Greas-sassins Part Four

Byck stared moodily down at the stage, adjusting lights to fully illuminate the scene below. He was rapidly trying to figure out how exactly he was expected to run two spotlights at once, not to mention the lights board AND all the music. Light in place, he flopped down and began watching, eavesdropping on the actors side conversations.
Zangara was hissing something loudly to anyone who would listen, the moment Byck heard the word "capitalist" he tuned out. Moore was studying John critically, when Czolgosz saw what she was doing, he shook his head in disgust.
"Again!" barked the Proprietor. As one, the cast returned to their places, groaning loudly, For all their complaining though, not one dared to leave the stage.
The Proprietor tilted his face up towards the catwalks, and Byck felt an unwelcome chill shoot down his spine. "Samuel. Are the lights ready now?" The impatience in his voice made Byck shudder, he steadied his grip on the cats and leaned through the bars.
"They're all done. Just gotta go program the cues." Belatedly, he added, "Sir."
Good. Then -play it again, Sam!" Byck groaned inwardly at the pun (again!) and hit the proper button on the CD player, wincing as the all-too-familier strains of "Summer Nights" began filling the auditorium.
"God, I hate this song," he muttered, lighting a cigarette. He did have to admit that the cast was starting to look good though, assuming you ignored the glaring gaps where there should have been an ensemble. But then again, they had been having relentless practise for three weeks now, dropping in to bed so tired that they barely had time to pull the covers up before they fell asleep. Everyone was exhausted, all the time, but they kept on going. No one wanted to know what would happen if they quit.
"Fucking devil." Byck whispered, into the darkness of the theatre as he watched the Proprietor take sadistic glee in adjusting Hinkley's pose. At last, Squeaky and John were holding their last notes, and the music was done. The Proprietor gave a nod and dismissed the company, telling them to return in fifteen minutes for the next song.
A familiar step on the catwalk stair--Byck barely had time to look up before John burst though the door and flopped onto the cool metal. He was sweating hard and looked exhausted, but he pried his eyes open as Byck walked over.
"Guiteau spent the entire time bouncing." Booth panted, "I am SO done."
"You look as though you're SO done." Byck sat down, pulled Booth's head into his lap, and began rubbing the tired actor's temples. "But look on the bright side--"Booth groaned loudly, and rolled into a sitting position at the words, glaring maniacally at Byck.
"Never say that again. His voice is STUCK in my HEAD. Traitorous fuck." Byck chuckled, and ruffled his friends hair.
"I'm sorry John. Lemme rephrase it: You've only got ONE role to play. You are DAMN lucky."
"You may have a point, Sam." Booth leaned back against the railing. "Everyone else is playing at least two roles -hell, poor Sarah is playing five!"
As if the words had summoned her, Moore slunk through the door, and leaned crankily on the railing.
"Saaaaam, I'm outta smokes." she whined. She spotted Booth, and smirked. "Either of you boys got any?"
Byck tossed his pack of cigarettes, and Moore pulled two out. "You owe me one." he muttered, as she tossed the pack back to him.
"Yeah, well." She lit one of them, and took a long drag on it. "I'll leave you a case of Bud outside your dressing room before show night. Speaking of which, do either of you have any idea what sort of demonic horde we're gonna be playing to?"
"That is, in fact, one of the things I really don't want to know. I've just been pretending that they're humans."
Booth snickered at Byck's false optimism. "You just keep thinking that, son."
"Yeah, whatever." muttered Byck darkly, lighting a cigarette of his own, then offering it to Booth.
"You lot are going to kill yourselves." Booth muttered. "All that smoke."
"Hey, at least we aren't killing our brains like sweet little Sandra Dee down there." Moore mimed sucking on a joint, and the boys laughed.
"Break time is OVER. All actors on stage." The Proprietor stood sternly in the middle of the stage, and the three assassins in the cats groaned.
"Good luck." murmured Booth, as he walked down the stairs.
"Yeah Sam, good luck." Moore sighed and blew out a ring of smoke. "Time to go find out who I am this time.