Midnight Movie

by Tobe Hooper

  Dude actually looked hurt. He said, “You guys are mean. I bet you were both bullies in high school.”

  Tobe said, “I wasn’t. But you would’ve made me one. Now … please … fucking … talk!”

  Dude cleared his throat, lifted his arms above his head and brought them back down as if he was doing a sun salutation, then said, “That movie of yours, To-beeeeee. That was quite an impressive film. It was an amateurish piece of celluloid dung, of course—”

  Tobe mumbled, “Yeah, I know.”

  Dude went on. “—but impressive nonetheless. I haven’t seen it all the way through, which is why I’m here today. Because I suspect if I had seen it, if I’d have watched it from beginning to end, I’d be … susceptible.”

  I asked, “Susceptible to what?”

  He said, “Laughing Boy, Destiny Express started the Game.”

  I said, “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

  Tobe said, “Give me a fucking break, both of you.” He grabbed me roughly by the shoulder and said, “Let’s go.”

  I said, “Let’s hear him out.” Naturally, I thought about that horrible video of me zipping through who-knows-where with those red dots shooting out of my stomach, or my chest, or wherever. Was that the Game? Did I spread the Game? Did somebody blow up a building because of me? Did Dave Cranford beat the crap out of Janine because of me? Fuck. I asked Dude, “Okay, why do you think a movie started this whole thing?”

  He said, “Didn’t you see The Ring? It’s possible. Very, very possible.”

  I said, “The Ring is fiction, dickhead. You know, somebody made it up.”

  He said, “But it rang true to me.”

  Tobe said, “I’m sure it did.”

  I said, “Answer the question, Dude. Why do you say this had anything to do with Tobe’s flick?”

  Dude said, “Oh, I did the research. See, I had the guest list. I know everybody who was at that club, and I know what happened to them, and I know what they did. Or most of them. For instance, I know about your sleep study, Erick Laugh-In.”

  I felt like I was going to throw up. Janine, Theo, and Jamal were the only people I’d told about that. I asked, “How’d you find out, Dude? How the fuck did you find out?”

  He said, “You may not believe it, but I’m kinda smart. And you may not believe this either, but some people like me, and sometimes when I ask them questions, they answer. Would you care to tell me why you had the sleep study?”

  I said, “No, McGee, I would not care to tell you.”

  He said, “Fine. Then I’ll tell you something else I know. I know that To-beeeeee’s pal Gary Church disappeared.”

  Tobe mumbled, “He didn’t disappear.”

  Dude shrugged, then said, “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, but according to the LAPD, he’s a missing person. I also know that Andrea Daltrey died a horrible, tortured death. If the men in black haven’t taken it down yet, you should read her blog, Laughing Boy. Quite eye-opening. And boner producing.”

  I again tensed up, and again, Tobe touched my forearm and said, “Don’t do it, man.”

  I took a deep breath, told Tobe, “I’m cool,” then said to Dude, “None of this really proves anything.”

  Dude turned to Tobe and asked, “Did you touch anybody during the screening, To-beeeeee?”

  I said, “What the fuck, McGee? What kind of question is that?”

  Tobe ignored me and said, “Um, not really.”

  Dude asked, “Are you sure?”

  Frankly, Tobe looked and sounded anything but sure. He said, “Not really.”

  Dude said, “Tell us what happened, To-beeeeee. Whatever it was, we won’t judge you. At least I won’t. Laughing Boy here might.”

  Tobe mopped his brow with a napkin, then said, “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  Dude said, “Don’t worry. We’re all friends.”

  I said, “No, we’re not.”

  Tobe said, “I kissed a girl.”

  Dude grinned like a fucking shark and said, “Now we’re getting somewhere. Now we’re cooking with gas. Now we’re getting to the meat of things. Spill, To-beeeeee.”

  He took a deep breath and said, “Not much to spill, really. About halfway through the movie, I’m standing at the bar, and this girl walks over, and says something, and kisses me. And that kiss was … epic.”

  Dude said, “I bet it was, I bet it was. Details.”

  Tobe said, “Jesus, McGee, let it go.”

  Dude said, “It’s important. People are dying from kissing. Maybe we can fix it.”

