Would he be able to hole up in the Box Office, which was in the midst of this Hornet’s Nest of conflict? Once there, would he be able to broker an uneasy peace? That was certainly his goal now. He indeed secured that position, then huddled down as properly powdered-and-tamped ammo battered the gilded terrazzo shell of his bunker.
‘Those rascals!’ he exclaimed.
Communication was essential. He looked around, not in despair, but as if time was money and BKV celluloid was expensive. Like on set. Shoving aside the corpse of the cashier, he reached up, completely endangering the intact structure of his hand, but found what he was looking for. The phone worked yet!
Butterbugs dialed 911.
The din was terrible and he had to shriek his narration as the warfare raged around him.
LAPD hadn’t seen this intense an engagement since the 1992 Riots, ignited by their beating of Rodney King, the Black Motorist. So reinforcements were called in from Ft. Hunnihugger. Symphonic sirens in all directions converged on the Broadway location.
Still in the center of things, Butterbugs dealt with the enemy in heroic fashion.
‘Men at arms!’ he bellowed. ‘Cease for parlay!’
In an eloquent and distinguished monologue, delivered from the virtual pulpit of the ruined Box Office, his stentorian voice broadcasting remarkably well through the SpeakrVent, Butterbugs called for a temporary ceasefire, and proceeded to explain how the picture that should’ve been playing right now was based on Edmund Ruffin’s own extensive ‘Journals’, available for perusal in the lobby next to the Souvenir Booklet Nook, loaned by the LA Public Library, just down the way. If anything, the picture actually carried a subtext of sympathy with the Cause that came to be Lost.
‘If anyone has warrant to be aroused with anger over it, it should rightfully be the descendants of slaves!’ was the powerful coda that concluded his oration.
But the Ruffinites, totally ignorant of the film they came to destroy, their souls burning with gunpowder, hatred, and sippin’ likker, howled with objection, and resumed their furious fire.
‘How come Butterbugs can’t settle this?’ one onlooker across the street nervously questioned another. ‘He always does in his pictures…’
‘Because,’ the other onlooker replied, ‘Butterbugs is too fair to those who fire upon him. He is correct in his sentiments, but even the truth sometimes cannot end a conflict. No, his words this day will be rememberéd, and they will serve to teach those in future who would attempt folly such as this. As that Confucius said, ‘The nail that stands up shall be hammered!’’
The end was ugly. But with beauty mixed in.
A full day passed. It was the afternoon hour again. Matinees and their idols were being showcased all over the city – even just a brief saunter up Broadway at Sid’s Million Dollar, and down it, at the Tower, the Orpheum, Sid’s Metropolitan, the Dynamabolt, and the mammoth United Artists.
Yet, the Ruffinites, ruffians all, gave no quarter.
The cops were strangely inactive, on the periphery, firing a few potshots here and there. They were basically waiting for the relief columns to arrive.
‘Besides,’ quoth Chief Monzo to the live media, ‘we don’t want ’em to get Butterbugs, holed up as he is, right in the vortex, you know!’
‘Can’t ya airlift him outa there, or somethin’?’ asked Coledrail Bones, cub reporter for ‘The Blabs’ family of broadsheets.
‘No,’ was all the Chief said.
‘We still have the atom bomb, ya know.’
‘That’s not a very funny one, Mr… Bones…’
‘I sure wish they were all brown bread!’ quipped a Cockney shutterbug who was whizzbanging pix back to horrified eastenders in Spitalfields.
The front of the Los Angeles Theatre looked like the Baillie Guard Gate in Lucknow – riddled with holes.
By chance, in a momentary lull, Butterbugs was joined by Sylvia Kristel and Linda Evans, who had come as a couple to the premiere and were unscathed. They had been separated from the Evacuation Squad of Ushers, and in the general confusion, sought their escape out the front of the house rather than the clear coast of the rear.
(The Ruffinites, weak on strategy, had neglected to cover the theatre’s back alley accesses, preferring a Pickettian Charge out front, probably for the greater prestige it brought.)
Within the remnants of the Box Office, all three actors held each other tightly, and in some desperation.
‘You know,’ mused Sylvia while the bullets flew, ‘there was a time when we were contemplating doing another in the Emmanuelle series.’
