Gonzalez Must Die

In the enormous and unfamiliar video store he wandered up and down the aisles, looking for his section: Erotic Thrillers.  Louis Bidaris was elated when he found it, and then saw the videotape The Kill Zone on the shelves.  He reached for it, and then stopped, deciding to stand back and survey all the other cassettes of the section.  Better to first view his movie among others, and ask himself: "If I were just anyone walking by, would the cover for my cassette leap out at the eye, or merely blend in with the others?" 

            Of course his eye was drawn to it immediately because the movie, as well as the artwork on the cover, were his own creations.  This work had sprung from his imagination, so he could not be objective when viewing it among the competing tapes in the store—but what did other people think?  Were their eyes drawn to Sheryl Gamble in her bikini, firing her assault rifle?  Did they want to see more of her, and suddenly decide—though they had come into the store to rent another tape—to rent this video?  Were they already imagining, right there in the store, that they were back at home, naked, with their hard-ons pointing at the screen as Sheryl slaughtered bad guys? 

            Could he himself feel other people's emotions surging through his own body?  At these moments, standing in a video store and looking at his movies on the shelf, this was when Louis most wanted to be other people, to not keep his own body but instead to float, like a breath, into others, and see through their eyes, and to have their emotions.  Also, of course, here in the erotic thrillers section he wanted to have his cock rise up in hunger and fright, for at these moments his cock felt indistinguishable from all other men's cocks, with the swelling blood in him standing in for other men's blood, spurred by other men's emotions.  Did other men yearn for Sheryl as he had when he first imagined her?  Did they like to see her nude as she killed evil men, and did these viewers maybe even wish Sheryl in her fury would assail them too? 

            As Louis stood in the aisle staring at his cassette, a young couple in their early twenties walked past him, preparing themselves for the task of selecting a tape for the evening.  They sailed right past him, heading for the new releases, and Louis turned and followed them.  He would listen to them, eavesdrop on them, learn their opinions, and see what tape they chose.  Momentarily he would become them, and have their eyes and their thoughts. 

            With great disappointment he watched the couple pick a tape instantly, exchanging no words, and head for the check out counter.  "They already made their decision before they walked in," he said to himself.  "Unusual." 

            He turned and headed back to his section.  He picked up his tape.  Here he was, his body—consolidated in this box, incorporated chemically on each frame of his original film stock, then retranslated many thousands of times into magnetic particles on a video cassette.  "It's me," he said to himself, "flowing everywhere, across the country.  Even overseas." 

            This was his body, wound around two spools in the plastic case.  Hundreds of feet of tape, every inch of it inscribed with his imagination, his feelings.  He had orchestrated all his actors and actresses too—they were together in front of his camera, moving their limbs, saying their words, doing exactly what he had told them to do.  And here too, milling around in the video store, was his public, gathered around him.  He turned and surveyed the large barn-like store, his chin raised.  He was out in the world, potentially seen by everyone.  Feel them, viewing him, wanting to behold him for ninety minutes after reaching for him on the shelves, paying money to do so. 

            In this section of the store the cover of every cassette case showed semi-naked women on it, just as his cover did.  In that way his work blended in with the others; still, the sight of all that bared flesh surrounding his own contribution to the market was stirring.  Even after over a decade of making movies and seeing displays like this, he found himself exhilarated.  In fact, the large number of cassette covers that seemed to strike out at him with their bold covers only made his cassette that much more provocative.  He shared the shelves with so many enlivened bodies!  So many bare and vicious women. . . 

            In the early years, back in the mid-80's, there had been far fewer films like his on the shelves.  In fact, most video stores did not even have a category for the kind of films he made.  There was no such thing as an erotic thriller back then.  Instead he was thrown in with the main releases, with whom he couldn't compete.  His work was always seen as the cast-off stuff, the videos that never had an actual release in movie theaters.  "Straight to video," was the phrase that people used to denote bad movies.  A phase he had heard applied to his own work when he had stood in front of his cassettes in video stores and listened in.  He would watch people lift one of his films, look at it, then put it back.  "Never heard of it," they said, "have you?" 

            Yet his films sold.  That is, they were purchased by video stores and then rented out, often in large numbers, though the greater public had never heard of them.  And now films like his enjoyed their own category, and each year there were dozens more of them on the racks, all of them sharing the same attributes.  Viewers came to this section knowing exactly what they were going to find, and they were rarely disappointed.  Most of the men who rented erotic thrillers—and overwhelmingly his viewers were men—viewed each and every one of them on the shelves, working through them all, steadily, week in and week out.  How did he know this?  They wrote and told him.  Over and over, they claimed, they were taking home another erotic thriller.  "Your movies," one guy wrote, "are the best of the group.  Each one gets better than the one before.  I love the girls of Alpha squad: they kick serious ass."  Another viewer, who wrote in with the release of each new film, admitted to repeatedly masturbating to all his movies.  This admission was touching, even gallant.  His viewers impressed him with their diligence, their desperation, their passion. 

            Originally he had been disheartened that he didn't have a bigger audience, that he wasn't mainstream, but his films were seen by hundreds of thousands of viewers who felt just as he did when they saw naked women with guns.  Though his films were made only for video cassettes, the simplicity of this arrangement had tremendous advantages, most importantly in that he had complete control over his films.  "A lot less studio bullshit," he liked to inform people.  "I do what I want."  And with his category of films growing by leaps and bounds every year, with him being one of the pioneers of his genre, he had made lots of money, in addition to being filled with pride over his achievement.  "Soon every movie will go straight to video," he would often say, "just like I was doing back in 1983."  

            Here at this store, he viewed the set-up for erotic thrillers.  At least fifty cassettes were lined up on three long shelves.  There was a nice selection.  And people had to walk past them to get to the main releases; he wasn't stuck over in the corner with the foreign films and docum-entaries. 

            He stood back and squinted his eyes, trying to make his cassette cover blend in more with the others.  People had to be struck by his work as they walked by; his colors were brighter, his women more arresting.  Look at the cover photo of Sheryl Gamble and Tanya November firing their guns, their weapons positioned to hide their bare breasts.  And he had seen all these women in the flesh; he had actually directed them, told them how to move their bodies and swing their limbs and deliver their lines.  He had often put his hands right on them and physically moved them into position, their breasts quivering, their skin sweating.  And as the women hit their marks and drew in a breath to say their lines or begin walking or running, he knew they wouldn't be doing any of this if he hadn't initiated it all. 

