by Tobe Hooper
I noticed that the dudes in the ambulance were staying put; I hoped they were calling for backup, or maybe somebody who could do an exorcism, or maybe my pal Stephen King, because if anybody on earth could figure a way out of this mess, it’d be Uncle Stevie.
I really wanted to shoot him, but really I didn’t want to, you know what I mean? I told Gary, “That’s asking a lot, man.”
He said it again: “Shoo-hoo-hoot me! Shoo-hoo-hoot me! Shoo-hoo-hoot me!” Yeah, man, it was a goddamn Indian chant.
I wanted to put him out of his misery, but it was still Gary’s face, and, well, shit, you try shooting your oldest friend. It’s a bitch to pull that trigger, even if he is a motherfucking zombie. I said, “I can’t. Can’t do it. Nope. No way. No how. We’ll get somebody to help you.” I pointed at the ambulance. “Those guys are on the case.” I didn’t believe they were on the case—my guess was that they were hiding under the dashboard, which is the same thing I would’ve done—but I had to say something to make him feel better.
It didn’t make him feel better, not one bit. Hell, at that point, he probably didn’t even have any feelings. He finished up with the second cop, then fell to his knee, lifted his dismembered leg to the sky, and bayed at the moon. I thought, Great, now he’s a werewolf zombie.
But he was my friend, and I had to at least try to help out, and going to the car, pulling the gun out of the glove compartment, and plugging him in the brain stem would’ve been the easiest and probably the most merciful way out. I said, “Okay, Gary, settle down. We can fix this. I promise.”
He got up, hopped over to the ambulance, and banged his face against the front windshield. Then he did it again. And again. And again, until the thing finally shattered. The whole time he was yelling, “Shoo-hoo-hoot me! Shoo-hoo-hoot me! Shoo-hoo-hoot me!”
At this point, I figured it was time. It would be best to put us both out of his living hell. So I went to the car, pulled out my pistola, and put one bullet through my oldest friend’s heart and another through what I hoped was his brain stem.
My aim wasn’t too good. After all, I was crying the entire time.
One of the paramedics poked his head out of the broken window and said, “Can we help you?”
Right then, I heard the phone ringing from back in the house. I told the paramedic, “If you can come up with some way to help me right now, you are a saint. I’m going to grab this call.”
If rule number one in the Hooper household is “No visitors,” rule number two is “No phone calls after ten o’clock.” If you call at 10:01, you’re getting the machine. But there were all kinds of rules being broken that night, so I picked it up and said, “What?” And I said it loud. Some would say I even barked it.
I heard a second of heavy breathing, then a guy’s voice: “Toeb?”
I said, “It’s Toe-bee, you dildo, not Toeb. Who’s this?”
“I don’t know if you remember me. Dude McGee. Via Austin, Texas. The Destiny Express guy. And I’m pretty sure it’s Toeb, not To-bee.”
Before I could get out a single word, the smell of rancid luncheon meat filled my nose, and I passed the fuck out.
TOBE HOOPER:
When I came to, I had one of those it-must’ve-been-a-dream moments. There was no way that I shot and killed a zombied, rancid, pus-covered version of Gary Church in my driveway … and while I was naked, yet. Then I looked down at myself and realized I was indeed naked, and I was lying on the floor, and the telephone was right next to my shoulder, and the earpiece was alive, and it was all real.
The phone started yelling at me: “Hello?! Hellooooo?! Mr. Hoopster? Helllllllllooooooooo?!”
I said, “It’s Hooper. Not Hoopster.”
The voice said, “No, I’m pretty sure it’s Hoopster.”
Then I remembered: Dude McGee. I said, “Why in the name of fuck are you calling me at who-knows-what-time-it-is A.M.? It’s the dead of morning in Austin, asshole.”
McGee said, “Oh, I’m not in Texas anymore. It smells something awful down there. Too many fires.” I chuckled despite myself. When you hear a guy who smelled as bad as Dude McGee complaining about the air quality, you can’t help but laugh, no matter how many zombies are decomposing in your front yard. He said, “I’m up in Vegas now.”