‘Why, you will be fabulous in it, as always, my beauteous girl,’ replied Butterbugs, as battle flags charged and fell, only to be picked up again and re-charged forward.
Linda nodded enthusiastically, her cheekbones like vivid baked apples, while blood poured out of the South’s finest fallen, onto Broadway’s tarmac.
‘Well, it’s been put on ‘indefinite’ hold’, Sylvia said, just as ‘Major’ Rund-Ruffin’s head was blown off by friendly fire.
‘Oh, honey, I’m so sorry it got red-lighted,’ he replied, just as the so-called Major’s body collapsed alarmingly close to the Box Office, a crumpled Statement of Total Right escaping from his cold dead hand, then whooshed into the gutter by hot battle breezes.
‘The producers wanted a war theme this time, if you can believe it. Today just reminded me of ‘the Emmanuelle that never got made’. You know what I mean?’ the beauty added wistfully, as ugliness raged nearby.
Linda competently adjusted her makeup while the marquee’s neon snapped and fizzled, its wonderful routes broken apart under heavy fire.
‘Where was it supposed to take place, my dearie?’ Butterbugs asked, while Reb-whoops turned to Reb-shrieks.
‘It starts with BDSM in Beirut, then switches to Mosul, for some vanilla servicing to refresh the beleaguered residents. A transgender interlude in Georgia. Then we’re off to a dungeon in Benghazi, before a sexy sojourn in Aleppo. Kandahar was a bit dicey though, so they looked for substitute locations. They even considered Tianjin, just because conditions there were so war-like.’ Sylvia’s eyes grew wide with excitement as half-track movement could be detected down the street.
‘Sounds a little perverse!’ Butterbugs raised his eyebrows, just as an ancient Rebel dirt private tripped and accidentally shot himself in the throat, with his battle cry, ‘Remembah that there Pea Ridge!’ reduced to an ensanguined spray, issuing from his moonshine-soaked gullet.
‘This, um… This particular Emmanuelle is supposed to get off not only on the effects of war, but… uh… she tends to… come… over… well, the very idea of war,’ Sylvia panted into his nearing ear, despite the hopped-up yowlings of a defeated people, defeated yet again.
‘Why listen, Mademoiselle ‘E’, we could sort of… ‘rehearse’, starting now. I mean, we’ve got war right here, don’t we? Both effects and ideas!’ The actor winked drolly, while the strains of ‘Dixie’ died from a regimental fifer’s lips, as he keeled over a dead drummer boy’s conga.
And the two hot actors made love amongst the ruins, while the South’s rise sank.
‘I shall be the happy godmother,’ Linda whispered as the buckshot whined. ‘Godmother! To their child of peace, so conceived in war…!’
‘Oooooh! Youwe!! Ohh! Wouw! Ohh! Uhhh! Oh… mijn god!!!!!!!!!’
Emmanuelle’s – or, Sylvia’s Dutch-treat climax coincided with the screechings of what was left of the Hags of the Confederacy, who made a last-ditch suicide run, deep into the heart of their own downfall.
Meanwhile, seventeen Advanced Tier SWAT teams closed in on what remained of the ragged Ruffinites. The tanks finally provided awesome shock, and so ended what would officially go down in history as the last battle of the American Civil War.
For now.
In general terms, it can be easily and justly stated that Butterbugs was a pretty virtuous person. Or at the very least, he certainly endeavored to be, which was no hard tas
k, given his natural proclivity in that respect. However, war, especially of the civil type, does not necessarily bring out the best in people. The actor was no exception in this instance.
Hastening to be the first to greet the relieving forces, led by Force-Colonel Malen Yornandéz, late of Ft. Hunnihugger, Butterbugs peeled off his used condom, while Sylvia made to restore her satisfied self to modesty. And, for lack of a more suitable disposal site, he stuffed the proven sheath into a crack below the ruined Box Office safe, until it squished – indicating its furthest point of concealment.
Then he strode out to victory.
‘My lovely, lovely, heroic ladies!’ He gestured elegantly to Sylvia and Linda. ‘Go now. Go – to relief!’
Conducted by responders, they stepped daintily over those Ruffinite remains that lay amongst the mortar craters, like carefully arranged dummy extras in the big railway station pullback scene in ‘Gone With The Wind’ (Selznick, 1939). A sequence, by the bye, that was filmed a mere eight miles from there, as the crow flies.
