The Unbearable Likeness of Reeling

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. The late film producer, George Lucas, creator of Industrial Light and Magic, had cornered the market on blockbuster special effects for nearly a century. Epic explosions, grizzly-faced monsters, spindly green men, and building-swinging superheroes, provided ample proof - digitized CGI was so convincing, that the only thing more real would be, well, reality.

Thanks to the current crop of money-grubbing studio heads that ran Hollywood, producers fully embraced CGI as "the cash cow" that was never going away, and demanded its use as much as possible. Their blind acceptance was despite continual complaints from directors that CGI was eating up too much of their budget, required the employment of too many extra people, and took too much time to produce and put together. All of these were certainly valid points, but in the service of money worshipping movie production, CGI continued its reign.

Enter, Dean Stockard, an unpredictable yet brilliant biomedical engineer. Over the past 30 years, Stockard had ferociously developed Genorm, from a multitude of his own visionary scientific breakthroughs. There was no doubt that it had fueled expansive growth in the field, far beyond anyone's expectations at the time.

At its core, Genorm was a machine, surprisingly easy to mass-produce, that was capabable of mapping, replicating, manipulating and infusing human or animal genomes with impeccable precision and ease. Its pinpoint accuracy provided the basis for immediate treatments and preventative procedures for serious disease in record time, with less pain and at a much lower price than, for example, treating cancer with chemotherapy after it develops.

The U.S. Government, and particularly ultra-Christian conservatives had put up innumerable protests during the product's development, relentlessly accusing Stockard of "playing God". The cancer drug makers were none too pleased either, but Dean had very thoughtfully anticipated this response prior to releasing his technology, and carefully mounted his own publicity campaign to counteract it.

Using political clout, backer cash and a carfully cultivated charming public persona, Stockard ensured it was clear just how many diseases could be prevented, treatments could be improved and people could endlessly benefit from Genorm's mass implimentation into American life. Once that simple seed had been planted and promoted on a continual loop for several years there was no stopping Stockard or his machine. Objectors were drowned out by success stories, and ultimately they had no choice but to quietly slink away while it's use was heavily adapted into modern medicine.

That isn't to say the company wasn't quickly wrapped up in enough red tape and regulation to drive Stockard mad, but he had found ways around these speed bumps thanks to support from political connections that he supported in return. He ultimately trained many medical professionals who trained many others on the product's uses and personal applications to patients.

Despite his unquestionable sucesses in the medical world for the past three decades, as of late, Dean had grown quite restless with Genorm's trajectory. He didn't like the idea of the company "sitting on its laurels" solely servicing the medical industry, and was in search of more unexpected uses for his product. It was an annoyingly uneasy feeling that kept him up at night, until one Sunday evening a four years ago.

Unable to sleep, Stockard had curled up in his bathrobe on the soft suede cushions of his viewing room and pulled up an old Game of Thrones rerun. As he watched dragons soaring across the screen in CGI, the notion that the film industry would forever be reliant on computerized fantasy, began to bother him. Their alternate reality simply wasn't real enough. For most people this thought would have slipped by like a split second blip on a radar, but for Dean Stockard, whose invention had made him a billionaire, and who also happened to dabble in producing and promoting many Hollywood blockbusters "just for fun", it ultimately set him on a quest to bring "real" reality back to the big screen.

Admittedly, this idea could not come to fruition without two things. First, additional advances in Genorm focused on as much on the creation as it was manipulation of cells. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, lots and lots of money. Fortunately for Stockard, both of these things were something that he was unquestionably capable of manifesting. In fact, it's surprising how easily a person can overlook an insufferably egotistical personality 99.9% of the time when it's camoflauged by fearless brilliance and a disgustingly large bank account.

Many women had found themselves easily taken with Stockard, who thanks to a team of people, was quite handsome, rich, and charming despite his self-obsessive delusions and immature relationship habits. His stylist, publicist, and trainer had helped build this enigmatic, but instantly recognizable image,molding him into a well-built, well-dressed man with closely cropped black hair, and squinty blue eyes that oozed intrigue. The trim, hauntingly pale nerd with oversized wire-rimmed glasses and a slight lisp was nowhere to be found again.

