A fight inevitably breaks out between two naked male actors. One shouts to the other, “This is truth! My penis is bigger than yours because I rub mayonnaise on it! This is truth! Here’s the proof! See? It works! Look at its stiff image in awe! This is awesome!”
The challenger is a skinny fellow from India whose dingle hopper is visibly much larger than the other gentleman. He shoots his hand out and grabs onto the other’s penis and squeezes like a loony person. The victim screams out and flails his arms in the air, mimicking a swimmer’s backstroke.
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”
The Middle Eastern fellow tightens his grip and yells out.
“Sook sook the manuke!”
“Aiiiiiiiiiiii! Release your hold!”
“Hit me, you’re so tough!”
The pitiful man tries to punch him, but each throw of a fist results in a tug of the penis. Mr. Snake steps in and slaps the Middle Eastern man’s hand away.
“Stop this nonsense! We are professionals living in a material word!”
“No one slaps my hand! This is my money hand! I’m a hand model. R-e-s-p-e-c-t me, you will, Godfongit!”
Mr. Snake rips off his shirt and erects his chest to show that he’s not afraid. The Middle Eastern man gasps and takes a step back…then takes two steps forward.
Mr. Snake goes “Hmph!”
He stomps his foot to appear frightening.
“Mr. Snake erects his chest to show that he’s not afraid.”
Then he takes a sword and cuts an “X” across his chest and throws the sword into a tree.
“What are thou going to do? Bleed on me?? YOU slapped MY hand!”
“You drunkard.”
“Blasphemy!”
Middle Eastern man punches the director in the face and sends him flying through a thick, termite ridden oak tree. It explodes into splinters that get into people’s eyes. They run about crying and jogging into trees. They give up and sit on the pinecone-carpeted ground, weeping and drinking a beer, wishing to dull the pain in their eyes.
A fight breaks out over who drank whose beer. There is THUNDER & LIGHTNING, but no rain.
Polly hides behind a tree, praying, I think.
I stand up, confused, while people walk and twirl by me, their hands over their eyes. I don’t know what to do – where to go. I’m afraid that if I move, the angry Middle Eastern man will shoot a stern finger at me and say, “You sook sook the manuke, too, eh?!?!?”
Lucky for me, he is distracted: By the black shape of Mr. Snake’s bulk, slowly rising before the rumbling bonfire. What scares me is that Mr. Snake appears to be convulsing…and like with babies, I’m afraid of what I don’t understand.
Middle Eastern man sees this shocking, scary sight and points at Mr. Snake, asking in a fake, courageous voice.
“Are we rolling?”
Mr. Snake takes a kung-fu pose, as does his opponent. WIDE SHOT: They both stand in front of a mountainous full moon – bodies stiff and ready.
Mr. Snake opens his mouth slowly and says quickly…
“Action!”
The two, fully-grown men run toward each other, shrieking with their fists coiled back.
A weeping, wandering woman, rubbing her eyes, runs in front of the Middle Eastern man and he punches her without stopping, sending her flying right at Mr. Snake. He catches her and flings her up a tree.
“Grab!” she yells, and grabs onto a branch, swinging herself up to safety.
All the drunks are fighting, releasing lighting quick punches and kangaroo-like kicks. Sensing defeat, Middle Eastern man runs into the drunken brawl of fighters and crying people, who still have splinters in their eyes. He picks up random people and throws them at Mr. Snake, who ducks and jumps over each missile, running faster and faster toward his enemy. The Middle Eastern man YELLS out.
“Waaaaaaah!”
Mr. Snake jumps into the air and knees him in the forehead.
They both land mere inches from the scary bonfire.
Middle Eastern man crawls on the ground. He tries to get up to run away, but his bowels give way and he falls back down and gets a mouth full of dirt. He gets up a second time, visibly vomiting in his mouth a little, and takes one step forward. He falls down again, this time directly on his face, hands glued to his side. He doesn’t get up for a long time. Mr. Snake walks up and kicks him over.
