by Tobe Hooper
Dude said, “I’m giving it away. Here’s the spoiler: It’s a happy ending. Now, go up to that projection booth, grab Tobe, and get the fuck out of here. By any means necessary.”
Suddenly, he didn’t seem like a moron. Suddenly, he seemed respectable. Suddenly, he seemed like a force to be reckoned with.
Suddenly, I wanted to get the hell out of that theater.
TOBE HOOPER:
Right as Theo and Helen are about to fuck their brains out on the screen, Erick bursts into the booth, grabs me by the back of my collar, and says, “We’re going. Now.”
I said, “The hell we are. I’ve got to see the rest of this thing.”
He said, “Tobe, right now there are thirty-some-odd undead fuckers down there ripping off their own legs. There’s smoke shooting out of their bodies, and I don’t know whether it’s coming from their warts, or their stumps, or what, but I don’t like it, and it smells like an electrical fire and burning hair, and the edges of the screen are smoking, and I really, really, really don’t think we’re meant to be here.”
I said, “What do you mean ‘meant to be here’?”
He said, “At the risk of sounding cheesy, it’s time for us to get our asses off the Destiny Express.”
I said, “Brother, listen: Destiny is bullshit. Was I destined to be in a damn car wreck and lose my childhood and my best friend? Was the piddly little Chainsaw movie I made for eighty thousand dollars destined to make millions? Was I destined to kill my only friend from when I was a kid? Was I destined to unleash a motherfucking virus on the world? No way, no how, no sir. I’ve done what I’ve done, and I’m going to do what I’m going to do, and it’s not going to make a damn bit of difference in anybody’s life whether or not I stay here or split. Got it?”
He shook his head for a bit, then said, “Again, at the risk of sounding cheesy, it’d make a difference in my life.”
I said, “What? Why? How? What?” I was babbling.
He said, “Tobe, my relatives suck ass. You’re like my cool uncle.”
I have to admit, I was touched. I’m not what you would call a people person, so I didn’t hear that sort of stuff all that often.
But I was still staying.
He said, “Fine. It was nice knowing you. Good luck, man. You dumbass.”
I never saw Erick Laughlin again. And that still makes me sad. He was a helluva kid.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
I left the booth and went down the stairs two at a time—that is, until the bottom, when I accidentally took three and twisted the shit out of my left ankle.
Right then, I didn’t know if it was broken, or sprained, or strained, or what, but it hurt like a bitch. I fell onto my ass and leaned my head against the wall. I don’t know whether it was the pain making me woozy or the zombie stench, but I was damn close to passing out. That wouldn’t do, so I pinched my cheek as hard as I could—I even drew blood—and that woke me right on up.
I crawled to the door and pulled myself up using the knob, then hobbled my way into the lobby. The smoke was seeping out through the doors, and if I wasn’t freaking the fuck out, I probably would’ve stayed to watch it.
You see, it was a rainbow.
Reds, yellows, oranges, blues, purples, greens, all swirling together. Funnels, and puffy clouds, and streams, and billows, and it was all very, I don’t know, uplifting. It still smelled like skunk farts, but my oh my, it was beautiful. I almost wished Janine was there to watch it with me.
Then I heard a collective, ear-splitting moan from inside the theater, followed by what sounded like a gunshot, or a backfiring car, or an exploding zombie head, so I decided it was time to skedaddle.
I limped across the empty lobby, and about ten feet from the door, I heard a loud pop, then I fell flat on my face.
It was official. My ankle was done.
The zombie moaning was getting louder, and the rainbow clouds were getting smellier, and all I wanted to do was get the fuck out of there, so I crawled, like, I don’t know, like a kid in some Vietnam movie who’d just gotten fragged by Charlie. The pain radiating from my ankle was out-fucking-rageous, and right when I got to the door, I realized I was moaning as loud as those damn dirty zombies.
My hands were so slick with sweat that I couldn’t open the fucking door. The room was a big rainbow. I was getting dizzy; I still wasn’t sure whether it was from the ankle or the smoke of the undead, but whatever it was, I was sooooo close to passing out.
