Once Upon a Time in Montana (Part IX)

“Here’s semi-automatic plasma rifle from World War XIV. You should be able vaporize 500 men with this dandy,” Rockwell explained.

I took one look at the weapon. “Why didn’t you say that you had all of this futuristic technology?” I asked.

“Well I thought that it would create all kinds of paradoxes in the space time continuum. But apparently none of that matters. Hell, being a good Irishman that I am, I got super drunk with Jesus Christ on the Last Supper and he ended up asphyxiating on his vomit. Good guy by the way, but it ended up changing nothing in the future. Peter got crucified instead. So fuck it.”

I scratched my head. “So are you from the future or past? Just what the fuck are you?”

“Stop thinking so much,” Rockwell replied, “let’s go kill some cowboys and get back to our timelines.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t think I’m gonna need this plasma rifle. I got a .357 Magnum.”

“Are you some kind of dipshit? That thing’s only got six shots. We’re going against hundreds of men.”

“Have I ever told you about the time I killed the west coast mafia up in Big Bear, slaughtered an army in the jungles of Honduras, then did it again in a dormant volcano in Hawaii? This ain’t my first rodeo.”

Rockwell shook his head. “Yeah well, whatever dude. You tell me every chance you get.”

“Come on men,” J. Robert Oppenheimer ordered, “let’s ride out. With our futuristic weaponry, we should be able to handle all of Dickleburg’s men. Don’t let them get close. If it moves, kill it.”

We rode out from the Rockwell homestead into Elkhorn. Everyone was armed to the teeth; Oppenheimer, Mr. Ree, and Rockwell we’re strapped with multiple pistols, shotguns, and assorted hand grenades. Fred Ward had a Gatling gun mounted to his carriage. When we arrived at the outskirts, Fred got into position while the rest of us dismounted and marched side by side into town.

When we reached the sheriff’s office, Billy Friedkin stepped out to greet us. “Well well well,” Billy taunted, “if it ain’t Wyatt Earp and his merry men.”

Oppenheimer immediately pulled out his laser pistol and fired. Billy Friedkin exploded into a million pieces. Bits of brain matter and guts were strewn around the town square.

“Jesus Christ BOB!!!” Dickleburg screamed when he saw the bloody scene, “Chill the fuck out!!!”

Oppenheimer pointed his pistol at Dickleburg. “Do you see what happened to Billy?” he asked, “This is what we’re prepared to do to you if you don’t release my family and leave this town!”

Dickleburg raised his hands and nodded. “I think we have another misunderstanding,” he said with genuine concern, “Look, I have a proposal that will make everyone happy.”

“Release my family first,” Oppenheimer ordered.

“Alright. Alright!” Dickleburg responded. He looked back into the sheriff’s office. “Bring ‘em out!”

One of Dickleburg’s men escorted Maybelline and Malachi out into the open. “James, save us!” Maybelline screamed at me.

“As you can see Bob, your family is perfectly fine,” Dickleburg added.

“Release them!”

“First, I want to go over our proposal.”

Oppenheimer cocked his pistol, which made a loud charging noise. “You better make it quick,” he threatened, “if you don’t, the next time I press the trigger there will be no remains to send back to your family.”

Dickleburg gave a nervous chuckle. “I make you and everyone in this town filthy rich,” he said, “and in return, my company has complete access to the mining rights of this town.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Once Upon a Time in Montana (Part VIII)

After Rockwell led us upstairs, I saw J. Robert Oppenheimer wipe his brow. “What did he do to you?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “Meth is a hell of a drug,” he replied.

“Did Rockwell torture you?”

“If you call being methed out for two days straight torture, then yeah, I was tortured!”

I inquisitively looked back over to Rockwell. “How the fuck are you finding these drugs?” I asked him, “what was that shit you gave me in the basement? Are you some sort of time traveler?”

“Gentlemen, please,” he calmly responded, “I know all of this seems unusual, but I had to drug all of you to get answers. Luckily it appears that fate has brought us together. I won’t divulge too much about me, but I have what you want and you have what I want which is the time portal device.”

“But…”

“Now’s not the time to ask questions,” Rockwell rudely interrupted, “I have the gold buried by the creek bed which Sheriff Oppenheimer found. We should uncover it now and proceed with our plans.”

“Wait!” Oppenheimer yelled, “We must stop Dickleburg before I send the three of you to another timeline. How are you with a pistol?” he asked Rockwell.

“I see,” Rockwell responded while stroking his red beard, “I suppose I should help you kill Dickleburg considering all the meth I gave you while under interrogation. In retrospect, I did kinda overdo it..”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Oppenheimer said.

“But to answer your question, I can shoot a bull’s nuts off from 500 yards. It’s the luck of the ol’ Irish!” Rockwell concluded while twirling a six shooter around his finger.

