Midnight Movie
Page 6
After he gave me my drink, I asked him, “Are you okay?”
He said, “What do you mean?”
I pointed at the floor behind the bar and said, “Brother, you’re standing in a damn mountain of glass.”
He looked around, then shrugged and said, “Just another day at the Cove, man. Just another day at the Cove.”
I almost said, Another day at the Cove? Broken shit all over the floor is another day at the Cove? But I held my tongue. It didn’t seem like the time for a philosophical discussion about the true meaning of fucked-up-ed-ness. All I did was throw down the shot, then, as I headed toward the other side of the club, the girl who’d kissed me gave me a chaste peck on the cheek and said, “I don’t like scary movies, but that was wonderful.” I felt nothing. It was like being kissed by my cousin.
I gave her elbow a squeeze and said, “Thank you, darlin’. Sorry about the … confusion during the flick.”
She gave me a smile that you could actually describe as virginal and said, “What confusion?”
I pointed at her beer and asked, “How many drinks have you had?”
She shrugged and said, “Three, I think. But that’s nothing for me.” She puffed up her big ol’ chest and said, all blustery, “Despite my tininess, I’m far from a lightweight.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I believe you. Now I got to go to work.”
Many of the filmgoers touched me as I wound my way through the club. Nothing lascivious, mind you. Just pats on the back, and handshakes, and in a couple of instances, I got my hair tousled. I yelled across the club, “Gary, you’d best get your ass up here! I’m not doing this alone.”
Everybody laughed; then, when it quieted down, he yelled back, “Yeah, you are! It’s your night, Tobe!”
twitter.com
ScaryBarry took a scary shit in the scary cove bathroom. i think i pooped out some of my guts.
April 1 12:48 AM via web
FarceCycle @ScaryBarry You’re all class. Wish I could be there with you.
April 1 12:55 AM via web
ScaryBarry @FarceCycle too late. gonna try and score some more blow before I split. j/k.
April 1 12:59 AM via web
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
I’d survived way worse beatings. The unofficial count: once in junior high, five times in high school, once in college, and four times after Massacre This shows. None of them were totally my fault—I’ll take some responsibility, because sometimes there’s a bit of a disconnect between my brain and my mouth—but I’ve never been randomly attacked. And it fucked me up physically and mentally … but I wasn’t fucked up badly enough that I didn’t stagger into the club for Tobe’s Q & A.
The guy who’d hit me was sitting at a table right by the door. He raised his beer at me, gave me one of those chin-nods, and said, “Sorry, man. ’Roid rage. It happens. Let me buy you a drink.”
I said, “Fuck off, asswipe.”
He laughed. “I hear you, man. Too bad you missed the flick.” He pointed at Tobe and said, “Can’t wait to hear what this dude has to say.”
I must’ve looked royally pissed, because Janine draped her arm over my shoulders, guided me to the other side of the room, and said, “What say we sit down and listen to your hero regale the masses?”
I said, “That sounds good.” And then I thought, It’ll be even better if you keep your arm around me.
TOBE HOOPER:
In general, Q & A’s are either awesome or terrible, and what with most of my viewers off in Never Never Land, this one wasn’t looking good. I didn’t know what was going through those folks’ heads, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a question about how I lit that alligator scene. There were other factors, too, factors that I personally will foot the blame for. How can it be a good Q & A if the dude who’s being Q’ed doesn’t know any of the goddamn A’s?
They pelted me with questions about how I got the dismemberments to look so realistic, and what kind of cameras I used, and how long the shoot was, and where I did my editing. After each question, I yelled over to Gary, “Do you know?” Everybody laughed. They thought I was kidding. I wasn’t.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes of this utter nonsense, I said, “Anybody want to ask me something about Chainsaw?”
Some wag yelled out, “Screw Chainsaw. What happened on Poltergeist?”
Ah, Poltergeist. Lot of rumors about my involvement with that one, and you’ll hear only rumors because nobody’ll talk about it, myself included. I said, “No comment. Next question.”
Silence.
I said, “All right, y’all, I’m outta here. Thanks for coming. And I’m glad you enjoyed your ride on the Destiny Express … because I sure as hell didn’t.” Then I ran to the back of the room and gave Gary a quick good-bye hug, told him I’d call him when I got back to town—and I meant it, this time—then told the bartender to get me a cab and get me a cab fast.
The taxi showed up ten minutes later. There was a hotel room booked for me across town, and my flight was scheduled to leave three days later, but I had a case of the willies like nobody’s business, so I went right to the airport and traded my ticket in for the next flight out, which turned out to be six o’clock, so I had to sit in the terminal for three hours, but I didn’t care, because I wanted out.
Hell-Lay had never, never sounded so good.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Today, if you do a Google search of “The Game” and “virus,” or maybe “The Game” and “symptoms,” you won’t find much of interest. Why? Nobody’s really sure. See, a goodly amount of the Net coverage of the Game evaporated into cyberspace. Much of that, I suspect, was due to personal choice; a lot of the writing about the disease—especially from those who were suffering one of the harsher symptoms—is at once appalling and embarrassing, and if it were me who posted it practically against my will, I’d want it erased, too.
