Get Zombie: 8-Book Set (78 page)

Central
actors have gone missing (like Joann) and replaced.

The
actors in this scene are Jack Payback and Master Bait.

At
this point, I fear that the film will turn out to be nothing more
than a compilation of cold, meat banging.

Or
I could use the magic of postproduction and ADD IN a story with witty
editing and seductive voice-overs.

Yessm,
that’s the ticket!

Good!

I
pan down and notice a red puddle.

Seems
to me that Master is bleeding. Jack goes on green, but does Jack stop
on red? I wanna say something, but the scene is going strong.

I
keep rolling.

Jack
Payback lies on the sand and stretches his arms out and yawns. Master
gets up and sits on his face, scaring him. I catch my breath. Will he
get mad? I wait for Jack to shriek out or something, waiting for him
to say, “Eww, her vertical mouth is bleeding!”

But
he says nothing.

I
hear of people doing this, on the Interweb, but I never, ever, want
to see it. Maybe you have to be in the moment.

I
look around, at the crew. No one seems to care – all squinting
from the heat. I’m sure they all just want to hurry and end
this so they can pack up and skedattle.

The
male actor gets up after having sex.

“Sorry,
my dear, seems I have missed you this whole time. I was making love
to the sand!”

All
laugh.

He
has no belly button, just like Alfred Hitchcock.

“CUT!”
I yell, and excuse myself to use the restroom.

Written
in a stall is: Open your eyes…never blink.

I
flush and exit.

The
world outside suddenly turns dark and angry.

It’s
super windy. Is this rain or spit from the ocean? Wind BLASTS past my
ears. I lean forward as I walk to the van. Everything’s gray. I
squint and see Polly in the driver’s seat, yelling through the
glass and pointing crazily at something behind me.

I
turn around and jump out of the way as a surfboard flies by and
sticks into a tree with a dull THUNGGGG. A dark-skinned woman runs up
and tugs on the board, yelling angry things at me, but I can’t
hear a word she’s saying. I try to help her free her board, but
I’m skinny. She gives it one good kick with her naked foot and
loosens her precious thing, but it doesn’t come out. She runs
into the restroom. I can see her sitting in a corner, near the
entrance, pulling out thorns from her feet, shrieking, staring at me.

The
wind scoops me off my feet and throws me a good thirty feet back.
Polly FLASHES the headlights and HONKS HONKS HONKS.

I
pick myself off the grass and run to the van in slow motion.

As
we drive off, trembling, I point out that the waterfalls on the
mountaintops are moving backwards!

She
looks at me funny and says that they’re flying skyward due to
the strong updraft.

Days
earlier…

It’s
been a week since the cops raided the house. Mr. Snake and Polly and
I have a little meeting on top a dangerous, pointy mountain,
overlooking the Honolulu city lights. We talk about where we can
begin filming to finish the movie. Mr. Snake is excited – very
excited.

With
crazy eyes he tells us that we’re all going to be very rich –
that our film will knock all other adult films out of the water –
that it’s going to rock the Porn World – that we’ll
make so much money we’ll be able to buy all the porn we can
eat.

The
film crew arrives – all the actors and gaffers and amputees and
carpenters. Mr. Snake and Polly applaud as they all walk toward us.
Soon we find ourselves in a monstrous, large circle, drinking
Budlight and taking Jell-O shots while the director plays on a guitar
– songs from Rat and The Who and The Doors and Metallica and
Michelle Branch…and even “Toxic” by the great
Brittany Spears.

An
hour flies by.

We’re
all drunk out of our shoes and dancing like snakes to an acoustic
version of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin”.

I
don’t remember who – maybe Polly – but someone
starts a bonfire. Many stick marshmallows and tomatoes and packets of
raw noodles and chicken guts through long, sharp swords, holding them
above the crackling flames. We sing over the loud fire. I notice that
one man, sitting directly across from me, beyond the slithering
fumes, is actually shrieking the lyrics – his face a constant
flicker of shadows.

A
fight inevitably breaks out between two naked male actors. One shouts
to the other, “This is truth! My penis is bigger than yours
because I rub mayonnaise on it! This is truth! Here’s the
proof! See? It works! Look at its stiff image in awe! This is
awesome!”

The
challenger is a skinny fellow from India whose dingle hopper is
visibly much larger than the other gentleman. He shoots his hand out
and grabs onto the other’s penis and squeezes like a loony
person. The victim screams out and flails his arms in the air,
mimicking a swimmer’s backstroke.

“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

The
Middle Eastern fellow tightens his grip and yells out.

“Sook
sook the manuke!”

“Aiiiiiiiiiiii!
Release your hold!”

“Hit
me, you’re so tough!”

The
pitiful man tries to punch him, but each throw of a fist results in a
tug of the penis. Mr. Snake steps in and slaps the Middle Eastern
man’s hand away.

“Stop
this nonsense! We are professionals living in a material word!”

“No
one slaps my hand! This is my money hand! I’m a hand model.
R-e-s-p-e-c-t me, you will, Godfongit!”

Mr.
Snake rips off his shirt and erects his chest to show that he’s
not afraid. The Middle Eastern man gasps and takes a step back…then
takes two steps forward.

Mr.
Snake goes “Hmph!”

He
stomps his foot to appear frightening.

“Mr.
Snake erects his chest to show that he’s not afraid.”

Then
he takes a sword and cuts an “X” across his chest and
throws the sword into a tree.

“What
are thou going to do? Bleed on me?? YOU slapped MY hand!”

