Infinite Games

2. Simon Tellard

Nothing could have convinced me I wasn't invincible at seventeen. Nothing except death.

It was day seven of filming for the next summer blockbuster of the year. I was a stunt double for a star I hadn't bothered to learn the name of. The movie was also no concern to me. Just the money. And later, the after parties.

Hollywood is notorious for corrupting sweet little kids, and I for one, was no exception. The day I turned sixteen, I stepped into a tattoo parlor and wrought havoc on my back and neck. My agent was mortified at it, but each time I caught eye of the black serpent spiraling down my backside, I couldn't help but grin at myself in the mirror. The snake took loads of makeup to cover over for shoots, and the cost was always subtracted from my paycheck.

Anyone in their right mind wouldn't have done it. The pain and price weren't equal in the slightest. But if that deterred my crazed mother from living solely off my paycheck, that's what I'd do. It worked... somewhat. She went back to her job at the hotel once my money ran dry. Doesn't mean she enjoyed it. Father left her when I was ten and she would rather stay in bed or yell at me than actually try to make something of herself.

I had dropped out of school and started my acting career at age eight. Mother always insisted I had talent. Although I never enjoyed being in front of a camera if it meant I had to say lines. Stunt work was my thing. Jumping out of burning buildings or racing through the woods to avoid a murderer was exhilarating. I lived for my work. To be honest, sometimes I thought work was the only place worth living.
The lines between reality and screen-reality blurred for me. A knife plunged into my side would never pierce my skin. The arrow shot through my head by a trained archer would vanish once the make-up artists had a go at it.

I just hadn't seen it coming, you know? I don't think anybody really sees their end coming besides old people, or inmates on death row. But there I was; I remembered my last moments clearly as I stood in front of the entrance to the massive white tent:

Light perspiration clung to my t shirt. I had been shooting this running scene all afternoon, and the sun, shooting blazing veins of light through the thick forest, was making my labor torturous.

"Action!"

With pained lungs and sore legs, I gasped my way into a full sprint for the ten-trillionth time.

The villain of the movie, played by some ugly bald guy, said his lines:

"Come back here or I'll shoot!"

BLAM!

There was something like a pinch in the back of my head. I didn't remember after that.

Now, here I stood. The entrance of the tent fluttered like an anxious dove. Usually after a hard night of parties, I found my heart stammering when I woke up somewhere I couldn't recognize. But I noticed two things when I looked at my chest. The first being I couldn't hear a heartbeat, no matter where I put my talons. The second being my chest looked like it had seen an awful day at the beach.

Talons? I backtracked for a moment, and held out both my hands in front of me, blinking hard to shake off whatever I thought I was seeing. Surely this was the effect of some serious high. I mean, talons, for crying out loud!

I let out a bleating cry, and kicked up clouds as I stumbled to my rump.

"Oh god!"

This had to be some sort of bad dream. My legs crawled with thick brown fur. Was this what happened when people never shaved? I dared look beyond the ocean of hair, and what I saw was in fact proof that I was as high as a kite: animal's hooves in place of my feet. I looked like a two pegged pirate!

"Oh, God, this can't be happening."

I took another glance to check that all was real. Talons, fur, red skin, hooves. A last desperate attempt to get out of this nightmare left me jabbing myself with a talon and screaming. There was no pain. But the wound bled. Oh yes, it bled.

A thick, black sludge oozed slowly down my crimson arm.

What had happened to me?! This wasn't a nightmare, this was a bad high or it was --I couldn't bring myself to think of the other option. It couldn't be real. It couldn't!

The tent opened wide and two creatures trotted out. They had hooves and hairy legs like myself, and looked so real... so, so real...

I teared up as my face scrunched into a pitiful mess, the sobs hitched in my chest as the monsters helped me to my feet. They dragged my unwilling body through the tent entrance. Inside were hundreds of creatures, all seated as though in a conference. Half were glowing, winged, and chiseled to the point of perfection. The other half, well, I knew what they looked like: me.

"B Three," a deep voice sounded.

Sniffling back sobs, I watched as a thick scarlet brute beside me applied a green dot to his piece of paper. This was no conference. This was:

"Bingo," I muttered.

The room sighed in frustration.

"Who speaks the sacred word?" a rickety, old voice from the very front spoke up. The thing it belonged to was a prune-looking codger who was far past his prime.

"Sacred? My bad, sir," I cringed.

The room hushed as though I had just said a joke during open-mike night which crossed the line.

"YOU DARE TRY TO TRICK THE OLDER ONE! HE IS YOUR LORD. TREAT HIM AS SUCH."

"Lord? Hold on, I don't even know why I'm here-"

One of the beasts holding me slammed my head on the nearest gaming table, unsheathing a spear that stunk of rotted flesh. My nose leaked black fluid across an angel's bingo card.

"Please, I didn't know."

"What have you on this satyr, m'Lord?" growled the one holding me down. He sounded as if he had been a smoker in a past life.

"I have mercy. The rules were unbeknownst to him. Bring him to an open table, fetch him a card, and let us play on."