I slowly open my eyes and turn my head toward the open field.

A cardboard cutout stands awkwardly within this vast plain of golden grass, frozen in place as the blades rattle gently against its cartoon knees. It's a human-sized rendering of Chucky the Woodchuck, his two massive front teeth framed by the maniacal grin that launched an animation empire. Weekday mornings I'd watch this ball of hand-drawn energy face off against Wiley Wolf, the two-dimensional forest their own personal Home Alone house stuffed full of anvils, mallets, and comically oversized dynamite sticks.

It's always thrilling to see prey outsmart predator, even if that means strapping an anthropomorphic wolf to rocket skates and sending him to the moon.

This cardboard depiction of Chucky the Woodchuck is from his early days, stark black and white with a distinctly vintage design. He doesn't have his gloves yet, and his divergent eyes are much wilder than the modern version.

Back in the day, there was a large portion of potential viewers who found his zany, buck-toothed expression … well, frightening. Adjustments were made.

Chucky is holding a bicycle horn in one hand.

I stare at this cardboard cutout in silence, first a little surprised I hadn't noticed it until now, then wondering how it got all the way out there. The field is enormous, and while we're close enough to the back gate for Chucky the Woodchuck's arrival to have a dozen or so logical explanations, there's something about his placement that feels odd. Someone had to trudge deep into that tall grass and prop him up.

Chucky the Woodchuck's rolling, multidirectional eyes feel as though they've somehow met mine, angled to both the left and the right, yet drawing me in. I get the same eerie feeling I did all those years ago, plopped in front of the television set.

The original design really was creepy.

Honk!

The squeak blasts again, only this time it's much louder. I jolt abruptly, eyes flickering up to the rearview mirror and discovering the driver behind me is serving a gesture of frustration.

The cars ahead have already pulled forward two full spaces, leaving a gaping hole.

"Get off your phone!" the driver shouts.

"I'm not on my phone!" I yell back, awkwardly pointing at the palm of my hand.

He just shakes his head with seething irritation. He flicks his hand toward me, shooing me onward.

"Fuck you, too!" I shout in parting.

By the time I get my car in drive it's a straight shot to the security booth.

"Crazy day, huh?" I start, pulling up next to April's little white security hut.

"Misha!" she cries, excited to see me or doing an excellent job of pretending. "It's been a while."

I nod. "You know a script's bad when they can't just schedule a Zoom about it."

"I'm sure it's great. Congratulations, by the way."

I force a nod of acceptance, feeling awkward about the praise. I never quite learned how to take a compliment, and at this age I don't think I ever will. "Sure. Yeah."

April hands over a small blue box. "Thumb," she instructs.

"You're asking for prints now?"

April shrugs. "They're updating everything around here. New security stuff. That's why it's taking so long."

I press my thumb against the tiny device a few times until, eventually, it emits a soft digital beep.

"All done," April announces with a grin. She takes back the glowing blue cube. "Good luck with the meeting."

I continue on, glancing in my rearview mirror to discover the cardboard woodchuck has disappeared, probably knocked over by the wind and laid out somewhere in the tall grass.

Giant beige walls rise around me, a gridded labyrinth of passages between every soundstage on the lot. These towering buildings block out the sun, creating a web of shady alleyways where various production teams avoid the heat and go about their daily routines. As with the gate, a strange disarray permeates this scene, the hustle and bustle of an already active backlot taken to unexpected heights.

Excerpted from Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle. Copyright © 2024 by Chuck Tingle. Excerpted by permission of Tor Nightfire. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.