I tried to center myself with a deep breath. And another. And another. And finally, I leaned against the door and got it somewhat open.
But before I could open it all the way, the Regal Arbor Cinema blew up, and I flew through the plate glass door. That last thing I remember thinking was, The world smells like salami.
THE AUSTIN CHRONICLE
INDEPENDENT MOVIE THEATER EXPLODES
ONE DEAD IN REGAL ARBOR CINEMA FIRE
SEPTEMBER 3, 2009
BY TROY KING
AUSTIN, TX—A two-alarm fire felled the Regal Arbor Cinema at 9828 Great Hills Trail yesterday morning.
Authorities initially believed that the theater, which had been closed since August 6, was empty, until body-sniffing dogs uncovered a single corpse.
The body was identified as Marcus Frost-McGee, 29, currently of Las Vegas.
The fire was extinguished almost immediately, but, despite the Austin Fire Department’s best efforts, it continues to smolder.
Deputy Fire Commissioner Elvin Jones said, “We’ve dumped hundreds of gallons of water on the rubble, and it refuses to die. For some reason, the rubble remains exceptionally hot, so we won’t go in there until it cools down to a workable temperature.”
Authorities have asked for a voluntary evacuation in the immediate surrounding area.
Local resident Carlos Quintana of 9441 Great Hills Trail feels no need to leave.
Quintana said, “It doesn’t smell all that great, but my gut tells me it’s not hurting anybody.”
Robert Charleston, the Regal Arbor Cinema manager, could not be reached for comment.
http://www.thetruthaboutzombies.com
Welcome to the Truth About Zombies
September 12, 2009
We’re back! And just in time. Because I have a story for you.
So I was in Chicago, and I was sitting out in Grant Park, on the Petrillo Bandshell (which is the main stage for Lollapalooza, for those of you who are keeping score), watching the nothingness, when this exceptionally red zombie skipped over.
Now, I know you’re saying, “Skipped??? What do you mean ‘skipped’??? Zombies sure as shit don’t skip!!!” Well, chilluns, this one did. He was in such a happy hoppy mood that he skipped right up onto the bandstand and parked his zombie ass right down next to my human ass.
He stuck out his hand and introduced himself. (I don’t remember his damn name, and even if I did, I wouldn’t post it here, because would you want your name posted all over the web if you were a zombie? I didn’t think so.) Being a polite fellow, I introduced myself right back, then said, “I hate to be rude, but you’re undead, aren’t you?”
He said, “Yeah. I am. But I’m getting better.” He pointed at his arm and said, “Check this out. Yesterday, this was green. Now it’s red. And a normal red. A normal healing red. It itches like mad, but I think that’s normal. Things itch when they heal. Right?”
He was so eager for a positive answer, and he looked at me with such hope, that I kind of almost cried. I know that sounds pathetic, but imagine you’re in a war, and one of your buddies gets shot, and he’s gushing blood, and he grabs your hand and says, “I’m going to be all right, aren’t I?” All you want to do is comfort him. That’s what I wanted to do for this undead guy.
I said, “Right. Things itch when they heal.”
Right then is where things got interesting.
The zombie stared out onto the park with a big smile plastered on his mug. He was scratching his arm, and scratching his arm, and scratchin
g his arm. It seemed like he didn’t even notice he was doing it. And I’m looking at the arm, and the red is going away. And I’m not talking like the red skin was peeling off or anything. The red was simply fading. His arm, once green, and once red, was turning skin colored. Holy shit, right???!!!
I gave the zombie a big AHEM to get his attention, then pointed at his arm. He looked at it for a while, and then, if it’s possible, his smile got bigger. Then he looked at me and said, “I know this is going to sound weird, but could I hug you?”
So we hugged. I think he said something like, “Thank you for welcoming me back into humanity,” but I couldn’t totally make it out, because he was crying too hard. We stayed that way for a while, then I gave him my phone number and told him when he’s feeling ready, we’ll go catch some music or something. He said, “That would be great,” then he jumped off the band shell and went about his merry way. I swear that with each step, he seemed stronger.
