Chapter 22: The Sinister Backdrop

By Allen Frost

When the road reached Jupiter Hill’s summit, they were slowed by a hive of studio trucks and cars, black and white police cars and military vehicles and finally brought to a stop by a yellow tape strung across the tar.
Sam grumbled and turned the rusted protesting steering wheel towards a glade under a tree.
“What’s going on up here?” George said. “This can’t be for Frankenstein’s Hand, can it?
“I don’t think so,” Sam answered. He killed the motor and a last spasm rippled from the engine down the frame and coughed out the exhaust. “Oh no…” Sam suddenly groaned. “It’s that guy.”
A tall white cowboy hat rode above a thicket of actors and crew. Bronson Griffith strode towards the silver car with a big smile prepared on his face. “You old son of a gun!” he lowed. “Sam Samsara!”
George closed his hands protectively over the bag and followed Sam’s lead getting out of the car. ‘That guy’ actually looked like a match for Sam.
“You on this picture too?” the cowboy boomed. He dropped a fist through the air and caught Sam for a handshake.
George sogged along the long ocean scarred hood of the car. He stopped when he saw one of the rivets moving across the metal, realized it was a gray shelled hermit crab, and moved on around to Sam’s side.
“It sure is something…” Bronson Griffith shook his head, cleaving a hand in the windmills direction. “Wait til you see, it’ll take your breath away. But I’ll tell you what. From now on when people ask me why I do what I do, I’ll say that’s why. That’s the truth, Sam.” Then, as he pushed back the brim of his cowboy hat, a loud sneeze came from the bag George was holding.
“Whu—?” Bronson Griffith leaned to look in the gap of the bag, expecting to see a dog, his features going from mild curiosity to a brightened mask he’d never show on the silver screen. He squeaked, “Whu—?” again.
“Holy cow!” the soldier’s head chattered back at him, “It’s Bronson Griffith!”
George quickly snapped the bag and hurried to explain, “That’s a prop, a puppet, funny isn’t it?” he grinned haphazardly.
Sam gave the cowboy a thud on the shoulder with his oar-sized hand. “Yes, we must be going. The set is that way?”
But the cowboy actor was still waxed and attached to that spot like a statue imitation.
“Excuse me, we will find it,” Sam nodded, leading his companions away, slipping into a crowd carrying light stands, ladders and rolls of wire. Jupiter Hill had gone from hilltop home to windmills to a spilled out anthill. Sam and George were caught in the flow and carried on the crushed lawn past hedges to an amazing movie made sight. Every windmill was strung together with thick white ropes going over every angle and blade up and down lacing like spiderweb.
The soldier sneezed again, but nobody noticed. Sam and George approached it like the Parthenon remains.
After another sneeze, the soldier head said, “You know, I think I’m getting a cold.”
“This is the biggest budget I’ve ever seen,” Sam confided, “It looks like an Alfred Spinster movie.”
George was just amazed by the expert knots and surgical skill involved in the project. He almost felt like laughing.
“Sam Samsara.”
It was Alfred Spinster.
“I should have known you’d be paying your respects up here,” the director remarked. “Yes, it’s a terrible shame this thing had to happen. So tell me Sam, you think you could make an appearance in my film while you’re here?”
“Sure,” Sam said. “I’m…”
“I’m glad you said that, I was hoping you would in fact. I’m very happy with the results. Okay Sam I’ve got a part for you, I want you to picture a little town beside the sea. You can see the movement when the dawn hits. People start getting ready for work, they’re out the door and either they catch a gondola or they walk. That’s where you come in, Sam. That’s where the camera finds you.” Alfred Spinster stopped to take a stare through a kaleidoscope camera lens. “No, no, no!” he cried, “I’m not in focus!” While there was a scramble of crew, Sam felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Sam Samsara.” Wervers was there. “I’m glad to see you. We’re—”
“Hah!” Alfred Spinster spluttered. “I seem to have forgotten your name, oh wait—I remember now. Wervers, right?
“Yes,” Wervers nodded. “Good to see you again.”
“I suppose you’re cashing in on a picture up here too? Probably using some of my sets when I’m not looking? That’s alright. I don’t mind, it’s all in the nature of the beast.”
“Actually,” Wervers broke in, “I’ve been waiting for Sam so we can get started.”
“There you are, taking my actors too. I wonder what kind of slip-shod production you’re up to this time. Monsters on the loose? Ghouls? Let me see, let me guess. This whole tapestry of wound up windmills is only the backdrop to a more sinister paranoid reality. The world is plunged into war and the only one who can stop it is this heroic Sam Samsara.” Imperiously, Alfred Spinster leaned back on his heels to coast in the wind of his words.
Wervers cracked a smile. “I suppose you guessed it.”