I said, “Why Vegas?” I didn’t really care why Vegas, but, like I mentioned before, us southerners are polite even when we don’t want to be.
He said, “It’s one of the only cities west of the Mississippi that seems to be completely virus free.”
I said, “What do you mean ‘virus free’?” I wasn’t being polite this time. I’m not a fan of germs, so when the topic of pandemics comes up, I’m all ears.
He said, “What do you mean ‘what do you mean’? Don’t you surf online? Don’t you like crackpot websites? Don’t you like conspiracy theories? Don’t you pay attention to the world around you? You’re a filmmaker. How can you make movies for the people if you don’t know what the people are doing?”
I said, “I’ve been busy.”
He said, “You’ve been so busy that you didn’t know our country was falling apart at the seams?” And then he laughed, like a high-pitched giggle. I smelled salami again and felt woozy, so, not so gently, I flicked my balls with my middle finger. That woke me right on up.
I said, “Brother, our country is always falling apart.”
He said, “Not like this.” And then he went on to tell me about the hundreds of crystal meth fires, and the suicide cults, and the Blue Spew—which was particularly horrifying, because, well, suffice it to say that the thought of blue crap coming out of my private parts was particularly unappetizing—and the zombies.
I said, “Wait a minute, zombies?”
He said, “Yeah. But nobody’s reporting that on the real news. You can’t hardly find stuff online about it anymore. Somebody somewhere shut that shit right on down.” And then he giggled again. Not sure why. This wasn’t the least bit humorous. He said, “Maybe because nobody believes it.”
I told him, “I believe it. I saw one of them.”
He said, “You did?!” He sounded almost happy about it.
I said, “Yep. Up close and personal, even.”
He said, “Tell me about it, Mr. Hoopster.”
I said, “No way, Dude. No. Fucking. Way.” I wasn’t ready to relive that moment yet, especially with a salami-smelling giggler like him.
He said, “You aren’t alone, Toeb. Thousands of people see zombie attacks, and only a few have discussed it. Personally, I don’t get it. Me, if I saw one of those rotters, I’d take a million pictures, secure a million URLs, and put it right up online for the world to see, and whenever one of my websites got shut down, I’d put another one right on up. It’d be … beautiful.”
I stood up, walked over to the front door, and took a peek at Gary’s corpse. He was turning into mulch before my eyes. The EMTs were gone. I said, “It would most definitely not be beautiful.”
McGee said, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
I said, “Unless the beholder is a moron. Now, why the hell are you calling?”
He said, “Oh. Right. That’s the important thing.” Again: giggle, giggle, giggle. Moron. He continued. “You might want to know that the Game is all your fault.”
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
Tracking down Tobe’s number was easier than I thought; I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy. Once in a rare while, my limited power as a film critic in a tertiary market is of use. Once in a rare while.
I wanted to call Tobe first thing in the morning, but Janine said, “No. No way. You call him now. If you don’t call him now, you’ll wuss out and come up with a zillion excuses.”
I said, “Why the rush? What’s the big deal if I do put it off?”
She walked over to me, put a gentle hand on my cheek, and said, “Nobody’s talking about it for real. Nobody’s questioning. Everybody’s just letting it happen. Maybe Tobe knows somebody who’ll have some ideas, and may
be that person will know somebody, and that person will know ten somebodies, and we can get some answers.”
I said, “What if there aren’t any answers?
She said, “Erick, it’s a goddamn phone call.” She grabbed my cell from the top of my amplifier, threw it at my chest, and said, “Make it.”
I checked my watch and told her, “It’s three in the morning here, which means it’s one in the morning in California. Ten o’clock is the cutoff time for nighttime phone calls. Everybody knows that.”
The entire room hammered at me for probably another half an hour: What have you got to lose?… What’s the big deal?… It’ll be cool … Maybe he knows something you don’t … Who the hell else do you know that can look at this from a slanted angle?… What have you got to lose?… What have you got to lose?…
They wore me down. Finally, just to shut them the hell up, I dialed.