This is my last post here. I’m shutting down this website. I don’t need it anymore. My search is over. I know the truth about zombies. And I ain’t gonna tell you what it is, people. You have to figure that shit out for yourself.
COMMENTS
i don’t know why u r making such a big deal out of this. that’s normal in my hood. zombies r turning back to humans on every gottdam corner. it’s not all that. chill. quit crying. don’t b such a bitch.
miguel from compton represent, CA
September 8, 3:14 PM
My mother’s okay, too. We had her locked in the basement for a month. We had to get somebody out to reinforce the door so she wouldn’t break it down. Now she’s okay. I didn’t see the transformation happen, so I don’t know if she came back to us quickly or gradually. All I know is that now she’s okay. Thank God.
Donna from Cleveland, OH
September 10, 5:32 PM
TIME
September 21, 2009
SCIENCE NOTES
Easy Come, Easy Go
So-Called Blue Spew Downsizes
BY EDWARD LENNON
ATLANTA—The sexually transmitted disease known as the “Blue Spew” seems to have lost its momentum, and Dr. Daria Corbin of the Centers for Disease Control is baffled.
Dr. Corbin, who was in charge of researching the strain (Puteulanus morbus), claims that the petering out of the disease is unprecedented.
“Frankly, I’ve never seen anything like it,” Dr. Corbin says. “Six of our patients here fully recovered at the exact same rate, at the exact same time. As much as we’d like to take credit for it, we simply can’t.
“It’s unexplainable,” Dr. Corbin says, “and while we’re all obviously thrilled that this has happened, and we’re all crossing our fingers that the trend continues, it once again reminds us that nature is in charge, which makes all of us down here feel a tad insignificant.”
twitter.com
QuothTheRaven say yes to hugs. say no to drugs!
September 22 1:41 PM via web
DonJuanTwoThree @QuothTheRaven Preach on, sister girl! Like Macca says, “It’s getting better all the time.”
September 22 1:46 PM via web
DisposableHeroes @QuothTheRaven ©DonJuanTwoThree Born-again freaks!!!
September 22 2:22 PM via web
QuothTheRaven ©DisposableHeroes ©DonJuanTwoThree fuk you, dude. if your town burned to the ground, you’d UNDERSTAND!
September 22 2:52 PM via web
QuothTheRaven ©DisposableHeroes ©DonJuanTwoThree if your bff blew up in a meth explosion, you’d UNDERSTAND!
September 22 3:03 PM via web
QuothTheRaven ©DisposableHeroes ©DonJuanTwoThree if your house was vandalized by a bunch of fucking tweakers, you’d UNDERSTAND!
September 22 3:11 PM via web
DonJuanTwoThree ©QuothTheRaven ©DisposableHeroes Yeah! What she said!September 22 3:30 PM via web
JANINE DALTREY:
What a way to start a relationship. First, Erick has to wait on me hand and foot while I’m getting over my beat-down, then I have to wait on him hand and foot while he gets over his explosion. How very, very romantic.
In retrospect, it’s a damn good thing we had each other, because we understood. We got it. When one of us woke up in the middle of the night screaming, the other one of us knew not to ask what was wrong. I’d hold him, or he’d hold me, or we’d hold each other. And we wouldn’t say anything. What was there to say, really?
Is it our shared suffering that’s kept us together? I don’t know, some shrinks would probably say yes, but I’d like to think that we both have more substance than that. I’d like to think that we’d both recognize if we were getting married not because we love each other, but rather because we need a support system.
I think we’re getting married for the right reason. No, I’m sure we are.
Erick wasn’t a good boy about his physical therapy … that is, until I whipped him into shape. There were a lot of loud discussions about his laziness—I told him that I didn’t care that the dreams were keeping him up at night and that he needed to get off his ass and get healthy—but I always came out on top of our little chats. Seriously, that boy can’t argue his way out of a paper bag.
