Anaideia 53

It was just before sunup when a trucker in a Peterbilt pulled off and rolled down the window. He was shirtless and a Buc-ee’s hat was resting on his head. “You boys need a ride?” he shouted past the loud ass diesel engine.

“Are you headed to Los Angeles?” I asked him.

“I’m going as far as Santa Clarita,” he said.

Shit, I thought. Close enough. So Jim and I climbed into the cab and I closed the door then the 18-wheeler rolled back onto the interstate. We were maybe an hour out of Santa Clarita and I was deadass tired. I didn’t have much to say but the trucker belched and farted and rolled down the window to hock a loogie. “You boys from Los Angeles?” he asked us.

“Yup,” I said.

“Ya know, I used to have a Mexican wife in Los Angeles,” he told us. “And let me tell ya, she sucked a mean weiner too boys. Let me tell ya.”

“Uh huh.”

“I don’t understand why they’re deporting them folks. If they should deport anyone, it should be them goddamn Koreans I tell ya….”

While he went on his diatribe, I fell asleep and 45 minutes later we were in Santa Clarita. Before splitting off towards Palmdale, the trucker pulled off the interstate to let us out. “If you boys ever want to hang out, you can reach me at my Kiwifarms account at…,” the trucker began to say but I immediately close the door behind me.

Jim and I walked for a few miles more before I threw out my thumb again. Minutes later a wino mom crashed her Buick into a guardrail and rolled down her window. “You boys need a ride?” she asked.

I nodded and climbed into the front seat. She weaved in and out of traffic and narrowly missed other motorists down the 405 before arriving at Sherman Oaks. I thanked her for the ride before she barreled off back into traffic and I reached for my wallet.

“We only got $7 bucks left,” I told Old Jim. “We’ll see how far a cab will get us.”

Once again I throw out my thumb. A cabbie stopped. He rolled down the window and glanced at us with his aviators on and I didn’t recognize him. “Can you get us to LA?” I ask him.

The cabbie said nothing for a few moments before lowering his shades. “Where do I recognize you from?” he asked me.

That’s when I knew I made a critical mistake. “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” I told him.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “You’re the son of a bitch who stiffed me in Norco.”

“No sir. Wasn’t me.”

“Bullshit. You owe me $498 bucks.”

“Look, I’ll just hail another cab sir. Have a nice day.”

I kept walking down the road dragging Jim behind me and hoped that the cabbie would move along. But he persisted by getting out of the cab. The fella was big. He stopped in front of us and put his hand to my chest. “Give me my goddamn money,” he demanded.

“Look! I don’t know you!” I pleaded.

The cabbie reached for his ankle holster and pulled out a small caliber .40 then held it to my abdomen. “Now!” he said.

I raised my hands in the air and searched for the right words. “All I have is $7,” I said.

“Give it to me,” he ordered.

I lowered my right hand and pulled out the wallet. With my hands shaking, I handed him the seven bucks. He took the money and stuffed it into his jean pocket. “$491 bucks left,” he said. “A couple of vagrants walking the streets of Sherman Oaks. I don’t think folks around here would object to me blowing a hole in your belly.”

I swallowed hard. “Please don’t,” I said.

But he cocked the pistol and pulled the trigger.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Anaideia 52

Randy wailed and wailed while the Madam said nothing. She stood motionless and silent and her head held low. I stormed past without acknowledging her and siphoned some gas from the Cadillac then lit the limousine on fire. Randy tried to wrestle my hand away as I reached into his jacket pocket to steal his wallet but I cracked him on the head with the butt of my gun. When that was done, I took the remaining cash from the corpses of the Dale and the driver and I stuffed the cash into my pocket and shouted to the old man.

“Come on Jim,” I said. “We’re leaving this shithole.”

Jim gladly complied and climbed into the passenger’s seat of the Cadillac. Before sitting in the driver’s seat, I looked to the Madam one last time. “Good luck,” was all I said to her. Then I shut the door and started the engine. As we driving away, the Madam was still standing like a statue in the rear view mirror. Then I adjusted the mirror to my liking.

We drove through Penelope’s pass for the last time and back into the barren Utah desert where we traversed the country roads and back to the interstate. I simply headed west. I didn’t bother to count the cash on hand but I reckoned it wasn’t much.