            No bared breasts on the cassette covers, though.  That was one of the rules of the game.  There had to be a way to distinguish his films from porn.  But the fact that there was no real nudity on the cassette cases only made the tapes that much more seductive, for everyone who walked by knew his tape was full of women whose nudity burst out at them like the sun.  And his productions were not Hollywood productions—where if you were lucky you got a glance of bare ass; no, in his productions the women were showing their bare skin throughout the movie.  But it wasn't porn.  Not cock and cunt; no interminable fucking, bad acting or an absent plot.  In his movies, there was a story, there were rehearsals, there were high production values, but there were also naked girls. 

            Now that he directed erotic thrillers which were marketed nationwide he knew that over the entire country, like a vast and ethereal weather front, wonderful naked women had been dispersed, shooting guns and killing bad guys, and people's VCR's brought the girls to their eyes, right there in their living rooms.  These days there existed millions and millions of VCR's; there was practically one in every home, but less than fifteen years ago, back in the early-80's, there were hardly any.  He was part of a burgeoning, indispensable process.  Images were every-where—moving images that would continue to become more and more hypnotic as people became more sophisticated in creating them and watching them.  Mesmerizing imagines were generated in machines that everyone owned.  Hollywood could not compete with this, not in the end.  Soon everyone could make images, and consume images, and you wouldn't need complicated machines or a lot of money to generate them or watch them. . . 

            He was part of this democracy of image-making, and his images, because they showed bared flesh, were mesmerizing.  Men stood entranced in front of his images and their cocks stiffened. There was no denying a stiff prick!  Did he want to go to Hollywood and be celebrated on Oscar night?  No, he just wanted to concoct his naked girls for appreciative eyes.  The TV screen, it was a big gem-like transparent stone that reverberated with nudity.  Even back in the mid-seventies, with his very first video cameras and monitors, he had felt this way, and now look—bright glowing screens were everywhere, begetting a dazzling spectacle of bare skin, action and dialogue. 

            When he made his movies, it was he who created them, out of nothing.  Before he thought it up, his story and his women basically didn't exist.  Then, after three or four months of hard work, he possessed something that endured in people's minds—in their hearts too, for what happened to your heart when you had an orgasm?  It raced like a locomotive, that's what.  And he had accomplished it, out of nothing. 

            It was he who had to organize it all: write a script, find the actors and actresses, draft and sign all the paperwork, and, lastly, most importantly, arrange the financing (which was why he was here in Houston for three days—he had a couple backers lined up for his latest movie).  Of course many other people helped him with his movies, and without them they couldn't be completed—but one person had to get set the process in gear and keep it going, and that person was him. 

            And here, on the shelf, were his movies.  Two of the eight movies he had made in his career: Kill Zone and the The Cali Connection. 

            He wrote the entire scripts for his movies too.  Not many directors did that anymore.  But that was how it had started, in the early days—he had to do some much on his own.  Later he could have farmed out the writing to someone else, but he hadn't. The writing was just as important as the girls; the girls couldn't really do anything if they didn't have the writing.  Now, these days, he had more help with things, especially with hiring his crews, writing contracts, getting permits, and searching out locations, and after eight films, money flowed to him more smoothly than it did ten and twelve years ago, but still you had to know what you were doing.  Spending large amounts of other people's money (while trying to adhere to a schedule and a deadline) demanded a skill and patience not many people possessed. 

            "And I have too sooth the actresses—hold their hands, listen to their complaints, return their lost confidence, lend them money. . ." he said proudly to himself, there in the video store. "Have to be kind of a mom to them. . ." 

            Actually, standing here, looking around, he was a little disappointed there was no one else scanning the shelves in his section.  Although it was early in the evening, a Tuesday evening too.  Not a Saturday night, which was prime time for erotic thrillers.  That's when men came in, when they most needed his women's bare skin and ferocity. 

            Over in the main releases there were five or six people patrolling, walking back and forth in front of the shelves, trying to made a decision.  Not one of his films had ever been shown on a real movie screen; there had been no openings in major cities, and no reviews in the papers.  Yet people sought out his work.  Word of mouth spread his name.  His films moved off the shelves.  The video market was a gold mine for directors like him—six months after one of his films hit the shelves it would have been rented 300,000 times, nationwide.  A year later it was still leaving the shelves at the rate of 5,000 a month.  Once its run was completed, which could take up to two or three years, everyone was very happy with their investment, and he was richer, and usually halfway through another film.  He could get the same actors and the same technical people; everyone wanted steady work, and that's what they got.  Now most of them had been on three or four of his projects.  They also were paid on time, and he was generous with his payroll, especially with his actresses. Nothing smarmy about his productions either—not only did he not do porn, but financially everything was above board.  No dirty money, and no mob people, and the actors and actresses still had ideas they were going to make it in Hollywood.  They were young, ambitious and there was a freshness in their faces that you rarely saw in porn, or in a lot of the Hollywood stuff.  People enjoyed themselves on his set, and with all the bare tits, well,  everyone's eyes were sparkling, even the women's. 

            The girls were wonderful.  How he had managed to find them, and keep four of the five from his first film to his last, was the best bit of luck in this business.  His women were beautiful, moved well, and could act fairly decently, and with one exception, they were easy to work with.  Putting them through their paces was a delight; watching them in the dailies as they wiped out bad guys with their guns was even better than sleeping with them, which he had never done, not with any of them. 

            And seeing them repeat their motions on a VCR in a hotel in a strange city was the best pleasure.  Nearly two years had passed since he had made Kill Zone—now he would rent the tape and see it with fresh eyes; he would see it with everyone's eyes. What had changed for him in the movie since he had last seen it? Would it arouse him like it had when he made it?  Would it stir others?  There was always something new to feel.  Something new to learn. 

            Before renting his tape he decided to look at the competition.  He bent down, scanning the shelves.  His eye was caught by the title of one of the tapes: Lethal Zone.  They had ripped him off with that title!  He lifted the cassette case and stared at the front cover, which showed a red-haired woman in a bikini firing an automatic rifle.  He examined the case more closely.  This woman looked a lot like Sheryl Gamble, though she wasn't as good-looking.  The art work on the cover was similar too.  He felt a swell of pride in him.  As was said, imitation was the sincerest form of flattery.  He looked on the back and saw several smaller color photos, one of a car exploding, and another of a woman lying on the ground, her face bloody.  Not the red-haired woman, but another woman.  Hot, erotic thriller, a blurb announced, in quote marks, though the quotes were attributed to no one, keeping you on the edge from beginning to end as Cassandra McVeigh (Lisa Murray), reprising her role in "Dead to Rights," returns for more action.  This time she must avenge her sister's brutal murder. . . 