The Regal Arbor Cinema gave Erick a nice chunk of change so he wouldn’t sue their asses—which he wouldn’t have done anyhow, but he figured that he’d had a rough summer, so he didn’t mention that to their lawyers—which meant that if we were smart with our money, we could get by without a salary from him for a year or two. So after we moved here to Cali, he decided to focus solely on writing his three screenplays. Yes, that’s right, three: a romantic comedy, a silly action picture, and something he calls his Judd Apatow homage. Much to Theo Morrison’s chagrin, Erick decided to quit music altogether.
Me, I’m doing personal assistant work for a big, fancy studio guy at Warner Bros. who wants to keep a low profile, so I am not at liberty to divulge his name. The big, fancy studio guy loves Erick and keeps trying to hire him to work for him, but Erick wants to write. Good for him.
I will tell you this: We love it here in Los Angeles. And no matter how much Theo begs us, we’re never setting foot in Austin motherfucking Texas again.
TOBE HOOPER:
That rainbow smoke almost got me. It was the second-prettiest thing I ever saw, the first being the sixteen-year-old Claire Craft’s eyes. She was a bitch, that one, but my Lord, those baby blues of hers could slay you. Anyhow, I’m not a believer in hypnosis—if you have a strong mind, it can’t be bent—but that smoke, man, I damn near lost myself in it.
I wanted to get closer—no, I had to get closer—so I bailed out of the projection booth and walked, no, jogged, no, sprinted downstairs to the lobby.
And who’s waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, blocking my way out the door? That’s right, the man, the myth, the motherfucker, Dude McGee.
I lowered my shoulder and tried to bull past him, but that boy was heavy. He was an immovable object, and I was not an irresistible force, so I bounced off him and fell ass-first onto the floor. He leaned down, offered me his hand, and said, “Let me help you up, William.”
Now, that came out of nowhere. William is my given name, but I hadn’t been called William since, I don’t know, 1968 or something.
I ignored his hand and said, “I’ve got it,” then, with great effort, hauled myself up.
He said, “Listen, this theater is going to explode in about two minutes. You need to get out of here.”
I said, “Bullshit.”
He said, “There is no bullshit being slung here, William. There will be an explosion, and you will survive the explosion, but you cannot be here when it happens. I’ve proven my point. The Game is over. I won. Now I’m hanging it up. I’m taking my ball and going home.”
I said, “McGee, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
He said, “It doesn’t matter.” He looked at his watch. “Okay, you have about one minute to get out of here. If you’re too close to t
he fire, there’ll be problems.”
I said, “But I thought you said I’m going to survive.”
He said, “You will. But—”
I said, “No buts. I’m going to see the end of the movie, and I’ve got to get a better look at this smoke.” And then I pulled the oldest trick in the book: I pointed over his left shoulder and yelled, “Holy Christ, a headless zombie!” When he turned to look, I bolted right past him.
He may have been an immovable object, but even though I’m an old man, I could outrun his fat ass.
I made it across the lobby, and right as I touched the theater door, kaboom, massive explosion.
And it was like the goddamn car wreck all over again.
I remember the doctors poking and prodding the shit out of me, and I remember it hurting like hell, the worst physical pain I’ve felt ever.
I remember a nurse telling me that I’d probably flown thirty yards in the air and landed face-first on the pavement, cracking my skull. Some of my brain fluid apparently leaked onto the street. There went another piece of my memory. The next time it rained, it got washed into the sewer.
After that, it was a bunch of nothing.
The next thing I remember, I’m in one of those SUV limo things, hooked up to an IV and a bunch of machines. There’s a smoking-hot girl in doctor’s scrubs diddling with a couple of the machines I was hooked up to. My mouth was dry as sand, and it took me a second before I could speak. I said to her, “Forgive me if I sound stupid, but what’s happening here?”
The girl laughed and said, “Ah. Mr. Hooper. Hello there. Good to see you. And hear you.”
I said, “Where the hell am I? And what day is today?”
She said, “We’re in Los Angeles. You’re on the 101. We’re about half an hour away from your house. And today is September nineteenth. And we’re glad to have you back with us. You’ve been out of commission for a while.”