So while we were digging up the gold, Oppenheimer and Rockwell stepped off to the side to go over the details of the time portal. Mr. Ree and I were left alone to do the work. “Is it a good idea to bury gold by a creek?” Mr. Ree asked.

“Good question,” I said.

“And besides what the hell’s up with Rockwell? Is he some kind of time traveling, drug dealing, leprechaun?”

I shrugged. “I don’t give a shit what he is,” I said, “all I know is that I haven’t had any withdrawal symptoms since he injected me with whatever that crap was in the basement. So maybe I’m cured from drug addiction! By the way, do you still got some crack?”

That moment, a man came riding down the trail towards the Rockwell homestead. He was a hootin and hollering. “Sheriff Oppenheimer! Sheriff Oppenheimer!” he screamed. It was Fred Ward, the undertaker.

His horse stopped in front of Oppenheimer with clouds of dust behind him. “Where the hell have you been the last two days?!” the undertaker asked.

“Uhh, well,” Oppenheimer stuttered, “that’s complicated.”

“Well you better uncomplicate it!” Ward screamed, “Dickleburg has taken over the town and has your wife and child!”

“Fuck me running!” Oppenheimer yelled. Everyone was shocked into silence after hearing this burst of rage. We simply stood there while the sheriff paced back and forth and concocted a plan.

“Alright,” he finally said, “here’s what we’re gonna do: we’re gonna kill all of Dickleburg’s men. It’s that simple. James, do you still have that Korth .357 magnum?”

“Of course, I never leave the house without it,” I replied.

“Good, I made you more ammo,” Oppenheimer said, “I want you to do what god put you on this earth to do: kill every last mother fucker you see. Any son of a bitch that gets in the way, kill him too. I’ve already unleashed a fiery hell on one Earth, and I’m about to do it on another. I have become DEATH: DESTROYER OF WOLDS.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

A little late to the game

Never been a fan of Saturday Night Live. I’ll go so far as to say that the only time the show was good was in the early 90s with Chris Farley, Adam Sandler, Mike Myers, etc.

So when Bill Hader came out with Barry, my thoughts were ‘meh’…interesting concept, but I found recent SNL talent to be lacking. However that was a huge misconception on my part. When my wife started binge watching the show, I suddenly realized that everything I’ve done for this blog, Bill Hader was already doing with Barry.

In fact, when Henry Winkler’s Gene Cousineau opens a case containing a pistol, gifted from Rip Torn with note advising him not to “blow his brains out”, I laughed so hard because that was a joke I could have easily written for one of my many stupid ass stories.

Moreover, Hader and his writers like to find the humanity in absurd circumstances, which is a concept I’m always drawn towards. One of the recurring themes is the question ‘can people change?’. Barry, the titular character, finds his purpose in being an actor but is continually drawn back into the world of killing by Anthony Carrigan’s Noho Hank and Stephen Root’s Fuches. But despite being locked into the criminal underworld, even Hank and Fuches have their redeeming qualities.

In fact, every major character occupies a state of being both redeemable/irredeemable (much like real people. Go figure 🤷‍♂️) Barry, for instance, kills both criminals and innocent people alike for a variety of reasons. Sarah Goldberg’s Sally is absolutely selfish and egotistical. Fuches is a total scumbag. Hank is the head of a Chechen drug trafficking gang. Yet at every given opportunity we come to sympathize with them.

This is one of those rare shows that was perfectly cast. Bill Hader is able to effectively do his brand of low key humor while the supporting cast can really strut their stuff. I don’t think any other pair of actors could have pulled off something like this.

But I love the humor combined with gut-punching drama. Other shows and movies (AND fiction, from the likes of your truly) have tried to do something similar, but this is the only time I’ve bought in. Barry is absolutely the best show made in the last 10 years and it sucks that I only recently discovered it.

Once Upon a Time in Montana (Part VII)

“Jesus Christ,” I said to Mr. Ree, “my head’s killing me! How long have I been out?”

“Two days,” he replied.

“Two fuckin days?!”

“Yeah, you were spazing out because you were suffering from narcotic withdrawals so Rockwell injected you with something and you’ve been knocked out ever since.”

“But but…it feels like just a moment ago we were outside looking for gold!”

“Rockwell caught us,” Mr. Ree explained, “so he took us by gunpoint and has kept us locked in his basement ever since.”

I sat up straight on the dusty floor and looked around. Something was off. Nothing in the basement looked like it belonged in the 19th Century. In fact, it looked like a laboratory from well beyond mine and Mr. Ree’s time.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked, “where’s Oppenheimer?”

“Rockwell took him,” Mr. Ree shrugged, “probably to torture him.”

“What the hell?”

“Yeah man, Rockwell’s a strange dude. You should get a look at him when he comes back down. Try not to laugh though.”

“I doubt that I will find anything funny about this situation.”

