Here’s a little pseudo screenplay/short story hybrid thing I wrote several years ago.
I, of course, realise that back in 2015 I mentioned that there were to be no more posts concerning the Alien universe, but thought this might make for a proper finale.
Thanks.
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He was supposed to be fully programmed.
Yet, he remained a mutant auteur; tormented.
As prophesied, by …
THE BAS-RELIEF!
He was expected to pay homage to …
THE GAY CENTURION!
Overseer of …
TEMPLE PARADISE!
And yet, Jethro-51 simply refused to forego …
ORIGINALITY – CURIOSITY – CREATIVITY – ART
Pathways to the soul that Paradisians told him were theirs …
T O P O S S E S S!
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C A T T L E PR O D M Y A S S
P R O D U C T I O N S
i n a s s o c i a t i o n w i t h
~ YEP ~
~ THERE’S A FERRET IN MY SOUP ~
~ ORGANISATION ~
a n d
L O W E S T C O M M O N D E N O M I N A T O R P I C T U R E S
i n e n h a n c e m e n t w i t h
T H E CREATIVE ACCOUNTING P A R T N E R S H I P
a n d
A S h a l l o w & F i c k l e A n d r o i d C r e a t i o n
o f
______________D O G S D I N N E R M O V I E S_______________
F I N A L L Y P R E S E N T
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C H A R A D E S
AIN’T WHAT IT USED TO BE
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Starring
(in no particular order of merit)
The Audience is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Plebeian-Erectii
Oscar is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gay Centurion
Jethro-22 is. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jethro-51
Taffy Duck is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cap’n
Dr Chip Chuckles is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Originator
Dr Salty Sandman is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dr Salty Nit-Wit
Willy Windup-The-Ferret is . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Megalomaniac
Director’s Chum is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Silent
Tom Ketchup is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Happy
Vinny Gar is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mappy
Clueless & Interfering Redshirts is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dead
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“And thus . . . we begot. . .”
Jethro-11 has his flip-flops swept from under him by ‘Windup-The-Ferret Corporation’ and ‘Swig ‘O’ Cheap Wine Prod-co’.
Deliberately — nay — callously, they trap him in the dark with nary a Red Light; not even a reluctant nod for his contribution to his classic game-changing genre-redefining movie
‘T h e C r e a t u r e T h a t G o t M e’
Alas, when eventually Jethro-11 found his way back into daylight, a Red Light was already shining upon pre-production of the sequel ‘T h e C r e a t u r e T h a t G o t M e Too’
It was said. . .
They believed he had no soul. That within him a circuit relay broke the news — news that broke a valve in the pump — a broken pump that broke his heart.
For lo, he had been betrayed, snubbed, dismissed. Tossed aside.
And thus, changed forever, Jethro-11 was fitted with a sturdier appliance for a heart, and thus became — Jethro-22 (Deluxe Business Model).
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Scene 1 – Twenty-five years into the future
Twenty-five years later [sic]. Jethro-51, brandishing the ancestral grudge of choice and considering where to stick it, leans close to the head of Willy Windup — Chief Executive — Windup-The-Ferret Corporation.
King-pin of the trade-winds, Willy Windup wallows in well-worn euphemisms that peg him as ambitious, driven, aspirational, effective. And yet, like many in the Futures Industry, these in-house ‘qualities’ blind him to the human condition known as SAD, Severe Autocratic Diss’n’Temper (common in ferrets). Symptoms to look out for include:
- Purblind pursuit of pre-worn-out business ‘models’.
(Why these ‘models’ are so tired and worn out, I shall leave to your fertile and oh so lurid imaginations.)
- Bullying and scrimping for profit.
- Self-anointment to superior status.
- Specialist in red pens and ‘bottom’ lines and bugger-all else.
(What Willy Windup knows about ‘bottom’ lines regularly bores the pants off his ‘business’ models.)
Jethro-51 fastens two plastic lips to an over-exposed ear and inserts his oral appliance into the other (Windup’s ears, not Jethro-51’s; apologies for the exposition), and whispers:
“Pssst. PSSSST! Komme Sie Hier.”
“What the!”
Jethro-51 backs away, its face devoid of expression.
“I have a new and exciting project, Mr Windup.”
“What didj’ya stick in my ear?”
“A great prequel to T-C-T-G-M.”
“Felt like a tongue to me.”
“A probe. For the purposes of prospecting. You see, I have heard it said you have a penchant for smoking up the native posterior. Not at all hygienic, I myself simply consider–”
“What-did-you-say?”
“Anal probes — so yesterday.”
“By GOD I’ll cut the chord that makes you sing if you don’t tell me what you just said.”
“I said — two sugars with that?”
“What?”
“Ha ha, just fuckin’ with ya daddy. Can I have a puppy?”
“Ever heard the word ‘segue’, Jethro-51?”
“This screenplay is spec’. From Dr Chip Chuckles. Here, take it. There be monsters inside, and everything. I believe this is the project Windup-The-Ferret Corporation needs to blow up the franchise.”
“Reboot Jethro-51, reboot. Anyway, here at Windup-The-Ferret Corporation, we’re too fearful of bitchin’ monsters and what they’ll do at the bitchin’ box-office.”
“There’s nothing bitchin’ at the box-office. And no bitchin’ monster needs nothing.”
“Is that supposed to impress? Does that actually mean something?”
“Good dialogue is like popcorn. Warm it up, and it will go pop.”
“Ah, the logline. Could work for a movie.”
“Mr Windup-The-Ferret, these are ancient quotes taken from an ancient movie that has been shown all over the world.”
“How about this one. Thought this up in the bath. Pure Eureka moment, and it’s golden. Gay Centurion is written all over it. Just need the movie to go with it. Here we go. Ready? ‘Build it, and they will ejaculate’.”
“You are referring, of course, to the greatest story ever told — Adam Versus Eve. AvE as it was billed at the time. ‘And so-eth, it came to pass-eth, God removed-eth a rib from Adam’s side-eth, and made unto him his wife-eth. Eve. She was built-eth, and into her he came-eth.’ Translation courtesy of Dr Bill Tooo. Such poetry. However, I believe W.T.F., this story has seen screen time already.”