When the Game was at its worst, a shocking number of websites fell off the map, and this was one area where I was unable to track down any concrete information. Nobody in the government would speak with me, no reputable tech reporters would talk, no nothing. It was the one time during the whole process that I wished I had some honest-to-goodness press credentials.
But I was able to track down a wonderful hacker who was able to resurrect a number of blogs and chat boards that were thought to have been gone forever, and even though he was unable to offer any answers as to why this stuff disappeared in the first place, we should all be grateful that there’s something.
http://andidaltrey.blogspot.com
Andi-Licious
The Useless Musings of Sophomoric
Sophomore Andrea Daltrey
APRIL 1, 2009
THE EMPRESSES’ NEW CLOTHES
I don’t have any money, and neither does Janine, but my sister knows how to shop. She’s always trying to buy me new stuff, but I feel guilty accepting her offers because I know how broke she is, plus my feeling has always been, how many outfits does one girl need?
The morning after I spent all that time at the creepy, creepy Cove, I felt so dirty that even after a two-hour bath with multiple refills, I needed something to make me feel pretty again, so I called up sis and said, “Let’s go thrifting!” She squealed like I told her I’d won the lottery or something, and if she’s happy, then I’m happy.
Once we were at the store, I went kind of nuts … but to my credit, I only went nuts at the super sale rack. I ended up walking out of there with four blouses, two skirts, and a pair of what sis called “fuck-me pumps.” I loved it all so much that on the way to the parking lot, I gave her a huge hug and a wet, juicy, silly kiss on the lips. She shoved me away, then wiped off her mouth and got all flushed. It was awkward, but whatever. We’d had a superfun day, so it was all good.
FROM: GaryChurch@gmail.com
TO: Church_Warren@LTDLaw.com
SUBJECT: Ouch, babe
DATE: April 3, 2009
Hey, Warren—
You know how I always get those h
eadaches? No? You don’t? THAT’S BECAUSE I NEVER GET HEADACHES. And I have a bitch of one now. And four Advils every three hours (which, according to my GP/quack/Dr. Feelgood, is a therapeutic dose) ain’t cuttin’ it. But I’ll survive.
Out of nowhere, I landed what could be an interesting gig. Wes Craven, he of Scream and A Nightmare on Elm Street fame, is doing a parody filled with horror third and fourth bananas, er, I mean horror character actors. Ironically, I’m playing the fourth banana, making me the lowest banana in the bunch. But when you’ve got bills to pay, it’s always banana time. Details from the set to come.
Hey, how come I haven’t heard anything about your latest whatzhername? Details, please, Counselor.
Love,
Gary
twitter.com
ScaryBarry craving fast food and coca cola and coca caine
April 3 12:04 AM via web
ScaryBarry scarfed down taco hell, drank a liter bottle, and snorted a line. feeling way better. more, more, more!!!
April 3 1:01 AM via web
Freekydeeky Anybody know how to make meth? Have the equipment, need the ingredients and ratios.
April 3 1:13 AM via web
ScaryBarry @Freekydeeky badass methmaker right here baby
April 3 2:04 AM via web
FarceCycle ©ScaryBarry Seriously, Barry? Meth making? Did you finish your Brit Lit essay yet, dickhead?
April 3 2:25 AM via web
Freekydeeky ©ScaryBarry Barry, hit me up via e-mail
April 3 2:31 AM via web
ScaryBarry ©Freekydeeky lost your addy
April 3 2:51 AM via web
Freekydeeky @ScaryBarry Freekydeeky420 (at) Yahoo.
April 3 2:54 AM via web
FarceCycle ©ScaryBarry @Freekydeeky Please tell me you dumbasses aren’t discussing meth recipes on Twitter. If anybody asks, I don’t know either of you.
April 3 3:11 AM via web
ScaryBarry ©FarceCycle ©Freekydeeky what can i say? if somebody needs help, i’m there for them. j/k.
April 3 3:29 AM via web
FROM: BarryKlein1998@gmail.com
TO: Freekydeeky420@yahoo.com
SUBJECT: recipe
DATE: April 3, 2009
steve—
i kind of wrote this myself. haven’t done a test run, but somehow i know it’ll work.
barry
* * * * *
2 boxes of Contact 12-hour Time Release Tablets
½ bottle of Heet
1 gallon of Muriatic Acid
1 quart of Coleman’s Fuel
1 pound of IAMS Cat Food
2 cans of frozen orange juice
½ gallon of Acetone
2 bottles of iodine tincture, 2%
8 oz. of dried “oregano”
½ pound of mulch
1 lb. of Scott’s Rose and Bloom food
2 bottles of hydrogen peroxide
½ can of Red Devil’s Lye
2 gallons of distilled water
1 gallon of tap water
1 gallon of “used” toilet water
2 oz. of rat blood
EXCERPTED FROM THE PAPERS OF DR. AARON GILLESPIE,
RISK MANAGEMENT ANALYST FOR THE DEPARTMENT
OF HOMELAND SECURITY
April 3, 2009—And then I died. At least I felt as if I did.
