Night Beast

Voices

The mustard bottle made an ugly sound when Berticcio squeezed the last of it onto his meat laden sandwich.

Perks of a successful animated series, there was always good stuff in craft services, even at 7am, not just bagels and donuts.

A new crafty girl gave him a nod and tight lipped smile. Berticcio thought she should work on her personality as he walked down the hallway toward production.

Ittleberg had his head down on the table on top of crossed arms.

Berticcio figured he must have gotten schnockered after racquetball.

Alex Johnston was there, head writer, never in the production room, rarely in the studio. 

Berticcio just caught a glimpse of Alex’s profile, typing like the keys had sideswiped his car. Was Lex’s face sweating? 

“Hi boys,” Berticcio said, too loud, fake cheery.

Ittleberg looked up.

“You didn’t get my text.” It was a statement.

Berticcio scowled.

“I know you texted, I was gonna see you in ten minutes anyway.”

“Kerry died last night. Widowmaker. He’s gone.”

Ittleberg pulled a random piece of paper with a letterhead on it off the table, wadded it and whipped it across the room and put his head back down.

Berticcio took a bite of his sandwich.

“Uts fuggin turble,” he said with his mouth full of fennel seed rye and salami.

The producer looked up at the production schedule in multicolored dry erase marker, engulfing the entire back wall.

Kerry Streetman was due in that morning to do S3, Ep. 9. 

“Danaher,” Berticcio said.

Ittleberg looked up.

“Huh?”

“I’ll call Frank Danaher. Guy’s a wizard. You know he subbed Anya Verillion on Space Goat when she went into premature labor? Flawless.”

Alex Johnston swung around in his desk chair so fast he made an extra revolution before standing.

“Are you…”

Alex had been crying, and his already red face reddened considerably.

Alex folded his arms across his chest, then reached farther, almost hugging himself.

“Night Beast is done. No one can do it except Kerry.”

“Danaher can, I guar-”

Ittleberg shook his head.

Alex Johnston stared. If his eyes were the eyes of one of the supervillains he created, Eddie Berticcio would be ash.

“We do seven figures in Night Beast merch per annum, Berticcio barked. “We can’t just kill-”

Ittleberg stood, staring at Berticcio, who had mustard on one side of his lips and mayo on the other.

“I cannot…” Ittleberg began, swallowing, trembling, “...believe we’re already having this conversation. He had a husband. Their daughter is in first grade. Think about that for two seconds.”

Berticcio took another bite of sandwich.

“I don’ get paid ta worry bout that. We gotta do wu’s goo for da show.”

Ittleberg’s phone rang. He muted it and tossed it on the desk, exhaling vertically.

Alex went back to typing angrily.

“I know,” Berticcio said, “Delta releases gas into the sewer that renders Night Beast mute. Character stays, just never makes another sound.”

Alex Johnston lifted his hands from the keyboard.

He still wanted to strangle Eddie Berticcio, but he had to admit it wasn’t a bad idea.

Written in my hotel room at the Mid-Atlantic Voiceover Conference.

Photo: Anne Nygård (@polarmermaid) | Comunidad de fotos de Unsplash