Author: Beau Montana

I’m four months behind on the rent and my credit score is 480.

And yet another shot at the title (part xxiv)

“Alright, I’ll get out of your hair,”’Jimmy said. “Katherine, this is your show.”

“Thank you Jimmy,” she said.

Jimmy picked up his candy tote and departed the conference room. The two parties sat on either side of the table staring at each other. Kat stacked some papers and started the meeting. “First off, salary negotiations…,” she began. Greta interrupted.

“Well James, congratulations on hijacking another production,” she told me.

“No hard feelings Greta,” I said. “There were some legalities regarding my dismissal which Jimmy and I settled in court. This is only business.”

“I fired you!” she shouted.

“We can keep digging up the past but I’m here now. We have a movie to make. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to move forward with this project…”

“James is right,” Kat interjected. “We’re all professionals here and we’re running behind schedule.”

Greta was fuming. She said nothing for the duration of the meeting. We went over the logistics, casting choices, and story boards while she sat with her arms folded and staring off into space.

“Cassandra, take note,” I ordered, “the film should end with the lead bending over, spreading his ass cheeks, and shitting out Chatty Cathy onto the ground with her shouting ‘Thank Christ for mayonnaise’”

This failed to illicit a response from Greta. A concerned Kat motioned to her. “Greta do you have any input on this ending?” she asked.

Greta took a deep breath, unfolded her arms, and looked me dead in the eye. “I think you left your brain splattered on the ground in Eastern Europe,” she told me.

She stood up and huffed out of the room. Everyone was quiet. I rubbed my fingers to the backside of my head where the scars of the exit wound lay. “Well ladies and gentlemen,” I told them, “let the building of sets commence. Welcome to the production of Chatty Cathy. I look forward to working with each and every one of you. I’ll see all of you on Monday.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxiii)

On the top floor of Trainwreck Productions is a hallway dedicated to the finest moments in the studio’s history. Moments such as Rip Torn’s flaccid penis in The Man Who Fell to Earth, Keanu Reeves’ hairy ass cheeks in The Devil’s Advocate, plus many other fine specimens of film nudity were immortalized down this corridor. And at the very end of the hallway, where the conference room sat, was a large poster of my finest hour: This Tastes Like Ass. I felt like a part of living history…and that I’ve done more to make this studio great than that thieving bastard Jimmy Del Greco.

To my shock, there was Jimmy standing at the end of a long conference table where Greta and her team, including Cassandra, were waiting on us. The great Burbank skyline stood a mile high out the window behind Jimmy. Pablo, Kat, and myself took seats on one side of the table. Greta and her goons on the other.

“Thank you all for being here,” Jimmy began, still in his Tom Ford tuxedo. “I know I shouldn’t be here given the legal action that resulted in the death of my attorney from James Pietermeister. But HR wanted me to give a quick spiel on sexual harassment before production begins on Chatty Cathy.”

We all groaned.

Jimmy clicked a remote and above him a large screen slowly rolled down. The lights dimmed and a projector illuminated an image of a woman on the screen. “Mr. Pietermeister, do you know what this is?” Jimmy asked me.

I shrugged. “A woman?”

“Very good,” he said. Then he tossed me a Kit Kat bar. He clicked the remote again and another image appeared. “Greta, do you know what this is?”

“A man, Mr. Del Greco.”

“Yes,” he said, then tossed her a bag of M&Ms. “And you know what happens when men and women work together?”

No one said anything.

“Well let me show you,” Jimmy explained. Then he fumbled with the remote for a few minutes trying to click on a YouTube hyperlink. After he figured it out, a video played of a female director, the same one I identified in the image, attempting to convince a male actor to expose his penis for a nude scene.

“Come on Bob!” the woman shouted to the man. “All the cool actors hang wang in the pictures these days! Have you ever seen Westworld?!”

“Gee miss,” the actor replied, “I ain’t never showed my pee pee on camera before!”

The woman placed her hand around the actor. “It’s okay Bob,” she says, trying to calm him. “No one will laugh at your laughably small penis. Size doesn’t matter. I swear.” Then the director placed her hand on his crotch.

“Halt!” a narrator said. “What would you do in this situation? Think about it…think about it…okay, what did you come up with?”

Jimmy paused the video and stepped in front of the screen. “Okay, what did you guys come up with?” he asked.

The room was silent.

Then Pee-Wee, my handy production assistant, raised his hand. “Actors should always do what the director asks of them,” he suggested.

“No Pee-Wee. But that was a good try,” Jimmy said then tossed him a Snickers. “Anyone else want to guess?”

