Midnight Movie

by Tobe Hooper

  She shrugged, gave me this weird, cockeyed smile, and said, “Kind of.”

  I said, “He’s a lucky guy, what with your boobs all hanging out like that.”

  She said, “It’s funny, I never realized how easy it is to get a man with these things. I mean, they’re just boobs. But if I push them up, or if they can see my nipples, it’s like they’re my slave or something.”

  I said, “How’s it going with the doctor?”

  She said, “Which one?”

  I said, “What do you mean ‘which one’? The one who you were fucking on my hospital bed.”

  She said, “Oh, right, Cyrus. Yeah, I’m done with him. I fucked him out.”

  I said, “Jesus, I never thought I’d be hearing this from Ms. Prim and Proper.”

  She said, “Screw prim and proper. I’m on a mission.”

  I said, “Just be careful.”

  She said, “I don’t need to be.”

  I said, “What’re you talking about?”

  She said, “Don’t worry about it. What about you? What’s your boy situation like?”

  I said, “Honey, I’ll be happy when I can stand up without my joints creaking. No sex in the champagne room for Janine.”

  She said, “Great! More for me.”

  I wondered what the hell happened to her. But again, I didn’t ask.

  http://www.thetruthaboutzombies.com

  Welcome to the Truth About Zombies

  May 20, 2009

  We’ve been dicking around with this zombie stuff for, what, three years now, and it’s all been in good fun. Until now. To that end, a quick Q & A …

  Q: Do we believe that undead roam the earth?

  A: Maybe in Haiti, but not the United States.

  Q: Have any of you actually seen a zombie in person?

  A: No.

  Q: What would you do if you did encounter a zombie?

  A: Have a mental meltdown.

  Which leads to this: CLICK HERE TO SEE WHAT IS PROBABLY A ZOMBIE

  I saw this thing. I smelled this thing. I heard this thing. And I survived this thing. Right. Now let me tell you what happened. And it’s straight out of a shitty horror movie.

  Ironically, my pal Dave-o and I had just gotten out of a shitty horror movie, and I was craving an In-n-Out burger, so we picked up some grub, brought it outside, sat on the hood of my car, and shoved down burgers while railing on that piece-of-shit flick. I hadn’t even gotten to my fries yet when a car pulled up, and the driver opened his window. He was ugly as hell, and twice as smelly, and at first I thought it was a homeless guy, but then I wondered, What would a homeless guy be doing driving a Mercedes M-Class?

  I yelled out to him, “You need some help with something?” Because he looked like he could use a serious hand. He shook his head and mumbled something I couldn’t make out. While all this was going on, Dave-o pulled out his cell phone and snapped a picture—the very picture you see HERE—and that got the dude riled up like a motherfucker. He opened his door, then—and I swear to God this is the 100 percent honest truth—ripped off the car door with his bare hands and threw it to the other side of the parking lot.

  At this point, Dave-o said, “We’re out.”

  I said, “Wait, I think this guy needs help.”

  To which Dave-o responded, “Get in the car, moron. He has a gun.”

  I looked back at him and saw that Dave-o was wrong. He didn’t have a gun. He had pulled off his own arm and was cocking it at me like it was a rifle. I raised my arms above my head and said, “We’re cool, man. You want money? We got money. I’m going to reach into my back pocket and get my wallet. Don’t shoot. We’re cool.”

  And then he let out a moan that literally made my eardrums bleed, which I’ll share with you now. CLICK HERE TO SEE MY BLEEDING EARDRUM

  Right then, Dave-o fell onto the pavement. I don’t know whether he tripped or whether his brain was blown away by the guy’s moan—my ears were bleeding, for fuck’s sake, so anything was possible—and then the guy (who, believe it or not, looked familiar to me) jumped over both me and the car and landed on Dave-o’s chest. Then he took his dismembered arm and smacked Dave-o upside his head. I heard Dave-o’s nose crunch, and saw four of his teeth fly out of his mouth. The guy then stepped on Dave-o’s kneecap. Dave-o started screaming, and the guy kept moaning, and then the guy fell on top of Dave-o and bit his ear. Then he went to work on me, and he didn’t stop chewing until people started coming out of the restaurant, at which point he got into his Mercedes and speeded away.