            Cassandra's sister must be the dead woman on the back cover. He hated how some erotic thrillers films reveled in killing women off.  He never could tolerate that.  Even though the women's death were always avenged in the movie, he abhorred displays of violence against women.  Only the women should be dishing out the pain; they should rarely be shown dying in a film.  In all his movies, in all his big gun battles, a woman never died, at least not any of his special commando girls.  Though it was absurd, really, that was one of his rules, for it was what his audience wanted.  A slightly different audience wanted exhibits of dead women with ugly wounds, but he never catered to them.  He liked to show bad men getting riddled by bullets, but never any mutilation or torture, even for the bad guys.  He could never stand horror flicks; even as a kid he wouldn't watch them.  He remembered being dragged to one of those movies back in high school.  "It'll be cool," his friends had said.  "We can laugh at it."  But he had detested their laughs, and their distance from what was happening, which was gruesome and repellent. 

            No tortured people, and no needless or prolonged suffering. Instead there had to be continual action and nudity, that was all.  No slowing things down and reveling in violence; no psychopaths either, committing serial murders.  Only lots of running and shouting and shooting, and a story that moved from A to Z.  He just wanted sexy women trying to win a battle or solve a problem. 

            Still holding Lethal Zone in his hand, he looked at his own cassette, Kill Zone.  Across the top of the cover it said: Another film by Louis Bidaris.  Director of "Texas Rubies" and "The Cali Connection."  The five beautiful agents of Alpha squad are back, making sure everyone knows CRIME DOESN'T PAY. 

            He should take both tapes back to his room and compare them. His naked body would be trembling in front of the lit TV; his body would also be standing in front of his camcorder too, as it filmed him, as it recorded his reaction to what he viewed.  Gripping his erection in his hand, he would be naked and shredded by the women's gunfire, his body shuddering with bullets.  What a wonder to experience his movie again, and then review his experience on his tape he had made.  To stand outside himself and see himself grow stiff and to be repeatedly killed by his women of Alpha squad. 

            And maybe he could do the same thing with Lethal Zone. 

            "See how it stands up. . ." he said, and then he laughed at his joke, and lightly touched his cock through his pants. 

            He took both cassettes, holding one in each hand, side by side.  He turned them over.  On the back of Kill Zone's cover there was a photograph of another one of his women, Grace Atkinson, shooting a man dressed in a black commando outfit, sending him reeling backward off a balcony, his arms outstretched.  Below the photo it said: The squad is in Mexico now, tracking down the ruthless cocaine trafficker Sergio Gonzalez. 

            Clutching both tapes, he turned and marched to the check out counter, whispering softly to himself, "Gonzalez must die." 

In his motel room Louis first sat down and had a drink.  He took off his shoes and shocks, and turned up the air-conditioning.  Finally, feeling rested, relaxed, he wondered which cassette he would start with.  Really, it would have to be his film, not its imitator, Lethal Zone.  He took the cassette out of its case, glanced down to look at his name on the label, and saw the copyright date: 1992.  How many machines had this tape been through in the last three years?  Makes you think of some hooker, one of his producers had joked once when he had asked him that same question.  So many insertions, you don't want to know. . . .   

            He had been offended by the remark, but the image had stayed with him.  Sliding the cassette in was a little like slipping the dick in; there was the ever-present threat of contamination and depreciation.  Everyone had seen videos that had been inside too many VCR's.  And the machines, they get busted down too, just like an old whore, the producer had laughed.  You gotta retire them. . . 

            How many VCR's were there in the world now?  They were fairly complicated machines, but these days they were produced so cheaply that people just threw out their old ones and bought new ones.  Kind of sad, really, though the machines had been worn out gallantly giving out their images to the world. . .  

            Unbuttoning his shirt, he walked to the TV, which had a VCR built into it.  Even the hotels had VCR's in them now, with men  renting his videos in far away cities so they could masturbate to his fantastic women.  Or they surfed the cable channels and found his movies there, for cable was always snapping up his movies and sending them out across the country. 

            He had found out years ago as a teenager with his first video camera that a naked woman who was moving her body was far preferable to a stationary woman, to a woman in a skin magazine; this was why motion pictures were superior to still photos.  It was best to have women doing something other than simply looking pretty, or being a tease, or getting screwed.  That was the reason why his films were better than the Playboy videos, or the strip-tease tapes that lined the shelves of another section of this video store, which was usually called mature audiences or some such bullshit.  The Playboy and strip videos were basically absurd little fantasies.  He often called these fabrications canned girls.  Girls posing in lingerie, then taking the lingerie off as an insipid rock music soundtrack played.  To him those girls never felt real.  As a viewer it was far better to know the women were not simply doing something inane or passive so as to place all eyes on them.  What was preferable was to get them engrossed, or concentrating on something, so that they forgot that they were being watched.  It was best to have them doing something that took skill, and that took their self-consciousness away.  Basically, women should not be watched. . .as they were being watched.  Instead, men wanted women who were a force, who projected themselves out, rather than have projections dumped on them, which is what strip tapes and the Playboy stuff did, as well as the porno.  To establish women out in the world, to show them making a difference, that was important.  It's what men wanted, though the men might also be very frightened of this.  It was good to scare men, however.  Not just arouse them, but frighten them.  If you could put fear into your creativity than it was more potent. . . 

            There was sex too, in his movies, but it was simulated, and well thought out, and rehearsed.  No real sex, no penetration.  Sex on film usually became boring very quickly, or was static; nothing was more boring than porno movies, for in porno the girls were often ugly, and moved too woodenly, and could barely talk, and it went on and on and on.  And the bad focus and bad lighting made the women's bodies look even worse. . . 

            His own set-up, here in the hotel room, was completely simple.  One camcorder on a tripod; no lights, no props (though he had moved around some of the lights in the room to get better lighting angles). 

            He had already set up his camcorder on the tripod before he went out to the video store.  He had also set down his marks—a single small piece of tape on the carpet.  Just like an actor, he had to situate himself in the right place for the scene.  "Gotta hit my marks," he said with a grin, and he pulled down his pants.        As he had done many times before, he would tape himself watching the video.  He wanted to record his reaction to what he was seeing, just as he had done years ago as a teenager while holding his prick in his hand and filming himself.  He loved to see his excitement, and he loved to be outside of it, looking in on himself; it seemed only at these moments did his arousal seem real, and not just rooted in himself.  Here in this motel room, in a room he had never been before, away from his house, he would watch himself react to what he had first imagined and then had actually created on film.  Seeing the tape would give new and living embodiment to his fantasies.  To see what his imagination did to him, and what it did to other people too—that was his thrill.  With a camera rolling, watching him naked, he felt he would be all people.  His rising dick was every man's rising dick.  His naked skin became every man's skin, here at age 48.

