Black Leather Required
Page 11
HOWIE
C'mon, Hugo–there's plenty left. Enough for everybody.
(he RUMMAGES amidst the meat)
We got some dark if you don't like white. . .kidneys weren't too bad. . .I think this ole boy had diabetes, what do you think, All?
ALF
Kidneys did taste a bit off.
JOEBOY
(slapping his knee)
Bit off! That's a funny one! That's a howler!
(as he LAUGHS he CHOKES on a mouthful of food and SPITS it out)
HOWIE
Jesus, Joeboy, where's your table manners?
JOEBOY
(flips Howie the finger)
Bite my you-know-what.
HOWIE
Too late!
Howie COCKS a thumb toward Thor's remains and Joeboy and Howie both DISSOLVE into helpless, hooting LAUGHTER. Wotta riot.
ALF
(to Hugo)
Don't mind these two brain-dead dumbbells.
HUGO
What do you suppose this guy did for a living?
Joeboy and Howie are WIPING themselves off, recovering from their outburst of hilarity.
ALF
You know. He was one of them.
Alf's gaze vaguely indicts our AUDIENCE. Then he WRENCHES loose Thor's FRIED and SMOULDERING head. It DRIPS gobbets of grue. He holds it up by the hair. All the bums SHOUT at the head in unison. They've done this before, like a ritual.
ALL
HEY MISTER! GOT ANY SPARE CHANGE?!
Alf GIGGLES and DROPKICKS the head. It LANDS down-stage R, where Hugo ENTERED. SPOT FOLLOWS IT. SPOT remains on the head. It has landed near one of the graves.
ALF
(resuming his seat)
C'mon Hugo–dig in, as they say in the funeral trade.
HUGO
No thanks. Think I'll wait a bit. I'd like something fresher.
ALF
Fresher? Well, they don't come no warmer. I can tell you that for sure.
HOWIE
(still eating)
Formaldehyde's a kick, ain't it? Like picante sauce.
JOEBOY
(offended)
Ain't nothing like good picante sauce.
ALF
(to Howie)
You lay offa that shit, now. Destroys your brain cells. Makes you stupid.
JOEBOY
Makes him more stupid, you mean.
HOWIE
(mouth full)
Stupid? I ain't the guy what ate the autopsy stitches and called 'em Thai noodles!
HUGO
You boys see that thing about how they slice off your head, and freeze it, and bring you back to life later?
ALF
Turns my stomach.
HOWIE
What, with no body?
JOEBOY
I never did like frozen food anyhow.
While all this is going on (since the drop-kick), we see CORPSE HANDS gradually EMERGE from the grave where Thor's head landed. They PAW AROUND and eventually STOP by feeling Thor's head. A rotten ZOMBIE claws its way free to eventually STAND, tottering. It PICKS UP Thor's head and stares quizzically at it. Then it SHUFFLES OFF stage right.
Meanwhile–
ALF
I think ole Thor must've been Danish.
JOEBOY
I like eating Italian better.
HOWIE
(offering more corpse goo to Hugo)
Sure you won't have none? Alf's a wizard. Hugo waves off the corpse-snack.
HUGO
You hear something funny?
JOEBOY
Prob'ly them dogs, was at us awhile ago, come back for leftovers. (calling downstage) Hey, you mutts! Come 'n git it! Chow down, hogs!
Joeboy GRABS a meatgob and picks his way down to the grave where Thor's head landed. STANDS for a beat. Back at the fire, the others mind their own business.
JOEBOY (Cont'd)
Here, corndog!
(makes kissy noise)
C'mon pooch, time to mooch!
The ZOMBIE'S fetid HANDS dart in and YANK Joeboy OFFSTAGE RIGHT. Back at the fire, Hugo can't quite make out what's going on.
HUGO
(to All)
Gimme that lantern.
ALF
Hey, Joeboy! Goddammit. (to Hugo) Saw too many monster movies when he was little. That stuff'll do it to you. . .
