Short Story: We Are All Actors Here

I am Heinrich, the actor, and this is my story. And in the end, that is what makes it a success.

In the quiet town of München, they hired me for a beer commercial. They think I am dramatic, and maybe I am. But I drink heavily, and that is the truth.

I walk onto the set, and they hand me a script. The director, a man with a serious face, says, "Heinrich, we are thrilled to have you here. This commercial will showcase our unique brew beautifully."

I look at the script, and it is dreadful. "Who wrote this nonsense?" I ask, sharp as a knife.

The director does not flinch. "We thought it would highlight the unique taste of our beer."

I snort. "Unique? It tastes like horse piss!" I declare loudly. Some of the crew giggle.

The marketing team exchange worried glances. They have already given me the money, and now they are stuck with me. I can see it in their eyes.

I continue my tirade. "I won't say anything that sounds like a lie. This beer is dreadful, and I won't be associated with something so beneath me."

The room falls silent. The director and the marketing team are trapped. They can't start over with a new actor, and I am their only hope. But my refusal to cooperate is becoming a major issue.

The director hands me a real bottle. "Please, just take a sip and tell us what you really think."

I sigh dramatically and swig it down. My face contorts as I swallow. "It's still shit," I declare, "but slightly better than horse piss."

As the scene continues, I start replacing the beer with vodka from my flask. My performance becomes chaotic. I stumble through my lines, slurring my words, making gestures that are wildly inappropriate. The crew watches in horror as my drunken antics spiral out of control.

The marketing team looks at each other, a mix of horror and disbelief in their eyes. They realize this is a disaster. My unfiltered opinions and drunkenness have turned the commercial into a farce.

Finally, the director calls cut, and I am escorted off the set. The marketing team huddles, trying to salvage the situation. They decide to scrap the project, deeming it a terrible mistake.

As they pack up, a crew member casually mentions, "You know, this is going to be a huge success."

He has no idea.

The next morning, I wake to a pounding head and a room spinning. I start a pot of coffee. The rich aroma fills the room, offering a glimmer of hope for relief.

My phone buzzes urgently with a call from my agent. "Heinrich," she says, voice tinged with something unreadable. "You won't believe this. The beer ad — it's gone viral. People love your... performance."

I grunt, a smirk playing on my lips as I pour a cup of coffee. The irony is almost too much to bear. My antics – they've somehow become a sensation.

"Of course they love it," I mutter. "Who wouldn't be captivated by such raw talent?" I am Heinrich, after all, a force to be reckoned with.

As I take a sip of my coffee, I can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. "It is I, fucking Heinrich," I declare, catching my neighbor staring at me through the window.

"Look at this one here, gawking at my perfection. She wishes she could be half the man I am."

I put on my silk robe and stumble into the kitchen. I look for only the freshest sudachi to squeeze my juice. Where are they? Missing. How could someone do this to me?

I reach for my phone – a foldable iPhone 18 Pro Max Ultra with 120Hz ProMotion screen with adaptive mini-LED, up to 2TB storage, triple-lens, 10x optical zoom, AI cinematic mode camera and a titanium frame – dialing a number with a swift motion.

"Carl, you useless piece of shit! Where are my sudachi? I need them now! Do I have to do everything myself?" I bark. "Bring them to me. And make sure they're perfect!"

I sigh. I need my ascorbic acid and calcium to keep my perfect frame and muscular structure. Otherwise, those runts at Otto-Falckenberg-Schule could overtake me. Nobody understands the pressure I am under.

The doorbell rings.

"Carl," I say without looking up, "you appear to be dying."

He stumbles in, panting, face red, hands on knees, wheezing like an old man. "Sir... sir... there's a problem."

Of course there is.

There is always a problem. The world is a machine of incompetence, and every morning I discover some new example of humanity failing me.

"What problem?"

Carl swallows. "The sudachi, sir."

Silence.

"The sudachi," I repeat.

"There's been a delivery issue."

A delivery issue. The words bounce in my skull, absurd.

"You are telling me," I say carefully, "that the fruit around which my entire morning routine is structured is unavailable."

Carl looks like a man about to be executed.

"Temporarily, sir."

I laugh. Not because anything is funny.

I walk toward him. He takes a step backward. Good. Fear is the appropriate response.

"Temporarily?" I ask. "Carl, my breakfast occurs now. Not temporarily. Not eventually. Not after some forklift operator decides to locate the correct crate. Now."

"I'm trying to fix it, sir."

Trying. I hate that word. Everyone is always trying. The word disgusts me.

I point at him. "Do you know what separates me from ordinary people, Carl?"

He blinks.

"No, sir."

"Everything."

I pace. "The discipline. The sacrifice. The artistry. Do you think audiences pay to watch mediocrity? Do you think they spend money to witness adequacy? No. They come to see Heinrich. They come to see perfection."

Carl nods frantically.

"Perfection requires precision. Every detail matters. Every ingredient matters." I whirl. "Sudachi matters."

"Yes, sir."

"Without sudachi, the balance of my morning tonic is compromised."

"Yes, sir."

"My vocal preparation is compromised."

"Yes, sir."

"My concentration is compromised."

"Yes, sir."

"My performance is compromised."

"Yes, sir."

I spread my arms. "There. You've destroyed cinema."

Carl looks like he might faint.

I point at the skyline. "I want every luxury grocer called."

"Yes, sir."

"Every importer."

"Yes, sir."

"Every chef."

"Yes, sir."

"Every embassy if necessary."

He hesitates. I narrow my eyes. "If a single sudachi exists within five hundred kilometers, I expect it on my table within the hour."

"Yes, sir."

"If that requires a private jet, charter one."

"Yes, sir."

"If that requires a helicopter, hire one."

"Yes, sir."

"If that requires sending a team into the mountains to harvest the fruit by hand from a cliffside orchard tended by monks, then send the team."

"Yes, sir."

I nod. Finally, a reasonable conversation.

Carl sprints from the room. I watch him go, shaking my head. Honestly, I sometimes wonder how civilization functioned before I arrived.