            As he prepared to insert his cassette into the VCR, he noticed that the film had not been rewound.  He peered more closely.  Someone had not viewed the whole tape—instead they

had ended it about three quarters of the way though.  This was depressing—but then again, maybe they had gone back to a particular scene to play back something they liked? 

            Which was it?  Either they hadn't liked his film, or they had liked it a lot.  He decided to start the tape here, instead of rewinding, and see what he would come upon.  It would be a surprise. 

            Into the machine the tape went.  On with the TV.  And he was delighted to see the sudden image of a woman's naked midsection filling the frame.  She was cut off at the shoulders and knees as she pushed out from between a thick row of palm fronds and walked right into the camera lens.  She was wearing only a green bikini thong, and she was carrying an assault rifle.  Though he could not see her face, he instantly recognized Gwen Hebron.  How did he know her?  He distinguished her because of the shape of her breasts.  Working with her on his movies, he was as intimately acquainted with her breasts as if she were his lover.  He could identify all his actresses by their breasts.  And this scene that was unfolding in the forest, he also identified it instantly.  His commando women were only seconds away from their big gun battle with the mercenaries who worked for Gonzalez.  This was the long, highly-choreographed climactic scene that resolved the movie; he and his crew had spent nearly a week filming this, getting it right. 

            Right behind Gwen came a second woman, Alex Marda.  With only her midsection visible too, she looked much like Gwen, though her body was wholly distinct from Gwen's.  Each of his women were similar, but each of them also possessed her own splendid shape.  Alex's breasts were a little smaller, and rode a bit higher on her chest; her nipples were darker, and her waist not as sharply indented as Gwen's.  She wasn't as tall, either. 

            Behind her came Tanya November, then Sheryl Gamble and Grace Atkinson, in single file, as they crept down a jungle path.  Up in the trees, birds were singing, and monkeys calling.  The camera was back on Gwen now, who looked simply too splendid and luminous to be viewed; she was too naked, too tall, in her bikini thong.  What was it that made her seem so bare?  The jungle sunlight reflecting off her breasts?  Her AK-47?  Or was it her nakedness being duplicated by the other women?  All five women were wearing only bikini bottoms, each one a different color.  The nakedness radiating off the women was almost too much to bear: it was as if their bare skin was watching him as he watched them.  He felt he had to turn away. 

            The women on the screen, they could see him too, for the camera had pulled back a little, allowing their faces to be seen now.  They ignored the camera, but still seemed to look back at him.  Was it the women's eyes, or their skin that saw him?  It was impossible to say.  Every inch of uncovered skin rose out at him, and his own nakedness was the only rebuttal, leaping from him, returning their gaze, their regard.  Back and forth, he and the women struck at each other. 

            He was naked, standing in the thick carpet, with the balcony door open and the night falling in on him.  The phone was unplugged, the air conditioner roaring, to cool things down and to also drown out any extraneous sound from the rooms around him or from the street.  The five women on screen were fanning out, making hand motions to each other, not speaking.  The camera now shifted, it was in back of them, and it ran up behind Grace, who was last in line.  Grace, in the blue thong.  Black hair was falling down her back, contrasting with her pale skin.  Despite her dark hair, she was the fairest-skinned of his five women; she was also the tallest.  Her sandals clacked softly as she walked, and the camera glanced down briefly at her feet, then back up at her.  The camera's movement and position implied threat, and Grace stopped and turned to look behind her, her weapon raised.  Under her arm he could see the sides of her breasts rising and falling with her breath.  Seeing her breasts from this angle, seeing how Grace's breasts displayed a slightly different cant, a slightly different heft and shape compared to each of the other women's breasts, he knew once again, as he had known many times before, that in his life he had been given a marvelous opportunity in his knowing these women, directing them, having them star in his films. 

            "And here's where she's alerted!" he shouted at the screen. And sure enough, a twig snapped, and Grace suddenly crouched down then swung her weapon to her left as the camera came in close.  There was danger in the air.  The buzz of a fly was heard, and she slapped at her forearm; of course this had all been rehearsed, and he remembered telling Grace before they started the scene to slap her wrist after she had been crouching for 5 seconds.  "I want you to count off the seconds in your head, count to five slowly, than do it.  We'll put in the sound of the fly later."  He remembered filming this scene as if it were yesterday. 

            The suddenly louder squawking of birds arose.  Gonzalez and his henchmen were close by; you could sense it.  The camera stayed on Grace's face.  His hand went to his cock, and already he was stiffening.  But where were Grace's four comrades?  That's what viewers could feel.  No sound from them at all.  It was as if Grace were suddenly all alone. 

            "Just wait and watch, listen," he said, feeling as if his words rose out to the camcorder and duplicated what many other viewers who watched with him were thinking.  His remote, he realized, was in his other hand, and he brought up the volume with it, and noticed his cock was already stiff and pointing at the TV. 

            There was going to be action.  He and everyone else would not be disappointed.  Grace was being scrutinized by someone malevolent.  The always-moving camera had drifted back out away from her, still behind her; the audience was now spying on her, seeing her from the bad guy's point of view.  She took a breath, and crept forward, still crouched.  She stopped, and then stood, momentarily leaving only her belly and the bottom halves of her breasts visible in the frame.  Her image seemed to make him rock back slightly and teeter.  Christ, she was grand!  But he had to try and stand up to her, to counter her power, so he stepped up to the screen, moving in closer and closer, bending and putting his face right at the screen.  But then he was backing up, for he realized he was losing her image at this close range; her image tended to dissolve when he got too close to the screen.  He moved back to his original position, aware of how he was being seen by the camcorder (and had moved off of his mark), and as he backed up he was struck by Grace again—she looked motionless, but her stomach, like her breasts, was rising and sinking almost imperceptibly.  And someone was going to shoot her.  Another set of eyes were on her.  The whole world watched.  Nakedness was reverberating amidst the foliage, nakedness was seen, and soon, like the nakedness, the jungle would reverberate too. 

            He must stop the tape, get away from this.  It was too intense for him: the nudity, the incipient gunfire.  His cock was now pointed at the ceiling, and it was very hard and quivered slightly.  He turned away from the screen.  His camcorder was detailing all of it: his erection, and his hesitation, his turning away. 

            Getting started like this, here at the end of the tape, was too much.  He should have started at the beginning.  If he wasn't careful he would already come, and it was too early for that.  The camcorder needed to watch him (and the movie) longer, see him get more and more aroused, and more and more engrossed.  Everything was happening too fast.  Yet seeing him react as he did—tuning away from the screen, maybe even turning off the machine—anyone who watched the tape would know how powerful his movie was. 