  The guy was insane, pure and simple. I asked him, “What makes you think we can fix it?” I tried to sound as condescending as I possibly could. I wanted him to feel like the kid who claimed there was a fantasy world at the other end of his bedroom closet. The Lion, the Witch, the Wardrobe, and the Moron, you know?

  Dude said, “I don’t, really. It’s a long shot, really. But I think we should try, really. If there’s even the teeniest, tiniest, ittiest, bittiest chance we can make a difference, we should research, really.”

  I said, “Really.” Again, I shot for condescending.

  McGee caught it. He glared at me and flatly said, “Really.” He took a sip of his water, belched, then said, “Do you want to be that guy, Earache? Do you want to be the guy who had a chance to do something other than write shitty reviews and gig—or, as is usually the case, not gig—with a shitty band but blew it off? I know you think I’m a fat slob—everybody thinks I’m a fat slob—but at least I’m trying. At least I’m doing something. At least I give a damn about what’s happening outside of my apartment.” He belched again, then said, “I don’t care if you don’t care, but I do care, and I thought Hoopster here might have some insight. I didn’t invite you, you know, just him. If you want to leave, then leave. I. Really. Don’t. Care.”

  Tobe sighed, then said to me, “Kid, relax. Let’s let this play out.” Then he said to McGee, “Fine. I remember falling down and laying on the floor—”

  Dude said, “You were on the ground at the Cove, and you lived to tell the tale? Impressive, Hoobner. If my face was that close to that floor, I’d have killed myself on the spot.”

  Tobe said, “But that’s the thing. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. Epic kiss, man. I almost … you-knowed.”

  Dude said, “You mean you almost achieved orgasm? Almost ejaculated? Almost spurted? Almost spooged? Almost came like a mother-humping madman?”

  I said, “You are an utter asshole, McGee.”

  Tobe told Dude, “You are an asshole. But you’re right. I’d never experienced anything like that. Anything.”

  Dude asked, “Do you have the Blue Spew, To-beeeeee?”

  I said, “Okay, Dude, since you know so much, why don’t you tell us exactly what the Blue Spew is? Because nobody else in the country seems to have any idea.”

  Dude said, “That’s the million-dollar question. Well, one of the million-dollar questions, anyway. But you’re right; nobody knows exactly what it is, just the symptoms. In men, the seminal discharge is blue. In women, their lubrication is blue. In some cases, the sufferer’s blood becomes blue. And in all cases, it’s transmitted via fluids of any sort, kissing included.”

  I asked, “What happens if you have it?”

  Dude belched again, then said, “The predominant outcome is death.”

  Tobe asked, “What, these people just up and die?”

  Dude said, “From what patient zero said in her blog, it’s less of an up-and-dying kind of thing and more of a killing-yourself-because-you’ve-been-driven-nuts-by-your-insane-sexual-desires kind of thing.” He shook his head, then said, “Poor patient zero. You must be very sad, Earache.”

  I asked him, “What do you mean?”

  He said, “Goodness, you’re not very smart, are you?”

  I said, “Apparently not.”

  He said, “Andrea Daltrey was patient zero. In not so many words, she fucked herself to death.”

  I want
ed to tell him he was full of shit, that Andi wasn’t that kind of girl. Thing is, based on both what I’d seen and what Janine had told me, she’d totally become that kind of girl. All I could bring myself to say was, “Go on.”

  Dude said, “Not much to say after that. She fucked one man, and he fucked two friends, and they fucked two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on. Just like any other STD.” He did that weird giggle again and said, “Except maybe more fun.”

  Tobe said, “So what you’re telling me here is that this chick got a disease from my movie.”

  Dude said, “What I’m telling you here is that this chick who watched your movie at the Cove got a disease, and Mr. Suicide Bomber Aaron Gillespie watched your movie at the Cove, and Mr. Crystal Meth Firebug Scary Barry watched your movie at the Cove, and Earache Laughter saw the whole thing at my apartment and look what happened to him.”

  Tobe said, “What happened to you?”

  I said, “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  Dude said, “Sure you are. Tell me that at nine thirty-three.” He turned to Tobe and said, “So. To-beeeeee. Is this a coincidence? Or is this your handiwork? And most importantly, are you proud of yourself?”

