The following stories contain Real Characters aka RPS (real person slash). If you are offended by the idea, go read other stories.

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Title: Mel and Jim Story
Rating: PG-13, nothing graphic, just a little blood. This is a quick musing of a director toward an actor.
Disclaimer & Note: I don't own Jim or Mel, and what I wrote I considered risky and quite evil. I might go to hell for writing this, and you might go to hell if you read it. I just couldn't help it.
Commentary by Spooky: "It's sick, mate."

He sat on him, his actor, his Jesus. In ragged, dirted clothes, stained with blood, fake blood. Thorns around his high forhead, bleeding red, eyes shot with crimson, raw pain seeping through his skin, lashed skin, blood-soaked skin. Fingers crawled on the ground, as he was beaten, whipped, spittled on, hit with stones. And Mel looked at the base of Jim's neck. His long, wavy black hair, wet with bloody sweat parted and revealed the white of flesh, tanned with the Roman sun. Mel was sitting on Jim. Feel my weight, actor, felt the weight of a man, and think about the weight of the world you want to carry. Feel it. Can you feel it? Oh, I bet you feel it, Jim, the weight of a man, of me. Jim breathed hard, because he was tired, and the fake blood was flowing into his eyes. He wanted to wash it off but Mel was on top of him, sitting on him, weighting, looking down at him with dilated eyes, as if he was stoned, tranced, far away, thousands of years away.

"I want to get up. I want some water."
"No, you're not going to have any water," Mel answered.
Jim stared hard at Mel.
"You're not going to have any water, until I crucify you, Jim."

Mel said softly, and swift like a wind, he brushed his fingers on the nape of Jim's neck, partly stroking, partly pushing his face back to the ground.

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Mel and Jim Story: 2

His head was bleeding, and his makeup artist wanted to look at it. He brushed her off, annoyed. He touched the breaking skin, his fingers touched blood. Real blood. Should have hit me in the eye, loser, so I wouldn’t finish this movie. He looked in the mirror, and two demented, blue eyes greeted him. Its face looked familiar; its face looked like flesh. It said: is that hurt, Mel? You know how it feels now, don’t you, to be hated. He cocked his head, wanting to answer, but it said without hearing him first: you are going to be damned. Faxes on his floor. Open letters on the internet. Extremists with stones on the street. And now his assistant knocking on his door. Outside, he saw Jim walking out the makeup trailer in his prosthetic suit full of lashes and cuts. People either laughed at him or fall on their knees, crying and praying as they saw him in his Jesus cloak. They loved Jim, and they hated Mel. He lifted his brow to the mirror. Gotta go, he said. His assistant knocked on his door again, telling Jim was ready.

There, he lay on the ground, face contorted with skinburns and itching. Rashes from fake blood and latex. Mel looked down. Jim looked straight back, sored and wondering. Mel smiled.

“World’s biggest pizza,” he said, and was rewarded with Jim’s angry blue eyes.

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