Tribesmen Read Free

Caribbean Island. Pure and untouched by the cinema…and the fucking tourists. A dream location…and very cheap.”
    “Caribbean? I thought you said that this asshole actually filmed in the Amazon.” Pressberg motioned at the projector to indicate that he meant the director of Cannibal Fury Atrocity (a direct translation from the original Italian title).
    “Why shoot in Amazon when you can have palm trees with your jungle? Plus I no get eaten by fucking tiger or gorilla or some such shit,” Tito said and smiled. The long slit of a grin exposed the dead teeth at the back of his mouth. “Plus there are primitives all over. The Amazon has no monopoly on savages.”
    “Fine, whatever. Bring it in fast and under budget. Don’t let these Italians beat you to the punch with one more film than they already have. I’m sure those Guinea bastards have made three movies during the course of this conversation.”
    Pressberg put up a finger to signal that his terms were not yet finished. “Take the money, but promise me one thing.”
    “Anything for you, maestro.”
    “Promise that I never have to sit down and watch the fucking thing.”
    Roland Pressberg made a theatrical gesture, wiping his palms on his chest and washing his hands of this whole damn thing. He was Pontius Pilate with a checkbook.
    “That’s a promise, you big baby.” The two men clapped hands. Tito was slick with sweat and nicotine stains.
    As much as it pained him, they shook on it.

Chapter 2
    Jacque Fuller
Screenplay
    Umberto poked Jacque in the ribs with a strong, bronze finger and told him to get the blonde girl’s attention. Jacque finished scribbling down the sentence he was working on before speaking to her.
    “Pardon me,” he said. He had to yell slightly to make himself heard over the plane’s engine. “Umberto would like to ask you a question.”
    “Yes,” she said, looking up and folding her glamour magazine against her lap. On the cover was Bo Derek’s smiling face. Jacque had read that Bo was following up 10 with a Tarzan picture. That was probably not a great idea.
    Umberto reached across Jacque and offered the woman a pocket mirror with three perfectly sculpted lines of powder across it.
    “No thank you,” she said, smiling wide. It was obvious that she was not looking to make a bad first impression.
    With looks like hers, bad first impressions were practically impossible. She had the dimpled face of the all-American girl-next-door combined with the milk chocolate complexion of an African goddess. The blonde hair was from a bottle, but somehow it suited her.
    She was still smiling as Umberto pushed the mirror closer. She was being too polite. This wasn’t going to be a long shoot, but Jacque guessed by looking at her that she was a people-pleaser.
    Umberto began speaking in Italian. The girl looked at him, puzzled, and then back down at the mirror which was still extended. The Italian’s hands were shaking. Jacque decided to intervene before Umberto spilled the powder all over his lap.
    “He says that it’s not cocaine,” Jacque said to the girl. “He’s crushed up some downers and thought they might help you get some sleep on the flight.’
    “Could you tell him that it’s alright? Tell him that I’m fine,” the girl said and pressed Umberto’s manicured hand, and the mirror, away.
    Jacque told him and Umberto shrugged. The bodybuilder-turned-actor mumbled some things in Italian that Jacque thought it was best not to translate for the girl. The massive golden-haired Italian turned to the seat behind him and offered Daria, the makeup girl, a line before taking two big snorts and cleaning off the pocket mirror himself.
    After five minutes, he was snoring, and Jacque couldn’t decide which state of consciousness made the minor Italian movie star less appealing.
    “What are you writing?” the blonde asked him. She was very pretty and only spoke English. Considering what he knew (that this was a Tito Bronze production