The Middle Eastern man has a pinecone in his right eye. Mr. Snake jumps back and throws his hands over his mouth.
“Jesus Christ!”
Middle Eastern man SCREAMS OUT.
“BLARRRRRGHHHH!”
And kicks Mr. Snake in his belly, sending him flying up up up into the air.
My heart stops, knowing the inevitable.
Polly runs up to me and hugs me and says words that tumble out in slow motion; makes her sound like an old man.
“OH-SWEET-JESUS-NO!”
Mr. Snake sails into the flames and is never heard from again.
The moon smiles. The night wind soothes. The crickets laugh. I rest on a bed of grass and drown in the stars. Morning is coming soon.
The sun peeks over the hill. I didn’t realize that everyone else slept on the mountain. Why is it that when one wakes up and scratches and yawns, everyone else wakes up and scratches and yawns?
It feels like it has been raining.
Why do mornings have to feel so goddamn moist? I hate it with a passion of the Christ.
The fire has died out. Nothing left, but black goo. There’s a ton of it.
I dare not to think of the obvious.
No one says anything.
Not even Polly.
She has been crying.
All the actors and the rest of the crew put on their shoes and walk back to their automobiles and drive off without saying goodbye.
Polly walks behind a tree with her head hung low and her hands tied to her back by invisible wire. She squats behind the tree and marinates the earth, noisily, on dry leaves.
Is she crying again?
I want to help her. Maybe when she has calmed down a bit.
I listen.
Yessm, she is weeping.
It’s soft at first, but then it sounds very angry.
She groans then growls.
Her urine even shoots out in strong, angry bursts while she COMPLAINS.
“Daaaaaaah!”
I can see her shaky hand come out from behind the tree and reach out for a cleansing, dead leaf.
Soon she’s walking out like a zombie and takes my hand and guides me to the van.
As we drive past Daie and down Kapiolani blvd., she tells me the plan.
She wasn’t crying for Mr. Snake, she was crying for the project. She was shedding tears for the CREW.
And me.
“Do you want to direct?” she asks.
It takes all my energy to hold down my excitement and remain cool.
I ask, “Why me?”
She looks at me, confused.
“Isn’t this what you’ve wanted your whole life?”
Afterward
I edit the adult film all by my lonesome on Warren’s computer. I do it whenever he’s asleep. My ass gets numb every night because his computer sits on the floor. It takes me a good week to finish the thing. Once, I was more than half way complete, when the computer crashed and I lost everything. A little part of me died right then and there.
One time the computer froze when I was saving.
What the fuck is that about?
So now the film, called “Aloha Mannequins”, has a voice-overed story line that I wrote to fill in the plot holes. The story, told by a mysterious, French woman, whose character may or may not be the devil, involves dreams and religion and nuns and truth and love. It’s so surreal. I get complaints from people that it’s like The Nundead, only sexier.
This is bad.
Because my 1st film ended up being, in my opinion, unmarketable, totally detached from the world. I vowed to make my next film salable. But now it
seems that the same thing is happening all over again. I can’t change. I can’t escape who I am.
I’m happy with the film. I love it. Proud of it.
Polly hates it.
And she hates me now.
She watched a screening of “Aloha Mannequins” at Wallace Theatres in Restaurant Row that cost me $150 to rent out for a day. She got up and walked down, across the flickering screen, stomping her feet in an obvious way, staring at me. She walked out through that Exit, into the sun, and I never saw her again.
ALTHOUGH, I do believe I heard from her days later.
I think.
See, one early morning the phone rang – it was something like 2am – and on the other end all I heard was heavy, mean breathing. I listened for a full thirty minutes…listening to this heavy breathing, trying to figure out who it was, not saying anything to the stranger for reasons that even I don’t understand.
There was another crazy sound – this one in the background: Something like heavy bits, falling into a toilet.
Then there was the sound of a shower blasting on…and click.