  TOBE HOOPER:

  I thought it was a pile of bull crap, heaped on a hill of rat shit, surrounded by a mound of bat guano. I told McGee, “You know what? It’s nice that you’re trying to figure out all this Game junk, but did you ever think it’s an actual honest-to-goodness virus?”

  Dude said, “At first I did. Some people are saying that those geniuses at the government’s House of Viruses in Reston, Virginia, dropped the ball, and that sounded pretty right to me. Those chuckleheads almost caused an Ebola outbreak in the eighties, so I wouldn’t put it past them. But I have a connection at the CDC—”

  Erick said, “You absolutely do not have a connection at the CDC.”

  Dude went on like Erick hadn’t said anything. “—and she told me that Reston was clean. Her personal opinion is that it’s a bio-weapon launched by this Russian putz they’ve had their eye on for a while. But then I started seeing all the names, and it clicked.”

  Erick said, “What do you mean ‘seeing all the names’?” He snarled, practically.

  Dude said, “It wasn’t anything weird, Earache. Destiny Express was my event. I put together the screening, and I put together the guest list, and I have a good memory, and I spend a lot of time online, and I have a lot of Google Alerts set up. One fucked-up person from the Cove is an accident. Two fucked-up people from the Cove is a coincidence. Three fucked-up people from the Cove is a trend. Do the math, dipshit.”

  Erick said, “Okay, fine, for the sake of argument—and to help get us the hell away from you sooner than later—let’s say it is a virus, and let’s say it started in Austin—”

  I interrupted him. “Austin would be the perfect place to set off a weapon,” I said. “Lots of people coming and going in and out of town for the festival, but not too many. If somebody wanted to spread something, that’s as good a place as any.” If I were writing a pandemic flick, I’d totally set it in Austin.

  Dude said, “That’s what I thought at first. But my research was impeccable. There aren’t any regular Joe Shmoes who exhibited symptoms at first. Just the Joe Shmoes who were at the movie.”

  I said, “Okay, for the sake of argument—”

  Dude said, “Everything with you guys is for the sake of argument. Let’s just argue. It’s healthier.”

  I ignored him, then continued. “Let’s say we believe you. Let’s say my movie set off some sort of psychic viral bomb. How do you think it happened? Since your research was impeccable, I guess you’re the man to ask on this one.”

  Dude shrugged. “I’m not. I’m not the man to ask. I’ve told you everything I know. You’re smart. I can’t do this myself. I need your help, and you need my help, but there’s only so much help that we can help with.”

  Erick said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  He said, “You’re adults. Figure it out for yourself. I just wanted to keep you in the loop-de-loop. You can call me if you have any questions, but I doubt I’ll have any answers. I know the whos and whens. I’ll work on the whys if you do.” He looked at his watch. “Oops, got to run. I’m meeting somebody for lunch.”

  Erick said, “You just ate lunch.”

  Dude said, “What’s your point?”

  Erick said, “My point is, you just ate lunch.”

  Dude said, “I’m a growing boy, and if one lunch is good, two is better. Now, let’s us three fix this shit. Okay? Okay.” And then he belched, flipped us the bird, and split.

  ERICK LAUGHLIN:

  And then he left the deli, but two minutes later, much to my chagrin, he came back. He waddled over to our table, then dropped a heavy square box right in front of me and said, “Almost forgot. You assholes might want this.” Then he farted, said, “I’m trying to help you, here. Show some gratitude,” and split for good.

  I opened up the box, and inside was another box, and inside that box were three film canisters. I asked Tobe, “Is this what I think it is?”

  Tobe peered at the canisters and said, “Yeah. Destiny fucking Express.” He signaled the waitress for the check, then said, “How about you and I go back to my pad and watch ourselves a movie?”

  I said, “Fine. But how about you and I discuss Dude McGee first?”

  He didn’t say anything else until we got into his car. After he fired up the engine, he said, “I’d prefer to not think about Dude McGee any more than I have to. Something ain’t right with that boy.”

  I said, “I couldn’t agree with you more, Tobe. But don’t you think it’s a bit odd that he came to you with this?”

