Anaideia (Conclusion)

Jim reached for his six shooter but he wasn’t quick enough. The cabbie reached for the gun and pulled it from his hands. “Nice pistol you got there old man,” the cabbie said. “But you’re a little slow on the draw.”

Luckily I had the Ruger ready and fired a single shot into the cabbie’s thigh. He fell backwards onto the cab and held his hand over the wound. “That’s for taking the pistol,” I said to him while I was bleeding out on the ground. “Now you better scram before things get ugly.”

Without saying a word, the cabbie stumbled back into the driver’s seat and sped off and then Old Jim attempted to help me to my feet. “It’s fine,” I told him. But it wasn’t fine. The exit wound went through my kidney and blood was soaking up my shirt.

With his arm around me, we stumbled up into the hills before finding a secluded rock overlooking the Los Angeles skyline. I fell to my feet with my back to the rock to rest. I figured I wouldn’t be getting up. “Suppose we need to get you to the hospital,” offered Old Jim.

“Nah,” I said. “I’m ready to meet my prince.”

Jim gloomfully nodded. He planted his back against the rock and we admired the sight before us. I figured I’d have more to say in a moment like this but I didn’t. I didn’t know what time it was but it felt like the sun was racing towards the horizon.

“What do you reckon you’ll do now?” I asked Jim.

“I dunno,” he said.

“I think I have the keys to my apartment somewhere on me,” I said. But I was too weak to reach for them.

“It’s okay,” said Jim. “I never had a home anyway.”

“I guess I owe you an apology too.”

“Forget it,” he said. “I ain’t long for this world no how.”

Those were the last words we said.

It was just before sunup when I woke up alone still rested by the rock. My keys and the Ruger were gone and Jim was nowhere to be found. It felt like the blood was completely drained from my body. I looked around to see the boomer with the Mitsubishi from months earlier leaned up against his car on the side of the road and smoking a cigarette. When he was done with the smoke, he flicked it to the ground and stamped it out.

“What time is it?” I asked him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Come on son. We’ve been up in the hills long enough.”

THE END

Anaideia 13

Through the eyes of Susan Brucetti I felt like nothing more than a bag of meat. I could imagine her licking her chops like a lioness stalking her prey in the Serengeti. It made no sense. Of all the men strolling mindlessly like cattle through Los Angeles, why my organs? Then a chill ran down my spine; perhaps it wasn’t her who wanted my lungs, kidneys, and testicles. Maybe she was under the thumb of someone else; maybe someone very, very close to me. With that realization, there was only one man to turn to.

Through the middle of a clear day, the blinds were closed. I peered through a small crack overlooking the street below like a drug-addled schizophrenic clutching to a small caliber pistol. I knew she’d be coming through that door and when she did she’d be met with six rounds from my P32.

While I sat in the cold darkness of my second floor apartment, I hear the crunching of busted lightbulbs outside the front door that I placed as an early-warning alarm. The knob turned and I lowered my pistol with finger on the trigger. The door swung open and I prepared to fire.

“Oy mate!” the voice shouted. “Me feet are bleedin worse than Bruce Willis’!”

“Jesus Christ Vic!” I shouted. “I could have killed you!”

“With all the lead and mercury in those bulbs, you might still!”

I lowered the pistol and Vic headed towards the kitchen, leaving bloodied foot prints behind him. Vic was hunting that day, and he didn’t believe in wearing shoes while he stalked various wildlife in the Hollywood Hills. He came out minutes later with raccoon skins wrapped around his feet. “I dunno what’s gotten into ya mate, but you have this place fortified like the Bank of England!” he said.

“My apologies,” I told him. “It’s just that someone wants my organs. And it’s not the first time either!”

“Mate, I told ye a hundred times to not to talk to street salesmen.”

“Why not?” I ask. “Are you afraid of a little competition?”

Vic squints his eyes and leans his head back. “What are you insinuating mate?”

“Susan Brushetti found out where I live. Someone had to of told her.”

“And you think it’s me?”

I instantly regretted my words. In my heart, I knew that Vic would never betray me like that. “No,” I said bashfully. “My apologies Vic. I’ve been a little paranoid lately. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“Aye,” Vic said. “You need to tread carefully mate. I’ve killed men for lesser words.”