As the two classy women were received into high care, a wild cheer went up from the burgeoning crowd.
‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Butterbugs! Butterbugs? We thought you dead! Hurrah, hurrah now, for Butterbugs!!’
From somewhere in the audience, someone had a ghetto blaster, and from it now emitted a track from Alfred’s original soundtrack album for ‘The Life and Justified Times of Edmund Ruffin’. It happened to be a particularly emotional instrumental version of ‘The Bonnie Blue Flag’, beautifully orchestrated by Ed Powell. Without missing a beat, a male soloist emerged from the throng and brilliantly improvised a song of tribute to the hero, in perfect time with the background score:
We come together to-day
To witness the hero emerge,
Fighting for our liberty
With courage to save and purge!
And when our safety was threatened,
The cry rose near and far:
Hurrah for Bonnie Blue Butterbugs
Our ever-shining star!
Hurrah! Hurrah!
For photoplay rights, hurrah!
Hurrah for Bonnie Blue Butterbugs
Our always-shining star!
The crowd’s approving cheers were overwhelming. Butterbugs stood there daubing his eyes. Then his hands folded into a grateful namaste, and he bowed.
Even though his jacket was crumpled, his shirt untucked, his fly open, his kerchief soaked with love’s juices, and his hair tousled, he was greeted like the hero he was by all, especially Fce-Col. Yornandéz. When they clasped hands in conclusive accord, the image was broadcast galaxy-wide.
‘Glory to you, survivors!’ the military man enthused in a clear and ringing voice. ‘For how you persisted behind such a puny ravelin, only Heaven knows for sure!’
‘Humans persist through love!’ Butterbugs declared.
‘And your gallant protection of the womenfolk ushers in a new era of chivalry!’
‘Duty is the sublimest word in the language of the English, Force-Colonel!’
‘The Rebels are this day routed, overawed, extinguished!’
‘The Union must and shall be preserved!’
‘Thus, they shall not pass into a Second Secession – mainly due to your pluck, Butterbugs!’
Then, with great state, the actor ascended one of the newly formed mounds of war rubble, where cheery picture-goers had lately streamed to his premiere, and spake.
‘Hear, O citizens! Before you to-day, a rebellion has been quelled. Hurrah!’
The crowd went euphoric.
‘The war is ovah!’ they chanted. ‘Hurrah, and hurrah again, for our Bonnie Blue Butterbugs!’
The star then signaled for the people to be still, after which he aimed his open palm toward the commander.
‘Think not overly harshly of them, Malen! Nor you, peoples who have gathered. True, they aspired, they havoc’d, they bought time for Jeff Davis with their very lives. Yet, how distorted were they! Distorted with sociopathic mind fissures, which lured them into the uneducated pit-morass of hatred and self-loathsome egomania. Hear, crowds! Young and old – of all races! Slavery is once more vanquished! And see, see how the rebels themselves were enslaved by their own rigorous axiom! See where it has brought them, and where they lie. Indeed, they died for a lie. The nobility is with the survivors, not the defeated. Piteously, domestic terrorism has been unhappily visited upon this blessed landmark, so dear to the Drama. So now, do the needful! Banish all trace of the Terror Wars! Maintain the revaluation of all our values of peace waged, and peace won! These are they who tried to utilize the lost cause of terror for their own pukey interests. Theirs is only a pathetic reminder of hate’s failure to deliver the goods of goodness, plenty, and love! But, peoples, be not complacent! Educate your masses! Do so wisely. Do so today. Teach of the histories! Keep the future from sliding into the pit-morass of hatred and self-loathsome egomania, which has so lately been exported into the errors of racism and False Rights. All are equal, do you hear? ALWAYS!!’
The crowds, separated from Butterbugs by the river of grey carnage that Broadway had become, roared their approval.
‘An end now!’ they chanted. ‘An end to slavery! An end to the pit-morass of hatred and self-loathsome egomania!’
Mayor Met Karabouthian, who came forward from behind the protective mass of Fce-Col. Yornandéz’ person, was the second to shake the star-hero’s war-weary but chivalrous hand.
‘Say! That euphemism – you know, The Pit-Morass of Hatred and Self-Loathsome Egomania? Oh Butterbugs, tell me now, where oh where did you get such a concept? Huh?’