Hugo LIFTS the lamp and starts a few cautious PACES toward Joeboy's last known position.
HUGO
Joeboy?
HOWIE
(yelling from behind Hugo)
Joeboy, hey, get on back here before I eat your heart out!
ALF
Probably just pissing. You know his bladder's about the size of golf ball.
Howie DIGS OUT Thor's BLADDER and INSPECTS it. It SMOKES.
HOWIE
Ole Thor's was bigger, for sure.
(He sniffs it. Takes a taste. Frowns.)
I hate it rare.
As Hugo reaches the grave, Joeboy FLOPS out from offstage right. The Zombie is right behind him, BEATING Joeboy with one of his own ripped off ARMS. Hugo WAILS and hauls ass ACROSS downstage to EXIT stage LEFT. Zombie TEARS OFF Joeboy's other ARM as he LIES there, thrashing and screaming.
Alf and Howie come to their feet. To either side, TWO MORE ZOMBIES RISE MESSILY FROM THEIR GRAVES, as before. Ugly, gross, twitching, shuffling, hungry dead THINGS.
HOWIE
All? I think we oughta bug ass outta here.
ALF
I'm with you.
They turn and flee in opposite directions, each crashing into one of the newly risen Zombies. Downstage, Zombie #1 STOMPS on Joeboy's head, SILENCING him. Eats Joeboy's EYES. Still holds Thor's HEAD. SHUFFLES toward the other two. SMOKE EFFECTS UP THICKER.
Zombie #2 BITES OUT Howie's THROAT. SPRAY of blood! Howie FALLS into the mist.
Zombie #3 KNOCKS Alf down and BENDS to RIP OFFALF'S HEAD.
Zombie #1 GRABS one of Howie's ARMS and #2 GRABS the other. They LIFT Howie [now a dummy or the live Howie with pinback arms on a shoulder harness donned while he was down in the mist].
Zombie #3 LIFTS Alf's head. REMOVES the Fedora and DONS it.
Zombies #1 and #2 TUG-O-WAR and RIP OUT both of Howie's ARMS. Blood everywhere. The zombies GNAW on the arms and FALL upon Howie's prone form, TEARING and SHREDDING him to bits which they PITCH over their shoulders like discarded bones.
Zombie #1 STANDS with Howie's wrenched-off LEG. Zombie #2 takes his wrenched-off leg and PITCHES it into the cookfire pit.
The Zombies GATHER around the cookfire, similar positions to when we first saw Alf, Howie and Joeboy.
P.A. AMP OVER: A Chorus of Whispers recites the Brotherhood of Bums rhyme as the zombies stoke the fire and munch.
Hugo POKES UP his head, EXTREME DOWNSTAGE CENTER, near the fence pickets and trees. Mostly a silhouette.
HUGO
Guys?
One of the Zombies WAVES a drippy shank in greeting. The one with Alf's hat. Hugo CLAMBERS down the incline (CENTER STAGE) until he meets them.
HUGO (Cont'd)
Hah! I told you guys if waited long enough I'd get me a warm meal!
Zombie #2 STANDS just as Hugo arrives. CLOUTS Hugo with a severed arm, HARD! BONK!
Zombie #1 STANDS and BASHES Hugo with Howie's LEG. This 1-2 punch causes Hugo to PLUMMET RIGHT INTO THE COOKFIRE WITH A HOWL!
Hugo VANISHES into the pit. SPARKS fly up. Then. . .
KA-BOOM! Hugo EXPLODES within the pit, via a blinding FLASHPOWDER detonation, as our unsuspecting Grand Guignol audience is abruptly PELTED with air-cannon-launched debris in the form of ORGANS–kidneys, hearts, livers, brains, eyeballs!! As soon as the tuff is airborne, we quickly drop
CURTAIN
B REGARDING FLYING ORGANS
Nothing wet. We're talking handy, lightweight, mass produced latex organs that can be done very cheaply by whomever we engage to jazz up our Zombies. They would be utterly harmless, no-impact souvenirs that hose in our au
dience could actually take home with them. I know I'd want one!
