T-Rex Auditions

The stench of ozone and something vaguely reptilian hung thick in the air, a perfume of pandemonium that had become the unfortunate signature scent of Los Angeles. Dr. Aris Thorne adjusted his spectacles, a purely habitual gesture that did nothing to improve his view of the colossal, scaly absurdity unfolding before him. A Tyrannosaurus Rex, its massive head adorned with a surprisingly jaunty, albeit slightly singed, fedora, was attempting to deliver a dramatic monologue to a terrified casting director cowering behind a flimsy folding table.

“And I say… *I SAY*… that the true villain… is… *internal conflict!*” the T-Rex boomed, its voice a gravelly rumble that vibrated the very bones in Thorne’s spine. It punctuated its statement with a surprisingly delicate, though still devastatingly powerful, gesture of one clawed forelimb.

“Cut! Cut! Oh, for the love of… Mr. Rex, darling,” the casting director, a man named Bartholomew Butterfield whose thinning hair seemed to be actively fleeing his scalp, stammered, his voice a thin reedy squeak against the reptilian baritone. “That was… very… *visceral*. But perhaps a little less… *eating the scenery*? We’re aiming for nuance here, not a literal consumption of the set.”