“We probably only have 40 bucks,” I said to Jim. “Do you think we can make it to Los Angeles?”

“Shit if I know,” he said.

It was another roll of the dice; one of many that I took since the journey began. The flat and unappealing landscape left little to admire so my mind started to wander. There were so many that passed on in this odyssey: the Chechens, the Chinese, Tom, Burl, Karl, the prisoners, the men in the wilderness, Vic.

And Dale.

My time was coming. But it wasn’t today.

On a single tank of gas, we made it to Sacramento and at California’s capital I took the 5 southbound to Los Angeles. I drove straight on through the night. It was clear that the Cadillac would run out of gas somewhere between Stockton and Bakersfield and when we reached Delano during dead of darkness the engine petered out.

“How are your legs, Jim?” I asked the old man.

“Terrible,” he said.

“Well, we’re gonna have to ditch this piece of shit and hitchhike.”

We got out of the vehicle and I threw the keys on the ground. I stuck out my thumb and continued walking southbound and prayed to god that highway patrol wouldn’t stop us.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Back to basics part 7

Through the stench of cow manure and putrified sewage, Norco was a piece of heaven rested near the foothills of the Santa Ana Mountains. This was God’s country; the resting place of the Luiseños. When Mark Twain came through here in 1901, he said that if anyone heard that his knee caps were shot out and he was buried alive that it happened in Norco. So my heart leapt with joy when I saw the glorious Beacon Hill and the convenient AM PM gas station at its base.

I neglected to gather my cigarettes from the backseat in my hasty escape from a vengeful cab driver. I was desperately tired and in dire need of a nicotine bump. So I waltzed into the AM/PM and rested my hands on the front counter and asked for a pack of American Spirits.

“We don’t have those sir,” the cashier told me.

“What about the Camel Crushes?” I ask.

“We are all out of those.”

“Well goddamnit give me some Marlboros then!”

“Which flavor?”

“The brown ones.”

“You mean the gold ones?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t have those either.”

“Well fuck it then. Give me some Black and Milds”

The cashier turns around and reaches for a pack of Black and Milds. He rings them up and gives me the total. “That’ll be $27.80 sir,” he says.

“$27.80 for some Black and Milds?”

“Yes sir.”

“Let me run out to my car and get my wallet.”

Of course I didn’t have a car or the money to afford Black and Milds. Feeling dejected, I walk through the automatic doors while cursing my fate. Then I look to my right to find an elderly Mexican man sitting on the front bench seemingly enjoying the sunrise peeking through the foothills. I felt envious of the peace he was feeling so I approached him.

“Cigarillo?” I ask the man.

“Sí si,” he responds. “Come. Sit.”

I take a seat next to him and he warmly passes a Marlboro and a light. I put the cigarette to my lips and fire it up. I savored every moment off the first drag. “You’re a godsend you know that?” I tell the man as I hand back the lighter.

“Oh gracias. Thank you,” he smiles.

“No. Thank you!”

I figured the least I could offer was a bit of conversation. So as I slowly puffed away, the two of us sat quietly, though not awkwardly, as we admired the everlasting beauty of the sunrise. I took another drag. “It’s another day ain’t it?” I say.

“Sí,” he plainly states in a contemplative manner.

“So you live around here?”

“Sí. Yes. I’ve lived here for awhile.”

“What do you do for work?”

The smile slowly faded as he looked straight at me. He leans in a bit as if to tell me a secret. “This store here,” he explains. “I used to work at this store.”

“You use to? What happened?”

“That boy you talked to in there? The cashier? That’s the assistant manager. He’s 19 years old. He fired me.”

“Christ,” I say. “He did look like a dumbass.”

“Yes. He’s a dumbass indeed,” the old man said and gazed back at the sunrise.

I stamp out the cigarette and lean forward. “So what are you gonna do now?”

The old man took in a deep breath of the shit stanked Norco air and thought. His eyes narrowed as he oscillated between anger and resignation. “My mother would always tell me that to be a good man, one must always tell the truth,” he began. “That a good man is always fair and when he becomes an old man that his hands will bare proof of hard work. These are hands of a man who has worked hard all of his life. And for what? What have I got to show for it? Now that I am an old man, I realize that my mother’s words were words of a slave. She never came to the land of the gringo. In this land, a man does not work hard. He takes.”