I cannot stop thinking about the plane trip back to O’Hare. The moment I arrived at the airport, the second I set foot in a terminal, a terminal that was not particularly crowded, I felt claustrophobic. That was not a surprise, as I have many phobias, claustro being likely the most enervating. Nonetheless, it has been years since the last attack, an attack that I still believe was brought on by a stressful discussion between MariAnne and me, but that is not germane to this particular event. That attack was in private, whereas this was very public. I had never had an attack in such a wide-open area, and I certainly would never have guessed that it could even happen like that. Think about it. Claustrophobia and giant airports, in theory, do not mix. Then again, what do I know? I am not a doctor. At least not that kind of doctor.
I did not know if I was assigned a window seat, an aisle seat, or a center seat, but none of them sounded appealing, so I bit the bullet, so to speak, and upgraded to first class. Nine hundred dollars. From Texas to Illinois. Astounding, simply astounding.
I had flown first class only once previously, and enjoyed it immensely, but that was for a Department event, thus they footed the bill. Since this one came from my pocket, I was far more critical. But considering my mood, and my flop sweat, and my shaky stomach, and my trembling knees, and my hollowed-out joints, I believe I would not have been happy or comfortable anywhere.
We’d been in the air for about an hour when the compulsion started. But “compulsion” might not be the right word. “Craving,” maybe? “Unquenchable desire”? “Fixation”? Call it what you will, but it was impossible to ignore.
The skies had become turbulent, and the “Fasten Seat Belts” sign was crystal-clearly on, but I stood up nonetheless, took a step toward the cockpit, and knocked on the door. The attendant was right behind me and said, “Dr. Gillespie, please return to your seat.” I would normally find it a nice touch that the flight crew remembered my name and title, but at that moment, it was unnerving.
I told her that I needed to speak with the pilot immediately. She put a hand on my elbow, trying to placate me as if I were a child or a crazy person. (It could be argued that right at that moment, I was both.) I have no clue what I said next. All I recall is the stewardess guiding me back to my seat, after which I again strode to the cockpit and pounded on the door. A large male crew member dashed through the curtain that separated first class from coach, then shoved me down into my chair and said, “Sir, if you do not calm down, we are going to have a couple of air marshals meet you in Chicago, and nobody wants that.”
I do not know whether it was the threat of arrest or the threat of physical violence that brought me down to earth, but whatever it was, just like that, I snapped back into myself. That compulsion to meet the pilot was gone. The irony is, on the way out of the airplane, when the pilot offered his hand, my first instinct was to punch him in the jaw. Fortunately, I was able to sublimate it.
When I returned home, I poured myself a stiff drink, gave my schedule a once-over, and cursed. Two days from now, it is off to New York, for a meeting with some midlevel brass. I didn’t even bother unpacking my suitcase. I asked myself the same question I always ask myself when prepping for these meetings: How, after years of research and mountains of intel, can these people not know how to infiltrate a cell?
EXCERPTED FROM THE DIARY OF DAVID CRANFORD,
BARTENDER, THE COVE, AUSTIN, TEXAS
FROM: GaryChurch@gmail.com
TO: Church_Warren@LTDLaw.com
SUBJECT: Doctors do little
DATE: April 6, 2009
Warren—
Doctors in L.A. are a joke. Good luck getting a same-day appointment, or quality one-on-one care, or a useful diagnosis. It’s not like the doctors back home are anything to shout about, but man, these California physicians suck.
Last night, my head was throbbing so badly that I went to the emergency room. (If I knew somebody who sold Vicodin, I would’ve gone that route, but sadly, the only illegal drug I know how to procure is Mary Jane Wanna.) I insisted they run every test imaginable—fuck it, the Screen Actors Guild has a good health plan, so why not take full advantage of it?—which meant an MRI, a CT scan, a ton of blood work, and, worst of all, a spinal tap. You ever had a spinal tap? Don’t. They hurt like a bastard.
Anyhoo, I got my wish: a two-week supply of Big V. And we’re not talking Viagra, although I wouldn’t mind some of that right about now. At least it would be a distraction from the orb of pain that is my head.
Gary
http://andidaltrey.blogspot.com
Andi-Licious
The Useless Musings of Sophomoric
Sophomore Andrea Daltrey
&nb
sp; APRIL 9, 2009
I HAD ONE!
So I was laying in bed last night thinking about nothing in particular, and then all of a sudden, I had I guess what you could call a vision. But it was so real that it might’ve even been a hallucination. I couldn’t say for sure, because I’ve never hallucinated before. Anyhow, it was a man. Not a man I’d ever seen before. Just a man.