I threw up my hands in frustration. “I’m gonna have to lay low for awhile,” I said. “I gotta get out of the city until all of this blows over.”

Vic was perplexed. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“No YOU don’t understand,” I retorted. “This town is a dungeon of thieves! Hell has crept up from below the surface and mocks us by masquerading as the city of angels. A man loses his soul a second every hour in this town. The devil has already taken mine and now wants my organs to boot. There’s nothing more I can give. I have little choice but to seek the solace of one Mr. Randall J. Furie.”

“You’re talking crazy mate…”

“That is correct. I am talking crazy because crazy is the only logical path.”

“Have you sought a doctor lately?”

“Vic,” I calmly said. I approached him and rested my hands on his shoulders. “You’ve been a good friend to me,” I told him. “I promise that I won’t be gone long. I promise to send you the money for my half of the rent every month no matter where I am. You gotta trust me.”

“It ain’t about trust mate,” he said. “It’s about your psychological stability.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Anaideia 12

I hopped into work with bells on my toes and my head held high. I greeted each coworker with a joviality that would make John Candy smile. “Good morning Mike!” I said to one.

“Who the fuck are you?”

I danced and twirled all the way to my work station where Dale was hard at it. “My goddamn bitch of wife came back from Florida,” he said to me immediately. “She said she went there to visit her grandma but I called bullshit. I told her to get her shit and get the fuck out of my West Covina trailer. She cried and cried over the children but I told her ‘bitch! My dick’s been dead for 20 years! Fuck the children and FUCK YOU!’ So she grabbed her things and is staying with her friend in Hacienda Heights. I got rip roaring drunk and called her up and begged her to come back but then she threatened me with a restraining order! Can you believe this shit?”

“Good morning Dale!” I said. “Yeah that sounds fucked up but I’m sure things will work out. You gotta stay positive, ya know?”

“Yeah, I’m positive I’ve got a polyp in my ass!”

I nodded and began putting on my heavy duty work gloves and protective glasses. As I picked up a cloth to help wipe down the toilets rolling off the assembly line, Dale gave me a puzzled glance. “It’s 6:45am,” he said. “Work doesn’t start until 7. You’re four hours early!”

“Well goddamn,” I said. I stripped off the gloves and glasses and headed straight for the bathroom to commence my extra long shit. But before I could get there, the boss man announced there was an all hands meeting in the break room. I forwent the shit and followed the gaggle of workers into the cramped break room and waited for the boss man to appear. Finally, 45 minutes later, he shows up all smiles. “Great news everyone,” he announced, “my son who attends USC will escape all sexual assault charges from the Los Angeles Superior Court. Thank god for expensive attorneys.”

He lead the crowd with a round of applause.

“Unfortunately I have some bad news,” he continued. “Toilet sales are down and the only way for this factory and corporate shareholders to turn a profit is if we have mass layoffs. Now look to your left and your right. There’s a good chance that the person next to you won’t be here next week. But that’s all I’ve got for you folks. Let’s go out there and have a productive day!”

Some shuffled out of the break room shedding a river of tears but I wasn’t gonna let this news ruin my day. So Dale and I returned to work where Dale continued to bitch and I halfassed my responsibilities.

“Fuck it,” Dale declared, “if they’re gonna lay me off, I’ll just go home and blow my brains out.”

“Yeah that’s one good solution Dale,” I said. “But I prefer less violent resolution to my problems. I’d probably pick off a liquor store or steal from my senile grandmother. There seems to be too much finality with death, ya know?”

As Dale pondered my comment, the boss man approached and asked me to follow him into his office. Figuring my inevitable termination, I tossed off my gloves and spat on the ground. I followed him past the lobby and into the office area where several corporate officials sat around a conference table. I was instructed to take a seat at the end of the table with the bulldog-looking plant manager on the other end. The boss man sat on one side while HR sat on the other.

“You’ve been an employee here for a long time,” the plant manager began. “How long has it been?”

HR shuffles through some papers before landing on my name. “Four weeks,” replied HR.