            Crack, crack—gunshots, and he turned back to the screen and saw Grace's startled face.  Too late, the battle had begun.  A palm leaf snapped and fell past her face, and she was rolling for cover, then coming up to her feet again, her weapon leading her body, just like her all-seeing nakedness.  Look how she pointed herself and her weapon—her high nipples like gunsights.  There was the bad guy, one of Gonzalez's mercenaries, lurking to her left, behind a tree stump!  She opened up at him, a tongue of flame wiggling from the gun barrel, her breasts and shoulders shuddering.  The mercenary was struck and flung backwards, grunting hoarsely as the bullets hit him and sparkled in bright red blots on his chest. 

            Without hesitating, she ran toward him, firing at him again, though he was down.  The man was dressed in black, wearing a hood and long pants.  When making his film, he knew he didn't have to dress the mercenaries this way—he could have spent less money clothing them, but he had wanted high production values for his film, and part of that was clothing.  Putting the mercenaries in black and in hoods made them look more menacing, and then, because of their threatening look, it was more thrilling to see them killed. 

            Another man popped up out of the underbrush but Grace cut him down without breaking stride, the muzzle flashes obscuring her shaking breasts.  Stupendous, the way she moved so well.  Of the five women Grace ran the best, which is why he chose her to fire on the run. 

            He had to stop with the tape—he felt as if it were his own body, not the mercenary's, that shuddered with bullets.  He was going to come.  He had to delay.  No, no, he had to keep moving; there would be no rewinding back to the beginning now—he should show the world what was happening to him, how he had gotten involved in the climactic scene against his better judgment.  He even said, angrily, out loud for the camera, "I should have started at the beginning!" 

            But the vision of Grace, and the sound of her gunfire was enthralling; it was as stunning to hear the gunfire as it was to see her image on the screen.  An incredible voluptuous racket. 

He mustn't turn off the tape, or step out of the view of the camcorder.  He had to stay put, here on his spot, with his raging hard-on.  "Have to hit my marks," he whispered to himself again with a grin, trying to peek down at his feet in the carpet. 

            More firing could be heard from the other women as the battle commenced.  There were sudden cuts to the women moving forward.  Close-ups of fingers pulling triggers, eye squinting as they took aim, feet slapping down in the underbrush.  Lots of editing here.  Now the camera felt to be everywhere, seeing everything for an instant, in front of and then behind each woman as she ran, the frame jarring and jagging, sweeping left, right, showing the five of them firing, dropping men, their arms flailing, the cries echoes.

            The women joined up in a clearing, forming a circle, still firing.  They were very expert and exact in their movements.  He remembered how little coaching they had needed in this movie.  This was, after all, their sixth film together and they knew how to move as a unit.  In earlier films things hadn't been as smooth and effortless.  At the start of this film, viewers would have seen the women taking their training in a military camp.  All the various drills they had to perform were lovingly depicted after being rehearsed many times.  These women weren't something made up for a book, some apparition in a scheming writer's mind.  These were real women, wearing only bikini bottoms, who were actually going over an obstacle course, their muscles rippling, their sweat shining, their buttocks shifting as they ran.  And he hoped men who watched the film wondered, "How did the director of this movie find five women and train them to move like this, looking so similar, so statuesque, and so capable?  Who could think this up, bring these five together?"

            "Yes, who?" he demanded with glee to himself, making sure not to look at the camcorder.  There must be no acknowledging that he was aware of it filming him, though the camera could listen to him exhale and grunt, or complain about his starting in the middle of the tape. 

            More and more gunfire could be heard.  The jungle was suddenly full of bad guys popping up, firing, missing, retreating.  The women fired backed back, never missing, the mercenaries spinning around, their chests mushrooming with blood.  Each woman seemed to float through the underbrush like an apparition, firing her weapon, with bright blasts of gunfire erupting like Fourth of July sparklers against her nakedness. 

            Suddenly, the film cut to a white mansion standing in the middle of the jungle; from the balcony of the mansion, a red awning was drawn back to reveal a large machine gun on a tripod, manned by two hooded mercenaries.  The women were at the walls of the mansion, and the machine gunners began firing the weapon, sweeping the gun through the jungle, the gun's tracers looking like a fiery garden hose arched out at the walls and into the thick foliage.  Behind them stood Gonzalez, the cocaine king, who wore a white suit and waved a cellular phone at his two henchmen while he cried, Fools, fools!  Kill them! 

            Leaves and tree trunks were shredded by the gun.  The women were diving for cover as dirt was kicked up in geysers around them.  "Hit the deck!" one of them yelled. 

            Then the gun jammed and two of the women leaped up and ran up to the high wall.  The camera suddenly rose up above the wall as if revealing what the women saw: the grounds of the mansion, which swarmed with mercenaries.  The two women scaled the wall, skin scraping, throat muscles tightening as the men on the lawn fired at them, with bullets pocking the wall all around them with dull thuds, showering them with plaster. 

            Jumping down from the wall, the women were met by two mercenaries with machetes.  The four of them stared at each other for an instant.  Now it was time to join in with the TV, screaming just like Gonzalez did on the balcony: "Kill them, kill them!" 

            Great exhilaration in him to see the women fire at the men at close range, with the men's legs kicking out from under them as they were flung backwards, their machetes spinning above their heads, landing, thunk, in the grass next to them. 

            He loved yelling at the screen, probably looking and sounding like the lunatic Gonzalez, only instead of a mobile phone in his hand he was holding his cock. 

            The other three women came over the wall, while the first two provided covering fire, taking down several more mercenaries. Killing them without a thought, the women ruled them, their breasts shuddering as their weapons shuddered.  Here, as he watched, were his oldest fantasies rushing out at him.  Women slayed him; there was no hope with them.  They were merciless, and he loved it.  This only repeated what had always been true with women. 

            All the men would be dead within minutes, including Gonzalez in the white suit.  Even if you had never seen the movie before, the outcome was known.  Very satisfying.  And he had directed this movie.  He knew everything beforehand—but then so did everyone else.  He had created these women, and wrote their words and told them what clothes to wear (or not to wear).  He had thought up their lives, their bodies, their childhoods, the abuse they suffered under bad men.  He had control of them, and then, in his movie, they destroyed him, and all other men.  But it was he who had created their fierce patriotism as well as their love for the two men who ran them, their "handlers," who were called simply Number One and Number Two.  These men were U.S. government agents, agents of goodness and world harmony, who dressed and acted like pimps, driving fancy cars, wearing the tackiest clothes.  Amazing how it was all so stupid, and so loving and convincing.  And he, here in this hotel room, like everyone who watched, had been invited in for it, to partake, though he had also thought all this up. . .  