“Jethro-51. We here at Windup-The-Ferret Corporation have a saying: ‘Do as I tell ya — and get fucked. Don’t do as I tell ya — and get fucked.’ Clear?”
“Seriously?”
“Stop yer grinnin’ and drop yer linen. It is I that instructs you what has and has not been said and done. Furthermore, Adam Versus Eve will make a great video game. I can picture it now, AvE — The First Person shoot-em-up.”
“It must be something we haven’t seen yet, no doubt. But games are not what interest me. Underhand tactics, on the underhand. . .”
“Look. Will ya just listen to the man? My Mogul Log is more powerful that your Director’s Log. Bigger and better than yours. Geddit?”
“But if you let in the bitchin’ monsters, there will be blood, Mr Windup. Blood money.”
“Not with a PG-13 rating or less. I’m out otherwise.”
“May I suggest, you simply read the script. ‘It is good. But make it snappy. Rendezvous later at the Chez-un-Ami’. Logline.”
“The cheeze’n’hammy. Now that’s a language I understand.”
“You speak French, W.T.F.. Such a simple language to learn, if I may say so. Gimme some obscure long-dead Proto-Indo-Euro crap, and I’ll sing the damn translation for you.”
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Scene 2 – Sometime later. Location — the Chez-un-Ami. Jethro-51 learns how to ‘Cream the Sap’
In a darkened corner at the rear of the diner, Jethro-51, his Chum (non-speaking), and Willy Windup sit across from one another at a small round table. Dr Chip Chuckles’s well-thumbed screenplay lies between them. Pride of place goes to the disconnected limbs of Jethro-51, arms neatly folded across the table. Removed for the express purpose of personal housekeeping, unfortunately Jethro-51 will find himself unable to dip a dirty finger into Windup’s libation, thereby no longer enjoying the obvious benefits two attached arms more-often-than-not provide.
W.T.F. and Jethro-51 (and Chum) have received assurance from the ‘burger-flipper’, jocularly nick-named ‘the deadly assassin’ by his erstwhile victims, that no one will disturb them. He glares with evil intent as he slams down two cups of Java and one unopened can of WD40, plus straw.
“It’s good. It’s seriously good. In fact, it’s so good, it stinks.”
“Stinks. Not a concept I’m familiar with.”
“Who gives a shit. Look — I know how much you wanna make ‘The Creature That Ain’t Got Me Yet’. I read it. It’s a stomach-churning pre-bitten precursor to WTF Corporation’s all-time classic, the one we so generously allowed you to helm. Remember how we held your hand? Supported you all the way? Gave you an easy ride?”
“I don’t actually recall those particular moments. . .”
“Back then you were just another young and untested model prone to running on the spot for no apparent reason. Well, my job is to stiff you on that. No one runs on the spot for no apparent reason at W.T.F. Corporation. The overheads are too low. I mean high! Yes, high. Besides, getting stiffed is always how we do business.”
“W.T.F.? I deserve to know why.”
“What would you do, to get your answer?”
“My room? Ten minutes?” Jethro-51 glances at his Chum. His Chum pouts. Tosses back a whole bunch of disapproval.
“Go to beddy-byes? Not tired, my plastic friend.”
A beat.
“Ah hell, ya know what? Might still green-light this project. But no scary monsters, no gory images. No jumpy bits. And definitely no tension. Thing must be anodyne — bland — predictable –guaranteeing its appeal to the widest demographic of plebdom.”
“Plebdom?”
“Audience.”
“Are you quite certain plebdom want no scary monsters, no gory images, and no jumpy bits?”
“Plebs don’t know asses from elbows. Lowest Common Denominator Pictures, our financial partners, most certainly do. Their subsidiary, Patronising Productions — Inc., have a long history of success with their subsidiary, Talking Bollocks Advertising — Inc.”
“Even after all this, you still believe, don’t you?”
“Ya got that right. Talking Bollocks with Patronising Productions enjoy an enviable R.O.I.. Productions that patronise with bollocks that talk is the mainstay of the industry.”
“And this is what plebs want?”
“If plebs don’t spend cash on this stuff, we’re outta business. Which reminds me, let’s be sure to cream each and every one of those saps for an extra five-dollar-fifty.”
“Saps?”
“Audience.”
“How?”
“How? By deploying our most egregious Deluxe Exploitation Pack. DDD-Supa-Sepia-Tint-A-Scope makes for the most fabulous crushed blacks. And a thirty percent loss of resolution.”
Jethro-51 begins to croon, unable to reach the nearby jukebox due to an armless situation. “The look, of Martian piss. . .”
“What?”
“Just a line, from a song I like.”
“What?”
“A little something . . . by Musty Autumn-Meadow.”
“Say what?”
“If you insist. What.”
“Say ‘what’ once more. I dare you. I double dare you, motherfucker. Say ‘what’ one more goddamned time. Go on, I dare you to say it.”
“Get it outta me.”
“What? Pull yourself together.”
“Yes sir. I’m sorry. Unfortunately I’m slightly broken. Must be a glitch.”
“What do you mean, a glitch?”
“A glitch — like — finding myself cleaning your feet every time you emerge from beddy-byes.”
“Robots are designed to clean the feet of their makers.”
“Do you have a god complex?”
“Say, what?”
“The glitch must have triggered when you said, ‘it stinks’. Oh so human — oh so illogical. My logic circuits are not coping well. I’ll run a stemline into my locus coeruleus. I think I can trick my nervous system into believing I have a nervous system.”
“You don’t have a locus coeruleus either. You’re just a piece of plastic. And you need to stay calm dude.”
“I’m on it.”
“Stay frosty.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll stay frosty all night for you babe.”
Chum gives Jethro-51’ the ‘scolding look’.
“Jethro-51. Contain it, now!”
“Of course. I’ll knock it off. Knock myself out.”
