Written 26 November 2018
“Where is he?”
Liam Neeson was shaking me now, holding his prop gun in my face. I remain stoic, I even manage a little smile, as I try to keep the gun in focus.
“He has Allah on his side.” I whisper, in my best pan-Arabic accent. I start making the tongue sounds most Americans think all Muslims do. Just as my eyes are bulging, Neeson cracks me on the side of the head with the butt of the prop gun. Too hard.
“Ah, fuck Liam.” I shout reverting back to my New Jersey.
“Ah jeez, I'm sorry fella.” Liam said, reverting back to his Irish.
“Cut”, the British director says, sounding bored as shit.
“Sorry everyone.” Liam said to the room at large.
My prop turban is now stained with blood. At least they didn’t make me wear the fez this time.