The old man reaches behind him to pull out a crisp new Glock 43 and rests it on his lap. “Now as an old man,” he concluded, “I realize that when a slave breaks the chains of one’s mind he becomes the master.”

The old man stands up and lifts the Glock and slaps in the clip. “Dios te salve, Maria,” he utters to himself. “Llena eres de gracia, el Senor es contigo.”

He marches into the store and into his destiny.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Back to basics part 6

The specter of perdition hovered over these shit and vomit crusted streets along skid row. Vagabonds and tramps from all corners crawled along the crumbling concrete aimlessly seeking a safe solace that had long forbade them. Itinerant preachers were shouting futilely into the night for repentance and salvation among these forsaken children. Though they preached with the fire of a wrathful god their shouts fell like whispers into the maelstrom. Here the divine held no sway. No Christ would dare wave the hand of mercy. This was the underworld. Here judgement had long passed. The street walking whores and drug-fueled cretins had accepted their fate as paradigms of a new virtue: the virtue of sin and impiety. To lift the finger of sanctitude was an act of defiance against this unholy order. If there was a moral law that pervaded the universe then that law had failed.

So I was whistling and jingling the change in my pocket as I strolled through these defiled streets when I thought “fuck this shit.” So I threw out my thumb to hitch a ride. But because I lacked the provocative attire of the common street hooker the passing vehicles looked past me like a shadow in the night. My only option was to hail a cab. When the cabbie pulled up curbside he rolled down the window to yell out racial epithets to passersby. I spoke up when he was finished.

“Excuse me sir,” said I, “I’d like a ride to Norco.”

“Norco?!” shouted the cabbie. “The only things in Norco are Mexicans and fa-..”

“Yes sir I know. I’m half Latino I’ll have you know.”

“But it’s nearly 50 miles away!”

“So?”

“It’s the asshole of Riverside County!”

“And where do you suppose we’re in the asshole of in now?”

The cabbie shrugged and nodded. He unlocked the door and I climbed into the backseat. When I shut the door and buckled my seatbelt the cabbie turned around to look me dead in the eye. “I fuckin hate these goddamn Polacks polluting our streets,” he says. Then he pulled out onto the open road.

A few miles outside of the city I had to stop and shit. The driver rambled on. “And you know who else Trump should deport from this country?” he asks me, “Those shifty eyed Serbs!”. Then I saw a Starbucks on the side of the road.

“Do you mind stopping here?” I ask the cabbie. “I’m afraid I’m about to shit my pants.”

The cabbie pulled into the parking lot and I quickly scrambled out and into the bathroom. It was a noisy shit. I’m sure the patrons outside could hear the sturm und drang emitting from my ass. When I was finished I sat there for more than 30 minutes. Then I stood up to flush the toilet. The water climbed higher and higher as I stood there sweating the worst. Then the bowl overflowed and bits of toilet paper and shit gushed out onto the floor.

I rushed out of there without saying a word to anyone. Back in the cab I urged the driver to go. “We need to leave this parking lot now,” I said. “Hurry!”

About an hour later we were in Norco. I pretended to shuffle through my wallet to find the right amount of cash because the toll was over $792. “I need to stop at the bank,” I told the driver. So we stopped at the first ATM we saw. “Wait here,” I told him.

I climbed back out of the taxi and approached the ATM. But instead of inserting my card and withdrawing money I made a beeline to the bushes several yards away.

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xvi)

“Mr. Pietermeister, where were you on the morning of September 3rd?” Mr. Shapiro asked as he began his line of questioning.

“Objection, your honor,” Dan interjected. “This is a civil case, not a criminal one. My client’s whereabouts are not pertinent to the matter at hand.”

“Agreed,” the Judge nodded. “Try again, Mr. Shapiro.”

“Yes, Your Honor, contrary to my counterpart’s opinion, Mr. Pietermeister’s whereabouts is pertinent to this case,” Shapiro added. “For on the morning of September 3rd, the plaintiff attended a mental health counseling session. As we all know, poor mental health is also a personal and moral failing.”

“Ben-Jamin,” the Judge firmly said, “this court is not interested in your moral pontifications. Moving forward, your arguments had better be related to this case or else I will hold you in contempt.”

