Intro. The "studio" smelled of overheated cables and old coffee. A camera limped on its tripod, and the red curtain looked like something out of a dodgy motel.
Fifi, in a folding chair, looked on with an "I want to leave" face as her friend waved a brochure. —It's adult content... but artistic. —Aha, and does the artistic come before or after repentance?
Suddenly Julián entered, with a crooked cap and a smile like "I'm here to improvise my ruin." —Is this independent casting? Deodorant suit. "It depends," said Fifi, "how much independence are you planning to show?" —All of it, mommy. I also make ambient sound.
Two minutes later he was already tangled in cables, knocked over the lamp and ended up wrapped in the curtain. —It was part of the script! -shout. "Sure," Fifi replied, "the depressed clown."
Her friend applauded: —That's art! Fifi sighed. —Yes, art with the smell of burned cable.
From the ground, Julián raised his thumb: —So... should I keep the role or take it off now?