The Fixer

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The Fixer  
This is a pilot for a project. We are investigating the options of sing and on-screen actor but we are also considering doing it as a voice-over accompanied by storyboards. It depends on the talents we find who are interested.

Below is the original casting call.

We require a sixty-something male Joe Pesci-type actor to play a jockey in an interview mockumentary pilot. The script is about 2200 words so it requires someone who can handle lengthy monologues. The candidate should be a raconteur with the ability to do Voices and Characters. The audition and shoot will be held in Thornhill. The selected candidate will receive $150 for the one-day shoot. A script is available on request.

Character is based on the life story of a real person who was a tough, hard-nosed jockey, trainer, and fixer. It is basically an interview style so the character is on screen all the time. The character is a great storyteller who has the ability to do voices when he tells his story. The ability to do a short voice-over intro in another voice is also required.
2014-01-16 10:54:41 GMT
2014-01-31 10:00:00 (GMT -05:00) Eastern Time (US & Canada) 
Yes (click here to learn more about Voice123's SmartCast)
0 direct invitation(s) have been sent by the voice seeker resulting in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
Voice123 SmartCast is seeking 50 auditions and/or proposals for this project (approx.) Invitations sent by SmartCast have resulted in 1 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.

Project Parameters

The Voice Actor should be located in:
Fixed - USD 150.
Others (on-camera, infomercials, live announcers, spokespersons)
2200 words
English - USA and Canada
Senior Male
• Audio files must be delivered via email
There are no special pre-, post-, or production requirements for this project.
Not defined
This is a non-union project

Script Details

custom demo required 

I met Ronny almost by accident. He was a friend of a friend I went to school with about a hundred years ago. IÂ’d just moved to this small beach town, a place that was on the rebound after years of neglect. The big money boys were moving in, buying up the properties and turning rundown cottages into multi million dollar estates.

It was an odd sort of place, a place with billionaires and bums, ‘gonifs’ and gangsters.

Ronny fit right in; it was colourful, like Ronny, a jockey, trainer, entrepreneur, raconteur, and above all a fixer. This is his story.


The racing business isnÂ’t for wimps. If you arenÂ’t a tough son-of-a-bitch theyÂ’ll eat you alive. I learned early you gotta be tough.

I never did get along with my father but he did teach me an important lesson.

He was a concentration camp survivorÂ… That sort of thing changes people, and it affects generations.

My father got through the war because he had a skill, he was a shoemaker, and the SS officers liked their boots.

He must have told me this story a hundred times, and it made an impression.

There was this guy in camp, a tailor, named Yitzchak. One day he had had enough. He didnÂ’t care any more, so he just stops and stares at his sewing machine, like it was contagious or something.

After a few minutes he stands up, and slowly walks outside – everybody is too fucking scared to stop him. He marches right up to this SS guard, plants himself in front of his face, looks at him, and spits right in his eye.

The guard starts yelling obscenities in German, as he pulls out his pistol and shoves it into YitzchakÂ’s forehead. The louder the obscenities, the tighter he presses on the trigger, but Yitzchak doesnÂ’t move.

And thenÂ… the guard stops. Silence.

Behind him is the camp Commandant, with his Luger jammed into the back of the guardÂ’s head.

“You pull that trigger, and I’ll blow your fucking head off. This man is more valuable than some country-bumpkin guard. You have no fucking idea how hard it is to find a decent tailor.”

Yitzchak doesnÂ’t say a word, he just turns around and goes back to the shed and starts working.

Everyday until the Americans showed up Yitzchak would stop working, march himself up to this guard, spit in his face, turn around and go back to work. This was one tough tailor.

ItÂ’s a lesson I learned well, you want to survive in this world, you gotta be a tough son-of-a-bitch.


You know there’s a lota stupid people in the world, but when you’re a kid - you’re the stupidest – it’s a fact, like science shit, something to do with the late development of the prefrontal cortex… but what the hell do I know. Fact is, people are dumb, and kids are the dumbest.

ItÂ’s one thing to be tough but itÂ’s even better to be smart, especially if youÂ’re a little guy surrounded by three hundred pound gangsters and half-ton horses.