  We’re both in the hospital right now. I’ll survive, but they’re giving Dave-o only a 50/50 chance. So I’m done with this website. Our attacker may or may not have been a zombie, but regardless, I’ve lost my taste for this. You can keep posting your comments, but I’m finito. I mean, look at me: CLICK HERE TO SEE ME IN A FUCKING WHEELCHAIR, WITH ONE LEG RIPPED OFF

  As you might imagine, horror has lost its appeal.

  COMMENTS

  Swell story, asshole, but I have two words: Photoshop, bitch.

  Brew ’n’ View from San Francisco, CA

  May 20, 9:33 AM

  Awesome!!!!!

  Martin from Miami, FL

  May 20, 11:42 AM

  HOLY SHIT. I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT. THE SAME THING SORT OF HAPPENED TO ME AND MY BOYFRIEND. IT WAS LIKE THREE IN THE MORNING AND WE WERE AT OUR 24-HOUR STARBUCKS. WE WERE DRINKING OUR DRINKS AND THERE WAS NOBODY AROUND. A CAR PULLED UP AND IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN A MERCEDES BUT I DON’T KNOW FOR SURE. A MAN JUMPED OUT AND HE WAS CARRYING A TIRE IRON. HE SWUNG AND HIT MY BOYFRIEND IN THE NECK AND HE WAS MOVING SO FAST THAT I DIDN’T HAVE TIME TO DO ANYTHING. HE YANKED OFF MY BOYFRIEND’S HEAD AND SUCKED ON THE NECK STUMP. I SCREAMED AND SCREAMED AND THE BARISTA CAME RUNNING OUT OF THE STARBUCKS AND CALLED 911 ON HIS CELL PHONE. I DON’T REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED NEXT BUT I WAS TOLD LATER THAT THE COPS SHOWED UP ALMOST IMMEDIATELY AND TOOK A BUNCH OF SHOTS AT THE GUY BUT HE DIDN’T DIE OR BLEED OR ANYTHING. HE LIFTED UP THE TABLE AND THREW IT AT POLICE CARS THEN GOT INTO HIS OWN CAR AND DROVE AWAY. HE DIDN’T GET A CHANCE TO EAT ME BUT MY BOYFRIEND IS DEAD. HIS FUNERAL IS TOMORROW BUT I’M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO GO BECAUSE I’M REALLY SICK. I’M ALL ITCHY AND I’M GETTING ZITS. MY DOCTORS SAYS IT’S EITHER CHICKEN POX OR STRESS. WHATEVER IT IS I’M SAD AND SCARED AND I HOPE THAT YOU AND DAVE-O ARE OKAY SOON. LOVE …

  Cherie from Los Angeles, CA

  May 20, 2:18 PM

  WEEKLY WORLD NEWS

  MAY 21, 2009

  ZOMBIES SIGHTED IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

  LOS ANGELES—First they took over the multiplex, then they took over the bookstores, now they’re taking over the West Coast!

  Packs of zombies, the monster du jour, have been spotted throughout Southern California, specifically in Los Angeles, La Quinta, Arcadia, Rancho Cucamonga, Thousand Oaks, and Glendale.

  A UCLA physics professor, who wishes to remain anonymous, said, “It’s possible!” A doctor at Cedars-Sinai, who apparently treated several victims of attacks, agreed, saying, “Yes, it’s possible!” The Los Angeles Police Department refused to discuss the matter.

  A relative of one victim, however, was brave enough to speak on the record. Bella Napoli, 25, of Los Angeles County, claims that her sister was attacked in a mall parking lot by four undead gentlemen. Napoli says that after the zombies subdued her sister, Gina, 22, they removed her limbs and “did something weird,” after which they reattached the limbs and carried Gina away.

  “I haven’t heard from her since,” Bella said with tears rolling down her cheeks, “and I don’t think I’ll ever hear from her again.”