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" Leslie! Leslie!"

" Yes, Dr. Stockard, what is it?", his personal assistant replied scurrying into the room.

"Get Harry Hartman on the phone! Set up a meeting for tomorrow at 7."

Harry Hartman, the head of Warner Brothers, was sure to be otherwise engaged, both right now, and tomorrow, but none of these concerns fell to Mr. Stockard, only his ever obedient staff, who had learned to grovel to every personal assistant on the East and West Coast for last minute meetings.

Four years after Stockard's initial inspiration to take Genorm beyond medicine, he was finally prepared to pitch one of the most powerful men in Hollywood.

"AM or PM, sir?," she queried nervously typing his demands into her phone.

" AM, of course, and work out a breakfast with Tina. Make sure you find out what he likes. Also did Penelope call back?"

"Yes, sir. No, sir. Er, I mean, Yes - AM, and I'll talk to Tina, No - Penelope did not return your call.

"Piss ant little whore. Send her a dozen roses and note that says 'Thinking of you'. And make sure they have thorns and are half dead."

"Yes, sir." With an about face and a discreet eyeroll, Leslie walked briskly back into the hall.

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" I'm just not sure about all this, Dean. How will we control it? Where do we keep it? How do we take care of it? There are a million questions to answer, here." Hartman declared, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes darting around the terrace overlooking L.A.

"Look Harry, I've already worked the basic genome out over the past year and a half, I'm just waiting for right person to jump on board with me. That could be you, my friend."

Dean could, as they say, "sell a red popsicle to a woman in white gloves", however Hartman continued staring uncomfortably into space. Harry could handle risk, and had great faith in Stockard's abilities, but was quite worried all of the unknowns.

Without stopping Dean continued, "As for the logistics, figure it out man. It can't cost more than 1000 CGI people to design Spiderman 18. Find an animal trainer, a zoologist, a caretaker, and any other expert you need. Build a holding facility. I'll foot the development part and engineer a personality as docile as a puppy for this first go around. Once we've perfected it, you can foot the bill for any new creations going forward, and I bet it will still save you close to a billion dollars when it's all said and done. This is only the beginning, Harry."

"You realize what you're suggesting, Dean. A live dragon." As Harry looked Dean dead in the eye, his words sparked feelings of simultaneous terror and intrigue at the possibility.

"Three dragons, actually, go watch the old series again, Harry," Stockard quipped slyly.

Harry shook his head with trepidation,"I'll have to think on it, Dean."

"If you say so, Harry. I'll be in the lab, once you get your head out of your..."

"Hmm, Hm...Mr. Hartman, your assistant, Kelly, asked me to remind you of your appointment with Donald," Leslie very deliberately interrupted.

"Yes, yes, of course. I'll be in touch, Dean," he bellowed pushing back from the patio table.

As he headed inside to leave, Hartman could see Dean shaking his head with annoyance and quietly mumbling to himself.

"Chicken $**t, Hollywood bullsh...." Harry closed the door, and he thankfully trailed off.

Other people's confidence was never something Dean worried too much about, but Harry was someone he felt he could read easily. In the end, he was confident Hartman would come around. He was so certain of it, in fact, that he wouldn't be sitting idly by waiting for the go ahead. The investment was well underway, thoughtfully executed and ready to hatch.

As Dean suspected, three weeks after their meeting Harry Hartman called to give the official 'go ahead' from the studio, and announce he was immediately going to gather a team to manage whatever Stockard created.

"I'm one step ahead of you there, Harry. She hatched last night, better get your team out to the ranch ASAP. The sooner you begin training the better."

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Six months later, Dean stared at the sky, studying every feature of his breathtaking creation. Large, leathery brown wings, spanning about 40 feet across, created a gust of warm wind that blew down against his face with each flap. Three inch bony spikes projected from the orange scales of her spine all the way to the tip of her tail. She continually pulled against the 75 foot titanium chains tethering her to the earth, and on occasion, let out a screech so deafening, Stockard was sure it could be heard hundreds of miles away. Luckily they were on a secluded ranch a few hours outside his L.A. estate, that was comfortably nestled in the southern Sierra Nevada mountains on the other side of the tiny town, Lake Isabella.