When I was about sixteen I used to hang out in pool hallsÂ… thatÂ’s actually how I got started in the racing business, but thatÂ’s another story.

Anyway, me and this buddy of mine thought it might be a good idea to rob some rich guyÂ’s house. So we break in and stuff as much as we can into our pockets, jewellery, cash, whatever we could carry. On the way out we see the place is surrounded by cops.

We were in deep, big trouble. So I tell my buddy, “Get rid of everything”, and he says to me,

“What for? We got a lot of stuff.”

I say, “You dummy, do you want to go to jail? Get rid of everything.”

So he did. And of course we got arrested and thrown in jail.

So this big cop is interrogating me and asks, “Where’s the stuff?”

“What stuff?” I say.

“The stuff you stole”

“We didn’t steal anything.”

“So what the hell were you doing there,” he says, as he walks around behind me.

“We just wanted to see how rich people live,” I say.

He wacks me as hard as he can in the back of the head. Knocks me off the chair and my head hits the corner of the table.

He looks at his partner and says, “Did you see anything?” And the guy shakes his head, “I didn’t see nothing.”

So the cop looks at me, “You see anything?” “No sir,” I say as the blood trickles down my forehead.

Once they were finished with me, they repeated the whole thing with my buddy, including the smack in the back of the head.

The next day we were supposed to go before the judge, but before the hearing, some woman from Child Services shows up cause we were both under age.

She wants to know how I got the bruise and if the cops mistreated me. I tell her I just tripped, and nothing happened, just some questions.

So we go before the judge and the Child Services woman is sitting there, and so are the two smucks who hit me. The judge asks me the same questions as the cops and I give him the same story.

He looks at me and then at the Child Services lady and says, “I understand you were mistreated.”

“No Sir! Not me,”

He looks at me hard and says, “Well, there’s no evidence here, but if you ever come before me again, I’ll nail you for this and whatever else you got into.. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir! Can I go?”

He nods okay and I got the hell out of there fast. On the way out I leave the door open a crack to see whatÂ’s going to happen to my friend.

The Judge goes through the same rigmarole with him until he gets to the part about getting hit, and this dummy says, “Yah, they smacked me around.” And he pulls up his shirt to show the judge a huge welt.

The Judge leans over the big elevated desk thing he’s sitting behind and says, “Son, are you sure?”

And this putz says, “Yes sir, the cops did it, smacked me around real good.”

“Well that’s a very serious charge young man. I guess we’re just going to hold you a while until we investigate.”

I figured IÂ’d better get the hell out of there fast. IÂ’d dodged a real bullet. Burglary was for dummies.

I got lucky, but IÂ’d played it smart. You gotta be smart if you want to survive in this world.


You know you canÂ’t organize your life like you do a shopping list. Shit happens. You have to learn to roll with the punches.

You get involved in horse racing you learn to play by the rules or else. You just have to learn whose rules are important.

You ever heard the expression ‘honesty amongst thieves’ that’s horse racing.

Listen. A jockeyÂ’s life is in danger every time he gets on a horse. You put a bunch of 116 lb jocks on a dozen half-ton, high-strung animals, just inches apart; and youÂ’re going to have accidents. IÂ’ve almost been killed several times, and I got the aches and pains to prove it.

One time I was racing at Blue Bonnet in Montreal, I remember I had four rides that day. In the first race the horse next to me has a heart attack and drives me right through the infield fence. I almost died. I had a bleeding kidney. I was fucked-up good. So maybe you figure if only I’d skipped that first race – bullshit – it was fate, that day I was going down no matter what I did.

You see while IÂ’m in the hospital bleeding internally, my ride in the next race goes down right out of the gate. My horse in the forth falls in the turn, and the one in the sixth takes a header going into the backstretch. That day I was destined to land up in intensive care, it was just a question of when and if I would survive.

This wasnÂ’t the first or last time fate decided to test my resolve.

After that I figured what the hell, if IÂ’m going to put my life at risk three-four times a day, I might as well get something out of it.