            In this final battle, as the women moved into the mansion, the camera and the editing was everywhere, becoming more and more frenetic.  Sometimes the women fired right into the camera, their mouth open, their throaty yells reverberating, as the shell casing flew.  

            "Kill me!" he shouted several times, stumbling backwards from the set, clutching his chest and laughing, grimacing, holding his cock. 

            Was he in front of the camera or behind it—he didn't know, because he was everywhere, in and out, close and far away, just like the camera.  It felt fantastic to see everything, but even better was to be everywhere, to be naked, shivering, sweating. 

            A mercenary skulked behind a closed patio door, the camera at his back, peering at him.  There was a lull in the gunfire.  Suddenly this scene felt very intimate, very close.  The mer-cenary prepared to surprise Alex, who crept up, unknowingly, to the other side of the door in her red thong, her nipples stiff from the excitement and clatter.  But there was no need to worry about Alex—the mercenary was too slow, too loud; before he could even fling open the door his squeaking boots gave him away, and instantly the camera was on the other side of the door, giving everyone a new view, showing Alex as she fired her weapon.  She really let loose, riddling the door with bullets—and then the camera was back on the other side of the door again, behind the hapless mercenary.  The blood was spitting from his back as he grunted in pain.  For an instant, a close-up of his shocked face, and then quickly the camera was once more behind him, further back this time, watching from across the room, showing the door and the man, both shot through and through. 

            The door swung open on its own—and back outside, on the other side of the door, the camera saw what Alex saw, watching the man stagger, his gun firing helplessly into the ceiling as he toppled over. 

            The camera always moved, was always in another position.  Now it was down low on the floor next to his body.  A fantastic shot as the camera looked up at Alex, in her tiny bikini bottom, as she stepped over the fallen mercenary.  She was too tall, stretching out of view, the frame cutting her off at the hips; there was even a flash of the small tattoo on her ankle.  The camera showed the man too, a close-up of his blank face, and open eyes. 

            "Sorry I didn't knock," Alex quipped to the man as she moved into the house, the camera drawing back and showing her disappear into a cloud of drifting gun smoke. 

            Another man was on the stairs, but Alex was too fast, the flash of her gun barrel lighting up the whole stairwell as the man was hit and came crashing down.  Alex was screaming at him, still firing, her ejected shell casings streaming out of the breech to clatter on the stairs in the sudden silence.  She was out of ammunition.  So very realistic.  "Damn," she whispered, pulling off the clip to quickly replace it with another one.  (But where had she gotten the extra ammo?  Where?  She wore nothing on her, no belt, no pouch, only her bikini bottom.  It didn't matter!) 

            Jesus, Jesus.  Again, he was on the verge of coming.  He remembered the very beginning of the movie, with the first gunfire in the movie erupting after just two minutes of filming. The hard-boiled Alex was sunbathing, topless, at her pool, when a crazed burglar burst into the pool area with a portable TV set in one hand and a pistol in his other hand.  He was being chased by two cops.  From under her towel Alex whipped out a small automatic and took aim.  Her lotioned body glinted in the sun as she cut the man down, sending him cartwheeling into the pool, and the two cops ducked for cover, not knowing what was happening. 

            It was always best to start the action quickly.  And with the oiled and shiny Alex at poolside he remembered how he had sent his sperm splattering when he viewed the dailies of this scene.  At that moment his body had felt too limited and confining to be lived in, inhabited.  Whoosh, he felt he was outside himself, knowing exactly what he looked like, even laughing at his pose there in the editing room: his knees bent, hips pushed out, his hand on his dick.  Look how he tossed his sperm! 

            Yet his body seemed to have tossed his come too far, too vehemently—this moment was actually the very opposite of being removed from himself, the opposite of being everyone and seeing all girls.  For at that moment he felt suddenly he was too inside himself.  Feel him quiver, feel him gasp as he spurted—and still he was looking at his editing monitor, watching Alex walk over to the edge of the pool to look at the dead guy, her gun still raised. 

            Everything hopelessly blurred in these moments.  Every woman he had ever looked at, naked or clothed, was superimposed on every other woman.  And there were many versions of himself too, many bodies he possessed; some he lived inside of, while others he viewed from afar.  Some were clothed, others had hard-ons and squirted sperm.  So many people inhabited the world, all of them aware of each other as he watched Alex on his screen!  Look at her as she slipped into a tiny halter top as the police approached her, guns still raised, and began to question her, awestruck. 

            And now there was this, the final big battle, with the five women making their way into the mansion, their gunfire continually sending guys cartwheeling into walls or furniture.  The mansion was being chewed to bits with gunfire; the special effects were impressive, with bodies and glass and plaster flying everywhere.  High production values!  And his prick felt to mighty, too end-heavy, unwieldy, escaping from his hand as it shimmied and writhed and tilted upward in front of the TV.

            But he had to save himself for the finale, for the destruction of Gonzalez in his impeccable white suit.  Must delay his coming and let the camcorder watch it all.  In his feeling on-the-verge-of-coming he was sure he could become the very air; he could be continual excitation as he festered, right on the edge, infested with bubbling sperm and with his viewers.  Later, watching the tape he was making, that would be a thrill too—seeing the movie progress while simultaneously viewing his hard-on and his eventual spurting.  What a fabulous view of things he would possess. . .

            How would the movie kill Gonzalez off?  That's what all the men who were watching wondered.  'Should I save myself for the finale?' they asked, 'or should I come now?  Am I in me, or am I part of the vast expanse around me?' 

            Feel the movie whirl them along.  The women's recoiling breasts each time she fired!  Could the men who watched this, could they stand up to it?  From a balcony, Tanya was blasting guys off the roof, screaming at them as she fired, with little flecks of saliva flying out of her mouth.  The camera came in close, and saw everything—her curled lips, a smear of dirt on her shoulder, and even a tiny scar under chin.  And here in the reverberating hotel room he was copying her vehemence—his mouth open as he shook with her violence directed at him.  "I love to be in the kill zone!" he shouted.  

            He wanted to be seen by the women and be struck down by them forever and always.  He wanted to try to return fire too, shoot at the women and fail, then be riddled here in his anonymous motel room as he stumbled in front of the TV, his knees sagging. And everything was being witnessed.  Why do anything if no one saw it?  Everything we do must be witnessed, given out to the world.  All of this, his nakedness and what was transpiring on the TV screen, were being inspected by his camcorder.  See it happen, and then see him react to it.  He was in the world of living bodies; he was involved.  He just wanted to be killed and be spread everywhere, drift up from his body while feeling his corpse bleed. 