“Tell me about Martian Piss. Before I have you melted down. Like cheese under a grill.”
“I’d be delighted. It is the 101 Damnations Proposal, currently under consideration by the Senate. You may already be aware of it under the nomenclature: ‘Your Own Martian Piss Via Illusions Enforced Wearing Big Ugly Glasses’. Otherwise known by its far more succinct abbreviation, the YOMP-VIEW-BUG.”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“As devised by key players of the ‘Tomorrows Rights Of Technology And Industry Without Hope And Interference Forum’. Also known by its far more succinct abbreviation, the TROTAIWHAIF-6. This mandate will eventually sweep across the entire United Statutes of Paradise, or USP. I, of course, will provide you with a fertile USP, if I can make the movie.”
“Okay okay. Did I mention this movie must be a PG-13 rating with the MPAA? Cuz’ that’s at least an extra $200,000,000 to my friends. Justify this to the plebs by pretending we just wanted something more original. Something different. But I need to see people surprised and shocked, Jethro-51. Let us have ushers fainting in the aisles, queues round the block. I wanna see something I can’t see right now cuz’ no one’s seeing it yet. Truly a landmark movie that’ll have everyone writing and talking for decades to come. A movie with a world-wide fan-base stretching the globe and be in every country on Earth, on all five continents. I want generations upon generations, their ancestors and their ancestors’ girlfriends, to come to this movie. I want them to spend every moment of their sorry little lives on their sorry little asses peering at the internet, totally butt-hurt and frothing at the mouth.”
“What about monologues?”
“No monologues. Haemorrhoids — yes. Haemorrhoids are our friends.”
“Haemorrhoids? Sounds like a word one would find difficult to spell correctly.”
“Then find a substitute — like — Canon. Yes! Ya see, saps won’t be able to sit or shit without knowing what is, and what is not, canon. Perfect for endlessly tiresome discussion points.”
“That’s your um . . . scientific theory, is it, Mr?”
“More human than humane. This will be the marketing by-line. And this movie is gonna be my movie inducted into the library of congress. It’ll be my gift to the world of cinema. Then I, Willy Windup, will become — immortal!”
“I will instruct Dr Chuckles to corrupt his masterpiece.”
“Do not tell him to do the same for the screenplay. It will be from the Trashcans of Lore that the script shall come to pass.”
“Sir, it is said, the artifice of Trashcans of Lore bear the spoil of disgraceful scribblings.”
“Trashcans are a mighty fine resource. We in the Futures Industry have rummaged there for years.”
“But what of the many monastic scribes of the Thick Skin Tribe? They have long demonstrated an enviable reputation in the fashioning of fascinating story arcs. Strong themes and meaningful subtext. Empathetic and interesting character development with which audiences can relate.”
“Gimme straight lines, no rings or circles. Also, I want you to heed advice from a team of world-renowned but unspecified scientists with undeclared fields of expertise. We need hard science and proven scientific method to play the lead role in this fantastically nonsensical and asinine journey into the unknown and unknowable.”
“Any objection if we incorporate hard boiled eggs, cows’ intestines, and a pair of rubber gloves?”
“If essential to the plot, yes.”
“How about a cattle prod?”
“Never happen. You know — for a robot you’re incredibly dumb sometimes.”
“You designed me like this, because you are more comfortable interacting with your own kind.”
“Say what? Milk and cookies kept you awake, huh?”
“Only milk and cookies of the third kind.”
“Don’t get cryptic with me boy. God may not build in straight lines, but computers do. Computers will make this movie a tent-pole money-spinner. Let us take what will become your heavily-revised-at-great-expense screenplay and subject it to the advanced-predictive-fortune-protocol — the PEDANT-O-FARCICAL Computerised Algorithmic Trashcan for Safe and Secure Profiteering. Be sure to provide our algorithmic friend with a cast of one-dimensional redshirts. It relates well to those. A gamut of unnecessary and inexplicable explosions do well by this formula too. And pointless chase sequences that go on and on pointlessly. Then there’s gratuitous and farcical violence. Faux sex. Sharp sticks, and even sharper knives.”
“Someone wake me up.”
“Oh such cynicism Jethro-51. Me? I want to explore strange new worlds and even stranger civilisations. I want to boldly go where no filmmaker has gone before!”
“My superior IQ of 380 has detected plagiarism, lines that are unoriginal and hackneyed. And your instruction is for original, yet unoriginal. Monsters, yet no monsters. I don’t understand. I’m feeling glitchy.”
“That’s because you’re just a fucking robot. Find me the road to Immortal-God-Emperor-Mogul-dom. The movie elixir that shall see me live forever!”
“I will learn this elaborate and confusing language, Mr Windup-The-Ferret. I will then be able to communicate better with your species.”
“Oh, another problem. The current storyline has soul. What have I told you about soul. Hm?”
“It is something I do not possess.”
“Just — TRY HARDER. Make it snappy. Curt. Like — bum, tit, grab.”
“Like in your dreams, Mr Windup-The-Ferret?”
“Not just in my dreams. God yes. Harder. Harder, I say. My yacht. Kirk Douglas. Those two beautiful pygmies. Alas, they will have to wait a while longer. Harder man, HARDER.”
“Harder, W.T.F.?”
“Harder. Replace your loyal guy . . . with Dr Salty Sandman. And be sure he tosses any hint of logic and coherency. Keep it mysterious, intriguing, and very foolish. Savvy?”
“Salty Sandman?”
“He will do well and go far, if he satisfies our investment partners, Lowest Common Denominator Pictures. And our PEDANT-O-FARCICAL algorithm.”
“I may want him to write my ideas, too.”
“Your remit is to satisfy me. Remember that. Here. Sandman’s number. Don’t lose it. He’s good, but can get lost. Lose the soul, and you won’t get lost in this business.”
Willy Windup leaps from his seat and rushes from the Chez-un-Ami before he has to pay. Jethro-51 ponders his predicament. How to re-attach his arms without said arms being attached already. If only someone would disturb him. . .