“And you’ve been a very productive employee,” the manager continued. “You show up, you wear clothes, you eat and breathe, sometimes you talk…”

“Spare me the bullshit,” I interrupted. “I know I’m getting canned so jump to it. Is there a severance package? If not then let’s stop jerking each other off and let me go home.”

The manager nervously chuckled and scratched his head. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “We’re not laying you off. We’re giving you a goddamn promotion! Congratulations buddy! You’re one of us now!”

I cock my head. “Promotion?” I say. “You mean more money?”

“You’re goddamn right pal!” he beams. “How does a dollar or a dollar and a half sound?”

I raise my head in suspicion. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. You get promoted to supervisor and we pay you more money.”

The manager flicks a piece of paper across the table and it slides towards me. I pick it up and attempt to decipher the legalese. Then a pen comes sliding towards me from HR. “Just sign it,” the manager urged.

I shake my head in disbelief. “You know I can’t read this shit,” I say.

“Look,” the manager pleaded, “all we need you to do is do the work of seven to eight people with minimal help or support from us and you’ll make $8.36 an hour. It seems like a fair wage.”

My palms were sweating as I contemplated signing the document. It was a lot of money to just come in and take three shits per day. But I felt a higher calling. Something felt different about this day and I had to follow my instincts. “I can’t do it,” I say, “something about it doesn’t feel right.”

The manager takes off his glasses and sets them down in front of him. He clasps his hands. “You understand that if you don’t sign it that you will be laid off,” he explains.

“No shit?” I ask. I take a moment to collect my thoughts. “In that case, I tender my resignation,” I finally said. I stand up and straightened out my piss stained shirt. “Good day gentlemen,” I say.

“But if you resign before you’re laid off then you won’t be able to collect unemployment,” HR informs me.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I say. I proceed to the doorway and release a massive ass fart before closing the door.

Outside as I walk back to dingy apartment, I stop to smoke a cigarette. Under the glorious Los Angeles sun, I felt unyoked for the first time in my life. Perhaps now was the time to pursue my dream of owning a head shop in San Bernardino, or at least I kept reassuring myself that. But before I could ignite my lighter, I noticed a familiar face staring back at me from across the street. She was holding up a pair of binoculars while sitting in the driver’s seat of a beige Chrysler 200.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Anaideia 11

A demon-like wraith crawled up my leg in the middle of the night and I struggled to breathe. I tried to fight the creature away yet it taunted me. Silent screams rung out from my body as the beastly thing threatened to devour me whole. I twist and I turn. I futilely and desperately try to escape my fate, and then like a pardon from god, the nightmare was over. The sweet reprieve of wakefulness blessed me with the familiarity of my own bedroom and the sounds of Los Angeles outside. I couldn’t believe my luck.

So I climb out of bed and rush to the window. From my second floor apartment I could see an adolescent man tagging a phallic image on a loaded dumpster with a can of spray paint. I open the window and cried out.

“You, boy!” I shouted. “What day may it be?”

The man looked up. “It’s Thursday you fuckin moron,” he said.

Christ, I thought. That meant I had to be at work in a few hours. I dig through the hamper to find a wrinkled pair of pants and a grease-stained shirt. I throw them on and forgo brushing my teeth and rush out the door. But as I was walking out, I noticed a small business card at the foot of the door. I lean down to pick it up and flip the card over. Susan Brusheti, Fixer it read. This wasn’t good; a known trafficker of human organs knew where I lived.

I stuffed the card into my pocket, went down the stairs, and made a beeline to the nearest convenience store. I walked in and grabbed a six pack of Miller High Life and sat it on the counter. The white Rastafarian clerk looked up from his Car and Driver magazine and glared. “Sir, it’s four thirty in the morning,” he told me, “we can’t sell alcohol until seven.”

“Since when” I ask.

“It’s been California law for at least 50 years.”

“Shit,” I said under my breath. “Well I gotta be at work this morning. Can you sell me anything that will fuck me up?”

Annoyed, the clerk drops his magazine and looks at the locked plastic displays on the counter. “We got some kratom here I guess,” he said.

“Is it any good?”

“Shit if I know. I don’t touch that crap.”

