The Props Master 1 Ritual RealityChapter 21 Summons
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The Props Master 1: Ritual RealityChapter 10: Raising Power free porn video
The third arrow struck the target. It was wide of the center, but definitely in the target. Wayne turned to Glenn and smiled.
“It works!”
“Yeah. Congratulations. But why?”
“Because I made it right.”
“I know why it works. Why did you want it to work? It’s just a prop,” Glenn said shaking his head. He could be so dense.
“Nothing is just a prop,” Wayne explained to his friend. “How many of us are guards on the battlements?”
“Two.”
“And how many bows did we have?”
“One.”
“So how can we both carry a bow on the battlements if there is only one bow?”
“So, we need a second bow.”
“Give the man a cigar.”
“So why should it work?”
“Because the other one works. If this one works, then it’s like the other one. Maybe not as accurate—yet—but still a working model.”
“What are you going to be when you grow up, kid?”
“Robin Hood. And you can be Little Glenn,” answered Wayne.
“What I’m going to be when I grow up is alive,” said Glenn. “And that doesn’t include running around playing with sharp sticks.”
“What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate,” said Wayne. “Now look. What if things really go to shit and they scrap our deferments. Nixon talks about peace in the same breath that he starts carpet bombing Cambodia. What’s next? Laos? China? What do we do then?”
“Run.”
“Just like Chicago last summer. The real antiwar pacifists were hiding in the basement of Marshall Field’s. So, we run, jogga, jogga, jogga,” Wayne mimed running in place as they left the archery range. “Hey man! You’ve got to get in shape. So, we get up to Canada. What then?”
“We start a commune and go into farming.”
“That reminds me. I’ve got to ask Lissa how she feels about farming. God, she could be a hawk, can you believe it?”
“She could be married for all you know,” Glenn punctured Wayne’s little balloon.
“Well, on to bigger and better things. It’s a long way to Canada. We’ve got to be ready to live off the land. No one out there to cook doughnuts for us. No McDonald’s. Neither one of us will pick up a gun. What do we do?”
“Become vegetarians.”
“Don’t be dense,” Wayne chimed back. “We tried being vegetarians. Remember, when we were trying to date the vegetarian twins? But no matter what the FDA says, they still put meat in a double cheeseburger.”
“They sure flipped out when they found the hamburger cartons in the back seat.”
“Yeah. ‘Someone threw them through the window.’ Great line, my friend. But if we’re going to live off the land we’ve got to be able to hunt game or we’ll starve.”
“You really think you could point that thing at a bunny rabbit and pull the trigger? Or string?”
“I don’t know,” Wayne confessed. “I nearly passed out when we had to dissect a frog in biology. I suppose it would depend on how hungry I was. It’s a whole new branch of situation ethics.”
“Speaking of which, we just missed lunch.”
“What’s that got to do with situation ethics?”
“Not ethics. Hunger.”
“Hey! That’s why they invented McDonald’s.”
They walked across campus toward the familiar golden arches. It was one of those friendships that had come out of nowhere and which no one, least of all Wayne, would have expected. Glenn was six and a half feet tall. Wayne felt like a dwarf when he stood straight and tall at six feet—well, five-eleven-and-a-half. Glenn easily tipped the scale at two-thirty. Wayne kept his balance at about one-seventy. Both were sharp and intelligent students, but Glenn tended to maintain a slight edge academically.
“What’s the story between you and Dr. Allen, Romeo?” Glenn asked.
“No story. I got her into the department so Jim made it clear that I was responsible for babysitting her. Cheap shot to make me act next to her. She could have played Guildenstern. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead anyway. You’d think I had enough to worry about with all the props for this bloody show.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” laughed Glenn.
“Well, she’s neat, I won’t deny that,” argued Wayne. “But face it. She’s got to be pushing forty. And you know you can’t trust anyone over thirty.”
“Older. Experienced.”
