The boy wears only a t-shirt. His round bottom like bread dough in the fluorescent lights of the movie studio. A ten-inch plastic dick, straight as a middle finger pointing up, sticks out from under his shirt.

The girl on the bed in her bra and panties looks at him with disdain. Crewmembers aim instruments, the female director masticates a hangnail, and ten omniscient TV monitors wait.

Like a child on a street corner, performing for his dinner, he begins a frenzied dance.

Spinspin—you like how I jump rope?
                         Slapslap—see me playing with my dead fish?

The girl on the bed rolls her eyes, as if to say: Go ahead, stupid boy. But this lake won’t be wet all evening.

The director strikes her forehead. The crewmembers shake their heads.

The audience, holy behind the blue screen, laughs.