Jay Hypno Writer

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

The Credit Card Decline

Vince could see the reflection of his sneakers in the immaculate white tile, slightly distorted under the strip lighting above. Somewhere overhead, soft jazz murmured from the speakers, Davis or Coltrane, something warm and comforting. The produce section smelled faintly of fresh basil, cilantro, and eucalyptus hand sanitizer. 

He liked it here. The carts glided without wobbles and squeaks. The apples looked hand polished. The displays of sprouted granola were arranged like a sculpture. No one here ran. No one shouted. Best of all, nobody looked twice at a man pushing a cart full of kale, oat milk, and a single fillet of organic salmon. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Do Vesta

“You’re doing what now?” Joe asked, one hand buried in a greasy bag of chips. 

Vince didn’t look up from his phone, just reached over to the coffee table, grabbed a wad of napkins, and dropped them into his best friend’s lap. He’d spent the last half hour scrolling through a queue of video requests, and he’d felt the beginnings of a callus forming on his right thumb. Birthday wishes. Anniversary congratulations. A shout out to a guy retiring from thirty years in the Navy who “salutes like Captain Vesta.” That one had five stars already. 

“It’s called LinePlease,” Vince said, finally glancing over at Joe, who had upended the empty bag of chips and was tapping the remaining crumbs into his mouth. “It’s a gig thing. Fans pay for custom videos. I record a little message, send it in, and they cry, or laugh, or post it online, or whatever. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Cease and Desist

The email subject line practically glowed on his cracked phone screen. BEER COMMERCIAL—Offer for V. Karros (Confirmed). 

Vince sat up straighter in the diner booth, nearly knocking over a bottle of hot sauce. A waitress in orthopedic sneakers shuffled past without looking at him. He thumbed open the message, his heart rate climbing. 

Inside was a brief note from his agent’s assistant, along with a PDF attachment. No preamble, no pleasantries, just Straight offer, no audition requirement. Attached. Call us. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Too Vesta

The casting office didn’t even have a logo on the door, just a taped-up sign in black marker: AUDIOCRIME CALLBACKS 9 AM – 2 PM. Below it was a polite request not to knock unless you were on the call sheet. 

Vince signed in just below someone named Derek, which felt like a cosmic joke, and took a seat in one of the tan plastic chairs that lined the beige hallway. The walls were peeling, the carpet was low pile, and a little ring light glowed behind a half-open doorway. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Alone on the Bridge

He wasn’t supposed to be there. 

The studio lot, usually a hive of motion and caffeine-fueled logistics, had settled into an off-season hush. Only one gate was open after hours now, guarded by a prefab security shack and a bored-looking man in mirrored sunglasses scrolling through a phone. 

Vince hadn’t thought about his ID badge. He reached for it out of habit, half aware it was clipped to his belt loop, and only remembered its uselessness when the scanner chirped red. The guard looked up, unmoved.