“Very well, Your Honor,” Shapiro said. Then he picked up a thick stack of papers and began thumbing through them. “If the court turns to section 3B/214 on page 387 of the contract between Pietermeister and Trainwreck Productions, the legalese clearly states that the chief executive officer OR a representative in a position over the plaintiff may terminate this contract for any moral failing AND, in so doing, Mr. Pietermeister must forfeit certain monetary compensation as determined by the CEO, who, in this case, is our defendant Jimmy Del Greco.”

Great, I thought, the first time I ever attended therapy and it cost me $52 billion. I looked over to Dan who was frantically looking through the contract.

“So as you see, Your Honor,” Shapiro concluded, “due to the plaintiff’s weak character between attending therapy AND his run-in with the appointed director of Chatty Cathy, Trainwreck Productions had just cause in terminating its relations with the James Pietermeister and are therefore owed $52 billion.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” I yelled.

“Mr. Pietermeister, your legal counsel should be the ones objecting,” the Judge said.

“Well I object to your ruling,” I replied.

“But I haven’t ruled anything yet!”

“I must protest this farce that you call a courtroom,” I continued. “I protest the defense counsel. I protest Jimmy. I protest the very laws that govern the State of California. I’m an innocent man and I call for a retrial!”

“James, what the fuck is wrong with you?” the Judge asked. “YOU’RE the plaintiff! That means you were the one that brought this case to court!”

Dan stood up. “Your Honor, I’d like to call a recess.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Ranking the 50 States (Top 10)

10. South Dakota

“South Dakota, really?” Yes, REALLY. What seems like one big wheat field at first glance is actually one of the coolest states there is: Sturgis, Deadwood, the Black Hills, Mount Rushmore, Badlands National Park, and the greatest movie of all time, Dances With Wolves, was filmed there. It might be the most overlooked state there is.

9. Utah

If it weren’t for the Mormons running everything here, this place might rank higher. But geographically, this state ranks up there with the best of em.

8. Oregon

Honestly, Oregon isn’t my cup of tea but I can respect it for what it is. It’s far and away better than Washington, and Portland can beat Seattle’s buttcheeks blood red in being a real ass city.

6/7. New Hampshire/Vermont

Let’s just be clear, there’s no difference between Vermont and New Hampshire. Maybe there’s a huge rivalry between the residents of these two states, but no one outside of that gives a fuck. That being said, if I could live anywhere, I’d like to live here. It’s peaceful, quiet, beautiful, and people don’t seem to be ignorant. That’s a rare combination.

5. Arizona

Sedona, Lake Havasu, Grand Canyon, Tombstone, etc, etc. Phoenix and Tucson are moving on up towards being real ass cities. At number 5, Arizona can’t get much higher (unless it legalizes pot)

4. Texas

Texas isn’t just a state on a map. It’s also a state of mind. It’s a place for people who like to drive like a goddamn maniac, curse Jerry Jones, and open carry for no other reason but to feel one step closer to death. You either get it or you don’t. And unfortunately, I get it.

3. California

Suck it losers. You can laugh at California’s problems all you want. Gas can be $50 a gallon with wildfires raging every 20 feet and this state would STILL rank number 3. Because here’s the thing that Americans that live in the other 49 states don’t understand: Californians don’t think about you. They know they live in one of the the coolest states…and one of the greatest places anywhere in the world…and you don’t. Boo hoo.

2. Colorado

I got REALLY high at a McDonalds in Denver and forgot where I was at. I tried the same thing at a Starbucks in San Diego and it just wasn’t the same. In short, Colorado is the best state to get high in.

1. Hawaii

No matter where you’re at in the United States, or in the world for that matter, we can all agree: we’d rather be in Hawaii right now.

Jack Hardcock: The Legend Continues (Part V)

“Don’t you have a whole FBI field office to run?” I asked Peter Tucker. Donavan McNabb, the guitarist I threatened to shoot on the streets of Oakland…and Layla’s ex-boyfriend…was packing his van before the two of us departed for LA.

“You know,” Peter explained, “the funny thing about San Francisco is that no one commits crimes there. What are the odds? So I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Well if you’re tagging along with us, you’re paying for gas,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” Donovan interrupted, “this is a 1994 GMC Vandura. It’s a marvel of modern engineering. So this thing DEFINITELY doesn’t suck up a lot of gas.”

