I can see it. You understand? I think you’ve missed something.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know you were shallow. You know you’re life was not…fulfilling. But there’s something else, Ari. Something you have missed.”

“About what?”

“All the selfishness, the corruptness – it like a disease, like a cancer, and until you kill it all, any mending you try and do is futile. So what have you missed, Ari?”

Ari shook his head, dismissed Helga as insane. “I said no to my career. I want to do other things now.”

“Good. That takes courage. And you love you’re wife?”

Ari paused. “No. And she doesn’t love me.”

“Good,” Helga said, unaware of the horrible nature of her reply, “so that’s not it. You have many friends at home?”

“Real friends? None, I don’t think. Not really.”

Helga nodded again, “Okay. So it’s not that. And your career? You’re sure you won’t go back to it.”

“No! I was pushed into it and-.”

“WHAT? Pushed?”

“Yes,” Ari confirmed, “I was shoved into a career I didn’t want and forced to live this life.”

“So it wasn’t your fault?”

“Right.”

“WRONG!” Helga said, manically laughing, “THIS IS IT ARI! DENIAL! THE CANCER STILL LIVES!”

“No, no, no. Look - you don’t understand the pressure I had to go through. I was told acting was to be my career…”

“MINCINOS!” Helga yelled.

“Lair,” Adrian translated quietly.

“I’m not lying…”

“You’re not here to help me,” she went on, “you are here because you need to do it for you. Because this is the last stage before you can make up for things. You need to accept the last part!”

“What are you…what part?”

“Come on Ari, you and I aren’t so different! We both know that. We both waste life. You because…you’re career…and me because…well…my mind is crazy. Me and you at fault but we try to correct it. Together.”

“We’re not the same,” Ari said, averting his gaze from Helga in dismissal, “I’m mending. I told you I didn’t want this career.”

“STOP DENYING IT! IT IS YOUR FAULT WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO YOU! ADMIT THAT!”

“It’s not denial…look can you just shut up now?”

Helga laughed, “Accept it! You hate your life. You have been corrupted. And you know it. And you need to know – to accept - that it’s your fault. Because if you don’t…you’re mending is for nothing. Your mending will be based on LIES!”

“Shut up! Just shut up will you? I didn’t want this! My father – it was my FATHER – pushed me into this…”

“It was not your father.”

“My goddamn WIFE steals off me! Leeches off me.”

“It is not your wife.”

“You don’t know! You haven’t met them. God you haven’t met my agent, never got me a good script.”

Helga merely shook her head.

“It’s the damn society. Hollywood. It laughs and talks to you but behind your back it’s…it’s a POISON,” Ari was ranting now, shouting red-faced, tears filled in his eyes.

“NO! It’s not these things, Ari.”

“STOP SAYING THAT!”

Helga laughed into the air, specks of saliva shooting into the air.

“Stop the blame, Ari. I wanted to see you because I wanted you to start accepting. Who chose your career? Who fell off the path? Who has failed at everything they have tried and who is looking, searching, for something better? Who asks himself if there even is anything better?”

Ari Lomond and Helga Hellard stared at each other. The crazed woman wanted a response to her question, yet the actor would not give it to her.

And then, without warning, Helga Hellard leaped out of her chair, and began crawling along the table at an alarming rate, right towards Ari.

“IT’S YOU ARI!” she screamed as she rampaged towards him, “IT WAS ALL YOU!”

The doctor started shouting at this point, also, so it was difficult for anyone, including the television audience, to have any idea what was going on. The doctor, being a former rugby player, managed to dive forward and connect with Helga before she reached Ari. The unfortunate consequence of this was that, as the doctor and Helga wrestled on the floor next to table, the doctor’s scalpel slipped out his coat pocket and slid along the ground. Ari looked on with a horrified expression on his face, while Adrian and his cameraman both brimmed in the confidence that this live report would earn them a pay rise. They could only watch as Helga Hellard’s bony elbow got the better of the muscular doctor, and the crazed woman staggered over to the scalpel, then get to her feet and went into the corner of the room. Pressing the blade against the wrinkly skin of her neck, she threatened to kill herself if the doctor came any closer with his syringe. Grudgingly, he agreed, and the motley crew in the hospital room had to watch as time seemed to slow as Helga Hellard’s life came into balance.

“I WANT YOU TO SAY IT!” she hissed loudly.

“What?” Ari said, still staring into space in shock.

“ARI!” she said to gain his attention, “I WANT YOU TO ADMIT IT! IT’S YOUR FAULT!”

He stood there for a second, saying nothing, and only blinking. And then he let it all out.

