Quentin Goldman sat in the dark screening room and died. Every scene, dying a little more. If he slipped forward any further on the plush theater seat, he’d be a puddle by the credits.

Outside, people loitered. Someone came up to Quentin and asked him what he thought of the rough cut, said something about having a hard time watching before the SFX were done, all those scenes in a green world…

Quentin fell to one knee, whipping the Armalite from under his jacket in a fluid motion, spraying the room; Ron Howard and Tabitha Moore did an awkward death-jitterbug in front of a poster from Splash—

Oh, who was he kidding? Guns scared the shit out of him. They were heavy and smelled funny and they misfired all the time just holding them. No, Quentin could only glare at the people who’d ruined his brilliant re-imagining of the vampire myth as metaphor for post-industrial angst in the age of global warming. He was an artist! Not a hack! Oh God! He was a hack!

And he never thought he’d miss the strike!