Vengeance

Part One: A Meeting

It was a dim, but warmly lit morning on George Washington Boulevard, Hollywood, as Florentino Manchetti tapped away. His small bungalow was spacious, but mostly empty apart from a typewriter and a few loose papers sat in a pile on the floor. He sat back, dressed in a dark suit, even in these early hours. He decided to leave his writing and head out.

Despite the fact that it was seven in the morning, Florentino had to get going. He was having breakfast with his latest interviewee, a producer. With no car to his name, he had to get up and walk the several between his house and the ranch where the producer was working. He put some blank paper into a briefcase and set out. He was a tall, slim man, who would be quite imposing if he put on any weight.  He had a face like death himself, and a solid upright walk which betrayed no signs of levity.

Even though it was early, the hot summer swing of the sixties were fully in motion. Girls in crop tops and short shorts wandering the streets, hippie men with long hair smoking weed against a wall; and in the midst of all of this happiness and innovation, Florentino walked, like a man dragged kicking and screaming out of the two previous decades.

After about thirty minutes to an hour of walking, he arrived at the dusty ranch. He showed his badge at the desk and walked through the prop western town that was set up. He finally reached a steel grey trailer, and rapped on the door. He heard a muffled shout, and entered.

"Ah, Florentino! Great to see you again." The man from behind a small tray table stood, throwing his arms wide.

"Helmut! Pleasure to see you again."  He embraces him. "Quite a picture you're making here."

"Christ it's big." Helmut said, falling back into his chair. "We're only making it to appeal to those leftist fuckers at the protests."

"Times are changing man, I told you." Florentino also sank into a seat.

"It's fucking ridiculous. Some people go killing innocent people for some southern bums, and we have to shape to pander to them? We're going soft I'm telling you."

Helmut Williams was a plump man, with thinning white hair and a stubbled chin.

"Well. That'll happen if enough people stand up. Shall we eat?"

"Give us a minute. You want some whisky?" Helmut stood up and went to grab a glass beaker full of the brown liquid.

"I'll get it." Florentino got up, taking the bottle and pouring two glasses, wrapping his fingers around the brims before pouring. "Smells nice."

"It's Talisker, man. The proper shit."

"You'll have to forgive me," he said as he handed the glass to Helmut. "I'm not too clued in on my beverages.

"You will after this, my boy." Helmut took a deep swig. "I get it shipped in. From Scotland no less." He chuckled, "Fucking good stuff."

Florentino smiled slightly, putting his glass on the table. "So... want to start?

"Sure, sure. How's the book coming by the way?"

"It's coming good. I'm not that far in, I have some interviews to do." Florentino took out his papers, undoing his pen.

"It's a good idea," Helmut said, shaking his hand at the author. "Not enough people are talking about the place Hollywood recently."

"What do you mean?" Florentino started to scribble.

"Well, it's all about scale now." Helmut leant back in his chair. "You have to choose between small and intimate, or money. You can't make proper movies anymore. It's all big, bashy childish bullshit. Spartacus, Batman, James Bond... it's a dangerous trend. Now I'm not complaining. Hell, I'm getting paid more in a day than most do in a year, just to make this dumb fucking commie mess."

He shook his head slightly. Florentino nodded intently. "May I ask a few questions?"

"Sure thing." Helmut coughed into his hand, suddenly taken aback.

"So... You think quality changes at the levels you make movies at?" Flo stood up and headed towards the back of the room. "Forgive me, I'm just slightly slow. So a big movie. A man making a new life, in a new land filled with sun and opportunity. You go from living next to Anne Frank to Steve McQueen."

Helmut's eyes widened, still chocking. "Who are you..."

The author placed his glass on the table, picking up his briefcase and moving towards the door. "I don't know honestly. My life was taken from me. But you... you didn't even change your name: Special Officer Helmut. You need to remember to watch what you drink by the way." He closed the door and left, as Helmuts eyes widened, deeply terrified as his last life breaths left him.