“Actors and actresses shouldn’t have to do nudity if they don’t want to,” Greta spoke up.

“Bingo!” Jimmy said. As a reward, Greta was given a $10 Subway gift card. “You see folks,” Jimmy continued, “the purpose of this exercise is to highlight the need to get along. We have a lot of hands in this production and the last thing we need is another sexual harassment lawsuit. The studio just can’t afford it right now. So let’s all come together, hold hands, sing Kumbaya, and for fucks sake let’s make a great picture!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xxii)

In its nearly 22,000 years of existence, the city of Burbank sat as a barren heap on the Los Angeles basin. They say that the natives used it as a staging ground for child sacrifices, senseless slaughtering of enemies captured in meaningless disputes lost to history. Since man began sowing the fields of Eden, Burbank remained a godless land where even the most savage beast dare not tread. When the white man came, those conquistadors found acres of cow shit and rivers fouled with the funk carcasses rotted. There it remained for another hundred years before a movie executive saw fit to build a studio there. Nothing has changed in the time since. Still the stench and ghosts of men long dead shout aloud in its halls. At the very center of this ghastly haunt is Trainwreck Productions which sits as a Caesar watching over its forsaken wasteland. No one dares challenge him. For what king would be foolish enough to lay claim?

That’s when I graced its halls. Perhaps for the last time I thought.

Pablo was waiting on me in the lobby. He was more alert than usual. “I don’t know why but Kat and Jimmy aren’t talking to me,” he explained.

“That’s okay. Dan is taking care of contract negotiations,” I said.

He was flummoxed. “Well, am I still your agent?”

“I haven’t fired you yet,” I shrugged.

“Goddamnit,” he said. “Then let’s get this day over with.”

Kat joined us moments later. “Great news fellas!” she exclaimed.

“What’s that? I’m finally getting back pay for my work on This Tastes Like Ass?” I ask.

She cocked her head. “No. The elevator is finally working. So no more crawling up the air ducts.”

It wasn’t much but it was something. Perhaps a sign of things to come. After all it only took 30 years. So the three of us crowded into the cramped elevator, Kat more chipper than usual. “Did you remember to bring your script notes?” she leaned forward to ask me.

“You should know me by now Kat,” I told her. “When have I ever taken notes?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Aaron Taylor Johnson

If y’all can remember, Eric Bana was “officially” announced as James Bond by several major news networks prior to the naming of Daniel Craig. So while nothing, insofar as I can tell, has been released by the Broccolis or Eon Productions regarding the casting of the next James Bond, I think there’s enough smoke around Aaron Taylor-Johnson that we can safely assume he’s probably the new 007. If not, then it’s April Fools’ Day, so…April Fools.

But I support this choice for a few reasons. For starters, he has a pretty big penis. And secondly, his wife is over 20 years older than him. So salute. But that’s enough about the man himself. How would he perform as the world’s most famous secret agent?

I should state that I’ve only seen Taylor-Johnson in two movies. So maybe I don’t have the most informed opinion on his abilities. But he looks like the kind of guy that can handle the humor.

I’ve been revisiting some of the Roger Moore films. While he’s not my favorite Bond, nor my second favorite, and probably not my third favorite, he did bring a certain levity to those movies that I miss. If I have a criticism of Craig, and there’s not many, is that he might have been too much a brute. As much as it pains me to say, Craig was far from the funniest Bond. But what he restored to the part was a sense of danger which was sorely missed during the Moore and Brosnan eras. That’s one aspect from Craig years I hope the producers don’t jettison. As obvious as it seems now, James Bond needs to LOOK like he can handle himself in a fight.

Taylor-Johnson, again, coming from an uninformed opinion, appears like he’s the best of both worlds: both bruteness and levity, which seems like a nice change of pace given our current times.

And he has a big penis.

And yet another shot at the title (part xxi)

All was quiet under the scorching sun. The lone, naked shrub still lay undisturbed in the barren Palm Springs desert. I watched a coyote forage around then piss on a Joshua Tree. Not even he would bother this useless piece of vegetation that clung onto life in this waterless land.

Everything around me rang of death. Yet here I was. There was the coyote. There was the piddly, useless shrub. Despite all odds, despite the elements wishing death upon us, we survived.

At least I survived this time.

Perhaps the gods did smile upon me, I thought. The devil in these matters…the Hollywood snakes with their venom, as the vipers are to the coyote in this wasteland…are of no match to destiny. Perhaps Dick was wrong. I was a predator. In this sense, I was more akin to the coyote than the shrub. I was the lone wolf. And the executives were my prey.

I took out my penis and pissed on the shrub.

