“I’ve got a problem,” the producer said.  “For this holocaust movie…”

“Wait, what holocaust movie?” his older friend and mentor said.

“It’s based on a true story… about how a special skill let someone survive.”

“Ohh was this the pianist?”

“No.”

“Or the boxer?”

“No.  This guy played the bagpipes.”

“I didn’t know the Nazi’s liked bagpipes?”

“They didn’t.  They forced him to play all night in the prisoner’s barracks.”

“Those bastards.”

The producer knew it was a true story.  He heard it from a tourist guide at Loch Ness in the actual Scotland.

By a miracle of Hollywood coincidences, he had met an emaciated bagpipe player in rehab.  The producer was in for alcohol and cocaine.  “Bagpipes” was in for a decades-long eating disorder.

“Anorexia can happen in teenage girls and middle-aged men,” the producer said, as he poured his third martini.  “When I heard those bagpipes, I thought it was a rehab miracle.”

“At least you got something out of it,” his mentor said, as he reached for his little vial of white powder, and they both headed toward the bathroom.

“Listen, this problem is real,” the producer said. “I need extras for the victims in the camps. I need at least 200 starving Europeans.  It would be easy to get skinny Africans or thin Asians.  But Europe has discovered American food and video games.”

After a moment of silence, the alcohol and cocaine kicked in for the mentor.

“I’ve got it,” he said.  “Just start filming in France on July 24…. That’s the day after the Tour de France is over.”

The young producer looked perplexed.

“That’s when you will have 200 emaciated men who have nothing to do for 3 weeks.  You can probably get another 150 who survived the Tour de Femmes.”

“Those are professional athletes, no one is going to look at them and believe they are prisoners in a concentration camp…”

“Just pull them in after a ride on the cobblestones, rip off the lycra and cover them in striped rags,” the inebriated friend said.  “They will be bone thin, covered in dirt and limping around like they are on their last legs…  They will haven enough scabs and scars to look like they have been beaten for months.  It will look exactly like the black and white film used in the ‘World at War’.  Laurence Olivier himself couldn’t tell the difference.”

“What movie? Laurence who?”

“Fucking douchebag millennials,” the mentor said. “OK, it will look exactly like Schindler’s List and Steven Spielberg himself couldn’t tell the difference…”

 “I need actors,” the producer said. “They have to be naked.  You can’t do a holocaust movie without victims with no pants walking away from the camera.”

“Are you kidding – have you seen these cyclists crash?  These guys have cycled halfway across France with their asses hanging out of their ripped shorts.  There’s so little meat on the bones, no one even bothers to look – it will be just like that shower scene at the end of the Martian.”

“Actors,” the producer said.  “We need that aghast look of hopelessness.  That thousand-yard stare…”

“Shoot that after a practice ride up a couple of mountains.  Hang a donut under the camera.  No one will be able to tell the difference.”

“We can barely afford extras,” the producer said.  “We can’t afford professional athletes – don’t they make hundreds of millions of dollars a year?”

“The top cyclists make less than $5 million…. The guys at the back of the peloton would do a movie for a sack of rice and a bag of refried beans… Besides, the teams and sponsors are cheapest organizations in sports.  They will bring the teams just for a place to stay and free coffee.”

“I don’t think we can be ready by July 24…”

“No worries,” the friend said.  “The Vuelta a Espana ends Sept. 17.”