“It’s all good,” Peter replied, “I’ll just use my credit card issued by the federal government to pay for the $15 per gallon gas here in the State of California for an investigation that has absolutely nothing to do with the government.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “Well hop on in! Let’s get this show on the road!”

***

We all got high driving down the SR 1. It didn’t help much. I couldn’t shake the half naked images of Layla from my mind; something was compelling me towards her. And it wasn’t just my erection either.

“I know I’m a federal agent and all,” Peter said to Donovan, who was driving the van, “but goddamn this is some good weed.”

“For Christ sake,” I said to Peter, “stop using the Lord’s name in vain!”

“Come off your high horse, Jack,” he replied.

“No, he’s right,” Donovan interrupted, “God is all around us. God is love. We should treat him with respect.”

“That’s an interesting perspective,” I replied.

“Shut the fuck up Donovan,” Peter said. “You’re just a dumbass California stoner. I shouldn’t even be letting you drive! It would have been much faster taking the interstate!”

“What’s the rush, man?” Donovan asked.

“A girl’s gone missing,” I said, “and her mother is paying $3500 per day to find her.”

“All Layla did was move to LA for work,” Donovan said as tears began to stream down his face. “I just wish she hadn’t had dumped me.”

“There there,” I said as I patted him on the back, “I completely understand why she left you.”

Donovan pulled off to a lone gas station overlooking the California coast. Peter went inside to ask for directions and take a shit while Donovan stood around with his thumb up his ass. Meanwhile, I continued to study Layla’s dossier.

Then some jackoff in a red Porsche convertible pulled up behind the van. “Hey, are you gonna pump any gas?!” the man yelled. “You’re holding up the line!”

“There are other pumps, sir,” Donovan replied. But the gentleman wasn’t having it.

I grew annoyed as he continued to lay on the horn. Finally, I walked up to the Porsche and pulled out the .38.

“Listen here, shitheel!” I said to the man, “we’re on a mission from God, GODDAMNIT! That means we don’t have to obey the laws of man. So I hope you’re right with the Lord, because if you keep laying on the horn, you might be meeting Him sooner than you think!”

The man began to piss himself as he wept and raised his hands in the air. “I’m so sorry mister,” he cried, “I just need some gas.”

I lifted the .38 and pulled back the hammer. “Have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your Savior?” I asked.

The man bawled as he accepted Jesus into his life. Then I shot him in the kneecap for the inconvenience

Peter ran out of the gas station after he heard the gunshot and patted me on the back. “I’m really proud of you Jack,” he said, “you’ve shown a lot of restraint these last few days.”

I nodded as put the .38 in my holster. “You know, it’s just never occurred to me to NOT kill everyone I come across. I don’t what it is. I guess California has really gotten to me.”

We both laughed then continued on our journey to LA.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Legend Continues (Part III)

“Don’t forget your Winchester ammo, Uncle Jack,”Klyde reminded me before I boarded the Greyhound bus.

I chuckled a bit. “You must mistake me for some stupid moron, Klyde,” I replied, “I never forget that!”

Thankfully he did remind me because I forgot.

“Well Brother Jack,” Pete said as he slapped me on the back, “don’t you be enjoying California too much. If you come back as a Democrat, I’ll strangle you with my bare hands and hang your corpse in the front yard.”

“Heh, good luck getting passed my .38,” I said as I pulled out my gun.

We laughed and exchanged hugs before I took my seat on the bus bound for Oakland, CA. When I arrived 12 days later, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. So I grabbed my bags and checked in at the La Quinta Inn in Alameda.

“Name please?” the clerk asked.

“Hardcock. Jack Hardcock.”

“ID?”

I laid the .38 out on the desk.

“Ah yes, Mr. Hardcock. Welcome to Alameda,” the clerk said. “Room 213 is ready for you.”

I went up to the room, threw my bags on the bed and began checking for bugs and wiretaps. I found nothing. Then there was a knock on the door.

“Room service,” the voice said.

I drew my weapon and cracked open the door. “What do you want?” I asked.

“I’m here to bring you more toiletries, Mr. Hardcock,” the housekeeper replied.

I opened the door and invited her in. She pushed her cart in front of her and started dispensing soaps and shampoos on the nightstand and skink. When she was finished, she parked her cart in front of me.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked.