“You’re right, Helga. I let myself fall into this career. I let myself marry a woman who didn’t love me. I left an agent who did his best for me to a shallow, greedy man. It was all me. It wasn’t my father or my wife…I was the one who chose those scripts, who decided to take all that money for so little effort or talent. I hid from it because I didn’t think I could accept it: that everything that has gone wrong in my life is down to me. But I admit it. I admit it! OKAY! Just don’t…don’t do this.”

Helga smiled.

“Good…” she said, “my life is not important, Ari, I want to let you know that. As I said before, I cannot mend. It is too late. It calms me though, knowing that I help someone else mend, you understand? Just like you I suppose. My redeem…my redeem…”

“Redemption,” Adrian translated.

“My redemption is finished as yours begins!”

She laughed manically.

“Good-bye,” she said with a wink.

Now Ari was not sure what came over him at this point. It was like a sixth sense that he never knew existed, kicking into action at the first point in his life that it was necessary. He supposed later that perhaps it would only ever occur here, at the most important part of his life. The turning point of his life.

As Helga Hellard’s wrist began to move backward in a violent twisting action, Ari himself moved forward with speed. He leaped onto the desk and slid across. In the corner of his eye he saw a look of wonder in the doctor’s face and a look of confusion from Adrian and the cameraman. He pressed his foot against the edge of the table as his body slid to its edge, propelling himself into the air towards Helga. Even the woman, as she came within seconds of ending her life, was utterly amazed by Ari’s movements. And as she stopped moving the scalpel for that half a second, Ari twisted his body round in the air, his foot stretched out towards the woman. He kicked her using that very same kick he had been paid twenty million dollars to learn for Death by Stoning 3, and as his foot connected with her face, directing it backwards and away from the scalpel, she went unconscious. As Ari landed awkwardly on the ground, Helga, too, ended up on the ground, her eyes shut.

The doctor was the next person to move, after a few seconds of taking in what had just taken place, and he checked Helga’s pulse.

“She’s alive…” he said, and then checking her neck, he added, “she hardly had time to make any incision…she’s might just survive this.”

After that, everyone in the room, everyone in the whole of Romania, needed a few more minutes. Just to go over everything that occurred. Just to make sure they had not been dreaming. To make sure that this was not some huge hoax.

And eventually Adrian turned to the cameraman and said in English, “I’m Adrian Netrescu and this is Televiziunea Română.”

Then the green light went off on the camera, and no one was watching. Alone again.

“I don’t any of us expected that,” Adrian said, laughing, then turning to his cameraman, “we’re either getting fired or we’re going to be the most famous people in Romania.”

The two of them started laughing, almost as crazily as Helga had been.

The doctor turned to Ari, “I don’t know what that was, Mr Lomond, but it might have saved Ms. Hellard’s life. I thank you on behalf of the hospital.”

Ari blushed. It was the first time someone had thanked him for something for a long while.

“Your very welcome.”

Three nurses rushed in and began to help the doctor tend to Helga. After a few emergency checks, they carried her outside, leaving Ari, Adrian and the cameraman.

“We’re going Ari,” Adrian said eventually, “you need a lift?”

Ari shrugged. “I guess I need to go back to the airport.”

So the two television workers, now on first name terms with the American superstar, drove him back to the airport and saw him off on a flight to Los Angeles.

The Fifth Trial of Ari Lomond

On the flight Ari thought about Helga Hellard. He thought about whether or not his twist-kick would help her in the long-term. In the end he realised that his actions had, in all probability, prolonged her life – and that could only be a good thing. A better life is worth fighting for, she had taught him that, and by prolonging her life Ari hoped that it would give her an opportunity to make hers better. Maybe even get out of the asylum. Perhaps one day she would get back to normal life. Ari made a promise to himself to find out how she was doing at regular intervals.

On arrival back in Los Angeles, Ari Lomond felt tired, so he did not put any effort into his hair or appearance. After all, he was not expecting many people waiting for him. Which was why, when Ari appeared out the doors of Los Angeles Airport arrivals to thousands of reporters, cameramen and journalists, he was a little taken aback.

“MR LOMOND, HOW DO YOU FEEL HAVING SAVED SOMEONE’S LIFE IN THE REAL WORLD?”

“HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE A HERO, MR LOMOND?”

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING WHEN YOU SAVED HELGA HELLARD’S LIFE?”

Ari fought through them, saying nothing.

“Please,” he said, “I need to rest, it’s been a long few days.”

Eventually he was grabbed by a familiar face and dragged to a limousine in the airport parking lot. It was Marcos.

“You’ve had a busy time, eh boss?”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Everyone’s seen it, boss. CNN showed it, then FOX, then every other television network. You’re the talk of the town. The talk of the nation.”

Ari was silent. Flabbergasted.

Marcos started to drive away, still through hundreds of reporters and cameras, desperate for their shot of the big star.

“How was it?” Marcos asked.