TOBE HOOPER:
Right as Dude McGee was going to tell me how I, Tobe Hooper—or, in his little salami mind, Toeb Hoopster—personally had shredded the fabric of America, my call waiting beeped in.
Another post-midnight caller. For the love of God.
I told Dude to hold on and jabbed the star button to find out who it was. I said, “Yeah?”
“Tobe?”
“Yeah?”
“My name is Erick Laughlin. We met at the Destiny Express screening. I don’t know if you remember me.”
I said, “Yeah. Listen, I have to be honest, brother: I don’t really recall most of that night.” That was only partly true. There was one thing I remembered: that chick who kissed me. My Lord. I got hot just thinking about it.
He said, “That’s okay. So listen, I know it’s late, and I’m sure I woke you up—”
“My night’s sleep went out the window when I shot one of my oldest friends in the brain,” I said.
He laughed and said, “Yeah, um, sure, um, right.” Of course he thought I was kidding. Who wouldn’t have? I’m Chainsaw Boy.
I said, “Listen, man, can I buzz you back? I’m on another call.”
He said, “Really?”
I said, “Yeah.”
He said, “At this hour?”
I said, “You called me at this hour.”
He said, “Ah. Right. Good point. So in an hour?”
I said, “Sure, an hour. But listen, why’re you calling anyhow?”
He said, “I wanted to talk about … well … it’s weird.”
I said, “Brother, ‘weird’ is my middle name. What’s the deal?”
He said, “My girlfriend thinks you might offer us some insight into the Game.”
I said, “Funny you mention that, Erick. Apparently I’m about thirty seconds away from having some insight.”
He said, “Apparently?”
I said, “Yeah. Got to run.” Then I clicked back to McGee. “So. Mr. McGee. You were about to tell me how I destroyed the world.”
Dude said, “I was.”
I said, “Details, please.”
He said, “Okay. Remember that movie you did? Destiny Express?”
I said, “Vaguely.” All sarcastic-like.
He said, “That was Ground Zero. That was the birth. That was the rebirth. That was the afterbirth. That was the launching pad. That was—”
I had a hunch that little freak could’ve gone on all night with the metaphors, so I finally interrupted him. I said, again, “Details, please.”
He said, “It started there, To-beeeeee. If you work your way backward, you can trace it to that screening. Everything. The Chicago suicide bomber was there. I think the Blue Spew started there—and you’re lucky you didn’t catch it, from what I understand. And Scary Barry was there—”
I said, “Scary Barry?”
He said, “The first of the meth arsonists.” Meth arsonists. Jesus Christ suntanning on a cross. He continued. “I’m pretty sure the suicide cult started there, but I can’t prove that for sure. Quite the impressive flick, To-beeeeee. Go online and see what havoc you hath wrought.”
I said, “Mr. McGee, this is intriguing and all, but I think you’re utterly full of shit.” And I did. But the fact that Erick called gave me a bit of pause, so I said, “I do have a few questions.”
He said, “I can imagine you do. What say I drive up to L.A. and we have a chin-wag? Put our heads together. Smash our heads together. Bash our heads together. Togetherness is what it’s all about. Togetherness is the buzzword. Togetherness can make this country whole again. Together, we can fix this. Together, we can save the world. How’d you like to save the world, Mr. Tony Hoobler?
Tony Hoobler? Seriously? I said, “I tried to save the world in the sixties. Didn’t work. May as well give it another shot.”
He said, “That’s the spirit. Jerry’s Deli at noon tomorrow?”
I said, “I’ll be counting down the seconds.” And then I hung up, went upstairs, put on some clothes, and went about the business of burying what was left of my pal. All that other shit—specifically, the dead cops—that would be somebody else’s problem. After I did my business, I was gonna blow the scene. I didn’t know where I’d go, and I didn’t know how I’d get there without getting stopped somewhere by some cop, but that’s the way it was gonna go down, period.
