Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Fuck, 50 posts in under a month, I officially suck

Here's a short ficitional piece I wrote a while back in anticipation for a certain movie. I never continued the story because well, I didn't have any further story thought out AND people had alreadly gotten the joke. It was very well received:

The incessant drone of the box fan in the window was his only company. It was a hot summer, but that was nothing new. He sat there trying to watch various DVD's on his computer, in the hope that one of them would provide him with whatever he was searching for that night. He gave up on this notion when his version of Fellini's "8 and 1/2" refused to work properly. No, that wasn't true, it was the bonus disc that was malfunctioning. Recently, he'd had similiar problems with a Sonic Youth DVD, but on that occasion it was because the disc was mastered in 24 bit sound and his shit wasn't able to support the format. After aborting the DVD idea, he briefly pondered playing some music, but that as well would not be satisfactory.

Bored, unsettled, completely sober and wide awake at 3AM, he walks downstairs and exits through the front door. Perhaps a short walk to 7-11 and the purchase of a Slurpee will provide distraction for a good half hour or so before he just gives up on the day and goes to bed. He muses to himself, "Aaaah, if only I lived in a bigger town with more insomniacs, there would be something to do right now. Someone to hang out with, somewhere to go, something."

His walk carries him past the local library & police station, which he has deliberately jaywalked in front of ever since his family moved to this town when he was seven. "Fucking cops" he mutters under his breath, while shaking his head in dissaproval. It's a move done on an almost pre-conscience, reflexive level. It's the same knee jerk reaction has he always had to the cops. Lately, he's even started making hard eye contact with police officiers when he sees them. They never look away first like a normal person does. They always just stare right back, giving you that "What are you up to, mother-fucker?" look.

Don't get him wrong though, he has had his fair share of good experiences with police officiers in town and is even on a first name basis with many of them. He's a good kid, his criminal record is completely clean, or well, it was until recently.

He enters the 7-11 and finds that same old damn woman in there. "I wonder if she reconizes me, I'm in here nearly every god damned day." He walks to the back of the store to the Slurpee machine. The Cherry flavor, his favorite is still all soft and liquidy. He opts instead for the Blue Raspberry.

Slurpee filled, he turns around and heads for the register. All the sudden the front door opens with a with a loud swooshing sound. This is bizarre because it is not at all windy day. Just as he is about to dismss this, the old woman behind the counter screams and raises up a good two feet off the ground, A blade then pentrates the front of her chest and she goes limp.

Before our hero can shit his pants, there's an eletric crackling sound and the air directly behind the old woman becomes wavey and distorted, slowly revealing a figure.

"Fucking Predator, yer back again. I thought I killed your extraterrestrial ass." The beast screams, retracts it's claws and throws the now lifeless body of the old woman at him. He manages to just barely leap out of the way, falling face first into a candy rack. In a split second, with Chicklets still raining down upon him, he gets back up and draws his thermal pistol out of his pocket. Its shaped to look like a cell phone, but the Predator knows full well what it is. The monster re-enters it stealth mode. Bert shoots off two quick 'rounds but neither hit their mark. The animal crashes through one of the front plate glass windows and runs off into the night.

"Fuck", he says to himself. He takes a moment to let the adrenaline subside, and then, with his wrist communicator, he hails head quarters. "Jim, this is Bert, the Rastaman is back in town. I need a clean up crew at the downtown 7-11." A faint voices crackles back at him, " God damned shit & hell! Are you sure it's who you say? Case PDR was believed to be effectively terminated."

Bert leans into his wrist and says, "Hey, if anyone knows that fucker, it's me."

"Okay, we'll be there in a few minutes..."