Anderton Schultz looked back at Kent, his eyes wild. One of the contact lenses had slipped, with blue appearing like an eclipsed moon from behind the blood red. The latex appliances were coming off in spots, and hadn’t really been applied properly in the first place.

“Think about what you’re doing!” Kent cried. “You’re not well, Andy!”

“Cast the warm-bloods into the Caverns of Ice!” growled Schultz. “Cast the warm-bloods into the Caverns of Ice!”

“Stop saying that stupid line!” Kent snapped despite himself. “Andy, for shit’s sake, snap out of it!”

Even if Schultz’s hatred toward Kent hadn’t been laser-sharp and incandescent, he wouldn’t have heard a word. The movie had been made in 1990, and he’d been buried under makeup, but in light of his recent reversals, Schultz had realized that after fighting it for so long, it was time for an embrace.

With a gutteral growl, Schultz hefted Kent up over his head with both hands, using the strength that he’d used often in doing his own stunts. Upon seeing the inky abyss before him, concealing the canyon floor 100 feet down, Kent’s wheedling abruptly turned into frenzied, infantile shrieks.

“Cast…the warm-bloods…into..the Caverns of Ice!”

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Anderton Schultz had worked his way up in the entertainment industry the old-fashioned way: through hard work and dedicated, scene-stealing supporting performances. Schultz wasn’t a vain man, but there was a measure of deep satisfaction in dropping a mention of his Oscar nomination into conversation with people who’d insisted he was too short or too homely for a successful career in pictures. It had been gratifying, working his way up from “what’s his name” to “that guy” to “that guy from Summers With Charles” “Hey, it’s Andy Schultz!”

Being recognized on the street at least some of the time had its perks, to be sure.

But there was always that guy, that one guy, who’d bring a copy of the 1990 remake of The Lizard Men for Schultz to sign.

It was a trashy movie; he’d spent the entire thing under a mound of Rick Baker latex prostheses. But it had a cult following, as did the campy 1969 original. No matter how many Oscar nominations there were, there’d always be his latex-smeared face leering from a DVD cover and fans snarling his character’s most “memorable” line at him:

“Cast the warm-bloods into the Caverns of Ice!”

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Max was on a town street that is lined with expansive bookstores with a student group. He enters one of the larger stores, which is very airy and open, only to find that the place is packed with customers and employees who are equally rude. He climbs up to a second level into a reading area that has bright windows overlooking the street below on two sides, and sees a rather famous actor there giving a lecture. The actor is in an altercation (not quite an argument) with a younger woman who appears to have written a book about him. This is clearly the reverse of what he expected.

The woman begins to read the book, and Max can see the images vividly as she describes them. She speaks of the actor’s difficult childhood as a Yiddish speaker in New York City, which is true enough from what Max has heard about the actor’s life, but the woman has inserted herself into the narrative at odd spots. She is the actor’s nurse, a street vendor, a character and meta-narrator. It’s a fascinating blend of biography and literature, but a little creepy.

The actor snatches the book from the woman and gives it to the nearest bystander, Max. Max notes that some of the pages are printed on what look like foreign banknotes in all their Monopoly money glory, shiny and with security strips. The actor nods as if satisfied by his confirmation of this.