“Yes, just one more thing…”

I punched her in the face and wrestled her to the bed. As I had my knee to her back, I ripped off the wig.

“Nice try, Peter Tucker: FBI agent!” I said.

I released my knee and Peter started laughing as he rolled over. “Nothing gets passed you,” he said, “you’re as sharp as a tack!”

“What the fuck do you want? Why are you watching me?”

Peter sat up in bed and began wiping away the makeup. “Now now, settle down Jack,” he explained, “I know you’re after the missing Huffington girl. I promise to not interfere with with your investigation, the only service my office will provide is protection.”

“Protection from what? There’s nothing on the streets that I can’t handle myself. Remember, I spent six months in Cleveland?!”

“I know that! But things operate a little differently here.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m in charge.”

I let out a huge guffaw. “Don’t tell me the FBI put you in charge of the San Francisco field offices!”

“You better believe it, bucko,” Peter replied. “Furthermore, I don’t you running around here with that puny ass peashooter fuckin everything up! So you play by the rules or I’ll have you locked up in San Quentin! Do we have an understanding?”

“Peashooter? You mean this LETHAL weapon?”

I then pulled out the .38 and shot Peter’s makeup sponge right out of his hand.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Jack!”

“Alright Peter,” I said as I placed the .38 back in its holster, “I’ll play it your way. But what’s with the disguise?”

“Disguise?” Peter asked. “This is how I dress.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Rectuma, monsturd, and deadbeat at dawn

This was a STRONG week on Tubi. Right when I was about to give up (not just on Tubi, but on life in general) I got slapped across the face with three BANGERS.

Rectuma (2003)

This is why I say it takes a couple of decades after a film’s release before it can be properly critiqued. Audiences were probably pissed when they saw this in 2003. They probably discarded it as just another lame attempt at South Park-style humor, which many attempted, unsuccessfully, to emulate. But now, nearly 20 years later, Rectuma’s stupidity can be fully appreciated.

Just in case you forgot, I’ve taken a LOT of drugs. And as a result, my memory is nearly shot. So if you want an accurate plot summary, you’ll have to look elsewhere. But best I can recall, the story is about some schlubby dude who gets raped by a frog in Mexico and then he gets nuclear rods shoved up his rectum thus causing his ass to grow massive in size before it starts attacking LA. Plus his wife is trying to kill him.

In 2003, I was fully steeped in this low-brow, offensive, toilet humor (still kinda am, tbh). That was practically internet culture in those days. So watching this movie was like a walk down memory lane.

People forget, there was a time when “politically incorrect” humor (before it got relabeled as “anti-woke” humor 🤢) oddly lacked any political dimension whatsoever. Everyone laughed at it because it was after 9/11 and we all thought we would die soon anyway. Stuff like Rectuma was supposed to distract us from that horrible fact.

So to appreciate this movie, one must see it as an artifact of very early 21st Century life. It should be shown in colleges and history classes across the globe.

Monsturd (2003)

Both Monsturd and Rectuma were released in 2003 and were both seemingly filmed in Butte County, California. So I’m assuming there was some overlap in the productions of these two movies.

I don’t think Monsturd is quite of the same caliber as Rectuma, but I appreciate the effort nonetheless. The plot is simple: a gigantic, living turd -created by a mad scientist- terrorizes the citizens of a small community, and it’s up to the sheriff’s department to stop it.

Despite being the lesser of the two films, like peanut butter and chocolate, this goes well with Rectuma.

Deadbeat At Dawn (1988)

I saved the best for last. Outside of one Ouija Board scene, this really isn’t a “horror” film. But I’m glad, that in Tubi’s infinite wisdom, they recommended it.

Filmed on the mean streets of Dayton, Ohio, Deadbeat At Dawn is about one man’s revenge against rival gang members for killing his girlfriend. The final confrontation at a train station is simultaneously amateurish and utterly fucking brutal…and it concludes in the most satisfying way: the bad guy gets his throat ripped out (this was released a year before Road House, btw).

The violence in Deadbeat At Dawn is delightfully absurd, but the highlight of the movie is when, in his darkest hour, our hero goes from getting drunk to snorting coke to shooting up heroin before finally dropping acid. Self-destruction never looked more hilarious.

This is definitely one of the great underrated action films of the 80s.

*******

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