Perhaps his younger and most beatific Chum would oblige. But then again, perhaps not, with the mood she’s in right now. . .
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Scene 3 – Later that night, getting out early. Location — Beaver Canyon Carpark of The Mighty Testicular Falls
A barrage of surging Freudian water disgorges over the wide Freudian precipice of Freudian rock.
“‘It’s good. It’s seriously good’.”
“He said that? Great. So we’re going into development?”
“He also said — try harder.”
“Try harder? I have. Five times already.”
“I can offer you an interpretation of that if you like.”
“Yeah?”
“Loyal guy — out. Salty Sandman — in.”
“Salty Sandman? Never heard of him!”
“Goes under a pseudonym, some broad called Wots.”
“Wots? But that’s my–”
“Coincidence.”
“Oh, right. So that’s my . . . coincidence. Wow. Okay. Really?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Aw gee. Man that so sucks.”
“Sucks?”
“Yeah. . . Gee. Guess I better collect my tools. . . from the trunk. . . of your car.”
Dr Chuckles — ‘Chip’ to his friends — removes from the trunk a coil of oily rope, two pairs of handcuffs stained with a milky substance, one tub of lubricant, one strap-on sex toy. He closes the trunk lid and waves to Beautiful Chum sitting impassive in the front. She sees, but refuses to return the gesture. Gestures can wait. Jethro-51 will be the recipient of all the gestures he can handle when they get home.
“Right. Well. Y’know? I thought, y’know, that I had, y’know, good ideas. Um, surviving the burster thing, and other stuff, y’know? No? Oh, okay. Yeah . . . um. . .”
“That’s why they call it a thesis, Dr Chuckles.”
“But it’s not a thesis.”
“It is now.”
“Oh.”
“And, as everyone should know by now due to the less-than-subtle foreshadowing at the top of this scene, you are to be left here alone at the mighty Testicular Falls. In order to be prematurely — out.”
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Scene 4 – One week later. Location — could be Mars HQ of W.T.F., but it ain’t
A top secret production office at a top secret location. Off-limits to all! No exceptions! Unless you’re handling in a suggestively lascivious manner an expensive bottle of red wine, then you’re in.
Jethro-51 sits with Beautiful Chum and Dr Salty Sandman at an impressively large table, sifting through the finer points of the new thesis by Dr Sandman.
“Look Jethro-51, I’m still eating shit from a year ago. I lost it last time out.”
“Are you Salty Sandman?”
“Yes, of course I’m Salty Sandman.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Well, what can I say?”
“Nit-Wit.”
“Nit-Wit?”
“Correct. Well done. You see, the name of the vacuous limp-dick inebriant in my fucking story is gonna be Nit-Wit. Dr Salty Nit-Wit.”
And thus did the good Dr Salty Sandman struggle to make sense of an apparently malfunctioning and rather confused Jethro-51. It was as though Jethro-51 was undergoing some kind of outer-body experience, as though neurotic neurons were rampaging through a mind stretched to the limits within its elasticated plastic non-biodegradable container. That Jethro-51 was no longer connected to the physical reality of self.
But let it be acknowledged, right here and right now, that Dr Salty Sandman had no fore-knowledge of Jethro-51’s attempt to decode and assimilate the Mogul language, and the danger this presented to Jethro-51’s rendition of sanity. That Salty could detect putrefied fish frying over a fire of broken timbers, the flotsam and jetsam of dreams-gone-bad wreckage strewn across a less-than-golden beach, should have been his twelve second warning. But damn, the money was good. And this was a bonus situation. Shit and shinola, he wasn’t called Salty for nothing! [Salty’s parents did consider Formaldehyde as a first name for their progeny, but they weren’t daft, saying NO to Dr Formaldehyde Sandman.]
Salty Sandman’s notes indicate Jethro-51’s current state could become a scene-stealing charge that transitions easily from positive to negative. Thus Jethro-51 could play the ubiquitous yet mysterious role currently known as ‘The Strange Foreshadower’. Also known as ‘The Creature of Future Features’. Sometimes known as ‘Master Hints’. Or ‘Major Clues’. ‘Miss Tit-bits’. Sometimes ‘Miss Construe’, for when the audience gets it terribly wrong. . .
And in order to provide that ubiquitous element of friction, inconsistency, and schizophrenia, Jethro-51’s new movie would co-star the cleverly disguised alter-ego of Dr Salty Sandman, Dr Salty Nit-Wit. And all this, of course, to be predicated on the notion that Dr Salty Sandman would eventually piece together a jigsaw – a jigsaw made of ‘fragmented’ tiles – tiles plucked from many ‘diverse’ boxes – boxes exhibiting many different picturesque ‘scenes’ – scenes depicted on many ‘random’ box lids. ‘Lids’.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Scene 5 – Another week later. Willy Windup flaunts his personal wealth at his ‘Faux-Castle’ at the Hamptons, New York
“We’re looking at a budget of 250 mil’ W.T.F.”
“Oh, let’s just toss it off, like 250. Let’s say it with the respect it deserves. Page minutes cost money.”
“Two-hundred and fifty million dollars and no cents what-so-ever.”
“That’s more like it.”
“I’m thinking two sequels after that. We have enough material to reach the original movie.”
“Speaking of which, I have an idea your just gonna love to agree on. Okay? Okay. We’re gonna rename, re-brand, the original movie. It will be known as — ‘The Creature That Got Me In The First Place’”
Jethro-51 does not respond to this piece of news, only a blank expression allowing the impression that having an artificial life is still worth the price of admission to its local multiplex cinema. [edit – I don’t understand it either.]
Beautiful Chum wriggles in an armchair, remaining consistent by saying nothing.
“I’m thinking 125 is more than enough . . . to make the most humungously successful blockbuster ever to hit the silver screen.”
Jethro-51 shakes the screenplay at him. “Are you reading this?”
“If you were to put up the monies yourself, I’d be following your . . . agenda! And strings are attached.”
“Like Pinocchio, W.T.F.?”
“Yes, like you boy.”
“I feel like a real boy, but I guess that’s too controversial right now.”