Pitt Night at the Lewistone Boneyard
1.
"Pssst! Hey!"
2.
Busted. From the moment he'd stepped off the plane, only he hadn't known it.
With automaton familiarity Russell Pitt matched tags for matching luggage and rented a mid-list sedan from Number Two since he enjoyed the illusion of supporting the underdog. He signed into a king-sized single occupancy overlooking the hotel pool. Gold Card. He was comped a newspaper he never got around to opening. Nothing ever happened in Lewistone. Not until he arrived at the cemetery and spotted the yellow cordon tape had he realized something was seriously atilt.
Graveside, he lost his cool. Undercover cops swarmed over him. They nearly had to use cuffs.
Could he just run it down one more time, in case he had forgotten some germane tidbit that might shed light? Police procedure was a little like being mugged and a lot like erosion. As if police could solve this mess; as if you could hire C. Auguste Dupin for thirty large a year.
His full name was Russell Leaver Pitt. They already had that typed. Then whited-out, then spelled correctly. He had been named for his paternal grandfather, Leaver Millard Mortimer Pitt, a name that reminded him of the glottal gibberish hollered by footballers before they said hike.
"Okay. Okay. I live in Westwood. That's in Los Angeles, near UCLA. They used to call it WASPwood; they. . .never mind."
His breast pocket wallet was open on the desk, gutted, credit cards scattered like spilled organs.
"I make this trip once a year. Same time every year. The date of my father's death. He was the last one to. Pass on."
Russell was one of those people who had a lot of trouble using the words love and dead. He sipped from a styro cup of brackish cooler water while the detective taking notes chain smoked and never blinked once. No human camaraderie here. Russell saw his own teeth marks on the cup. He hadn't done anything wrong. But everybody who did this dance was innocent, right?
Tough it out.
"My father's death was the only one I gave a damn about, you see." A lie. It was easy to hide important details from this creature with the shield. No polygraph alarms kicked on. Russell relaxed a notch.
"And my father was the last one. The last one to go, I mean. Except for me, so I guess I'm actually the last one. The last of the Pitts."
The thing with the cigarette snorted; asked about wife, kids, pets, house plants.
"I've been married twice. No kids. Neither of them–my ex-wives–wanted to keep my name. One is remarried."
The other one, Maggie, had showed up via mailbox two days ago. She'd learned how to use a word processor and hadn't bothered to separate pages for him. Emotions in dot matrix. She'd been wrong, she'd admitted, in saying that she never wanted to lose touch with him no matter what their feelings were. As soon as she linked up with her newest soulmate that little commitment had breezed. She needed life-space, she'd said. That was the sort of thing people who have lived too long in Westwood Village said. They grazed, they cocooned, they firmed their abs, they listened to Grammy-winning tunes and watched Woody Allen movies, they pretended to enjoy dull sex. Maggie was long gone, but still needed to yank his chain from a safe distance. Hail, hail, the USPO.
Time to skip town. Time to seek respite in a change of scene.
"Usually I make this trip on June third. I'm early this time. First time." He'd already said that once. June was a month during which traditionalists got married. Divorce months were still optional.
Elise had been a May, Maggie a December.
"It's a tradition. Sort of."
That one would have sounded lame had it not been so true. When you're the only family you have, you must invent your own traditions or do without. His mother's side of the brood had determined this. Genes said frog and synapses jumped. As traditions went, this one was fairly morbid. His half-sister would have called it perverse; his grandmother, quaint. But if relatives had been available, there would have been no need to fabricate the tradition in the first place.
"I come and I put flowers on all the graves. They're all buried together. Family plot. Except this year. I'm a couple of days early and all the graves are empty."
The chainsmoking detective snorted like a bloodhound on a hit of cayenne. This guy's story kept mutating. This guy was from Los fucking Angeles. Too-long workdays always started like this.
At least dead people didn't have to eat bullshit by the spoonful.
3.
"Yeah, you! Pssst!"