  So, dear readers, please stay alert when you’re in those mall parking lots, because you never know what’s out there!

  twitter.com

  ScaryBarry tweaking like a motherfucker. better than ever. who wants in?

  May 22 2:14 PM via web

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  May 22 2:18 PM via web

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  May 22 2:22 PM via web

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  May 22 2:32 PM via web

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  May 22 2:58 PM via web

  ScaryBarry @Supergirl1491 @TheFakeShaqO @StinkyCat @BorisDSpider that article is b.s. none of that piddly crap here.

  May 22 3:03 PM via web

  Supergirl1491 ©ScaryBarry What do you mean “piddly crap”?

  May 22 3:14 PM via web

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  May 22 3:20 PM via web

  ERICK LAUGHLIN:

  Needless to say, after Theo and I watched the video, I made it a point to never be in my apartment after 9:30, which meant crashing on couches throughout Austin and a lot of worn-out welcomes. My friends were as cool as they could be about it, but having houseguests is a pain in the ass, especially a guy like me who was ranting and raving about all kinds of supernatural bullshit.

  I tried to go about life normally—you know, write my articles, rehearse with the band, get my fill of Internet porn … kidding about the porn—but it was impossible. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Would you have been able to? Would you have been able to get it out of your brain that you turned invisible, then ran or floated into another time zone, then shot red bullets out of some part of your body? Good luck not obsessing over that.

  No wonder I got baked every night.

  I was turning into such a space cadet wasteoid that Theo dragged me to see his general practitioner so I could get a full physical workup. I’d been poked and prodded enough at the sleep center, but my health insurance at the newspaper was okay, and this guy was in our network, so I figured, Why not, it won’t cost you anything except time.

  So we’re sitting in the waiting room, and I’m reading a three-month-old issue of Sports Illustrated, and somebody taps me on the shoulder. It was Janine Daltrey, who I hadn’t seen since the Tobe Hooper screening. The poor girl looked terrible. Her sister, Andi, however, looked smashing, so smashing that when I asked Janine what was wrong, and she told me about getting beaten by her ex, I couldn’t look away from Andi, which made me feel like a lame-o. I’ve always considered myself a gentleman, and I’ve never been the guy who gawks. But if you saw Andi that day, there’s absolutely no way you wouldn’t have stared. I mean, she had on a tight, strappy tank top that pushed her breasts together and gave her some death-defying cleavage. Her jeans had big holes in the knees, so you could see the fishnet stockings she was wearing underneath. Andi Daltrey was a walking pheromone, and it took all of my restraint to not lick the back of her neck.

  But my gentlemanliness trumped my lust, and I managed to focus on Janine. I told her about my disappearing act, and she kind of freaked. She said, “We had ghosts one summer when I was in high school.”

  Andi said, “We did?”

  Janine said, “You were at overnight camp.”

  Andi asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Janine said, “What good would it have done? They went away before you got home.”

  Andi said, “You’re bullshitting me.” Then she turned to me and said, “She’s bullshitting me, right? It’s the twenty-first century. They don’t make ghosts anymore.”

  I said, “Andi, you’re talking to a guy who has filmed evidence of himself disappearing. There’re ghosts.” Then I asked Janine what happened.

  She said, “It wasn’t as sinister as it sounds. The woman who owned the house next door to us died when I was a kid. Her name was Mrs. Pupe—spelled P-U-P-E, but pronounced ‘poopy.’ You can imagine how much crap she took from us kids in the ’hood.”

  Andi said, “Oh, I kind of remember her.”

  Janine said, “I’m not surprised. She loved you. She thought you were the cutest little girl. She used to give you candy all the time. Me, not so much.”

  Andi batted her eyelashes and said, “I was pretty cute. Still am.” Then she rubbed her fingernail on my knee and said, “Right, Erick?”

  Back when I was in junior high, I thought about sex so often that I’d get a boner if a leaf fell off a tree and landed on my head. If a girl accidentally brushed her arm against me, forget it, I’d be in a daze of lust for forty-five minutes. But that was junior high. Now that I’m a semi-adult, it takes me a minute or three to get an erection, but when Andi Daltrey’s finger grazed my leg, I swear I almost came. A bit disconcerting, I have to say. I excused myself, and went to the men’s room, and, if I may be crude, finished myself off in the stall.