“It was…tiring…and difficult…and amazing. I mean, I know I kicked the woman in the face, but it felt nice to help people, you know. Or at least to try.”

Marcos laughed.

Ari’s phone rang.

“Excuse me Marcos.”

“Of course sir.”

“Hello,” Ari said, flipping the phone up to his ear.

“LOMOND! How’s it going my man?”

It was the unforgettable Texan voice of Reynold Sparks, speaking as if nothing had happened the last time they had met.

“Hello, Reynold.”

“I’m getting floods of scripts in for you man. A flood! And not just crap! I’ve got a drama with Kevin Spacey about a retard-school or something, a romance with Cate Blanchett where two Nazis fall in love or something…it’s looking good!”

“Reynold…”

“And then there’s the interview offers! Every network wants you on their chat shows. I’m talking Jay Leno, Craig Ferguson…”

“Reynold!” Ari shouted.

“Ellen Degeneres wants you on her show…”

“I’m not acting anymore, Reynold.”

“Conan O’Brien is after you too…wait…what did you say?”

“I’m not acting anymore. I’m moving on to other things.”

“Oh,” Reynold said, uncharacteristically taken aback, “I’m confused, I mean are we talking about modeling or writing an autobiography or something.”

Ari smiled.

“Goodbye Reynold.”

He hung up. This would be the last time he heard the voice of Reynold Sparks.

“Everything okay, boss?” Marcos asked.

“Yes thanks, Marcos,” Ari said, and noticing the hordes of people still surrounding the car, “actually, can I get out for a few minutes please.”

“As you wish, boss.”

“Thanks.”

Ari got out the car and was once again bombarded with questions and flashes from cameras. He tried to hush the crowd by raising his arms and shouting, but there were just too many to get his voice heard. Then the hooting of a horn, of the limousine’s horn, sounded several times from behind him. That got their attention. That got them to be quiet. Ari gave a thumbs up and a smile – a smile he barely remembered but was now getting used to again – to his friend, and began to speak.

“Thank you for coming to see me today. What I want to say is that I will no longer be acting. Instead, I want to help people. I want to do something meaningful with my life. And I want to make it clear that I don’t expect your gratitude or your adoration. I mean a few people saying ‘thank=you’ every so often would be nice,” there was laughter from the journalists, “but on top of everything I am doing this so that I can say to my children and my children’s children that I did something significant. My father was a great actor and a good man. What I’m trying to say is that I’ll never be a good actor, but I would like to give a try at being a good human being.”

That day, the journalists took photos and wrote glowing reports of Ari Lomond. That day Ari got back into the limousine with his head held high, and with a newfound sense of excitement on the latest chapter in his tumultuous life. How his endeavors will end only time will tell, but hope and happiness provide a good platform for anything.

And so Ari Lomond began this new adventure with a smile, knowing that no longer was he the man afraid to read his own reviews, no longer the man afraid to admit his own compliance in a shallow and corrupt reality, but the man ready for new things, ready to help and be helped, to love and be loved, and beyond anything, to lead a good and moral existence.

*

Helga Hellard sat in her cell at the Colţea Asylum on Bucharest’s grubby East side. She was opposite her roommate: an overweight Romanian woman called Kolta who thought she was a dog.

On a tiny television set in the corner of the room, Ari Lomond’s face spoke to journalists, telling them about his new life. About being a new person.

Helga stared up at him, smiling, as a joyous tear twinkled in her left eye.

“Asta e baiatul meu.”

That’s my boy.

[jilty]

A bit of an epic there. I like the bit with the dog, I'm unsure about the ending. I liked some parts but th whole thig just cones across a little ... Undercooked....still an interesting and often witty piece

[hillwalker]

Indeed, a long long read that I ended up skimming.

The start was painfully slow but the humour was quite amusing and is what kept me reading until Ari flew to Bucharest and I lost interest.
Long before then I felt the story was a little light-weight – the scene with the disgruntled fan for instance didn’t work for me - and the characters are, of course, caricatures (which I’m assuming was the point).

But the story progressed in fits and starts which made one lose focus too easily. Every time we meet a new character (Ari, his wife, even his dog) we are fed a dollop of background on their life history or how Ari came to meet them.
It’s not a good idea to disrupt the flow of the story in this way.

Similarly some of the dialogue was weak and rather pointless - the conversation at the breakfast table regarding ‘The Exterminators’ seemed to serve no purpose other than confirm that was to be his next film – and the way Ari gave in to his wife’s suggestion was just unbelievable.

Finally – check out this sentence

Ari sat in his kitchen. A plate of blueberry pancakes with banana, strawberries and maple syrup lay on the table underneath him.

Was he actually sitting on the plate?

There’s the suggestion of an idea for a better story here – but as it stands it really needs cutting by at least 50% to make it readable.

H