4.
Russ debarks. En route to the rental counters he watches outbound fliers suffer security. He has already been processed. Now he is invisible.
By rote, he stacks 'em up and knocks 'em down. Car, hotel, room service. Good tipping renders one less invisible. He hates being called sir or Mister Pitt.
Valley View Memorial Park reeks of mown lawn in need of more irrigation. Too countrified for his nose. He could smell his way to the family plot if he was blind.
Mondo bucks have gone to secure the "right" suburb in this here Necropolis. His sister Darianne has a better view post mortem than she'd ever enjoyed while breathing.
It is like a circle for psychomancy, a Druid ring of granite and marble markers. The eldest stone is for Ross Wright Christian Loret, great maternal grandfather. At the hub of the circle is Mister Mort.
Mister Mort reaches skyward to snatch chunks of heaven. The beatific expression chiseled onto his face suggests he can see something we can't; something wonderful. Lunch, perhaps. He is quite androgynous. Miz Mort, perhaps. He is the only tenant not dead, because the igneous rock from which he is carved has never lived.
Mister Mort is enrobed and sandaled, very Biblical. From the foot of his pedestal to the end of his upstretched fingertip is about fifteen feet.
The ceiling in Darianne's studio apartment had been touchable from the floor. On Mister Mort's imposing plinth is engraved the family name in letters eighteen inches high.
PITT.
Very big deal.
A name shown no mercy by any grade-schooler. It rhymes with too many facile cusswords and suggests too many bodily functions. Russ has suffered for his name. In the Westwood phonebook he once found a listing for a family actually named Sauerbutt. Now that would be a genuine nightmare.
Russ wonders if having a weird name was one of the last things on Darianne's mind when she died. She had spent her final month in an ICU, withering like a carnation out of water on a hot day and never savoring full consciousness. Killed by her own blood. Her brain stopped working and Darianne went to meet Mister Mort.
Russ has developed the affectation of talking to the statue, since he has heard that talking to, yourself is a sign that you are crazy. The name Mister Mort is his invention. There is no one around to contest this. Russ shuts the iron gate to the footpath and strolls among dead strangers. He sees Mister Mort gradually poke over the hummock to greet him. He always sees the upstretched fingertip first. Every time.
"Allo, Monsieur Mort," Russ says to himself in a feelthy French accent.
A manicured trail engirds the circle of grave markers like the outer edge of a wagon wheel. One can mosey around the circle and browse the
Pitt family timeline of Beloved Mothers and Loving Fathers and Julia Bernford Pitt, who at six months had suffocated on her own malfunctioning infant pipework, and whose plot marker is engraved with a lamb, a fashion popular through the Roaring Twenties.
Here is Darianne, of course, and Ricky. His half-sister Simone. And Mom and Dad and Grandpa, alias Leaver Millard Mortimer Pitt. It occurs to Russ that he has named Mister Mort for his grandfather, unconsciously.
He is passing down a name after all.
That one is still a big enough deal to guilt Russ out whenever he is two drinks past his ceiling and sleeping solo. No kids. The Pitt line ceases when Russ ceases. Morn had dutifully doled forth a lot of well-meaning grief on this topic. Some people, thin
ks Russ, progress solely in terms of animal bottom lines. If you have graduated, are not imprisoned or terminally ill and are married, then reproduction was the only party topic left for those Christmas and birthday phone calls. Mother's Day. Father's
Day. Thanksgiving. Enough federally-sanctioned caesurae in the work calendar to make Russ second-guess his own life until it hitched and broke.
Mom and Dad are interred side-by-side. If Russ faces the graves, looking more or less dead into Mister Mort's groin, Dad is on the right.
Dad was a southpaw. His favored hand is not the one nearest the resting place of his only wife. Russ wonders if such oversights perturb the departed.
Mom to the left. Then Dad. Celeste Christine and Harvey Millard Pitt. Stroke and a car crash. The tombstones return Russ' gaze and nag. Why didn't you ever make us grandparents?