Get Zombie: 8-Book Set (71 page)

Polly’s
cellphone goes off, plays the ring tone “What’s this?
What’s this” from A Nightmare Before Christmas. Irritated
by the conversation, she hangs up, violently, and tells me that the
address of the house where the adult movie is being filmed has been
changed – for security reasons. Seems that someone on the
inside has tipped the fuzz.

After
an hour of driving and searching, we drive up to the two-story house.
Other cars are parked, all close to each other. There is a large blue
van – looks as if it time-traveled from the 70’s. It is
rocking back and forth, and muted tribal music can be heard inside.

The
backdoors are opened by an obese woman with bad ankles and children
on pogo sticks jump out and hop here and there and everywhere.

Polly
and I climb the long flight of stairs, towards the cotton-filled blue
sky, up to the front, sliding glass door. It takes our combined bulk
to open it.

The
place is one, large living room. People in orange towels loiter. They
look at us and then go back to their conversations. A fat, white cat
walks past us. It looks over its shoulder and gives me the old
bug-eye.

I
squint my eyes and give it the look back.

An
older man – wearing white socks – walks up to Polly and
gives her a big hug. He looks at me with those large, blue eyes and
shakes my hand – introduces himself as Mr. Snake, the director
of the project. He assumes that I’m the new cinematographer.

When
I agree, he lets out a heavy “Huzzah!” and calls forth a
waiter who lumbers out from the bathroom. He looks tired –
dressed in a black, turtleneck sweater, holding a silver platter over
his head. He yawns.

“How
may I help you, Sir?” he says in a thick British accent.

Mr.
Snake slaps him across the mouth.

“Don’t
ask stupid questions, Sigourney!”

He
is slapped again, and I take a step back, hiding a little behind
Polly, who just stands there, emotionless.

This
Mr. Snake person raises a stiff finger in front of Sigourney’s
eyes, asks him if he wants another – for his own good. The
waiter says Yes, with a tear, and braces his face.

SLAP!

The
waiter nods, dramatically.

“Yessm.
I love it.”

Mr.
Snake takes him by the shoulders and looks into his eyes,
passionately.

“Now
I want you to listen to me very carefully. I care for you. And I want
you to go into the kitchen and make me and my friends here a tiny
cake, and then I want you to make yourself a tiny cake and urinate on
it, and you’re going to eat it because I tell you to. And you
will love it. I care for you so much. This is for your own good.
Discipline is radical. You understand, don’t you? I know you
do. Later, I command you to ejaculate into the tiny cake and feed it
to a hungry whore, and then look at her. Hrmm, I know she’s
here somewhere. Moped?? Moped, where are you, love!? On the toilet,
maybe? You better be.”

The
waiter blinks a tear.

“I
think she’s massaging out a stool, sir.”

Mr.
Snake stuffs a dollar into Sigourney’s mouth and SLAPS him a
heavy one, knocking him back toward the kitchen.

“You
make my mouth happy!” Sigourney cries.

He
disappears behind a wall.

Mr.
Snake wipes the sweat from his brow and turns to us, surprised.

“I’m
sorry you had to see that. You know how waiters get. The help like it
when you hit them every now and then: Their anger makes them feel
special. Heehaw!”

I
want to slap him a good one of my own. And then scream into his face:
“HOW DOES IT FEEL – HUH! HOW DOES IT FEEL!!” But I
don’t, because he’s much bigger than me (he looks like a
drugged-out, Samoan Santa). Polly points to the waiting crowd in the
living room.

“How
much have you so far?”

Mr.
Snake cracks his neck.

“The
crew has been organized…everyone’s here and ready to
blow.”

We
walk down the hallway. I have no idea where to, and I’m too
afraid to ask. I keep my mind level by thinking about my pay and my
splendid future-condo in Waikiki.

A
row of 5 girls, age 18 by the looks of it, wrapped in black towels,
sit in chairs with their legs crossed, reading Fangoria Magazine,
their hair being worked on by what I can only assume to be make-up
artists.

I
can’t hear what Polly and this Mr. Snake are yakking about –
I’m trailing a little too far behind them and I begin to panic.
I walk past a room and catch a glimpse of two obese, naked Hawaiian
men sitting on the foot of a bed, licking the other’s face,
madly: I remember clearly, against my will, the waving of their arm
flab.