Turned out the cops didn’t give a good goddamn about me, but as I found out later, they couldn’t give a good goddamn about me, because Hell-Lay was a bastion of fucked-up-ed-ness. My guess is that the paramedics filled them in, and since the situation had, shall we say, resolved itself, they left it alone. And that’s probably why I never heard a single “official” word about Gary Church. And you make sure you tell your readers that I’m doing finger quotes around “official.”
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
Tobe called me back two minutes before I was going to call him.
The first thing I asked him was, “How’d you get my number?”
He said, “I star-sixty-nined you, man. Hope your girlfriend doesn’t take that the wrong way. She’s probably the only one who wants to sixty-nine you.”
I laughed and said, “So, about this Game business …”
He said, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow at lunch. There’s a six o’clock flight from Austin to L.A. Spell your name out for me.”
I said, “Why?”
He said, “Because I’m putting you on it.”
I again said, “Why?”
He said, “Because I don’t want to meet with that little freak on my own.”
I said, “What little freak?”
He said, “Dude McGee.”
I said, “You’re meeting with that moron?”
Tobe sighed, then said, “Yeah. That moron.”
I said, “Why?”
Tobe said, “He thinks I’m the bad guy. He thinks I’m the villain. And I need to make sure he’s wrong.”
TOBE HOOPER:
Jerry’s was the ideal place to meet McGee, because his bologna BO would be less noticeable in a room filled with deli meat.
McGee was waiting for me when I showed up—and I was right on time for a change, thank you very much. He gave me a too-enthusiastic handshake, then dived right back into his monolithic sandwich. He said, with his mouth full of challah, “I hope you don’t mind. I ordered an appetizer.”
I said, “Whatever, man. Finish your food. I don’t want to start rapping about this shit until my backup shows.”
He swallowed—mercifully, because half-chewed food reminds me of a certain nightmarish actor I once worked with, whom I will not name—then said, “Backup?”
I said, “Yeah. Backup. One of the kids who was at the screening. Far as I know, he doesn’t have the Blue Spew or anything.”
Dude said, “Might you be talking about Erick Laughlin? Erick Laugh-In? Erick Laughing Boy? Erick Idle? Erick’s Idol? Erick—”
I interrupted him. “Yeah. That guy. How’d you know?”
He said, “I just do.”
I said, “You just do?”
He said, “
Erick lives where I live. I live where Erick lives. Us Texans, we know what’s happening with our own.”
I said, “I’m a Texan, and I don’t know a goddamn thing about any of you whack jobs.”
He said, “Oh, but you will, Mr. Hooker.”
Until Erick wandered in twenty minutes later, the only sound that could be heard at our table was that of Dude McGee murdering two sandwiches. My appetite went right into the shitter, as you can imagine.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
The positivity of seeing Tobe Hooper was nearly offset by the negativity of seeing Dude McGee.
Before I could even shake Tobe’s hand, Dude said, “You know about the Game, don’t you, Erick Laughing Boy? An oh-so-connected newsie such as yourself is in touch with the outside world, isn’t he?” This was all said with max sarcasm.
My hands automatically closed into fists. Steam must’ve been coming out of my ears, because Tobe touched me on the forearm and said, “I know what you want to do, brother, and I’m telling you not to do it. Too many witnesses. It’s not worth it.”
I said, “I’m cool, Tobe. Thanks.” Then I said to Dude, “Yes, McGee, I know about the Game.”
Dude said, “Of course you do. Have you caught a dose? Do you have the Blue Spew? Are you a stinking, rotting zombie?”
No way I was telling that stink bomb about the 9:33 business. I said, “I’m good. My girlfriend was attacked by an old boyfriend, and she thinks he might’ve been in an, um, altered state when it happened, but I don’t know about that.”
Dude said, “Ah. Yes. David Cranberry.”
I said, “Cranford.”
Dude said, “Right. Cranberry. Another man who rode the Destiny Express.”
Tobe said, “What do you mean ’rode the Destiny Express’?”
Dude said, “He was there. He was in the house. He was, as the kids say, in the heezay.”
Tobe polished off a glass of water in one gulp and said, “McGee, you’d better start making sense, or me and Erick here are going to make ourselves scarce. So talk. But swallow your lunch first.”
I said, “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
