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Chapter 48: Chasing a Shot
🕑 Added 2025-06-10 14:01:32 +0000 UTC
Beneath all the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, the machine that actually powered the entertainment industry was built on a brutal mix of money, hierarchy, and survival-of-the-fittest politics. You could be a black belt, an amateur boxing champ, and still get reamed out like a rookie intern—just ask the stunt coordinator currently getting yelled at like a dog in front of half the crew.
Henry watched from the sidelines as the poor guy—Channing, his name was—took a verbal beatdown from both the director and the producer, neither of whom had any chill left to spare.
The director wanted his explosive climax shot. The producer didn’t want to spend a dime more on permits. Channing? He just wanted to avoid getting sued or fired.
Eventually, even the furious director realized he had to cut Channing loose—at least long enough to hunt down a warm body willing to do the stunt. Otherwise, the entire shoot was going to collapse.
It wasn’t about blame. No one really cared who screwed up. They just needed a scapegoat to scream at so they could pretend it wasn’t their fault.
And Channing knew exactly how this worked.
Even though he was the team leader—technically a small business owner contracted by the studio—he still had to eat it. Because in Hollywood, if you pissed off a producer or a director, your team stopped getting jobs. End of story.
Which is why, thirty minutes and a half-dozen unanswered phone calls later, Channing looked ready to either have a stroke or throw himself off the set scaffolding.
That’s when someone tapped on the glass of the phone booth.
“Can I help you?” Channing snapped. “If you’re looking to use the phone, find another booth—I’m working here.”
“Hey, easy there,” said Henry, giving him a lopsided grin. “I’m just here to offer a solution, not steal your quarters.”
Channing narrowed his eyes at the guy. He recognized him—kinda. Tall kid, scruffy, mid-twenties maybe, always in the background of crowd scenes. Never said much.
“Look,” Henry said, “if you really can’t find anyone, give me a shot at it.”
“…You?” Channing blinked, genuinely unsure if this was a prank.
“Yeah. I know I’m just background filler, but I’ve got a solid build, no fear of heights or fire, and I know the scene. All I’m asking is a chance to prove I can do it.”
Channing hung up the phone, stepped out of the booth, and gave Henry a once-over. Kid was maybe an inch taller than their lead actor, decent proportions, right skin tone, too. Could pass on camera if they didn’t do a close-up.
“Don’t call me ‘boss,’” Channing said finally. “You’re not on my team. Not yet. Name’s Channing.”
“Henry. Henry Brown.”
Channing crossed his arms. “Got any stunt experience, Mr. Brown?”
“Nope. Just extra work.”
“Union member?”
“Yep. Registered with the Screen Actors Guild.”
Channing grunted. That helped. Union meant insurance and at least a sliver of liability coverage.
“And what exactly makes you think you can do the stunt?”
Henry shrugged casually. “The scene’s just a car-to-car leap, right? One vehicle explodes, the lead jumps to another one mid-drive. I say let me do a dry run first. Cars parked. No pyrotechnics. Just see if I can make the jump.”
“And if that works?”
“Then try it with the cars moving. Slow speed. Still no explosions. Once you and the director are convinced, we go full take with all the effects.”
Henry paused, then added, “Unless you’re gonna say we don’t even have time for a trial. In which case, yeah—I guess you’re just gonna have to bet on me.”
Channing gritted his teeth.
The truth was, he had already burned through his list of emergency contacts. Even the reliable veterans he knew either weren’t answering or were locked into other gigs.
This was the worst kind of Hollywood problem: a public screw-up, under a ticking clock, with no good solutions.
So when some unknown kid volunteered for the job—with a pretty logical testing plan—it felt less like desperation and more like destiny throwing him a rope.
Channing didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed Henry by the arm and marched him straight to where the producer and director were still in mid-meltdown.
“I’ve got someone,” Channing announced.
Both men turned, incredulous.
“Who the hell is this?” the producer snapped.
“He’s one of the background actors. Wants to try the stunt.”
“The stunt?!” the director scoffed. “Is he insane?”
Channing held firm. “He fits the lead’s build. Wants to do a dry run before the real take. No risk to gear or budget. Just let him show you.”
The producer raised a skeptical brow. “Is he contracted? Does he even have a rep?”
Hollywood law—unwritten but enforced—was that all acting contracts went through agents or managers. No agent, no deal. Period.
Channing looked to Henry.
Henry gave a practiced, charming shrug. “No personal agent. But I’m registered with the Guild. They have in-house reps who handle freelance sign-ons like this. Everything’s legit.”
That seemed to calm the nerves a little. The director, meanwhile, didn’t care about contracts. He just wanted someone to jump from one moving car to another so he could finally blow one of them sky-high and wrap the damn scene.
Henry could feel the moment shift. This wasn’t just a lucky break—it was a turning point.
A foot in the door… through a window… via flaming car wreck.
Hollywood, baby.