“Nah, this is a little different.”

Seconds later we heard the door unlocking from the top of the stairs. The two of us fell silent as we waited for what came next. The door crept open then all we could hear was the sound of footsteps thumping down the stairs. Finally, in true dramatic form, Rockwell made his way into the basement and stood before us.

“Ohhh, I see what you mean,” I said to Mr. Ree.

Rockwell stood less than five feet tall with a buckle on his top hat and sporting a long red beard. “Ye boys coming after me gold are ye?” said Rockwell in his thick Irish draw.

“Where’s J. Robert Oppenheimer?” I asked while trying to hold back laughter.

“Ahh the foolish scientist man, eh? I’m just keepin’ him detained for questionin’. Strange how a 20th century scientist became a sheriff in 19th century Montana wouldn’t you say?”

“Look dude, I’m not here to argue with you,” I said, “seeing that you know that we’re from the future, all we need is some of your gold to get back to our time and then we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Aye, five tons of gold that is, which just so happens to be all the gold here.”

“Well shit, that’s pretty unfortunate,” I replied, “welp Mr. Ree, I guess we’re gonna die in the old west after all. So Rockwell, do you want to let us go or do you want to kill us now? I don’t give a shit which.”

“Wait wait wait,” a perplexed Rockwell stuttered, “you won’t let me question you?”

“Nope,” I said, “Keep the gold. I’m ready to die.”

“Alright alright,” Rockwell replied, “I’ll let you have the gold. BUT, I want access to this time portal device developed by Oppenheimer.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

What wud u do?

So word’s gotten out that I’m exceptionally good at making toilets. Another toilet factory reached out and offered me more money to come work for them. In short, I’ll once again be taking 10 hour shits, albeit at a higher rate of pay.

It’s good money. I’m pretty good at it (at wasting company money by taking extra long shits, that is). Unfortunately I also have an opportunity to pursuit my true passion but for much less money.

So what would you do?

Continue phoning in life (but making a shit ton of money)?

Pursuit something you actually want to do (for a lot less money)?

Once Upon a Time in Montana (Part VI)

“Man, I can’t see shit!” Mr. Ree yelled.

Sheriff J. Robert Oppenheimer led the way through the dark of night carrying a shovel and lantern. Mr. Ree and I kept tripping over rocks and branches as we followed behind him onto Mr. Rockwell’s land.

“Shut your goddamn trap,” Oppenheimer ordered, “Mr. Rockwell will shoot us dead if he finds us digging up his property.”

“Bob,” I said, “if several tons of gold is on his land, how will we carry all that weight back to your barn?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” the sheriff replied, “in the meantime, we just have to determine if it’s here at all.”

“How will we do that?”

Oppenheimer turned around and smiled. “You think I don’t have a plan?” he rhetorically asked. Bob opened his duster and inside he carried a small metal detector. “I’ve been itching to try this thing out,” he continued, “it ain’t easy inventing something like this in the old west. But I’m nearly certain it’ll work.”

We finally arrived at a dried up creek bed some hundred yards behind the Rockwell home. “If the gold is anywhere,” Oppenheimer said in a lowered voice, “it’s right around here.”

Bob took out his makeshift metal detector and began listening for certain radio signatures. Mr. Ree and I stood back while he walked up and down the creek. After 10 minutes of watching him do this, we sat down on a large sandstone rock.

“So we’re gonna die in the old west aren’t we?” Mr. Ree asked.

“Almost certainly,” I replied as I pulled out a flask.

“Well I gotta say, it’s certainly been a lot of fun riding around out here palling around with you. I have no regrets.”

“Yeah, I suppose we’ve had some good times,” I said as I took a few swings of whiskey, “it’s just a shame that I’ll never see my son.”

Mr. Ree patted me on the back. “You never know,” he said, “sometimes impossible things happen.”

I ignored that comment as I passed the flask to him. “Tell me, since you no longer work for the Admiral because he fell into a lava pit, what would you have done if we made it back to LA?” I asked.

Mr. Ree pondered for a bit after lowering the flask from his lips. “Prostitution probably,” he responded, “why do you ask?”

“We make one hell of I team,” I said, “if we do make it back, you should come work with me at my detective agency.”

“Say,” Mr. Ree nodded enthusiastically, “that’s not a bad idea!”

Right then, Bob came rushing down the creek bed. “Grab your shovels!” he ordered, “I think we hit the jackpot!”

Several meters down the creek, the metal detector was wildly sounding off. Oppenheimer put down his lantern and began eagerly digging. Meanwhile, Mr. Ree and I were cackling away. “We might make actually make it out of this shithole town!” I exclaimed.

Seconds later, from out of the darkness I heard the clicking of a Smith and Wesson. “Drop dem shovels fellas,” the Irish accent ordered.