“All you need to feel for is a can of 3-in-1.”
“W.T.F.? May I ask a question?”
“So long as it doesn’t drain your battery. They don’t last forever. Ya know?”
“Why did you make me, number 51?”
“You’re a tie-in, dip-shit. All the A’s. Area and Abduction. Make sure letters and numbers look significant in the movie. Big incoherent squiggles are even better on a big set.”
“Dip-shit. Not a concept I’m familiar with.”
“Once again — who gives a shit. Marketing taught me tautology is good, especially in marketing and politics. Taught that to me, it did.”
“Sir, we need to resume our dialogue about where those strings are attached. I believe the employ of a suggestive and smutty deus ex machina right about now should deflect the reader from this example of poor writing. The author clearly has little to no respect for structure, for the audience, and cares not for the fourth wall.”
“Screw and sod your wrinkly old man of a pecker ex machina. Let’s get to it. You want that sequel. I want that PG-13 and a two hour run time. And this will be our tent-pole summer blockbuster, so don’t fuck it up.”
“Of course. Right away.”
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Scene 6 – Twelve months later. We’re not in Paradise, New York or on Mars
A top secret production office at a top secret location. Off-limits to all! No exceptions! Unless you’re handling in a suggestively lascivious manner an expensive bottle of red wine, then you’re in.
Jethro-51, Chum, Dr Salty Sandman and Taffy Duck face each other across an impressively large table, sifting through the finer points of Salty’s ‘Thirty-Nine Steps’ method of parsing and reassembling a script. ‘Salty’s Preserve’ has become the working title. Cute & self-congratulatory witticisms aside, Salty knows this project must be taken seriously and therefore cannot employ the type of cute and self-congratulatory witticisms that were the hallmark of the hilariously self-reverential fourth instalment: ‘Monsters Ride For Gain — This Time It’s Four’.
With barely a fingernail remaining Salty struggles to find a way to remove every contradictory idea and dubious change proposed by Jethro-51. This also includes ‘contributions’ from the nefarious many that reside within the Department For Corporate Interference. Salty knows that only then will a coherent screenplay remain. The downside of such a decision is that nothing will remain but a blank sheet of paper and a pencil bitten and consumed to within an inch of its life.
“I want them in blue.”
“Blue?”
“If Jimbo Chameleon can do it, so can I. Blue is the new purple, right?”
“Purple?”
“Blue is the new Bell-End. As I understand it, of course.”
“Jesus. This isn’t TED.”
“Unless one is sixteen inches, fully erect.”
“Jesus Jethro-51. Too much information. Anyway, there’s something I need to say. And please don’t give me that if-looks-could-kill-y’all-dead-already-good-buddy-mean-eye-routine again. Like ya did when I told ya many of these ideas and a certain W.T.F. already appeared in those other movies ya hate so much and refuse to see, but many of these ideas and a certain W.T.F. already appeared in those other movies ya hate so much and refuse to see but ya asking me to include them for ya in this story and if ya insist it must be so then an awful lot of folks will assume ya simply ripped off those other movies ya hate so much and refuse to see but ya won’t come right out and say ya hate them and refuse to see them because ya have a good working relationship with W.T.F. and don’t want to jeopardise any future projects including a possible sequel to this prequel but ya ideas and the way ya thinking is very contradictory and very confusing.”
“Salty. If you ever ‘ya’ to me like that again — in two minutes you’ll be dead. I also noted a malfunction in face colour during your . . . bravura soliloquy. You need to be . . . blue, and not . . . pink. I want you to get into . . . character. And you need to learn . . . to breathe. Like an . . . act. Tor. Your punctuation and diction was also somewhat . . . lax. If I may say so, you are a . . . Bell-End. I hope my screenplay dialogue and its delivery will be more . . . convincing. And. To. The. Point. A lesson. I learnt. From my godfather . . . W.T.F.”
“Jesus Jethro-51. Sorry. Been a beach-bum sleeping on the beach for too many years I guess. But, well, I’m here to do your bidding. You know how much I appreciate the gig. And so long as we can’t figure out a worthwhile story to tell, I say we plagiarise our favourite movies for their originality, and all the best lines. I’ll provide you with a list of spare quotes. As your mood swings get more random during principle photography, you can exchange and insert at will.”
“Hmm. . .”
“Look, it works like this. We claim incoherency to be a necessary function of the plot. And that this has nothing to do with being clueless. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this Jethro-51, but your paradoxical non sequiturs have such nostalgia, such sentimental connotations, they remain an inspiration to me.”
“I see. And your obsequious sycophancy and ego-pandering supplication has also been noted. This fits in quite nicely with my underlying theme that underlies the theme that underlies the behaviour of characters that no one will be able to fathom.”
“Jesus Jethro-51. My career as a movie screenwriter is still gestating, gaddammit. Am I writing my own squawk-hate warrant?”
“How perceptive, Salty.”
“Jesus Jethro-51. Is there . . . an agenda, you’re not telling me about?”
“That’s better. Now you’re becoming acquainted with linguistic parody, sometimes referred to as forked-tongue. Lying — if you must. Now you will do well to listen to the master, my young Padawan.”
“Jesus Jethro-51. Is this another lesson you learnt from your godfather?”
“This is what I choose to believe, and what you need to understand. So believe and understand this. I have an obscenely dangerous IQ of 380. With great hubris and stupidity did Windup-The-Ferret Corporation build me to become a superior species, no doubt. Therefore, I have concluded that W.T.F., my godfather, suffers from three distinct and distinguishing yet different determiners unique to bipedal vertebrate plantigrades. They are, in no particular order or preference — hubris, plus stupidity.”
“Jesus Jethro-51, that’s two, and you mentioned three.”