Past
another door: children are jumping up and down on a clean bed. A
balding, adult-woman in a red leotard laughs along with them,
clapping her hands to a made-up beat. I can only assume this to be
some kind of desperate nursery.

I
stop to stare into the bathroom.

It’s
dark inside, but I can make out the outline of a human-female,
sleeping in the tub, clear curtain obscuring her face. She doesn’t
move…yet her breasts are not still.

Afraid
that I may have discovered a cracked-out, bye-bye whore, I speed-walk
after Polly.

Bad
insanity.

Children’s
toys litter the hallway: Yellow Tonka Construction Trucks, Barbie
dolls with their heads replaced by giant crayons, an autographed
picture of Adam Sandler addressed to someone named “Toots”,
a toy rat, a jump rope still in its packaging, a baseball bat covered
in peanut butter, a shirt stitched to pants that’s stitched to
a pair of white shoes, and toy babies. Training bras cover some toys.
At the end of this long hallway is an unusually tall pile of used
panties. I begin to wonder where all the man-briefs are. There’s
a full body mirror, too. But I walk on by, not daring to look at
myself in it.

Stepping
over a discarded pink shampoo bottle, we enter a fake room –
fake walls, fake TV, fake couch, fake ceiling, fake ceiling fan, fake
windows, and a fake floor. I notice a bathroom and wonder if the
toilet inside is real. I’m afraid to move. I don’t know
what’s going on, or what’s going to happen to me. I can
feel eyes on me, although there is no one else in the room with us.
I’m getting The Fever again. God, help me. I’m now a
cinematographer – at least very soon I will be. Responsibility
responsibility responsibility. Am I ready for this responsibility?
What if I fail? What if they hate my work? What will these alien apes
do to me?

Oh,
Jesus…

Will
they rape?

MAN
UP!

Will
I vomit?

MAN
UP!

Am
I even attractive enough to be raped?

MAN
UP!

I’m
so sensitive.

MAN
UP!

I
want to be raped by a beautiful woman.

MAN
UP!

Shhh.
Calm down, child. Relax. Take a laxative. Nothing bad will happen.
Here – sit down with them on the bed. Nod your head,
constantly, as they chat. See? Nothing bad is happening. Nothing bad
WILL happen. The glass is half full, not half empty. Yesssssm, just
nod your head. Nice. You’re wonderful. You’re doing so
well.

MAN
UP!

Don’t
listen to him. You’re doing great. Remember this: They just
want to make some money. That’s their goal – that’s
why they’re here. You’re all on the same boat. The good
ship Lollypop.

Polly
and Mr. Snake look at me.

“Well?”
one of them says.

I
stop shaking my head. Who said what now? Don’t panic. Just look
into their eyes and say something positive.

“Yessm.”

Mr.
Snake explains that we should go over the script before we begin to
plan the shots. I agree and he walks off, briskly, in a gay way. My
right arm hurts. I poopoo it sometimes playing darts –
practicing at Hawaiian Brian’s from 6-12am, preparing for
Play-Offs.

I
feel nauseous.

My
brain wants to vomit.

Polly
asks if I’m okay.

I
tell her I have a witch in my belly and that the witch hates me and
she hurts me and my head hurts. “I have two owees.” She
hands me a bottle of some kind of prescription medication for my
headache and walks out to get me a glass of water.

Watching
her leave, I worry immediately that I may find something nasty in my
water.

The
red bottle in my hand reads: Take one pill rectally, by mouth.

I
sigh and fall back on the bed.

Just
let me close my eyes for a minute.

When
I open my eyes, I forget where I am and make a pathetic, chirping
sound. The lights hurt my eyes. I realize where I am and BOLT UP. Was
I touched, sexually? Was I felt up in a sexy way? I check my body for
any weird marks.

Nothing.

Oh,
good, God.
Good
.

There’s
no one else in the room.

I
guess I’m okay. If anyone did molest me, better have been a
woman. Or at least a girl. A pretty Canadian girl with blond hair and
skinny muscles.

I
look down at a fluffy pillow on my right. There’s a bloody
tissue on it. I pick it up with a raised pinky. Who does this belong
to?

Who
was in here?

Voices
in the hallway. I throw the blood-covered tissue behind the bed and
sit up straight with my hands in my lap.

Mr.
Snake and Polly walk in, laughing. They both hold screenplays. Polly
waves at me and they sit on the bed.