‘It just came to me…,’ Butterbugs replied, matter-of-factly.
Then the loving crowds stumbled across the morass of Dixie’s hate-filled dead and gently, respectfully, surrounded the shining star, singing his praises, as the excellent Newman score continued to play from somewhere across the field of battle.
When things died down at last and the crowds agreed to retire, the actor-hero gazed back up at the Los Angeles’ great vertical sign, pockmarked, neon-less, but ruggedly intact.
‘The mighty house still stands!’ he exclaimed. ‘It has not been divided!’
It did indeed stand, with only a bit of cosmetic damage and a wasted box office.
‘Damn!’ Butterbugs hissed as he caught sight of all those old Johnny and Joey Rebs being lowered into their dead-baskets, ‘I missed Art’s house party!’
When Jack Ford, shooting a Merrimint O’Columcraddie western on location in Monument Valley, was informed of the battle, he didn’t exactly wax eloquent, though there was truth in his wording.
‘Well I’ll be gollywogged in the pahlah!’ he mused. ‘Film’s a bloody powerful medium, ain’t it?’
Several weeks later, Butterbugs happened to be strolling through Griffith Park in the balmy eventide, with a magenta sun about to set, in order to take the waters at his favorite public drinking fountain there.
‘Well, I’ll be by-gollied!’ the actor said, cheeks blimped with public refreshment.
Art and Lois Linkletter pulled up beside him in their trademark ’60 Imperial, with Art himself driving.
‘Look at you two!’
‘I just couldn’t keep him down on the farm any longer,’ said Lois.
‘Regard, Butterbugs!’ Art said merrily. ‘I’m nearing the healing moment! I can whip this baby around in a circle, with my ‘bad’ arm as the only one on the wheel!’
Butterbugs knew that the flamboyantly-finned land-barge could be steered with only a pinkie if desired, but when he saw Art grasp the rectangular wheel and stylishly pilot the mass in a perfect circle, returning it to the exact spot he’d started from, he sensed an epiphany.
To be sure, he was tickled at Art’s recovery, but something else was occurring – explodingly – in his mind. And it wasn’t Rebel gunpowder this time, though there was a connection.
‘Magnificent maneuver, Old Jubilee!’
‘Thanks, old Ruffin-stuffin’!�
�
‘Say Art, I just thought of… maybe an idea. Remember that Clara Barton-type who saw to your arm’s blowout?’
‘Remember her! As a matter of fact – Well, why, of course!’
‘She’s the guest of honor at our next house party! Do come this time, Butterbugs! Will you come?’ interjected Lois.
‘Oh, I shall! I was kinda ‘busy’, last time.’
‘I confess, young fella, I’m a happier man than I’ve ever been. And you made it possible, Butterbugs!’
The venerable host was still smiling, more soulfully now.
‘He really is, Butterbugs’, stage-whispered Lois.
‘Well, I tell you what, great group. I’ll join you in Linkletterian happiness if I can have a private chat with that young lady at your place. Just a couple of minutes. Wanna run an idea past her.’
‘You needn’t have asked, my co-star,’ Art cajoled. ‘Done deal.’
‘I’ve just got a feeling about her.’
‘I know you do, Mr. Bb. I know what it is, too. I’ve had it myself.’
As the Linkletters motored away, Art leaned over and chuckled, ‘Y’know Lois, people are sure funny!’
Sure enough, on a further, grander, and just as balmy eve, Butterbugs sought the Clara Barton-type dress extra. After a thorough search among the genial crowd enjoying crackers and beer, he finally tracked her down, way out on Art & Lois’ Getting To Know You Pool Terrace, apart from all other partiers. Tonight, instead of hoop-dress and bonnet, she was wearing a stunning Kurky-Zeenmont frock, just part of her knockout ensemble and ambience. She was standing alone, highly heeled, sipping champagne, gazing out at the expressionistic sunset.
In their ensuing concise conversation, Butterbugs politely announced he’d arranged a screen test at MGM, which only awaited her pleasure.
And that’s how Huitzilopochtli Wong’s outstanding star came to rise and shine.
Out of a cinematic triumph then, came real-life tragedy. Out of real-life tragedy came real-life love-making. And from real-life love came cinematic beauty.
Forward to Glory Page 59