“Providing the shrub substance I see,” Dick said.

I swung around. “Yes,” I said.

Dick approached and grabbed me by the shoulders. “I see you were victorious,” he smiled.

“I want you to come back to Hollywood with me.”

Dick looked to the sand below him and smiled that warm smile. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked.

“I’m back in the director’s chair,” I said. “But the fight isn’t over.”

“The fight is never over,” he warned.

“I couldn’t have done this without you. I’m strong but not strong enough. They’ll never stop coming for me.”

Dick nodded and looked up to the burning sun. “If I were to come with you,” he said, “then I want a producer’s credit and 10% of the gross.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Yolo

Every night I wake up in a pool of my own sweat then look into the mirror to stare into the eyes of a man I don’t recognize. Life has become a meaningless void; an absolute senseless abyss where joy, love, and happiness are only a mirage. “Who am I” I ask myself. “Must every waking hour be so painful?”

Where does the suffering end?

It’s for this reason why I find so much comfort in 1967s You Only Live Twice, the fifth installment of the James Bond series. It’s old timey racism, antiquated attitudes towards women, and nonsensical plot that was written by the champion of the British Empire and captain of nonsense himself, Roald Dahl, that really highlights the madness of existence.

It was at this point in the series where Sean Connery gave up. Clearly just there to fulfill contractual obligations, Connery meanders through the film as someone who would obviously rather be on the golf course. Personally I prefer his lackadaisical performance in Diamonds Are Forever, but it was clear here that Connery still cared, however slightly, about his physical appearance. Quite frankly, his acting fits the film perfectly; it’s easy for the audience to emote vicariously through Connery. How else are we to react to producers and screenwriters clearly giving up their creative integrity for what amounted to an obvious cash grab?

The film starts with astronauts being hilariously kidnapped and the supposed “death” of James Bond. I have a lot of questions about this cold open. Bond is introduced as he’s making out with a “Chinese girl” (Miss Moneypenny’s words) and seconds later he’s gunned down. The police show up, pronounce him dead, with one of them saying “at least he died on the job” and the other responding “he would have wanted it that way”.

First off, how the fuck would those officers know what James Bond wanted? Did he know these guys?! Later, when Bond is revived, it is revealed that the death was staged by MI6. So was the Chinese girl in on the operation? Did the gunmen know?! I mean, it appeared as though they were firing real bullets. So was the Chinese girl acting as a double agent, baiting the gunmen into a scenario where they thought they would kill James Bond but she secretly knew that the whole thing was staged? That’s the only sensible explanation but she acted as though she was also trying to kill him!

And then, after Bond is revived on the submarine, M asks something along the lines of “any adverse effects?” which I assume means that Bond was drugged from the time of his faked death to the moment of his arrival on the submarine. So was he out the entire time? Was 007 so drugged that it fooled the doctors during his autopsy?! How long does it take between being pronounced dead and one’s funeral? Three days to a week? Did Bond not drink or eat the entire time? Who the hell was in on this thing?!!!

It is well established that Bond is a commander in the Royal Navy and M is a former admiral, and while on the submarine both are in uniform, but is Miss Moneypenny an officer too? Why does she have a uniform? I guess it makes sense given the confidential information she handles, but no where is her service to the Royal Navy ever established!

And the reason for James Bond’s published death is so that, according to M, 007’s enemies will pay a little less attention to him so that he can focus on the mission at hand. The problem is, if memory serves, at this point in the franchise’s history only SPECTRE is his enemy, and, as is established only 20 minutes later in the bath scene, it appears that Bond suspects SPECTRE is behind the incident from the very beginning. Did Bond not share this with MI6 before they dropped him off in Japan? He already killed Goldfinger, his only other enemy. Did Bond think he was going to capture SPECTRE by surprise? What was the point in faking his death?!

If the point was to get SPECTRE off his scent, then he did a very, very shitty job. Being a 6’2 Scotsman in Japan, Bond was going to stick out like a sore thumb. In fact, he is spotted by Japanese intelligence almost immediately while walking around openly in Tokyo. Sure, they were expecting him but maybe they should have chosen a less conspicuous rendezvous point than a sumo match.

And folks, this is just in the first 15 minutes.

Later, a little over halfway through the film, Bond takes a wife and his physical appearance is altered to appear more Japanese. And ladies and gentlemen, none of this serves the plot whatsoever. In fact, it’s completely abandoned almost as immediately as it’s introduced.