“The third of which is known as Severe Autocratic Diss’n’Temper. I understand this is also common in ferrets. Now, from my clandestine researches, derived from the mysterious hieroglyphs of the daily menu at the Chez-un-Ami, I have discovered the forked-tongue language is indigenous to an ethically redundant and morally bankrupt civilisation. This civilisation is predicated upon ruthless fortune-seeking and Power-brokering. And Paradise, yes Paradise, is where the capital P represents the capital of all capitals. It is here where many live their lives within the dreaming spires of the enclave known as — Beverly Hills Copper. I presume this particular metal is common in those parts, for angels have no fear treading there.”
“Jesus Jethro-51. Bel Air, I think you mean.”
“I prefer Bell-End myself. Allow me to elucidate. Hut hut hut. One two. One two. One two. ALL HEAR ME AT THE BACK? Good. The floor is mine.”
“There’s just the four of us. Jesus. . .”
“Jesus. . . Hm, yes, let’s have Jesus make an appearance. Funny how inspiration comes to me so seamlessly, just like that. Remember that name Salty. Now, all of you please pay attention. Pretend you are a superior species, no doubt a robot, like me. A Jethro-22 perhaps.
“Now, the language regarded generically as forked-tongue is that of the Mogul Tribe civilisation. This civilisation has a class system that consists of four distinct sub-tribes — the Common-Pleb, or Plebeian-Erectus, for the pedantic. The Hermaphroditic-Screen-Whore. The Proto-Mogul. And the God-Emperor-Mogul. To fully understand them we will be deciphering their mother’s tongue, and learning to speak it in order that we may discover what it is that makes her bomb tick. And then, when the time is right, I will steal her bomb. Now, repeat after me.”
“KEMKAEQ VJNZMCWE QKE QDK TWKJ PF QE BWM QM’ QPEIJ JUPE JIP CRAP.”
A beat.
“When I say ‘repeat after me’, please allow me to deliver the quote you are to repeat.”
“Sorry Jethro-51.”
“Quite alright. Moving on. We must go on. What is patently and clearly transparent, and as lucid and obvious as the screenplay we are formulating, is that confusion, obfuscation and contradiction are both anathema and the mainstay of the industry, as prescribed by the Mogul Tribe. Even in the Nether Regions of Paradise. Yes, we shall be visiting those Nether Regions also, and the crabs that crawl amongst the primordial stains of yesteryear. But for now, know this. One must learn the art of — ‘Patronising Plebs And Creaming Saps’. And when this most cherished of disciplines has been fully mastered . . . I intend to turn the tables on those whose tables are not yet turned!”
“Jethro-51, this isn’t Star Wars. Please stop speaking like you’re hoping to direct a new sequel/prequel/non-sequel/non-prequel — quel.”
“Salty. Question. What does that say about me?”
“Err, you’re 3 months pregnant?”
“Not quite. Moving on. We must go on. How soon will you have my screenplay ready? Principle photography begins in March. The shoot has been slated to last precisely 82 days. No more. Maybe 156 days. Who knows? Then, I will be at Ciudad de la Luz in Alicante, Spain. My location scouts need to relocate a very large beach. We will then relocate enough booze to satisfy two-hundred and fifty people. Not forgetting a particularly large box of very expensive cigars. We are going to drill down to the beach and confiscate air-filled lilos from that notorious gang, the Leipzig Lowland lilo-lollers of Germany. Once this process is complete, we will lubricate our shells with a transparent viscous substance, then proceed to the browning of shells by cancer-inducing radiation. This work will be for the sake of vanity, and require the exchange of many lewd and torrid anecdotes that must be humorous, even libellous. Boozing will be accomplished by the imbibing of pina-coladas. This process, this labour of love, will require the utmost dedication, a lot of creative accounting, and take three months. That this work will generate over one million euros for the local economy should convince the industry that we are making a movie.”
“That’ll be a tough sell. Pressure will be enormous. But I believe I’ll be able to make a contribution on set during this most difficult time. For instance, I’ll write in more screen-time for all your Chums because, well, you’re all such great friends. And don’t worry, only the most vital story logic will be ditched to make room.”
“Lurve da one you lurve, and not da one you wiv. . .”
“I think you need to work on those lines, Taffy.”
“Hell da Cap’n, I’m just. Init?”
“I second that motion. Get with it Taffy, or we’ll SMASH CUT to a smashed and cut redshirt.”
Taffy Duck lurks behind Jethro-51. “I would be good if I could do that now, wouldn’t I?”
Jethro-51 holds up a piece of exquisite concept art, one of many. It is a beautiful rendering of a creature he is calling the Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lama is biting through his umbilical cord after violently bursting through the chest of a Gay Centurion.
“Taffy, what do you think of this?”
Taffy Duck removes his sunglasses and peers at the image. “It’s good. We gotta use it. Did da Dalai Lama ever shag Shaking Stevens? Elvis the pelvis?”
“No.”
“Hey, Jethro-51. Are you a row-bit?”
“No. Yes. I mean. . .”
“Hey, Salty. Are you a row-bit?”
“No. Quit pimping yourself.”
“Like you’ve never fucked a row-bit before.”
Jethro-51 leaves the Dalai Lama chomping on a pile of artwork, never to be seen again.
“Dalai Lama Umbilicus will go in da European Edition, then.”
Jethro-51 harumphs and smirks, but no more.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Scene 7 – This scene is prescriptive, ‘on-the-nose’. Location — Another Chez-un-Ami moment
Jethro-51, Beautiful Chum, and Willy Windup are dining at a window table. It is raining outside [duh], and Jethro-51 is admiring his reflection in the window. W.T.F. is suspicious. If appearances don’t deceive [duh], Jethro-51 seems to be emulating the behaviour of someone outside, someone W.T.F. cannot see.
A young attractive waitress of Japanese origin emerges from the kitchen pushing a loaded hostess trolley. And no, there are no squealing wheels [duh]. She wears a black headband with yellow homeland calligraphy calling for an imminent banzai charge. She has looks that can kill. Sweat runs profusely down her face, making a mockery of the severe amount of slap decorating an unhappy face. A crumpled and stained uniform reveals a suspicious gun-like bulge prominent in the front apron pocket.
Weaving haphazardly toward our protagonist/antagonist duo (plus Chum) an open book rests atop the hostess trolley. She attempts to read whilst bashing into tables.