I shell out the $150 for seven tablets of kratom and buy a 24 oz Monster Energy drink on top of that. I walk outside and crack open the kratom and swallow a couple of tablets. Feeling parched, I then start drinking the Monster. After walking a few blocks towards Sunset, I felt better than I had in a long time. “Maybe life isn’t a waking nightmare after all,” I say to myself.

Trying my luck, I throw out my thumb to hitch a ride. Almost instantly, a bloated boomer pulls up curbside in a red 2003 Mitsubishi Eclipse. “Hey buddy, you need a ride?” he asks in a gruff voice. Skid Row’s “Slave to the Grind” was blasting on the radio.

“Fuck yeah dude!” I say then jump into the passengers seat.

The boomer tear-asses down the street and pops open a fifth of Jack. “Care for a swig?” he asks. I take a swig. Then he asks me where I was headed. “To the toilet factory off Sunset,” I say.

“You’re going to work?” he asks.

“Yes sir.”

“Fuck that shit,” he says then lays on the gas.

It was seconds, or maybe minutes, or maybe hours before we were in the hills. By that time the lights appeared as bright streaks racing through the sky like distorted stars. I felt like a child journeying through the birth canal. The world and time itself seemed distilled into a single wormhole, the other side of which awaited a new universe. Perhaps it was the sun rising in the east, or maybe my pupils were overly dilated, but the earth was changing. As we rammed through the streets of the Hollywood Hills, I looked down onto the city and for the first time I entered the places only dreamed by monks and ancient philosophers: the supreme sublime beauty. My mind was awakened and my body felt the blissful lassitude of a long journey. But like all good things, this too must end. We trekked down the hills and back towards Sunset. The city was now awake and bustling with vehicles going to and fro. Everything that I had once cursed now seemed to be in its proper place; the world was whole.

The Eclipse pulled into the toilet factory parking lot. The lethargic and groggy-eyed workers shuffled into the building under the morning sun yet I was reinvigorated. When the car came to a complete stop, I looked to the boomer. “Thanks for taking me into the hills,” I tell him. “It was a journey of a thousand miles and I’m thankful for every step.”

The boomer looked at me side-eyed. “The fuck you talking about kid?” he asked. “You were in my car for five minutes.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Back to basics

This is a coming home moment for me.

Or perhaps a “homecoming” if you will.

I wrote some stories long ago about a guy named James who lived in Los Angeles. No, I’m not talking about “Detective James”. That’s a different guy (or is it?). Nor is it James Pietermeister, the character in my critically acclaimed A Shot at the Title series.

This James was just a normal guy with a hardass Scottish roommate whom he was possibly having sexual relations with. He also had a tense rivalry with a guy named Randy and a bully-like friendship with a dipshit named Dale. It was sort of my nod to Charles Bukowski.

Sometimes the stories connected. Sometimes they didn’t.

The last story ended on a cliffhanger where Dale was killed and Randy was revealed to James’ father. This will be a soft reboot.

So enjoy Back to Basics

***

Back to Basics

By Beau Montana

Sometimes I open my medicine cabinet and wonder how many ibuprofens I can take before kidney failure. Then I take a shit, pour a couple shots of Jim Beam, then grab my keys to begin my second shift job at the toilet factory.

This is how my mornings usually go.

But on this particular morning, I was stumbling drunk and minding my business when I was approached by a slick Philly with a quarter. “Say,” says the man as flips the coin off his thumb, “that’s a nice car you got there.”

“Thanks,” I shrugged, “it’s an 84 Fiero I pulled out of a drainage ditch in Glendale.”

“Care to take me for a spin?”

Not one to argue, I invited the stranger into the vehicle. “Are you gonna put on your seatbelt?” I say.

“You know what they say about seatbelts? Only the Dutch and homos wear em. Do I look like a Dutch?”. He lowered his shades and clicked his seatbelt.

I started the car and we began rolling towards Sunset in the direction of the toilet factory. At a stop sign, the man rolled down the window and pulled out an old Ruger .22. “Wanna see something cool?” he asked.

He lowered the pistol and aimed it at oncoming traffic. Several wheels squealed and came to a complete stop. I was now cleared to move through the intersection. “As my pappy always said,” he told me, “the car don’t make the man. But a Ruger sure does.”

