In 2011, Ben Dudley—then a student in Michael Griffith’s writing workshop—climbed through the window that led to the tunnel that serpentined to the cavern that narrowed into a smaller cavern (more of a crawlspace, really) into which thrust the stalagmite that housed, about three-quarters of the way down (or up, depending on your spatial orientation), the calcified deposit of our fiction editor’s soul. What he discovered? The tormented egomaniac behind Michael’s mild, aw-shucks demeanor. An ill-fated film ensued. This is the story of that film.