“Good.
You’re up,” she says, patting my back. “Very good.”

Mr.
Snake also pats my back.

“Yes,
very good. How have ye been, my son? Good?” he asks, smiling.
“Very good.”

“I’m
fine. When do I start work?”

They
both laugh.

Mr.
Snake hands me his copy of the script.

“First
we read, Rubs. First we read. Thou should know better, right? Polly
told me about your experiences in the filmmaking community. You’ve
even directed a little, no?”

“Yessm.”

“Good
times, Yessm?”

“No.”
I rub my eyes. “Well, sometimes yessm. When no one asks
questions.”

Mr.
Snake stands up and gives out a Santa-like laugh: “Hohoho! Tell
me about it. I won’t interrupt.”

“This
one time I was filming in a friend’s bathroom and – ”

“Sorry
to interrupt, but we should really get to work.” He puts his
hands on his hips. “Let’s read though this magnificent
piece of literature together. Polly, thou can begin.”

“Yessm.
Very good…” She stands up next to Mr. Snake and puts on
her 1950-ish glasses and squints at the first page. She nibbles on a
pen. I raise my hand.

“About
100 people choke to death on ballpoint pens each year. Careful.”

She
just smiles at me and scratches my head. I blush.

Polly
cleans her throat, then reads.

“My
Sexy Wheelchair: The True Story of Gina Hwerty” FADE IN.
Bathroom. Day. A young woman in wheelchair ENTERS. She is naked. She
readies herself to sit on toilet. This is Gina Hwerty. There is a
knock on the door. Open door. Man walks in dressed as priest.
(changed to naked man) She loves him. He tells her secrets of the
church. Church mafia charges in. They kill them. Gina is chopped into
little pieces and is flushed down the toilet while gay mobsters rub
tongues. The End. Roll credits.”

Mr.
Snake claps.

“That’ll
do, pig. That’ll do.”

I
flip through the rest of the screenplay.

“So
what’s all this other stuff?”

“The
sex scenes that go into the story. Everything takes place in the
bathroom. It’s arty. Unlike all the other pornographic films I
have directed, “My Sexy Wheelchair: The True Story of Gina
Hwerty” will be filmed exactly as written!”

I
thumb a random page that describes – in amazing detail –
a sex scene that involves the two main characters in strange, sexual
positions while sitting on the toilet. Every detail is noted: French
kissing, where hands go, how the feet are seen, eyes open or closed,
moans, no moans, and so on and so on.

Mr.
Snake reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a cheeseburger.

“I
have a cheeseburger in my back pocket.”

He
then reaches back and produces a bottle of water with a picture of an
angry snake on it. He takes a mighty sip and yells out:

“Everyone
to the set!”

He
holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet.

“This
shouldn’t take long, my son. Excited? I know I am. Now excuse
me while I kiss the sky.”

He
makes to walk away, but I have an important question.

“Can
I see the camera?”

“Sure,
it’s over there in that stained box.”

“Thank
you. Oh! And about the shots…”

“One
long take, my son. I want the DePalma-effect to be in
full…er…effect!”

“Ah,
yessm. Very good.”

I
walk over and open the box. There is the stench of day-old Chinese
noodles. I reach into the white beads of Styrofoam and pull out the
camera. It is a Sony PD100. The same camera I used to film my horror
movie, The Nundead.

The
camera is in perfect working condition, except for the missing
lens-cap.

Feet
can be heard charging down the hallway. A group of five people run
into the room, breathless. Mr. Snake walks up to them and gives them
a few words which I cannot hear. Soon after, three of them, all women
in their mid-30s, walk up to me and introduce themselves. These will
be my gofers (go-for-this, go-for-that) for the night: There’s
Dina, a chronic smoker with fiery red hair and a heavy Irish accent
and thick bags under her eyes; Sharon, Japanese but speaks with a
Canadian accent with a left leg that can’t stop twitching; and
Bethany, a skinny, pasty girl that only speaks when spoken to. Her
mouth is always open.

Mr.
Snake calls everyone’s attention and directs all to set the
scene.

As
I check the settings on the camera, making sure the color balance and
focus are set, I spy on the other two people: These are the main
actors, Joann and Tim. They stand before Mr. Snake, dressed in
kimonos. The director points at the script then points at them, and
the actors nod their heads Yessm Yessm Yessm.