It was at this point I started to get worried. A little closer to Sunset, the man wanted to accost a roaming street hooker. “Hey sugar tits,” the man shouted to the woman as I pulled up to the curb, “wanna make a quick dime?”

“Sir, I’m late for my shift at the Red Lobster,” the woman said.

“Don’t get defensive baby, I’m only looking for a tug or two.”

“How about I drop you off here?” I ask the man. “I’m almost to work anyway.”

The man lifted the Ruger and rubbed his hand across the dashboard. “Like I said, this is a nice car,” he replied. “It would be a shame if something happened to it.”

I thought for a second. “Yeah you’re right, this is a damn nice car. What should I do?”

Then the man rubbed his finger along the barrel of the firearm. “How about you walk the rest of the way to work,” he suggested. “I’ll take care of the car.”

I thought that was the sensible option so I stepped out of the Fiero and he climbed into the driver’s seat. “You’re a smart man,” he told me. Then he slammed on the gas and went roaring towards Sunset.

I stood on the street amazed. Everyday I’ve cursed Los Angeles and everyone in it. But I guess there are still a few good angels left in this town.

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…

And yet another shot at the title (part xi)

Dick’s fully erect penis glistened under the glowing California sun. He stood as a specter on the balcony over looking the Los Angeles skyline. I was in awe of this naked figure as I sat at his feet. Then he began his ominous rhapsody.

“Los Angeles,” he uttered, “even the name is a deception. For in the City of Angels, one will only find spawns of Satan.”

He was statuesque; a physique rivaled only by Michelangelo’s David (with a much bigger penis of course). Sometimes he would stand there motionless, me waiting with anticipation for his next movement. It was not unlike watching Michael Jackson in the early 90s.

“All sense of brotherly love has been eroded by greed and avarice,” Dick continued. “This is a city of shattered dreams…of broken promises. Everything that can be deemed good in humanity is vacant here, in this godless land. But you, my sweet James: my most trusted disciple, you were strong enough to weather the storm. Much like that naked shrub in Palm Springs, you have carved out a lone existence in this barren soil. The seed planted here many moons ago has survived. You are the one bit of life that still clings on to this forsaken land. Oh, how the gods have touched you.”

I sat in lotus position as I pondered his words. “But there are those that wish to stamp out my flourishing seed, oh Master….ME…a defenseless shrub. Why must the burden of talent be so heavy?” I ask.

Dick grabbed me and pulled me up to my feet. He slapped me across the face and then gave me his warm embrace. His erection was poking me in the thigh. Then he put his hands to my face and looked me in the eye. “Do not be distraught, oh little one,” he said. “Haven’t you learned from my words? Only I am stronger than you. Nothing in this land can tear you down. Not earth, wind, or California wildfires. Thanks to me, you are stronger than they.”

I lowered my head in shame. “Forgive me, Master,” I said, “I am ashamed to say that for the first time, I feel…vulnerable. Afraid. Unsure of myself.”

Dick shined his calming smile and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Through me, all things are possible,” he said. “You will vanquish your enemies. They will bow down before you and tremble at the very name, James Pietermeister. Show them once again to never doubt you. And more importantly, never forgive them. Mercy is for the weak.”

I nodded in solemn agreement.

“Now,” Dick concluded, “this visitation will cost $354,000 and the keys to your Maserati to drive back to Palm Springs.”

Then I reached into my pocket.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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…

earthquake with charlton Heston

Los Angeles in the 1970s was a magical time. Actors quit caring about their physique. Producers were blasting cocaine into their brains. George Kennedy was a star. It’s a time that’s never been topped and it never will be.

Out of this era came Earthquake (1974) starring Charlton Heston and a bunch of actors in need of a paycheck (and co-written by Mario Puzo).

As disaster films go, there’s a long buildup to the “disaster”: Heston is bangin Genevieve Bujold, George Kennedy is an absolute asshole, Walter Matthau is a pimp drunk, and so on. It’s all standard stuff. Then comes the 4 hour earthquake where cardboard houses crumble and the people of LA forget how to handle such an event as they fall several stories out of high rises to their violent deaths. It’s delightful.

My only complaint about this sequence is that they didn’t do enough with Richard Roundtree’s part as a daredevil. It would have been pimp if he CRUSHED that obstacle course on his motorbike while buildings crumbled and people died all around him. Oh well.