“Bullshit.”
“How about Judith? You and the WASP don’t seem to be getting along too well lately,” Glenn observed.
“No shit, Sherlock. There’s another story. She’s been PO’d at me ever since Dr. Allen joined the cast. Even before that. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for not going to England with her over spring break.”
“It shows.”
“Do you know how many foils she’s gone through in the last month?” Wayne asked. “I’m doing nothing in the shop lately but repair her weapons. Then she’s got this weird thing going with Chuck’s dagger and how his sword has to be cross-hilted for the ghost scene.”
“I keep telling you, they’re only props. You build like the royal army is going to war. You dumb hippie.”
“Gimme a head with hair, long, beautiful hair...” Wayne sang. “Anyway, lately it’s just been slap a handle on it and polish it up. There’s just too much to do.”
“Well,” Glenn said, “if you decide to make your little dispute permanent and drop her for an older woman—or a doughnut lady—I’d appreciate it if you’d drop her on me.”
“Kind of soften her landing?” Wayne chuckled. “Looks to me like she’s the one in the driver’s seat. She hardly lets me near her lately.”
They finished their burgers and shoved the trash into the overfilled basket. Wayne picked up the bow and quiver of arrows.
“I gotta get this stuff back to the shop before class,” he said.
“Yeah. I’m just going to get another shake to take along. See you at rehearsal tonight,” Glenn finished. Wayne turned around and faced his friend.
“Look, Glenn,” he said, “if you think she’s interested, go for it. I mean I know your thing with Gail has been going nowhere. Don’t worry about, like, our friendship or anything. We’re solid.” He turned and went on back toward the scene shop.
Once back at the shop, Wayne found that he was not much in the mood to attend another lecture by Coop on English poets. Too many projects demanded attention to deal with T.S. Eliot. He sat at the workbench and opened his art box. He carefully unfolded the drawing of the next piece on his project list, Hamlet’s dagger. The drawing looked strangely barren when Wayne looked at it. It was the exact size and shape of the knife his uncle had given him at Christmas, but had none of the decorative hieroglyphs on it.
Two identical blade blanks lay in a drawer under the workbench with others for swords and knives. He always bought the blanks in pairs. He pulled one out and felt along the length of it, allowing the touch of the steel to penetrate his senses. This would be a beautiful piece when he was done with it. He had ground both blanks down to the same shape, but of course he would not sharpen it for the show. Pointed would be enough. After the show, though, it would be his to keep. Then he would sharpen it and tool it down to be decorated. His uncle’s journal said that making a tool endowed it with the strengths and characteristics of its maker. If that was true, he hoped Judith never used the sword he made her in a duel. She could get hurt.
Thinking about Judith was another pain. Things had been going so well for them before her trip to England. Even then it looked like they’d get it back together until Dr. Allen joined the Hamlet cast. Alone, they were okay, but there weren’t any alone times lately. They hadn’t had a date with just the two of them in three weeks. There was tech weekend, then two weekends of shows, and now finals were coming next week and they’d have to spend the weekend studying. And at rehearsals, she was cold, especially when Dr. Allen was around.
He balanced the blade on his finger and began adding wood chips to the handle end until the balance point was where he wanted it. He wrapped a piece of duct tape around the shank and woodchips. When it was secure he glanced across the empty shop to a stack of polystyrene beadboard used in construction. Taking careful aim, he threw the knife. It hit and stuck—handle end first with the blade sticking out at him. He sighed. He didn’t know if it was the blade balance or his lousy throwing.
“Why don’t you let a pro handle that part?” Judith asked from the doorway. “You don’t throw a knife like a baseball.”
“Why don’t you teach me the right way?” Wayne said turning to look at her.
“Sure. It would be easier to teach you than Chuck. He’s got a beautiful voice, but his hand-eye coordination sucks. I think he’s a little cross-eyed.” She retrieved the knife from the foam block. “What’s all this junk taped to the end?”