            He wanted to be the women too, as they all watched him fall. To be someone else, a woman, no less—and to have a fabulous body, to have breasts and smooth skin—and murder men.  Feel his boobs shake as he gunned himself down!  Feel how the muscles in Alex's calves stretched, pulled taut as she bent and ducked a flurry of bullets smashing into the wall behind her.  Feel her buttocks flex as she stood up and fired back.  Feel her fat, distended nipples. 

            He remembered how Sheryl had told him once that firing a gun and killing guys on the set aroused her.  After a scene was finished, she had said, "Look at me," and she displaying her breasts, and her lifted nipples.  She was so into it!  He had been amazed at how the women got involved, how they really let loose in the action scenes, how they enjoyed the killing.  You could see it in their faces.  Sheryl had even told him once that shooting the bad guys on the set was therapeutic.  "After I've been wasting these guys all day I feel I'm getting my revenge on all the jerks who've ever treated me badly.  It's such a rush to project. . .such force. . ." 

            Now as the battle raged to its conclusion on his TV screen, he watched Sheryl duck out of a doorway as a mercenary at the other end of the hall fired at where she just been, firing at thin air.  Sheryl went motionless, pressed against a wall, her assault rifle held up to her face. 

            Wanting to study her face, he hit the Pause button.  The movie was suddenly on hold, the frame jiggling ever so slightly, as if being pulled in both directions, trembling with tension.  Where had his impulse come to stop the show, to stop himself?  He must look at Sheryl.  Examine her face.  Really a quite beautiful face on her, a model's face.  Her face was turned slightly, a three-quarters view, her cheek almost touching her weapon.  Sheryl, glowing on the screen, still holding steady.  She was lit well too, the light coming from above, highlighting her face.  The lighting had been set up this way, planned, so she would look good, while in the background, slightly out of focus, frozen, the mercenary blazed away with his gun.  A difficult scene, one that had taken a long time to set up. 

            He moved in closer to look at Alex, and, bending to the TV, he saw one of her eyes was half open, half-flinching, in the frozen frame.  He hadn't noticed this before.  But the hallway was filled with flying debris as the bullets hit around her; he couldn't blame her for flinching.  Here was the tiniest leak in her, in her fierceness; a little bit of vulnerability.  Still, she was waiting calmly for the bozo down the hall to finish firing, or to run out of ammunition.  That's what was going to happen—the guy had been firing too much and soon he would be empty. 

            That poor guy, he was so foolish.  He had to be alerted. "Get out of there!" he suddenly yelled at the guy.  "Stop firing. Flee while you can." 

            Along with all his other viewers, he was shouting at the mercenary, while holding his prick.  What would happen next?  No surprise.  Touch the Play button to find out?  No, just stare at Sheryl for a while longer.  Look at the highlights on her cheeks. The corners of her lips were pulled back ever so slightly, as if she were smiling.  All of this was stationary, for him to go over.  But who wanted her motionless like this?  Best to get her started again, watch her limbs move, her gun fire.  Best to be scared, thrilled, have her jump out at him.  See it happen. 

            Shaking the remote impatiently at the TV, he let the freeze-frame off, the TV much like a person holding its breath then, gasp, released.  Sheryl blinked once after the last of the bullets was fired—there was silence down the hall, only the metallic click click of the mercenary's empty weapon.  Stepping calmly into the hallway, lowering her weapon to waist level, Sheryl fired at the mercenary, doing it almost casually, her apathy like a fierce winding blowing down the corridor, sending the bad guy spinning, his arms out like an ice capades dancer, blurring in front of him as rotated around several time, his gun flung out from him. 

            Sheryl was moving toward his fallen body, sweeping her weapon left and right, then kicking his gun behind her.  "You're history," she said.

            Christ.  Here in this anonymous hotel room he wanted very badly to be on screen, riddled, bleeding to death. 

            Excruciatingly careful, feeling as if he were balanced on a rail, he placed the remote on top of the TV.  Then, taking a breath, he laid down on the floor, on his back, and watched as Grace stepped over the mercenary.  Yes, he told himself, I'm history.  He stretching himself on the carpet, his knees and calves exhausted from so much rigid standing and flexing.  He looked up at the screen, and saw Grace towering over him.  He sighed, his erection flexed on his stomach. 

            Sudden silence—the battle was over—all the mercenaries except Gonzalez were dead, and Gonzalez was suddenly seen leaping off the balcony onto a lower roof and then jumping onto the lawn, waving his briefcase full of drug money and firing his pistol. 

            Gwen peered over the edge of the balcony, her empty gun barrel smoking, her hair disheveled; she pointed at the fleeing Gonzalez.  Get that asshole! 

            Out over the balcony rail went Sheryl in pursuit of Gonzalez.  Quick cut to Gonzalez running, stumbling and falling, then crawling on all fours along a low wall, getting his suit grass-stained as he dragged his briefcase and fired his gun without aiming. 

            Sheryl was pursuing him on the lawn, followed by Alex and Grace, who were leaping off the balcony, their hair streaming.  Gwen and Tanya were close behind, with Tanya's lovely belly button ring glittering in the sunlight as she ran.  This movie never quit.  His best, really.  He confirmed it tonight.  Nothing could top this. 

            The end was near for Gonzalez.  Still on his hands and knees, he blundered right into one of the bodies of his men and yipped in terror.  He was the chief bad guy, the one who had murdered several drug enforcement agents and hatched plans for a world-wide cocaine cartel, the one with the millions in his heavy, thumping briefcase, but now he was yipping like a frightened child.  These women were going to teach him never to break the rules; these women were going to kill him, descend on him and shred him. 

            Look at the women now fan out around Gonzalez, circle him on the lawn, their rib cages rising with their huffing breaths.  Down on the ground, still crawling and discarding his empty ammunition clip, Gonzalez was futilely feeling his jacket pockets for more ammunition. 

            The guy was finished—as he himself would soon be too.  Really, he and Gonzalez were the same—both desperate, both doomed. 

            Gonzalez, his pistol empty, was clicking it helplessly at Alex as she walked up to him.  He threw the pistol at her and she ducked it.  She raised her weapon. 

            Both he and Gonzalez were now lying on their backs, looking helpless as they faced the gun barrel.  But how he longed to surprise Alex, to see her body spout blood!  Peering up at the TV, he saw the fallen, grass-stained Gonzalez stare up at Alex just as he was doing; they were plotting some new mischief. 