ThatÂ’s when I decided to be a fixer. The gangsters werenÂ’t any more dangerous than the horses.


While at Blue Bonnet I was racing for this guy who was in cahoots with this other trainer. My guy puts me on this goofy horse that had a habit of swallowing his tongue when he got excited.

When you get a horse like that you have to use something they call a Tongue-Tie that keeps the horse from swallowing his tongue.

But this time they donÂ’t use it. Something was definitely up, but nobody tells me nothing.

Anyway, making the final turn the horse starts gagging so I hit him hard a couple of times under the girth and he lets the air out and takes-off like a rocket – wins the race by a nose beating the other guys horse.

I enter the winnerÂ’s circle and everybody looks like they lost their favourite puppy. These putzes bet on the other horse without telling me, figuring without the Tongue-Tie the horse couldnÂ’t win.

I was a pretty good jockÂ… I could handle almost any horse; you just had to know what you were doing.

So I kept riding for this guy and I win a bunch of races; but I overhear him telling another trainer that I held one of his horses. ItÂ’s bullshit, so I figure IÂ’ll show this asshole.

Meanwhile there were these gamblers from New England working the track. They’re really bad guys, but they knew how to fix a race. The one guy, the boss, his name was Rocky, and you didn’t fuck with him. So we made a deal. They’d pay all the expenses and we’d split three ways. You see they needed someone in the jockey’s room to pay the riders – that was my job.

So this one race they bet a Trifecta: thatÂ’s where you have to bet the first three horses in order. This one jock wants a little extra to finish first. So I give him a couple hundred more, out of my own pocket. What does this dummy do? He lets the second horse beat him, screwing up the order, busting the bet.

Rocky isnÂ’t happy.

IÂ’m walking out to my car and I see this big black limousine. The passenger window rolls down. ItÂ’s Rocky.

“Get in.”

I get in the back with this guy that’s at least three times my size. Rocky’s in the front seat and he don’t turn around, he just says, “Did you pay the guy?”

“Of course I paid the guy”

The hulk in the back seat sticks a gun in my ear and says, “You sure?”

“Get that fucking thing outta my ear.” And I push the gun away.

Rocky says, “I believe ya. Point this little prick out.”

The jockÂ’s got red hair so they call him Rusty. I see him and this trainer who bad-mouthed me entering the parking lot.

“That’s him, the red head.”

As they walk by, Rocky says to them from the car window,

“You know this jock?” pointing to me in the back seat.

“Sure” Rusty says, “I know him.”

“Did he give you anything? Did he pay you?”

“Na, I didn’t get noth’n”

“Bullshit” Rocky says, and these two clowns take off to their car.

Now the chase is on. It’s about midnight, and we’re barrelling down Decarrie Blvd, weaving all over the place like in that Steve McQueen movie “Bullet.”

We finally catch up, and corner them at some gas station thatÂ’s closed. The gorilla getÂ’s out of the car, knocks Rusty to his knees, and sticks his gun in his mouth.

“Okay Red, say your prayers,” he says.

Meanwhile the trainer takes off heading for the pay phone across the street.

So Rocky pulls out his piece and yells, “You better not get to the other side if you like breathing!”

The trainerÂ’s scared shitless, makes a U-turn without ever stopping and runs right back to Rocky, who proceeds to whack him across the face with his gun, knocking him to the ground.

The gorilla is ready to shoot when I say, “Wait a minute here, he’s an American. You can’t kill him here. It’ll create a shit storm that you wouldn’t believe. They’ll bring in the FBI, RCMP, and who knows what. Nobody needs that kind of trouble. Besides you own him now, and he’ll do whatever you tell him for the rest of the meet. You’ll get your money back and then some.”

Rocky smiles, puts his piece away, and says, “You’re pretty smart for a jock.”

Six months later I read that Rusty and the trainer had an accident while in New England.

They messed ‘em up pretty good, broken arms and everything.

I told you. Racing is a tough racket. It ainÂ’t all rich broads in goofy hats and billionaires playing at being sportsman.

Now you want me to tell you how to plug-in a horse, my specialty. 
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