Faking a sudden illness
could prove the distraction you need. Surely the staff will take pity on
someone who came to see Dolph despite having heart problems. Yes, it is
time to play the pity card once again. Those months you spent in your
high school drama club are finally going to pay off.
"Oh man," you say to the Lundie, "all this arguing is making me feel a
little light-headed. Oh, but I'm sure it's nothing. Let's chant for
Dolph to have a good next shoot. Go Dolph, go Dolph, D-O-L-P-Hhhhhhhhhhhhnnnnn.
Argh, experiencing... chest pains. Left arm... tingling. Talking...
like... Shatner. Must... be... having... a heart attack-ack-ack!"
You carefully fall down and start convulsing. You're not really sure if
heart attack victims flop around a whole lot, but better safe than
sorry. You give the performance of a lifetime, twitching severely and
flinging spittle all over the gathering crowd. You even manage to kick
one of your shoes off, as you're pretty sure you heard something about
heart attack victims wanted to make sure their feet are unrestricted so
that the blood can circulate through the legs better, and take pressure
off the heart, or something. Still no medic, though, so you rack your
brain trying to come up with more heart attack symptoms.
A few minutes into your scene, the director comes running over. "Aw,
geez. Somebody call the medic over here before we have to pay for an
ambulance." One of the production assistants rushes over and whispers
something into the director's ear. He sighs heavily, and then addresses
you personally:
"Ok buddy, here's the thing: we couldn't afford to hire a full-time
medic, but one of the extras used to be a lifeguard, and he had to pass
a vigorous first aid/CPR class for work. Chet, get over here and earn
your pay!"
Chet runs over and kneels beside you. He leans in, and you see that he
has a confused look on his face. Good, you muse, he doesn't remember any
of his training. I'll just let him try a few things, and then spring to
life and declare that I'm cured. After that, it's smooth sailing to a
free pity talk with D. Lundy himself. Your train of thought is derailed
suddenly, as Chet begins pounding your chest while screaming, "live,
damn you, live!" You try to cut his efforts short, but inhaling at all
leaves a sharp pain in your lungs.
"Don't you die on me!
It's not working! Bring me that defibrilator!"
"Chet, that's not a defibrilator. That's the battery from my Geo.
Anyway, isn't that more for cardiac arrest?"
"Hey, who sat through the 2-hour first aid class? Me. Now bring it here!
And bring my jumper cables, too."
Alright, this is
getting out of hand. You struggle to sit up and wave Chet off, but the
braindead extra eases you back down and tries to reassure you that
everything will be just fine. He shouts clear and thrusts the arcing
cables onto your chest. You're only dimly aware of anything apart from
the pain of the the shock compounded with your broken ribs, but you do
hear Chet lamenting that the first shock did nothing. He declares that
he's going to try again, and sure enough, the second one was enough to
kill you.