"She's pretty much fully grown, Dr. Stockard. Her fire glands haven't developed yet, but I'd imagine they will very soon. Mr. Hartman sent out his a huge team of people to manage care within a week, the underground caves were mostly complete shortly after hatching, and so far training has gone fairly smooth once everyone got to know each other. They even taught me a few of their triggers. Watch this."

Randy eagerly hit a black button stepped out in front of the control board. A deep hum echoed through the mountains, and he made a large circle with his left arm. The bright orange creature circled then plunged deep into the earth so quickly, it was as if a streak of fire danced through the sky. He hit the button a second time and doors on the cave slammed shut.

"Mr. Hartman said we should let him know as soon as she is able to spout some fire and he'll be ready to start shooting, but even that is like nothing I've ever seen in CGI. I appreciate your hard work getting us to this point. I've told Leslie to transfer the 1.5 million to your bank account. Have a drink tonight on me."

Randy was an eager 22-year-old MIT grad that Dean had scooped up to work with him personally on developing the next big branch of Genorm. His tussled hair, a dirty-blond mop grazing his deep green eyes, was unfortunately offset by a disproportionately bulbous nose and an awkwardly reserved personality. Still Dean saw his brilliance, and perhaps a little bit of himself in Randy, who quickly grabbed the opportunity to learn directly from one of his idols.

"So, what happens now, Dr. Stockard," Randy asked innocently.

"Now, kiddo, we raise the bar of entertainment. I'll let you know when Hartman is sending his team to transport her down to their set."

Randy hesitated, " I sort of meant, now what happens....for me, sir?"

Dean walked up behind him and slapped his back so hard, Randy nearly swallowed the gum he had been chomping for the past hour.

"Now son, you have a drink," he bellowed with an enormous grin. "Take the night off, and find yourself someone to celebrate with."

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Randy couldn't take his eyes off her. The leggy brunette with ripped jeans and a sweet smile had been watching him from the end of the Lake Isabella bar for the past 30 minutes. He was certain she was, and became more so after his fourth gin and tonic. Once his liquid courage took full effect he hobbled over to her, using the bartop to steady his gait. He continued his thoughts as though they had already been conversing with her for the past half hour.

"Ssssso, I said, 'You want to do what?',"and he declared, 'It will be ressssolutionary.'," Randy said as he gently poked her in the shoulder.

"Who said what? Who are you, and why are you poking me," she retorted smugly.

"He sssaid he was making a dragon for the moviesss. Then he offered me a wad of cash, put me up in a ssssa-weet place and taught me everything he knowssss about bio-engining. And that'sss what happened."

"Ahhh, do I know you, who are we talking about?"

"Dr. Ssstockard, course," he hiccupped.

"Dean Stockard, the billionaire medical guy? So you're trying to tell me you made a dragon with Dean Stockard? Why would Dean Stockard want a dragon?"

" That'ssss-xactly what I'm sssayin' honey. Impressssed much? He makesss moviesss too, ya know. So, we did it. I don't mean 'did it' like....you know. We used," Randy let out a loud belch, then whispered"our brainssss to make it."

"Oh, you mean like a prop for a film?"

"No, no, lissen, lissen - we m-a-d-e a drag-on. We like engined it and stuff."

"Uh huh, right, sure you did. Can I see it? Is it here?" she asked jokingly hoping to put a quick end to the discussion.

"Mmmmmmm........mmmmaybe," he winked at her,"Let me think about it."

Randy paused for less than five seconds. "Ok, let'ssss go. Bartender, here's our money," he said to no one in particular while dropping a handful of cash on the bar. "You drive," he shouted tossing his keys at her.

As Randy climbed into the passenger seat of the F150, he continued talking incessantly, "Sssay, what's your name anywayssss?"

"Eva. I'm Eva," she said flashing a smile.