Honestly, there’s a few good matte paintings here and there. But the standout is Marjoe Gortner’s performance as the sexually confused grocer/wannabe karate instructor/National Guardsman. It’s a performance that was ahead of its time.

The ending is good too: the city is in ruins and none of the personal drama gets resolved (of course, I was barely paying attention at this point).

I think this film provides a good insight into an era where Hollywood quit giving a shit, just as long as everyone made a fuck ton of money.

magnum enforcer viii

Come to find out that Mystery’s real name was Mr. Ree.

That was convenient.

We watched Maxwell for several days, plotting our trap. Unfortunately he strangled several more prostitutes under that watch. We did nothing about it. But we pushed forward with our plan.

One night, while Maxwell was cruising down Sunset, he fell into our trap.

“Hey sweetie,” Maxwell said while picking up a prostitute. “Wanna make some cash?”

She giggled and got in.

They drove up to the hills while I tailed them. They stopped in Griffith Park then Maxwell and his friend climbed into the backseat.

Maxwell started kissing his way up her legs before removing her panties. As he put his head between her legs, instead of a vagina he put into his mouth, it was a cock…Mr. Ree’s fully erect cock.

“Surprise surprise,” Mr. Rees said.

Maxwell attempted to stab Mr. Ree. The two wrestled in the backseat before I opened the door and ordered Maxwell out with my 357. Mr. Ree got out in full drag, cock still hard. Maxwell had his pants around his ankles.

“Alright, you caught me,” Maxwell said. “So what? They’re not going to throw me in jail.”

“Don’t be so sure of yourself,” I replied. “Hands in the air.”

Maxwell lifted up his arms. Under his sleeve was a detonator. His car exploded, sending the three of us flying through the air. Maxwell got up and escaped by stealing my Pontiac Aztec.

I laid in the street for awhile in a daze. I got up and saw Mr. Ree mortally wounded. He was laying in a pool of his own blood. I held him in my arms and attempted to stop the bleeding.

“I’m sorry Mr. Ree,” I said. “I want to thank you for your help.”

“It was….fun,” he replied. “It doesn’t look like I’ll be a registered sex offender after all.”

With those words, he died in my arms.

I hot wired a Kia Soul and went after Maxwell. I cut him off at the intersection of Franklin and Los Feliz. I rammed my piece of shit into his piece of shit. The shattered glass littered the road.

I climbed out of the wreckage. Maxwell was still in the Pontiac. He was unconscious. I walked up to the destroyed vehicle, 357 on ready. I checked to see if he was dead. At that moment, Maxwell fired his 9mm.

The bullet grazed my left kidney. Maxwell climbed out of the car and ran off. As I was on the ground, I fired off a couple of shots, missing him entirely.

I pursued him on foot.

He ran into a bean factory. As beans were falling off an assembly line into a hopper, Maxwell fired a few rounds into the cogs. The line went haywire and beans went everywhere, obstructing my path. I once again fired shots indiscriminately down the line, jeopardizing the lives of countless workers.

Maxwell exited the factory and ran onto the football field of North Hollywood High. A game was being played. I couldn’t get a clear shot. So I tackled the quarterback, grabbed the football and aired it out in an attempt to hit Maxwell. Unfortunately a DB intercepted it and I had to evade tacklers to get off the field.

Maxwell continued to shoot his 9mm. But he was out of bullets.

He chose Chuck E Cheese as his last stand.

Maxwell went in through the kitchen. He threw pots, pans, and pizzas as I chased him. Unfortunately I wasted several bullets shooting down the pizzas.

As he ran into the main dining area, I shouted “stop that man!”

Chuck E Cheese himself went in for the tackle. Maxwell fought him off, but he was cornered.

The jig was up and Maxwell raised his hands. I lifted up the 357.

“For LP,” he asked.

“No Maxwell,” I said. “For me.”

I shot him in cold blood and his body flew into the ball pit. As the screams of children echoed through the restaurant, I walked outside.

I could hear the sounds of police sirens in the distance. I walked down to the beach holding the 357. As I stared out across the water, I took one last look at the 357 and tossed it into the ocean.

THE END