Directed by Lewis Gilbert, what’s great about You Only Live Twice is that its plot (or the lack thereof) is basically repurposed two more times within the franchise, both times directed by Gilbert. So Lewis Gilbert has the distinction of being the only director to make the same film three times. Producer Albert R. “Cubby” Broccoli watched this movie and thought “yeah, I want to do that again. And once more for good measure.”

But personally I think that the crowning achievement of You Only Live Twice is that the filmmakers took a long hard look at life and their involvement in James Bond, realized it was all bullshit, said ‘fuck it, let’s get paid’, and turned it into spectacle of the highest order. As a result, cinema has never been the same.

*Note: Okay, so I forgot about the scene with Mr. Henderson who explains that a Japanese corporation could possibly be behind the disappearance of the space capsule. This might be where Bond begins to suspect SPECTRE. But still, it’s a shitty plan to fake your death and then walk around in public just days later.

And yet another shot at the title (part xx)

As Ben-jamin “El Supremo” Shapiro’s lifeless body bled out onto the floor and police and paramedics were rushing madly into the courthouse, Dan and I walked out into the halls laughing and patting ourselves on the back. “You were brilliant in there,” I told him.

“It’s been awhile since I killed a fellow attorney in the courtroom,” he smiled.

When we reached the courthouse steps, Dan stopped to breath in the air. “I feel alive again,” he said. “After you blew up that movie set on the steppes on Eastern Europe, I thought my career was over. I want to thank you.”

I shugged. “It’s the least I could do for killing your most famous client.”

We shared a few more laughs before we received an unwelcome guest. “Well played, well played,” Jimmy Del Greco told us as he appeared lightly clapping behind a pillar. “I guess you think you’re invincible now.”

“You’re wrong Jimmy,” I replied. “I’ve always thought I was invincible.”

“Keep that filthy money,” he continued. “The studio never needed you anyway.”

“Woah woah woah!” I retorted. “Sounds like you’re itching for another fight. You tried to set me up out of billions and your lawyer tried to kill me. Now I’m no legal expert, but I’d venture to guess that I’d have grounds to sue you. What do you say? Wanna go back inside for round two?”

“Now wait a minute,” Jimmy said then adjusted his coat. “This is about to be a shit storm in the papers and stock prices will likely plummet. We need to save some face here.”

“No, YOU need to save face here,” Dan interjected.

Jimmy nodded. “Alright, so what do you want?”

I wasn’t prepared to answer. It never occurred to me to ask Jimmy for anything. So I looked to Dan. “You want to stop the embarrassment and plummeting stock prices?” the lawyer asked. “Then fire Greta and make James the sole director of Chatty Cathy.”

Jimmy shook his head. “No can do,” he said. “Greta’s contract is ironclad. No one can fire her. Not me, not God. No one.”

I straightened out my tie and began to speak terms. “Then I guess we’re going back to our original terms,” I said. “Let Greta and the press know I’ll be at work on Monday.”

Jimmy glared defiantly at me.

“And while you’re at,” I continued, “go ahead and begin negotiating my contract with Pablo.”

“Actually,” Dan warned Jimmy, “call my office. You’ll be negotiating with me.”

That was an odd demand from Dan, and I didn’t object. But Jimmy stood there motionless on the courthouse steps. While words failed him, I knew he wouldn’t take this lying down. So as he departed down the steps, I had to get in one more parting shot.

“And Jimmy,” I shouted, “this isn’t over between us.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

And yet another shot at the title (part xix)

“Did you have a good shit?” I asked Dan as I met him back in the courthouse halls.

“You know, as I was squeezing out a turd, I was thinking…” he began to say.

“No, I’ve been thinking,” I interrupted, “call court back in session.”

“It’ll be back in session in one minute.”

“Good. Have Shapiro call me back on the stand.”

“I can’t call the defense’s witnesses for them!”

I chuckled. “Dan, Dan, Dan,” I nodded, “you’re overthinking this. Why don’t you shut your brain off for a moment and let me direct this show.”

“James, this is a court proceeding. Not a movie. I can’t just…”

“Just get me back on the stand for fuck’s sake,” I laughed.

I waltzed back into the courtroom with Dan tentatively following. I buttoned up my jacket, smiled to Shapiro, and took my seat. The Judge banged her gavel. “Court is back in session,” she declared. Dan took center stage.

“I call James Pietermeister to the stand,” he stated.

I stood up, hands in pocket, and whistled a tune as I approached the stand. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?” the bailiff asked.

“What the fuck is this? Groundhog Day?” I joked.

No one laughed.

I sat down in the witness seat. Dan didn’t approach the stand and everyone was puzzled. “Are you going to question your client?” the Judge asked him.