Whoever it was hung up.
My male’s intuition tells me that it was Polly.
Three days later, in the morning, while my mum is at her dialysis appointment, someone breaks into the apartment.
I’m upstairs in the bathroom, brushing my teeth when it happens. The door is kicked down and feet rush in. I hide in the bathtub, behind the curtain. It all happens so fast. When all is silent, I go downstairs to find the place perfectly intact.
Nothing is broken.
What did they take?
My copy of “Aloha Mannequins”.
I don’t call the cops because I don’t want the attention.
Yessm, I work at *** now, in Ala Moana.
I soon find myself going back into the same, depressing routine.
I work…
I play darts…
I drink…
I smoke (though not as much, seeing how smoke nowadays reminds me of burning flesh)…
Not knowing where I’m going.
That’s not the way to go. An adult knows who they are. With that revelation they know what their strengths and weaknesses are and what they need to do to succeed.
With that being said…I guess I’m not an adult.
An adult that craves money, that is serious, that is narrow-minded, an adult that is power hungry, that needs a fancy car, a fancy house, that doesn’t play, that’s responsible for this and that and the other, an adult that stresses over bills, baby food, insurance, debt, back pains, anal pains. Blah, blah.
On second thought, to hell with being an adult.
Growing up sounds painful.
Thank You.
BOOK PREVIEW: Transdolphin (aka The Weredolphin)
Noah's Ark has never been found...until now. Inside the colossal boat, an archaeologist discovers the power of an ancient creature that could finally rid Oahu of law-breaking werewolves. A horror comedy novel.
DANGEROUS HISTORY
I always felt like a dolphin trapped in a human's body.
My stay in Hawaii was going to fix that problem....
Walking up that mountain was exhilarating. We were getting close. Each step was leading me toward success. Just a little more time. Just a few more breaths. Keep walking. Don't stop.
I yelled over my shoulder to Lars.
“My dad was the one that found the ancient scripture, under the Great Sphinx of Giza...under its right paw. Dad said that one day he heard the Sphinx whispering to him, telling him where to dig. Took him a week to find the scripture describing Noah's three arks.”
Lars was lagging behind. I turned to look at him, and he hid his hand behind his back. He smiled.
“Ehhh? I thought Noah just made one ark. A really BIG one. Right?”
“Wrong,” I said, walking again. “Noah had three arks. He made one for typical animals, one for unicorns, and one for transdolphins. This mountain – Round Top Drive – IS the ark holding the transdolphins...and I'm going to open it. What could go wrong?”
“This is amazing!” Lars said. “I can't believe it ended up here in Hawaii.”
“The great flood scattered the arks. The biggest one – the one with standard animals – is sitting on top an icy mountain somewhere. I'm not sure where the Unicorn Ark is. My theory is that it's under the ocean. The Transdolphin Ark is the smallest – its front door hidden somewhere in the mountain, under all that dirt and grass. I'm screwed if to get in I gotta go digging under some tree or house. But let's stay positive. We're getting close. I can smell it. Can't you? Bah! Of course you can't. You're no archaeologist. You're just a zombie hunter for hire. All you smell is money.”
I paused. Did I insult him? I had to control myself. Control the excitement.
“I smell discovery,” I said, sniffing the air. “I smell history. Sacred history. Dangerous history.”
I looked up the mountain.
Dad, I thought, this is for you.
PART ONE
The Transdolphin
LARS GACK
I had a friend that used to hunt zombies while jacked up on cocaine. He's dead now. But I liked the idea of not being totally “there” while on the job. So I started drinking. It worked. I was more confident. Zombies were easy. I could decapitate with comfort. The fear was gone. No more disgust. No more shame. During that time, I experienced a major explosion in zombie gigs.