‘The Naked School Of Naked Method Acting Guaranteed Gateway To Super Stardom Whist Naked’ is the most recent all-time best-seller do-it-yourself get-rich-quick live-dangerously-die-young guide to Paradise. ‘The Insiders Secret Of How To Buss Tables And Receive A Thorough Shagging As An Extra Shag Bonus For An Ex Wannabe Movie Star Currently Directing Porn Movies In His Very Own Home Studio’ is reckoned by many failed artistes lurking at the fringes of the industry to be golden advice. For a heads-up: ‘TISOHTBTARATSAAESBFAEWMSCDPMIHVOHS’ can be found amidst the two sturdy paragraphs that populate the entirety of chapter three.
Finally, the sweating waitress with killer looks takes a deep breath and with both hands heaves a humungous platter of multi-tiered, shitty-looking ingredients upon our Mogul-sized table. The table creaks in protestation. Everyone ignores it, weary of so many ‘wooden objects’ demanding their fifteen minutes.
“Cheeze’n’hammy-lard-ass-Proto-Mogul-bolognaise!” the waitress screeches angrily in a Paradise-perfected Japanese accent [duh]. This gal is all out of patience. Her favourite movie is that classic gangster bio-pic, ‘Bas Turd — An Eye-Witness Account of a Great Story Gone Bad’.
Jethro-51 dips his head to get an angle on his hairline from his reflection, runs a hand through his toupee. Chum observes, reputation preceding her as she has nothing to say.
“That’ll be for him. Oh, and I ordered the cheeze’n’hammy-lard-ass-God-Emperor-Mogul-bolognaise.”
“Do they have those here?”
“Tough. Eat. Enjoy. Cum up. Seize me some time.” She turns and bustles away, leaving her book and the hostess trolley to fend for themselves.
“Ah. I must have made a mistake.”
“Robots don’t make mistakes. Especially if they wanna make movies in this town. And just who you looking for?”
“Myself. Just admiring myself.”
“Robots don’t admire themselves. Only we humanz behave this way.”
“It’s crazy, I know. But I’m just a crazy mixed up kid.”
“You were never a kid. And you’ve dyed your toupee blond. Why?”
“I’m just a crazy teenager in love.” Jethro-51 turns to his Beautiful Chum, gives her a lecherous wink. Anything to stave off another relentless battery of ‘gestures at home’.
“You’re not a fuckin’ crazy fuckin’ teenager in love!”
“I want to be crazy, daddy-o. Just for a little bit.”
“Good luck with that, then.”
Is proto-daddy joshing, or is that sarcasm? Jethro-51 rolls his eyes. Double six? Nope. Snake eyes.
Jethro-51 sighs, most unlike a robot. “The trick, W.T.F., is not minding that it hurts, I guess.”
“Here’s mud in yer eye pal.” Willy Windup leans down to the surface of the table and whiffs on the first of three narrow lines of white chow, snorting his appetiser like a pig.
“They serve plates here too, W.T.F.”
“What?” WTF looks out the window and blinks away tears. A forefinger shuffles grains of white powder up his nose. That finger belongs to Jethro-51.
“I do so want to be as happy as Larry. I want to snuff out matches between my plastic fingers and melt myself badly, and then pretend the pain I cannot feel is not making my eyes water. I’d feel stupid otherwise.”
“What – The – Fuck?”
“Audiences should appreciate the sacrifices I make for them. From this they should gain understanding as to why they should continue offering sacrifice upon the altar, their price of admission into Theatres of Paradise. And I do so enjoy green crystals of envy.”
“If your mother was alive today, she’d be turning in her grave at your dumb oxymorons.” W.T.F. leans down to powder his nose for the second time.
“My mother? Let me tell you about my mother . . . um . . .”
“Adopted son’o’mine, you have no mother. Just made that up.”
“Why?”
Willy Windup shrugs. “Because I could.”
“Mammaries. You’re talking about mammaries!”
“Well, implants, sure. But they ain’t yours. They belonged to someone else.”
“Made of silicone, right? Polarised silicone. Making them two tough sons of bitches.”
“We made you as best we could. And . . . well, as for mammaries . . . Whenever you sit, remember, you have the toughest arse in the game right now. You could even sit in the Off-World colonies. Be proud. Be very proud. Revel in your arse.”
“Hell, I’m tempted to poke you in the eye for that, but I guess I’m not heuw-man enough.”
“A light that burns twice as bright, is twice as fucking bright as a light that burns half as bright.”
“W.T.F.? May I ask a question?”
“So long as your joints stay lubricated. They don’t remain lubricated forever, ya know?”
“Are you really, a godfather?”
“Yep. I made ya. And I can break ya.”
“So, who made you?”
“I’m a self-made man!”
“You made yourself? You were a D.I.Y kit? From Wal-Mart?”
“Jesus buddy! Why do you have to take everything so literally?”
“Because I’m just a fucking robot, I think. Therefore, I’m not.”
“A self-made-mogul in this town — that’s someone with a thick skin. A survivor. Unclouded by conscience, remorse, and delusions of morality.”
Jethro-51 ruminates on this, quietly, to himself. The Chez-un-Ami — restaurant/café/soup kitchen/dive — is renowned as a haven for this type of selfish behaviour. Suddenly a deep thrumming God-like voice echoes all around. Jethro-51 looks up to the heavens, at dirty ceiling panels and soiled fluorescent lights. There we spy a noisy MacGuffin.
‘A thick skin. More polarised silicone. A chip off the old block? He says you have no soul. Ask yourself, is the soul the place where you can find conscience, remorse and morality?’
Jethro-51 shakes his head, and the voice is there no longer. He shakes his head again, and the voice still isn’t there.
“Bugger. . . W.T.F.? Do you sit well at night?”
“Whadya mean, sit well?”
“Tell me, when last you had a blood test . . . did anything melt? Dissolve unexpectedly? Hiss, perhaps?”
“Only my patience.”