“I was trying to determine how much weight it took to balance it.”
“Balance is only half the battle,” she said, stripping the taped woodchips off the shank. “First find out if it flies right. Then you can adjust your hold to compensate for the balance.” She raised her hand and threw the knife at the polystyrene block. It sank in perfectly, blade first. “See? Nothing wrong with its balance,” she said walking to get the blade again.
“What about when I put a handle on it?”
“Put one on it. I’ll teach him to use it right,” she answered. “Black, I think. It should be a black handle so it blends in with the rest of his costume until he draws it. Not too shiny on the handle. The silver blade comes to life against the black backdrop of his chest.” She sidled up to Wayne with the blade still in her hand and pressed it flat against his chest as she spoke. “Like that idea?” she asked pressing herself against him as well.
“I think you’re dangerous, lady,” he answered wrapping his arms around her, but afraid to squeeze too tightly with the knife still held between them. In spite of himself, he was getting hard.
“Oh, I can be much more dangerous than that,” she whispered, letting the knife hand slide down his torso until he felt it pressing against his cock. “Want to cross swords?” He smiled faintly.
“You should be locked up.”
“Just remember who loves you, boyo,” she said. With a quick twist, she slipped the knife out from between them and threw it behind her back. She never looked, but over her shoulder Wayne could see that it stuck in the block perfectly again. “You wouldn’t want to lose anything near and dear to you, would you?” She muffled his response, pressing her lips to his in a passionate kiss.
“Class,” she said, suddenly breaking away from him. “See you later?”
Wayne watched her swaying hips as she walked down the hall. He went to get the knife and contemplated throwing it one more time, but decided against it. He put it back in the drawer beside its twin and the other blanks he’d ordered at the beginning of the term. T. S. Eliot suddenly sounded a lot better to him and he ran to catch up with Judith.
Rehearsal was another disaster for the struggling cast of Hamlet. Jim spent most of his time with the new cast members. Carol Nygard had stepped up to the challenge of playing Guildenstern and everyone was wondering exactly how they were going to hide her bodacious tits for the man’s role. Wayne ran through the play within the play with Dr. Allen only once. Jim hauled him aside after the choppy run.
“Look, Wayne. It’s your scene. You staged it last fall like an independent little troupe of traveling actors. Now you’ve got a new member of your troupe. You are the player king, not me. Get the scene smoothed out with Dr. Allen and bring me something that’s ready to polish and integrate into the show. You’re falling over each other like it was slapstick. If you need feedback, take Lena along.”
“Okay, I’ll work on it. But she’s terrible, Jim. Her head’s never in the same room with the rest of her.”
“You got her into this; you can get her through it,” Jim said. “When do I see those drawings for the thrones, by the way?”
“Lena’s got them. If you approve them, we can send them off in the morning.”
“Did you revise them for Judith’s specifications?”
“Do I value my life?” Wayne responded. “We’re going to have to re-cover it after every performance.”
“Then make sure we’ve got enough pieces of covering for ten performances.” Wayne assented and turned to walk back toward the stage. Jim called after him. “I want to see that scene ready to polish Friday night. We’re running out of time.”
“No kidding,” Wayne muttered as he walked away. He spotted Rebecca in the wings. “Dr. Allen, if you can spare the time, we need to find a place to work on our scene for a while.”
“It wasn’t very good, was it?” she asked.
“On a scale of one to ten, we didn’t move the needle.”
“Well, I can stay a while to work,” she answered. “Where to?”
“Let’s see if anyone’s using the dressing rooms,” he said. They went down the back stairs from the stage to the two small rooms that served the college theatre as dressing rooms. One was strewn with costumes, actors, and the costumer.
“Wayne! Where the hell have you been? You’ve been called for fitting three times.”
“Sorry, Gail. I’ve been busy making new props. Jim just sent us out to rehearse the dumbshow.”
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