"Bob Wolf?"

"Wolf Bob." The old stuntman sighed wearily, wondering if he should just go ahead and change his name, after all. He was tired of correcting everyone. But then, he figured, they'd think he was Jewish. And it was hard enough being an Indian.

"Oh." A sweaty, kinetic pause as the young casting director turned around to take another nervous peek at Hollywood Boulevard through his window. "Oh!"

He shot out of his seat, then, regaining his breath, paced in the corner. Tinkly, feeble mariachi music -- sounding like it was being played underwater -- warbled up from the street below. "Do you work with animals, then, Bob? May I call you Bob?"

"Horses, mostly. Stuntman. Do a little acting. Had a speakin' part in Hell's Heroes. Wrangled and spoke in Riders of the Purple Sage."

The credits hung there as the casting director lit another cigarette and peered tentatively into the street. "What?" he said at last.

"Look, you want me to read for this thing or not?"

Wolf Bob had been sent over by his good friend Charlie Matter -- his good, crazy, pain-in-the-ass dumbshit white friend -- to read for a role in "Guns West," a new Western based on a script written by Leon Trotsky, written in exile in Mexico. It seemed everyone loved the movies. Bob, though, Bob was starting to get tired of them. He was pretty sure they left people feeling a little confused.

"Do you handle animals?"

"Listen, didn't you ask me that?"

"I had werewolves, last night. Werewolves. Didn't you say you train wolves? When I bought that fucking house, they only warned me about coyotes. They said it went with the fucking Spanish architecture."

Christ, Wolf Bob thought. Was he going to have to hear about another haunting?

The casting director started to visibly shake, approaching a state of delirium tremens. "Werewolves. Fucking werewolves. I feel like I'm trapped on the Universal lot." He snubbed out a cigarette against his desk, burning a hole there and not caring.

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