Then, I started getting too drunk, and some months jobs wouldn't come at all. I was a mess. I made mistakes. People died. All accidents, of course. Didn't stop the inevitable. Word travels fast on a small island like Oahu. My reputation as a drunkard was spreading. Less people called for help. I started to feel the fear of poverty again. Would I end up living on the streets? No, no, no. That can't happen. Don't think about it. Too depressing. I needed more work to pay my damn bills. I needed help. Life wasn't working out. I was hitting my head against a brick wall. Concerned about major blood loss, I stopped doing that and called up my hunting friends for advice. Jerome – he said that I needed to get wasted with him at some sleaze-bar and calm myself with terrible beer. My other pal – Doktor Boss – advised that I camp out in the hilltops with him and meditate on life, really get my senses together. Long story short, I got hammered drunk with Jerome. I went home that night to find my dad standing in the middle of my living room with his belt in his hands. Now what?
He started hitting me. Chased me all over my apartment. Coffee mugs and dinner plates shattered on the ground. The downstairs neighbor hit her ceiling with a broom, begging us to shut up. Dad trapped me in the bathroom, my back against the shower wall.
“You need to stop this crazy business!” he said, waving his belt at me, that gold buckle reflecting the bathroom light. “No more zombie hunting. What if you get bit? You need a real job. A normal job! I can't take it anymore. You don't know what it's like. People at the firm look at me all funny. They laugh behind my back. My son hunts zombies. Sometimes I'm so ashamed, I don't even go to work. I just stay in bed and eat ice cream and watch women's wrestling. See what you're doing to me? How can you do this to your father?” He was crying. “It's time for a change, boy. You're getting a job, and you're paying your way to law school. I have a friend that needs help with his gas station. You're going there tomorrow to see him. I wrote the address down and stuck it to your fridge. I suggest you read it, boy.”
The very idea of working at some stink, uninspiring gas station made my heart implode. Sure, zombie hunting was dangerous and weird and sometimes money was tight. At least it was interesting. But gas stations? I shook my head and said, “No. I ain't gonna do it. This is my life. I live how I wanna.”
Dad's face contorted. “Your mouth is running like a chicken with its head cut off,” he said. “I'm tired of it!”
He charged at me, belt in the air, and he did his work. When I was 99% covered in black bruises, he put his belt back on. “Time for a change, boy. Time to grow up. Time to
be a real man. My friend will be expecting you at his gas station,” he said...and sauntered away.
When I heard the front door slam, I walked into the kitchen and drank, and drank, and drank.
At some point, I found myself gazing at the Moon. Lost. In a daze.
Time for a change, boy. Time to be a man.
Wait. What just happened?
Was it all a dream?
I was hungover like a horse. In the nude, I stumbled around my bedroom, knocking over vases and books...went into the living room. The lady on the news was complaining about werewolves again. A woman carrying a baby was being interviewed in a mall somewhere, looked like Pearlridge. She was livid.
“I was leaving the mall last night when a werewolf took my purse and ran off! I've had it up to HERE with those monsters. The other day, my cousin, Rew, was attacked by a gang of werewolves. They beat him up and stole his money and new shoes. Damn werewolves. All they do is commit crimes. They're worthless. I want them off the island!”
Shoppers behind her cheered.
I wobbled to the bathroom and got on my knees and threw up in the toilet, each retch sending shock waves of pain to my brain. I made my everyday breakfast of cereal with beer (I was too poor for milk) and took an hour-long, hot shower, meditating on life. The phone rang. I ran out with shampoo stinging my eyes. Finally – a call! This might be important! I thought. It might be a job! Praise Jesus!
I answered my cell.
“Lars Gack – zombie hunting expert. How may I help you?”
The old man on the other end grunted.
“Mr. Gack, my name is Loyd Brunegan. I saw your ad on the back of a milk carton. I need your help...if you can spare the time.”
“I'm free this month. Spill the beans.”
“You do remedy the walking dead, don't you? And by remedy, I mean kill, murder, terminate, destroy, put down, annihilate, END. This is what you can do?”
“And do I shall.”
Get Zombie: 8-Book Set Page 58