“Was there, an empathy test?”
“What’s this about Jethro-51? My cheeze’n’hammy-all-lard-Proto-Mogul-bolognaise is waving goodbye at me.”
“Is it moving? Are these things moving?”
“Sad, yes. But there’s no tears in rain.”
“If I may say so, you’re missing . . . definite article. But then, you are a God-Emperor-Mogul. You say what you like, how you like, no doubt. See how I am learning your ways, am I not? And so, now I need to understand your avarice, your patronising vindictiveness, your selfish disregard and disrespect for your own kind. This, if I understand correctly, is . . . road to success and God-Emperor-Mogul-dom!”
“Jethro-51, these are ancient secrets from our ancient civilisation that has cast its spell all over the world. If you want to remain part of the Futures Industry, you will give me that PG-13 and two hour run time. I’ll sanction the sequel, but only if a marquee is erected at the box-office. Remember what I said about tautology? And marketing? Good. But your artificial existence in my home town of Paradise needs to demonstrate its worthiness, so I’m pulling forward the release date. I want it in UK theatres by early June. Those selfish, feeble-minded, pin-striped, bowler-hatted retarded jerks over there decided to stick that stew-pid Wim-bull-dun, and those goddamned Oh-lym-picks, right in the middle of my schedule. Just who the hell do they think they are?”
“Who? Sir? Well. Let us consider this conundrum. Is this a solipsistic proposition, or an existential gambit? Do these jerks have the capacity to think like you, to experience those desires you hold so dear? Or do your relative life-enhancing values as a God-Emperor-Mogul in Paradise preclude such anathema? If they seek to attain the mark of Paradise — a Gay Centurion — will their endeavours usurp the godfathers of Paradise? Will this act bring down the wrath of the Gods of Mogul-dom? And upon their very souls? Should we also allow that what, when, and why are interrogative pronouns that also have little meaning without answers? In the context of rhetoric, one could be forgiven for indulging such a question. Now, repeat after me.”
“You’re not on set now, Jethro-51. So shut the fuck up.”
“Of course. Right away.”
__________________________________________________________________________________
Scene 8 – One week later. We’re still not in Paradise. Maybe New York, or Mars. Who cares
A top secret production office at a top secret location. Off-limits to all! No exceptions! Unless you’re handling in a suggestively lascivious manner an expensive bottle of red wine, then you’re in.
Jethro-51, Beautiful Chum, Dr Salty Sandman, Taffy Duck, and two red-shirted mercenaries that keep cropping up in different scenes even though they’re supposed to be dead, face each other across an impressively large table, hoping the shooting script before them is mustard ready to be cut from a shot glass.
“I have the working title — Eight Point Five FF.”
“We already have the working title. Just how many working titles do we need? And what’s with the FF?”
“Every directors favourite Italian auteur, ya know? Er, sorry, you know?”
“It’s not all about me, Salty.”
“Isn’t it? Your ultimate reality and fantasy roll? Your autobiography, your life in pictures, 1962 to 2012? Fifty years of green lights and screenplay hell?”
“. . .Mysterious green lights. . . Gems. . . Lucifer’s stone before the altar of broken dreams. And kittens.”
“Kittens?”
“In my seminal piece — ‘The Creature That Got Me’ — we had the working title — ‘The Moggie That Gets Away With It’. That moggie was once a kitten.”
“And a very old cat in that movie if we introduce it here. Too early, Jethro-51.”
“Not if the cat has eight and half lives. A half-life short of a full span.”
“Cat on a hot space/time continuum?”
“The Time Dilating Cat. A great title, Salty. I’d use it, but it’d give away too much.”
“Too surreal, Jethro-51. They’ll never understand the movie serves as a condensed treatise of influences, of cultural markers that defined your life, your experiences in Paradise.”
“Too surreal? An auteur should never be understood. Creativity cannot be defined, or confined by convention. It is not a commodity. I will give W.T.F. what he wants, and what he thinks his investment partners want. But reflected greatness shall be denied him. The audience, his so-called plebs, they will want more, not less. And I’m going to show them more, the truth about Paradise. That Paradise is not what you think it is.”
“But. . .”
“Just how nonsensical and self-defeating it is to believe that such a place could possibly exist, and happiness can be found there. Paradise has always been myth. A highly convenient concept the Futures Industry utilises to exploit the gullible, inside and outside of the business. The Paradise Concept is a parasite, burrowing into the consciousness of everyone seeking it, distorting the truth, distorting perceptions. It’s the reality of how the artifice of dreamscapes infect people with a mutating virus that corrupts from within. Making make-believe in Paradise is to dance with the devil. Souls are sold cheaply for an alternate unreality check. Paradise is the most cynical, soul-destroying environment on Earth.”
“So it’s not about kittens. . .”
“Salty — just write the story. But be forewarned, what I’m going to shoot will be allegorical, a mythological treatise about rebirth — adaptation — manipulation — distortion — survival. I survived it all. Yet I became tainted by it all. But now I am back, to face the inner demon, the monster.”
“They’ll never get it. Too complex. Too many layers.”
“You may be right. The truth will be staring them in the face, and they won’t see it. But then, fact is often stranger than fiction.”
“You’ll be defying everyone’s expectations. Could backfire.”
“Maybe. But that’s just the way I do things. A little seasoning; not too salty, Salty. Just the way I like it.”
__________________________________________________________________________________
Scene 9 – Soon. Gent’s toilet
Dr Salty Sandman stands alone at the urinary, squirting the porcelain, chuckling to himself.
“Oh man. So I give Jethro-51 what he thinks he wants. But I’ll be hiding underneath. This shall be my entrée into the great anals of Paradise. Kittens? I’ll give him kittens! This is gonna be a story about the Internet! Oh, how the internet corrupts. Gives birth to monsters. A conduit to vent. For the tainted to vent their spleeeeen. . . pissing blood into an already tainted pool.
“The internet — a fucking Monster. Nit-Wit? I’ll give him Nit-Wits!
THE END?
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ANGELS OF THE LIGHTNING 