            "Come on, you weakling," he hissed at Gonzalez.  "Fight it out!  Do something, surprise us." 

            The briefcase—surely there was a weapon in there.  Yes!  Gonzalez was fumbling at the latches, with Alex shaking her head, saying, "Forget it, compadre." 

            Ah, Gonzalez had a surprise for them.  Yes, they both had a surprise for the women, him and Gonzalez.  If only his double, his compatriot, Mr. Gonzalez, were nude like he was!  Then everyone could see Gonzalez's dick too.  One of the few moments he wished you could see men's cocks in his films.  For both of them to be completely naked, battling the women and losing, being torn by the women's anger and bullets—that would be best. 

             Don't count me out! they both cried to themselves as they sprung open their briefcases.  Yes, he could match Gonzalez word for word, and gesture for gesture—after all, he had created Gonzalez.  He had written all his words and actions. 

            On the floor he was miming Gonzalez, flicking open an imaginary briefcase—but instantly a gust of wind rose up and whisked all the money in the briefcase up into the air.  He and Gonzalez both lunged to retrieve the money.  It was very stirring to be imitating Gonzalez, snatching at the air in front of him, while the women laughed, shaking their heads.  But he would fix them; the women had let their guard down. 

            Suddenly one of the women cried, "He's got a grenade!"  

            Grace, in her slightly-twisted and askew green thong, had sharp eyes.  Too late, though.  Gonzalez had reached into his briefcase, grabbed the grenade and pulled the pin out, all in one motion.  Imitating Gonzalez, he was doing the same thing here on the floor of his hotel room.  Desperate, willing to kill everyone including himself. . .perhaps it was time to go out with a bang, torn to pieces by the grenade; or maybe, by purest luck, he might escape, and once again be able to concoct more evil in the world. Maybe he would meet the women of Alpha squad again! 

            Manic, and sweating profusely, Gonzalez was waving his grenade at the women.  He stood up, still clutching his grenade. "Back off," he shouted at the women.  "I said, back off!" 

            Then a close-up view of Alex's face as she squinted at Gonzalez.  She was full of icy disdain at this new ugliness that had unfolded; she raised her AK-47 right into the camera.  The camera, as if frightened of the weapon and of Alex's stony face, pulled back from the gun and slid down her body, a long ride past her neck and shoulders, past her breasts, past her rib cage which still rose and fell with the tumult of battle, down her belly, showing some smudges of dirt, even a red abrasion on her hip.  This movie, he noted with pride, loved and took glory in the details. . .

            A single shot was heard.  A close up again of Alex's face, the smoking barrel in the foreground—and with this final image of her he came, shooting semen onto his stomach, and his evil twin Gonzalez fell backwards, shot in the forehead, the grenade rolling free, pinless.  Grenade in the grass, and sperm rolling onto the carpet.  The other women fired in unison, and Gonzalez was hit repeatedly in the chest, his white suit suddenly ripping with blood. 

            He loved shuddering with his Columbian friend, banging his head on the carpet, hoping he made a thumping that was heard in the hotel rooms on either side of him.  And look, Alex was running to the rolling grenade, kicking it further away.  The grenade was seen trundling through the grass, a ground-level shot of it.  Hit the dirt, all the women yelled, and there was a quaking explosion, with the camera rocking. 

            Listen to the noise echo in his room.  An eruption of dirt and fire rose from the lawn, and dirt showered down on the prone women.  The smoke cleared and the women were slowing standing up, unscathed, and the camera, which was now up high in the air, came down close on them, showing them as they patted their bodies and searched for wounds.  Then the camera rose up off the ground again, showing the whole scene, with Gonzalez's and the mercenaries' bodies scattered on the lawn. 

            Alex said, "I guess Gonzalez won't be pedaling his wares anymore." 

            "He sure won't," he cried out to Alex and the other women, as he lay on the floor, his arms outstretched, his toes pointed.

            Music rose up, snappy, positive music—and the five women were suddenly back at headquarters, fully clothed and showered, hair shining, talking to their handlers, Mr. One and Two.  The women were wearing miniskirts, laughing, holding drinks and talking about their adventures.  The credits began to roll.

            Still lying on the floor, chin in his chest, he watched the credits.  His balls hurt, and his heart was still thumping.  He liked the feeling of being exhausted, and having his semen running on him, like blood.  The camcorder still filmed him, its little red light on, showing the world what had happened to him, what would happen to anyone if they watched his movies.  "My movies slay me," he whispered to himself, feeling his heart beating in his chest. 

            Could he stand up and replay what he had filmed?  That's what he had liked to do.  Go through once more and see him react to the movie.  See him at the end, lying on the ground imitating Gonzalez.  See him spurt blood and sperm.  The film showed there was really no escape from the world.  No escape from the glorious women who resided in the world, their breasts bowing and flexing as they ran and shouted and fired their guns.  Only if you played his video tapes would you know this.  All the bodies he had filmed, living and dying, ugly and beautiful; and the violent  scenes that unwound and told a story—here they were.  And the physical space that his films enclosed, the jungle and the massive lawn of Gonzalez's mansion, or the pool where Alex had been sunbathing—his films were sited, possessing location, yet everything they depicted was all contained in tiny magnetic particles in a cassette on a shelf in a video store.  All his dreams to encompass the world, to be all men, all women—were held like precious jewelry in a little plastic box.  No one could see it if they didn't put his cassette in a machine, and if they didn't know about the presence of his films in the world. 

            But they did!  Tonight, all over the country, viewers were watching his creations, and his viewers were duplicating what he was doing here, on the floor.  This process would not end, either.  His next film was in pre-production.  The script was done, and contracts were signed.  Scouts were out looking at locations.  They were going to shoot in Arizona, in the desert.  Imagine, the desert sun shining off his women's skin!  "Lots of sun block," Tanya had exclaimed when he told her where they would be shooting. 

            And when he was done with filming, with everything, the editing and the post-production, it would be winter, and the country would be bracing for his film to arrive on the shelves.  Everyone who had ever seen his stuff would see him again, and here with his camcorder going he would believe it.  His body, lying motionless on the carpet, still matching Gonzalez's.  With his filming here in the motel, he felt assured that people had now more fully surveyed what he had created.  His seeing his film as well as his loving reaction to it soothed him, and established him, inaugurated him.  The world was an electrifying, alluring place, full of wonderful women whose strength was omnipotent, ever-present, just as he was when he was killed by them.  Look, here was the proof, with him on the floor, and semen dripping off his belly.  He was dead, and so he felt as if he were dispersed everywhere, infiltrating everyone's bodies.  Everyone would know that now.  Everyone saw him finally, gloriously, lovingly.