  He said, “You came to me with this because you thought I could give you insight, or some such bullshit, and you didn’t have jack shit. McGee at least had something tangible.”

  I said, “What do you mean ‘tangible’?”

  Tobe said, “He had a guest list.”

  TOBE HOOPER:

  When we got back to my place, we checked out that flick, I don’t know, eight or nine more times, and each time, it sucked worse than the last.

  We ordered some pizza, and then I went to the bathroom, a place where I’ve been known to do some of my best thinking. After multiple viewings of that dreck, we came up with exactly nothing, except for headaches from squinting at the screen. Yeah, there were zombies in there, but how the hell could a kid dressed up as a zombie—and dressed up badly, I might add—turn somebody into a zombie? How could a shitty movie from five decades ago cause somebody to shoot blue come? It couldn’t.

  When I got back to the living room, Erick was laying on the sofa, fast asleep. I flicked his ear, and he popped right up. Once he was coherent, I told him, “You know what, man? This is entirely a bunch of crap.”

  Erick rubbed his eyes, yawned, and said, “Well, not entirely.”

  ERICK LAUGHLIN:

  I welcomed Tobe Hooper into the 9:33 club: I told him about the sleep study, and strapping the camera onto my body, and the red laser beams, and he was barely fazed. All he said was, “Could I borrow that footage from you? Because I’m working on this sci-fi script, and that’d be a perfect third act.” And then he laughed. He wasn’t laughing at me, though, I knew that. Sometimes a laugh is just a laugh.

  At that point, I gave mental props to Janine. She was right: Outside of her, Jamal, and Theo, Tobe Hooper was the only person in my circle of acquaintances who wouldn’t dismiss me as a delusional nutbag. But that didn’t mean I believed a single word that came from Dude McGee’s mouth.

  TOBE HOOPER:

  We didn’t say a hell of a lot over dinner. Most of the talk was of the pass-that-napkin-over-here variety. After we threw down several beers, Erick said, “I have a weird-ass idea.”

  I said, “Talk to me.” I slurred a bit. I was buzzed. So was Erick. If you’re in a state of buzz, you come up with weird-ass ideas, and sometimes, those weird-ass ideas are th
e best ones.

  He said, “What if it wasn’t you, exactly? What if the movie launched some sort of paranormal event, but it wasn’t your fault?”

  I said, “What do you mean?”

  He said, “Okay, stay with me here. What if, say, your leading lady Helen Leary was a Wiccan witch? Or what if your cameraman worshipped Aleister Crowley? What if one of your cast or crew people figured out how to curse your film?”

  I said, “Yeah, sure, that’s an idea, but here’s another one: What if Destiny Express had nothing to do with anything? That’s my theory.”

  He ignored me and bulled right ahead. It was like he decided that my movie made this mess, period, exclamation mark, end of discussion. He continued on: “Maybe Gary Church did something. I mean, he was on the screen for practically every scene. Maybe we should talk to him.”

  I said, “Yeah, that might be tough.”

  He said, “Why?”

  I said, “When we pulled into the garage, did you notice that heap of green compost on the side of my driveway?”

  He said, “Saw it and smelled it.”

  I said, “Well, that’s Gary.” See, I hadn’t even gotten a chance to bury him properly. That dude’s body decomposed fast.

  Erick said, “Excuse me?”

  I said, “I tell you, brother, the shit that I dealt with last night makes your nine thirty-three problem seem like a walk in the damn park.” So I gave him the 411 about the Gary situation. After I was done, he looked like he was going to toss his pizza, his beer, and whatever he had for dinner the night before back in Austin. I said, “You don’t look so hot. You want some seltzer to settle your stomach?”

  He said, “Only if you put a shit-ton of vodka in it.”

  ERICK LAUGHLIN:

  After a few drinks, apropos of nothing, Tobe asked me, “You like your girl?”

  I said, “Yeah, man. She’s awesome.”

  He said, “What do you like about her?”

  I didn’t even have to think about it: “She’s smart as all get-out; and she’s amazingly courageous; and she doesn’t give a damn what people think about her; and she loves her family; and she calls me on my shit, but not in a mean way; and she’s the most gorgeous woman who’s ever let me feel her breasts.”