"Eva, that's sssssoooo sssweet.....would you ccccelebrate with me Eva?"

Several thoughts quickly tumbled around her head.

He seems harmless. That was a wad of cash. I'm just a little tipsy. This guy is nerdy enough to be an engineer. If he's for real, maybe I can get a glimpse of Dean Stockard."

"Well, I guess someone has to drive you home safely. What's your name?," she asked politely.

"Randy. I'm Randy," he said imitating her inflection and taking a small bow from his seat.

She giggled, "Well Randy, where are we driving?"

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Fifteen minutes into the forty-five minute drive, she realized she her decision to play "good samaritan" was not the smartest decision she had made. The further they got from town, the more she felt he was either leading her to her death or was too drunk to know where he was going.

After nearly an hour they pulled up to small but secure entrance. Randy hopped out and stumbled to the keybad and entered a seven digit code.

A long dirt drive appeared in front of them.

"Looks like we made it, you'll be good from here right," she questioned, hoping he'd just wave goodbye.

Randy moved in front of the headlights of the truck, raised his hands to the sky and yelled, "We're here! Follow me!"

Eva leaned out the window, "It's late Randy. I gotta get back to town." she pleaded hoping to get home and call it a night.

"You're in my truck. Just come in for a few minutes and check this out. It's amazing, I promise. You don't even have to leave the truck, just drive behind me, I'll lead the way."

Randy began walking down the dirt path. Eva let out a big sigh....How are you this stupid? How did you think you were going to get home driving his car? You can't just steal his car. Just stay in the car, and keep the doors locked. You'll figure something out.

The truck slowly rolled up behind Randy crunching softly along the dirt road behind him. After a few hundred yards, he stopped and she rolled up behind him. He was standing in front of a large metal control panel. The headlights of the truck glared off the steel. Randy turned around and starred straight at her.

"We're here! Watch this," he shouted confidently.

Eva took a deep breath and held it as Randy turned around and hit a large black button. Twenty or thirty seconds passed and a large black mass shot out of the ground. Eva turned the brights on in the truck and watch as a long black chain reached into the sky. With the brights on she could just make out the wingspan of the creature.

"Holy......Randy....," she yelled as she put down the window "what the hell is that, it's enormous?!"

He looked at her and proudly declared, "I told you, we....made....a .....dragon!" Smiling, he spun around and made large circular motion with his left arm.

Just as he finished the revolution a loud screech echoed through the area and the sky was suddenly illuminated. A solid stream of blue flame at least 50 feet high shot straight up into the air.

Eva let out a muffled scream from inside the truck, while Randy immediately turned and sprinted towards the passenger door. As he frantically began pulling the handle, and yelling directly at Eva.

"Open....the....door...now!" He struggled and pulled the door handle erratically.

Just then the sky again went black, and a rush of air stirred a cloud of dust as the creature disappeared into the ground.

Furious, Eva unlocked the door and tried to regain her composure. Randy was breathless and completely terrified.

"What the hell was that, Randy?"

"I told you, we made a dragon," he repeated shakily, and with much less bravura.

"Randy, if you made the dragon and you can control the dragon, why are you terrified of the dragon," she asked seething just below the surface.

Still catching his breath, he replied,"When I left....earlier this evening.....that dragon could not blow fire, and she certainly couldn't blow a blue flame," he said, still terrified.

" What difference does it make what color it is, Randy" she asked frustrated by a seemingly insignificant point.

"A standard orange flame does not burn at the same temperature as the blue flame you see on a gas stove or propane torch. It burns much, much hotter, he said quietly."

"How much hotter, like a hundred degrees or something?," she asked trying to be rational.

"No, more like a couple thousand degrees," he said regrettfully.

"Does that matter?" she asked trying be patient.

"Maybe," he replied. Quiet and uncertain.

Annoyed at his vague answers, she continued to press him, "Why? What do you mean 'maybe',"

Before he could answer another giant blue light emerged from the ground, and the black mass again flew up in the sky. The black chain followed behind about ten feet and disappeared.

"Because it's hot enough to melt titanium."

'