Sandbag

It has been a time. Of movies in the sun.

Walking through the desert recently, or, as in the case of my darling Jiggeld Knasty, stalking through the desert, I noticed a gaggle of struggling film students. Accompanying them was a gang of fly-sized digital movie cameras on daddy-long-legs's legs.
I tossed my head nervously and uttered a low-pitched gurgle. Lit up a cigarette. Sneezed trough my gills. Being on camera makes me nervously and nonsensically metamorphose, until I reach the armadillo stage and stop, curled up in a small rocky ball.
Jiggeld sipped coffee from a carafe he was carrying and looked nonchalantly the in the other direction. He is a natural.

They spied us.

"Ooooh!" one cried, "You two are sooo Jim Jarmusch!"
We smiled at him indulgently, as Jiggeld spilled his boiling carafe of coffee accidentally into the film students shoes. He was very tall, and we couldn't quite see his face, but we heard his cry of pain. It was in a French accent. I took a drag on my cigarette and flicked the hot ash into his socks. This time his cry was Puerto-Rican in flavour.

"Where are you from?" I shouted upwards.
"Moscow." he called down.
I placed the burning tip near his shin.
"Uh, I mean, Monaco" he sang.
I ground it in. He jumped up in the air.
"Aaaah! Ow! Austra - ooh! Australia! he cried, dancing on the spot.
"Melbourne, actually." he relented. I lit another cigarette.
"Anyway, so I'm making a film in the style of Jimmy J, and yooo two would be purrfect!"
"Oh?" I peered at him out of my left eye while my right one searched for an escape route.
"What would we have to do?" I asked
"Just act natural darling! Act cool! drrinka the cawfee! Smoka the ceegarettes! Shoot the shit, man! Yoo don haftoo doo aaanytheeng, yoo kno? Jasta doo waaat yoo noormaally doo, yoooo knaooow maaan, daarleeenk?" He began to work himself into a frenzy of accent mixing.
"Aiiiiiie! Jaast waunt to meke aul theees purrfuctlaey naaaturaaul, yoooo knaow? Eeetsa reeeel laife, yoo undastaend? Reeeealeeesm! To de max maun! Yoogeddit?"
"Mmm, ah, yah." I nodded.
By this stage the swarm of digital cameras had surrounded us.
I suddenly saw in the distance but rapidly gaining, a bunch of models from Desert Fashion Inc. week had spotted the cameras and were rolling towards us on motorised sand scooters. They were screaming like hyenas and slashing eachothers tyres with their razorish hipbones.

"Quick! We have to get out of here!" I hissed at Jiggeld. He shrugged non comittally, but I noticed that his eyes had filled with blood.
"Are you okay?" I asked
"I forgot to wear shoes." he said. He winced. "The black sand of the black desert is burning my feet."
At that moment a shower of blood and large bits of body rained down upon us.
"What was that?" I exclaimed, covered in red-brown from head to toe.
"Aaaah," said Jiggeld, slipping his feet into the coolness of whatever was left inside a gigatic ribcage,
"I think it was that giant film student. He must have accented himself into self-combution."
"Oh" I glanced around. What I assume was the film student's camera was dancing around in confusion on it's daddy-long-legs legs, wearing pieces of bloody skin.
"Hmm. we have to go" I said again.
Jiggeld nodded.

So we took off across the dessert, half running, Jiggeld with each of his feet in a piece of the film giant's body. Jiggeld still held his carafe of coffee, which had remained piping hot in the desert sun, and he swigged from it as we ran. The smoke from my cigarette trailed behind us.