“Sorry, you are?” asked the twenty-something behind the camera.
Jesus Christ. Kids today, no fuckin’ respect.
“Jack Woods.” You know, only the most experienced, most talented person on this whole damn soundstage.
“Don’t care about your name. What are you doing here? Your purpose?” he asked, growing irritated.
I wanted to take that skinny purple scarf, tighten it around his pencil neck and just keep pulling. But I couldn’t. I was already on probation for that Porter Ranch thing from last year.
“I’m your stuntman.”
The little shit shook his head. “No way, too old.”
Kids today, no fucking respect.
The Weekday One Hundred 