It was 3 a.m. on Day 5. The temperature inside the warehouse set was 104 degrees. A strobe light had been stuck on “seizure” for an hour. Brock had walked off because he felt “emotionally unsupported.” Trixie was crying in a makeup chair, her fake eyelashes stuck to her cheek like dead butterflies.
The sun doesn’t rise in Las Vegas. It surrenders. One minute the Strip is a neon corpse, the next it’s a sweaty, glittering whorehouse of regret and possibility. I was in the penthouse of the Babylon Casino, watching the light bleed over the mountains like a bad omen, when Rebel Ryder walked through the door. It was 3 a
Rebel had lost his acting career after a public meltdown involving a live llama, a flamethrower, and a children’s charity gala. Blacklisted but not broken, he retreated to the desert to “create art.” The result was Seven Fluffers —a gonzo-style docu-porno-tragicomedy about seven “fluffers” (the off-camera crew members whose job is to keep adult film actors ready for action) who rebel against their director and stage a heist during a live 72-hour porn marathon. A strobe light had been stuck on “seizure” for an hour
“Then you should’ve read the script,” I said, because that’s what you do in gonzo. You say the thing that gets you thrown out. But Goldstein just sighed and ordered another bottle of whiskey. It surrenders
The fluffers filmed everything. They weren’t fluffing anymore. They were artists .