From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Harry - Pesci had enough, he really had enough.

He wasn't a contortionist in a circus; his tendons and bones had stiffened like jerky at the age of seven, cutting off his ballet dreams.

Having barely managed to sneak into the "Spider-Man" film crew's trailer, did he have any other choice?

No, he had to bite the bullet.

After all, this was the job of a paparazzi, wasn't it?

Unfortunately, the trailer was empty; everything was just ordinary stuff.

After a cursory search, there were no secrets worth breaking the news about.

Originally, Harry was ready to give up.

Anyway, there weren't any big names in the "Spider-Man" film crew, and the value of continuing to pester them was very limited.

But on second thought, Harry became unwilling.

Just give up like this?

He had spent so much effort to sneak into the trailer; was he just going to turn around and leave sheepishly?

Moreover, thinking about it seriously, Sony Columbia had been evasive and mystifying recently.

The news of the "Spider-Man" suit being stolen had been a hot topic for a whole month, and it still hadn't been clarified—

Was it a self-directed and self-acted stunt by Sony Columbia, or did this really happen?

If he could photograph the Spider-Man suit and sell it to "Us Weekly" or "Entertainment Weekly", it was hard to say if he could get two hundred thousand dollars, but asking for one hundred thousand dollars shouldn't be a problem.

Thinking of this, Harry stopped and began to look for a hiding place.

The closet; this was already the best place.

However.

Harry hid in the closet, which was stuffy, hot, narrow, and cramped, almost like an oven.

Who could have imagined that in March, he would be sweating all over like a big dog boiling on the streets in summer?

His curled-up knees were pressing against his lungs, making him very uncomfortable, and the tense calf muscles were frantically testing the edge of cramping.

At this moment, someone finally came.

Harry was overjoyed, and without thinking about himself, he carefully listened.

From the conversation, he could tell that the person who came should be the male lead, Anson!

Finally, perfect timing!

But why was there no sound after coming in?

What happened?

Unable to hold back, Harry's hand slipped, and his calf slid out of his palm, hitting the closet, making a sound.

This made Harry bite his teeth tightly, his face full of determination, just like Tom Cruise stealing information while suspended in mid-air in "Mission: Impossible".

Unfortunately, Harry wasn't a special agent, and his calf still slipped out of control little by little.

Damn it!

A cramp in his calf was imminent.

Harry gritted his teeth and made up his mind.

He simply released his knees, picked up the camera, and aimed it at the closet door.

Take a deep breath, take another deep breath.

Whoosh.

Harry suddenly pulled open the closet door, the light tearing through the darkness.

Before he could capture anything, his index finger had already pressed the shutter.

That shutter was like a machine gun trigger.

Ah ah ah! Ah ah ah!

As long as there was chaos, it was easy to make mistakes; as long as there was chaos, it was easy to make a fool of oneself.

Once a fool was made, the news would come out.

The paparazzi knew this very well.

If he could photograph Anson and another person undressed, or Anson struggling to change clothes and falling down, this trip would be worth it.

Therefore, Harry must be strong and must be tough—

Ah ah ah!

Bang bang bang!

A flurry of rapid operations, fierce as a tiger.

Ah, cramping, wait, calf cramping, the curled-up body was like a piece of jerky roasting on charcoal, twisting frantically.

At this time, he couldn't care about the camera, hugging his calf, his roar turned into a painful wail.

Ah, ah ah ah… …

"Leg, my leg, cramping, cramping… …"

Harry hugged his calf, his face full of despair, whimpering and sobbing, and for a moment he couldn't tell whether it was tears or sweat.

Suddenly, he looked up, and then Harry saw Anson.

Does anyone remember that classic fisheye lens in the movie "Trainspotting"?

At this time, Anson in Harry's eyes was like that, tilting his head, full of curiosity, blinking his eyes, looking like a melon-eating crowd observing the living habits of ants, just lacking a piece of watermelon with black seeds in his hand.

Harry: ???

Something's not quite right, is it?

The Anson in front of him was not flustered, not embarrassed, not restrained, and not nervous.

He was completely leisurely, not hurried, not panicked, and his calm expression made Harry feel extremely insulted.

Sir, please panic, or be angry, this is a paparazzi secretly filming, just give a little reaction.

Could it be… Anson is not aware of the situation?

Harry blinked his eyes.

"I, I'm taking pictures."

Anson nodded lightly, "I know."

Harry felt like an idiot.

Anson simply sat down opposite Harry, looking at Harry lying in the closet, "Very dedicated.

I used to watch documentaries, those top photographers would lie on the ground like this when shooting blockbusters.

Does it make it easier to get good shots like this?"

Harry, "Not easy, this is not a studio and there is not enough light… Hey! I'm secretly filming you, you, why aren't you panicking?"

Anson shrugged lightly, "Do I need to panic?"

To some extent, Anson could understand the cat-and-mouse game between those top superstars and the paparazzi.

Their lives had been exposed under the spotlight too much, to the point where they had no private space of their own, and the tug-of-war and hiding with the paparazzi was more like a silent protest.

But the point was that Anson's career had just begun, and he hadn't experienced such a battle, so he didn't reject the paparazzi, let alone fear them.

Anyway, he had nothing to hide.

That upright attitude made Harry, who was lying on the ground, directly stunned—

You're not right.

The whole situation was not right.

Harry was lying on the ground, Anson was sitting on the chair, guess, who are they, who is the hunter and who is the prey?

Harry was panicking.

His mind was in a mess, but before he could continue thinking, the pain in his calf occupied his brain, and a burst of numbness went all the way up from the sole of his foot, as if countless ants were gnawing at his muscles, and then he completely lost sensation in his calf, and couldn't help but open his mouth to make a silent shout.

Ah.

The pain that burst out instantly pushed to the extreme, bombing the brain like a pulse of light, even suspecting that the pain nerve had broken to the point where he couldn't make a sound.

Harry himself was staging "The Mask", and that twisted face that did his best could be compared with Jim Carrey's rubber face.

Finally, Anson noticed the abnormality, stood up, took two steps forward, and probed, "Wait, do you need help?"

Harry cried directly, Sir, did you just now notice the ferocity of my face?