This was the worst downpour in decades, yet

This was the worst downpour in decades, yet the gale and thunder could not silence the creaking sound of the rope tucking Spencer's throat. The gang leader had finally been hanged.

The rest of the gang stood at Spencer's dangling feet, watching him die slowly in the pouring rain. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning hit the tree, shredding the noose from around Spen

cer's neck. His body fell in a heap. The gang saw smoke billowing from the body. Then Spencer stood. His eyes were burning red. He pointed a finger at the gang. "Death chooses you

you you & you to be in his musical production of West Side Story. This will be a post modern look at the angst of inner city youth. Death wants ultrarealism, so real knives & guns

should be eschewed in favor of ultrareal ones. The props manager looked frightened. "Um...Mr. Director, sir." "What?!?" "Where do I find...uh...ultrareal...stuff?" Herzog, enraged,

in his german accent "you idiot, zee sings in dis world become ultra-real when they has been bought or zold at least 3 times. Props in my film must look like advertisements for

vashink powder und zer kleaner ov zer floors. Ve must haf ordnung in zis film. Mein movie vill be zer smosh hit ov zer sommer und I vill vin ein Oskar und vear ein designung frok

"I, uh... I only speak English. And a little Spanish." I held up my hand as an indication that I understood nothing being said. I nodded too though because I want to be an actor.

The judge for the audition leaned back in his chair, smoking a large cigarette. I was pretty sure he wasn't allowed to be doing that, but, like, whatever. He smiled and said

"That was great, doll, but we're looking for someone a bit more attractive. No offense." I smiled and grabbed his cigarette, plunging it into his left eye. "None taken."