Fiction: Group 3
and abruptly reappearing from backstage. This night, a mediocre piano stool, with a silver Smith and
Wesson magnum revolver, accompanied the assistant of the last stunt of the night, in which the assistant was
to insert a polished metal slug into his acting partner’s forehead. The audience was itching with anticipation
of the sharp cracks as the assistant releases an array of gunfire, and the stuntman as small blemishes of fresh
blood begrime his crisp shirt.
The assistant led the stunt of the night by displaying all six .357 Magnum pellets and passing them around
the audience. After a while of knocking the bullets on chairs and squeezing them as if to reveal their furtive
sides, all the ammunition was returned to the assistant. The assistant slowly cocked the gun and aimed at the
stuntman’s head. He released a single bullet, a silver spear through an inky black night.
The stuntman fell and the audience grew silent, some timid onlookers rapidly scrambling out of the hall.
Abruptly, the stuntman reappeared out of the backstage, accompanied by all the performers that displayed
their astounding artistry that night. They completed the show with a small man running across the stage,
yanking the heavy red drapes, which happened to obstruct the audience’s view of whatever happens onstage.
The audience abandoned the hall rapidly, as the young businessman lingered for a moment. He needed the
tranquility of the silent hall, just to take a moment to collect his thoughts. The hall grew quiet. Two men
nimbly shot out of nowhere, carrying a gun and a coffin. They solemnly explained the truth to him, that
they could just simply kill him, put him in the coffin and seal it up with concrete or he could follow them
to the backstage, and face whatever happened behind the glamorous scenes and fancy costumes.
The two men led him out a side exit, towards a series of linked Volkswagen caravans, complete with full
bedrooms and kitchens. Inside, around fifteen men that looked like carbon copies of the stuntman who
performed that night sat at various spaces inside the complex. Various people treated them to achieve the
exact same look as each other. They were treated with much respect, as if they were going to die in the
stunt.
The number of stuntmen in the caravan decreased as every show came by. The young businessman-turned
stuntman double witnessed the death of many other stuntmen. Their bodies were cremated and the ashes
stored in classic funerary urns. The stuntmen sometimes were shot onstage, or occasionally a more exotic
way. The number of stuntmen were getting smaller, it was nearly show time.
The wind whipped across the lone caravan trail, as rain started to patter on the caravans, its soft watery
droplets forming splashes of mud. Water became tears; tears became the blood that was spilt on that forlorn
stage. The stuntman before him was already shot. It was show time.
Everybody wishes to come out of a difficult situation, some rather glamorously, as the title page of a fashion
magazine. Or rather, some people would rather opt for a more “aloof” method, as the old man who caught
a king crab whilst everyone else was catching old grimy socks. Nonetheless, this story shall not state the
adventures of this young man after that last sentence, not portray the “real” ending of this hopeless story.
And to think that the young man would live happily ever after and eat cake in a lovely palace, actually
would be much unnecessary and would receive much displeasure and recursive headaches. However, the
story has to end here, and this tale shall bid adieu to this young man.