“Actually, Your Honor,” I said, “I don’t think the defense was finished with their questioning.”

The Judge looked to Shapiro. “Very well, Your Honor,” he groaned. And the small, piddly attorney approached the bench. “What more is there to say?” Shapiro asked me. “You have no case!”

I put my finger up to my chin. “What more is there to say indeed,” I wondered aloud. “Mr. Shapiro, did you approach Ms. Casandra McHale with several millions of dollars to rewrite Chatty Cathy?”

He started to readjust his tie. “I believe protocol states that only legal counsel can…”

“Did you have a few drinks with Ms. McHale that night?” I hammered on.

A thin veil of sweat began to appear on his forehead. “Uhhh, Your Honor, I believe the witness is in contempt…”

“Answer the question Ben-Jamin!” the Judge ordered.

“Well, as Mr. Greco’s attorney, it is sometimes my responsibility to…” he began to stutter.

“Mr. Shapiro, while you were inebriated with Ms. McHale,” I continued, “did your penis somehow come out of your pants?”

“Uhm,” he cleared his throat, “I was merely explaining to Ms. McHale the tattoo I got while on tour in Vietnam. I got my testicle blown off you see. I was on tour promoting my book when I met this prostitute…”

“How big would you say your penis is?” I ask. The Judge was intently focused.

“Well, on a good day, I would say 5.4 inches fully erect but…”

“Your Honor,” I declared, “according to Ms. McHale, Mr. Shapiro’s penis is no more than four inches fully hard. I declare the defense unreliable and I therefore no longer own Mr. Greco $56 billion.”

The judge again banged her gavel. “Agreed! Mr. Pietermeister is no longer liable for a breach of contract as the contract was not made in good faith.”

Shapiro and Jimmy were stunned into silence. “Your Honor, please!” the lawyer begged. But she threw on her robes and departed the court without saying a word.

I laughed heartily. “Sorry, Ben-Jamin,” I said to him as I patted him on the shoulder, “maybe you’re just not cut out for this line of work.”

I could see him fuming. “You made a joke of me for the last time,” he told me. Then he pulled out his Glock, the same Glock he showed the court earlier, and began waving it around. “The Los Angeles Superior Court is a farce!” he screamed.

“Ben-Jamin, calm down buddy. The whole world already knows you have a little ass penis. No need to wave your gun around lol,” I said.

Then he pointed it at me. “Fuck you Pietermeister!”

I closed my eyes in preparation for death. Gun shots rang out but I felt nothing penetrate my body. I opened my eyes and saw Shapiro lying dead on the ground with three gunshots to his chest.

I saw Dan pointing his Colt single action six-shooter and smiling. “Now that’s what I call justice…,” he said. Then twirled his gun and put it back in its holster. “…Texas style.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xviii)

Dan and I decided to calm ourselves by gnawing on some Ding Dong’s we pulled from the vending machine. By that point I had resigned myself to my fate: In just a matter of hours, I would be laying in pool of my own blood in the basement.

“It was a good run,” I told Dan. “Sure, thousands, if not millions, of people died due to my ill advised business ventures. But hey, at least I made a few good films.”

Dan was clearly exhausted. His eyes were still bloodshot from all the crying. “You can’t give up,” he said.

“What other option do we have?” I shrugged. “Let’s face it, I’ve lost my fight. I’m an old dog waiting to be put out of its misery. Let’s just go back into the courtroom and tell Jimmy he’ll have his filthy $52 billion by the end of the day.”

“As your attorney, I suggest we throw up more smoke and mirrors until we come up with another plan,” Dan advised.

“Nah, fuck it. I’m ready to die.”

“Look,” Dan firmly stated, “we have a few more minutes before court’s back in session. Let me take a shit then we’ll discuss this further.”

Dan stood up, ass clinched, and waddled into the bathroom. I walked out to the courthouse steps. I took a deep breath of the smog filled air and admired the trash-littered scenery of Los Angeles. Life becomes a bit more sweeter when you know you’re about to die; You think about to your loved ones and enemies alike, all the people who have wronged you in the past are forgiven. I no longer desired to strangle the Chick-fil-A®️ manager. My preoccupation with wanting to violently murder Dennis Hopper faded away. I was completely emptied of the hatred that weighed me down for so many years.

In that singular moment, everything clicked. Life is beautiful, I thought.

“James,” a sweet voice said behind me.

Then it all changed.

“Cassandra,” I blankly stated. “What are you doing here?”

Cassandra bashfully stepped forward. “I heard Shapiro is Jimmy’s attorney,” she explained. “He’s in on all of this too.”

TO BE CONTINUED…