TO BE CONTINUED…

So long toilet factory

For the last time, I will walk through those doors, pull down my pants, and take another 10 hour shit while on the clock.

I don’t like how things are ending. I gave that place so much of my blood, sweat, and tears (and so, so much shit). But this is the way it’s got to be.

Monday, I’ll embark on a new career working at the nut factory. God knows how that’s gonna pan out. Instead of shitting, I wonder what I’ll do in the bathroom for 10 hours? 🤔 😉

Anyway, my schedule’s changing. Hopefully the new job will give me a renewed sense of disdain for both my audience and life in general.

That’s when I write my best work. 👍

Tetris, blackberries, and air Jordans

Now that Hollywood is making boring movies about boring subjects…like Tetris and BlackBerries…why don’t they make a movie about Giga Pets and MySpace?

Those things were way cooler anyway. I can imagine it now:

Bryan Cranston as a lonely toy developer that wants to punish children by subjecting them to the stresses of keeping something alive; a washed-up Adrien Brody stakes his comeback by playing Tom Anderson who compulsively masturbates to Internet pornography as he gains inspiration for MySpace.

What the hell started this trend anyway? Who’s asking for these movies to get made?

I’ll admit, Moneyball was good. But that’s really the only highlight from this odd genre. Critics loved The Founder at the time, but does anyone talk about it nowadays?

I consider The Offer another example here. I imagine that we’ll be seeing more of “making of” dramas of our favorite movies in the near future. But we’ll know all of these stories will have happy endings. So Hollywood, if any of you degenerates are reading, here’s a suggestion for ya’ll:

The making of Michael Cimino’s Heaven’s Gate: the movie that nearly destroyed Tinseltown.

The Paul Schrader method

Of course I worship the ground Paul Schrader walks on but our writing methods couldn’t be farther apart. I would be interested though in seeing if I’d make the cut for his screenwriting class. I’d think he’d let me in if I disclosed my insecurities over having an average penis. That would make a fascinating discussion over 10 weeks.

But Paul’s method is a little too structured. Naturally, writing 101 tells you to utilize metaphor in place of a real world problem. As Schrader said, fiction allows us to see all the drama and complexities play out through the filter of metaphor. I also agree that we need limitations in art (Nicholas Meyer has echoed a similar sentiment). But I think that’s where our philosophies diverge.

To me, I approach art, or writing, as an ongoing activity. It very much exits in the present. That’s why I rarely take time to develop a story. If I have a concept, I run with it. Of course, like Schrader, I filter my own concerns, thoughts, and insecurities into the story and watch it play out. But the spontaneity is where the fun is.

That’s why I wish I was a television writer. Give me a story and a deadline and let’s see what happens. I’m not saying that it will be any good, but I’d certainly have a good time!

Maybe my writing suffers because of this “method”. I don’t know. But this was an interesting lecture by Schrader.

The man who came to play

I’ve always said that the greatest movie ever made is The Deer Hunter. And it’s no secret that I experience the most insane dreams possible.

So last night, I dreamt that The Deer Hunter was never produced at all and instead, in its place, the original script titled The Man Who Came to Play was made. I know nothing of this apparently “spec” script, other than it involves friends going to Las Vegas to play Russian Roulette. Michael Cimino and Deric Washburn later repurposed this screenplay into The Deer Hunter, switching out Vegas for Vietnam.

In fact, as far as I know, only the Russian Roulette scenes survived in the final draft from the original treatment. There’s no telling what The Man Who Came To Play would have looked like, but if my dream is any indication, it would have fit in well with the dark 70s canon.

This script, written by Louis A Garfinkle and soap opera actor Quinn Redeker, is apparently for sale online. There’s no telling how much it costs and I couldn’t find any of its story details, but my main question is why did this friend or friends go to Vegas to play Russian Roulette?

Did they do it willfully?

Were they coerced?!

I understand why Cimino and Washburn repurposed it. It made sense for the time and it absolutely worked. But I like to play this game of “what if”. Nowadays, I find the original concept to be far more darker and nihilistic, especially if the friends were written to be Vietnam vets.

I can’t help but think that The Man Who Came To Play would have made a terrific spiritual sequel to Taxi Driver. Think about it: Bobby DeNiro as Travis Bickle. We’ll pretend that the ending to Taxi Driver wasn’t the dying dream of a mass shooter. Instead, Bickle survives and goes to Vegas where’s he’s once again disgusted with the crime and decadence of Sin City. One way or another, he finds himself reliving the nightmares of Vietnam; he begins entertaining depraved businessmen by hitting the underground Russian Roulette circuit.

I see a lot of Paul Schrader’s “God’s lonely man” in Garfinkle and Redeker’s concept. But oh well. We got The Deer Hunter instead and we should all be thankful for that.

But if anyone knows anything about this script, please reach out to me.