  When I got back, Janine was struggling to get to her feet. I gave her a hand standing up, then asked her what happened with Mrs. Pupe. She said, “Long story. Call me.” Then she gave me her number and went to see her doctor.

  JANINE DALTREY:

  My arms were still pretty bruised up, and my eyes were still rain-bowed, and my ankle wasn’t all that much better, and Dr. Finnegan was concerned that my wounds weren’t healing faster. He wanted to take some blood and run tests to make sure I wasn’t anemic or something.

  I walked over to the lab, and Andi said she wanted to ask the doctor a few questions. I hate having blood drawn—I hate needles in general—so I asked her to come with me and hold my hand. She said, “No, sis.” Then she touched the doctor on the chest—a doctor who, I should mention, was probably in his mid-fifties and was, if I may be rude, pretty damn fugly—and said all whispery, “I have a few questions for the physician.” I swear, he shivered.

  Long story short, I wasn’t anemic. They couldn’t find anything. I was at wit’s end. And I wanted to hurt somebody.

  ERICK LAUGHLIN:

  They found nothing. I was pissed. Times ten. And I didn’t know what to do. I mean, where do you go when your friends, in spite of their best efforts, can’t help you, and your doctors are useless? Outside of Theo, there wasn’t anybody in my life who’d take this seriously.

  TOBE HOOPER:

  All the shit with the Game was raining down—the fires and the bombings and whatnot—but at the time, I wasn’t following it. My television was permanently tuned to American Movie Classics, and the only two things I ever did on my computer were write and answer e-mail, so unless the news was happening right in my front yard, I wasn’t aware. And that was just the way I liked it.

  Random chitter-chatter from the outside world wasn’t good for my career—hell, most of the outside world wasn’t good for my career, but that’s for another book. Seriously, all I needed was a keyboard, a screen, some food, and a few libations, and I was good to go. It was when I had to deal with the general public that things got hairy. Like, for example, pitching projects.

  If you put a gun to my head and asked, “What’s worse, a zombie attack or a pitch meeting with a studio head? Answer quick or die,” I’d probably be dead, because that’s a question that merits much pondering. If a zombie attacks you, you’ll fight the good fight, and if you go down, you’ll go down with dignity. But when a dude from the studio attacks you, or your script, or your ideas, you get defensive, and you start to beg. You beg for money, or you beg for an audience with the next fellow on the food chain, or you beg for a second chance, a third chance, a tenth chance. They cut you to pieces, but they do it so politely that you don’t even realize you’re gushing blood until you’re in your car and halfway home.

  I liked to go into these things with a small pile of scripts and a big pile of ideas; that way, if they chopped off my leg, I’d still have another ten or so to stand on. So if somebody asked me, “Tobe, what were you doing during the beginning of the Game?
” I’d tell them, “I was prepping for one epic motherfucking pitch meeting.”

  EXCERPTED FROM THE PAPERS OF DR. AARON GILLESPIE,

  RISK MANAGEMENT ANALYST FOR THE DEPARTMENT

  OF HOMELAND SECURITY

  May 27, 2009—Still quiet on the eastern front. Brian’s runner, who went by the megalomaniacal moniker of the Lord, had not initiated contact in months.

  They brought me in and embraced me as best they could, but there was always the distance, likely because I chose to sleep at home. Going in, I had a hunch that might happen, so I came armed. Not with weapons. With a plan.

  All I wanted to do was prove myself. And if I exterminated a few people in the process, so much the better.

  One thing I have learned over the years is that it is as important to cover your tracks as it is to devise quality weaponry. Look at those idiots who tried to blow up the World Trade Center in 1993, or that so-called bomb factory that was raided in Park Slope, Brooklyn, in 1997. The bombs were not good, but their planning was worse.

  There had not been any significant terrorist action in Chicago period (strange, I always thought, because it was not a well-protected city), so I thought that blowing up the Excalibur nightclub—which would at once be catastrophic and endear me to the Lord—would not prove to be a problem.