“You
drunkard.”

“Blasphemy!”

Middle
Eastern man punches the director in the face and sends him flying
through a thick, termite ridden oak tree. It explodes into splinters
that get into people’s eyes. They run about crying and jogging
into trees. They give up and sit on the pinecone-carpeted ground,
weeping and drinking a beer, wishing to dull the pain in their eyes.

A
fight breaks out over who drank whose beer. There is THUNDER &
LIGHTNING, but no rain.

Polly
hides behind a tree, praying, I think.

I
stand up, confused, while people walk and twirl by me, their hands
over their eyes. I don’t know what to do – where to go.
I’m afraid that if I move, the angry Middle Eastern man will
shoot a stern finger at me and say, “You sook sook the manuke,
too, eh?!?!?”

Lucky
for me, he is distracted: By the black shape of Mr. Snake’s
bulk, slowly rising before the rumbling bonfire. What scares me is
that Mr. Snake appears to be convulsing…and like with babies,
I’m afraid of what I don’t understand.

Middle
Eastern man sees this shocking, scary sight and points at Mr. Snake,
asking in a fake, courageous voice.

“Are
we rolling?”

Mr.
Snake takes a kung-fu pose, as does his opponent. WIDE SHOT: They
both stand in front of a mountainous full moon – bodies stiff
and ready.

Mr.
Snake opens his mouth slowly and says quickly…

“Action!”

The
two, fully-grown men run toward each other, shrieking with their
fists coiled back.

A
weeping, wandering woman, rubbing her eyes, runs in front of the
Middle Eastern man and he punches her without stopping, sending her
flying right at Mr. Snake. He catches her and flings her up a tree.

“Grab!”
she yells, and grabs onto a branch, swinging herself up to safety.

All
the drunks are fighting, releasing lighting quick punches and
kangaroo-like kicks. Sensing defeat, Middle Eastern man runs into the
drunken brawl of fighters and crying people, who still have splinters
in their eyes. He picks up random people and throws them at Mr.
Snake, who ducks and jumps over each missile, running faster and
faster toward his enemy. The Middle Eastern man YELLS out.

“Waaaaaaah!”

Mr.
Snake jumps into the air and knees him in the forehead.

They
both land mere inches from the scary bonfire.

Middle
Eastern man crawls on the ground. He tries to get up to run away, but
his bowels give way and he falls back down and gets a mouth full of
dirt. He gets up a second time, visibly vomiting in his mouth a
little, and takes one step forward. He falls down again, this time
directly on his face, hands glued to his side. He doesn’t get
up for a long time. Mr. Snake walks up and kicks him over.

The
Middle Eastern man has a pinecone in his right eye. Mr. Snake jumps
back and throws his hands over his mouth.

“Jesus
Christ!”

Middle
Eastern man SCREAMS OUT.

“BLARRRRRGHHHH!”

And
kicks Mr. Snake in his belly, sending him flying up up up into the
air.

My
heart stops, knowing the inevitable.

Polly
runs up to me and hugs me and says words that tumble out in slow
motion; makes her sound like an old man.

“OH-SWEET-JESUS-NO!”

Mr.
Snake sails into the flames and is never heard from again.

The
moon smiles. The night wind soothes. The crickets laugh. I rest on a
bed of grass and drown in the stars. Morning is coming soon.

The
sun peeks over the hill. I didn’t realize that everyone else
slept on the mountain. Why is it that when one wakes up and scratches
and yawns, everyone else wakes up and scratches and yawns?

It
feels like it has been raining.

Why
do mornings have to feel so goddamn moist? I hate it with a passion
of the Christ.

The
fire has died out. Nothing left, but black goo. There’s a ton
of it.

I
dare not to think of the obvious.

No
one says anything.

Not
even Polly.

She
has been crying.

All
the actors and the rest of the crew put on their shoes and walk back
to their automobiles and drive off without saying goodbye.

Polly
walks behind a tree with her head hung low and her hands tied to her
back by invisible wire. She squats behind the tree and marinates the
earth, noisily, on dry leaves.

Is
she crying again?

I
want to help her. Maybe when she has calmed down a bit.

I
listen.

Yessm,
she is weeping.

It’s
soft at first, but then it sounds very angry.

She
groans then growls.

Her
urine even shoots out in strong, angry bursts while she COMPLAINS.

“Daaaaaaah!”

I
can see her shaky hand come out from behind the tree and reach out
for a cleansing, dead leaf.

Soon
she’s walking out like a zombie and takes my hand and guides me
to the van.

As
we drive past Daie and down Kapiolani blvd., she tells me the plan.

She
wasn’t crying for Mr. Snake, she was crying for the project.
She was shedding tears for the CREW.

And
me.

“Do
you want to direct?” she asks.

It
takes all my energy to hold down my excitement and remain cool.

I
ask, “Why me?”

She
looks at me, confused.

“Isn’t
this what you’ve wanted your whole life?”

Afterward

I
edit the adult film all by my lonesome on Warren’s computer. I
do it whenever he’s asleep. My ass gets numb every night
because his computer sits on the floor. It takes me a good week to
finish the thing. Once, I was more than half way complete, when the
computer crashed and I lost everything. A little part of me died
right then and there.

One
time the computer froze when I was saving.

What
the fuck is that about?

So
now the film, called “Aloha Mannequins”, has a
voice-overed story line that I wrote to fill in the plot holes. The
story, told by a mysterious, French woman, whose character may or may
not be the devil, involves dreams and religion and nuns and truth and
love. It’s so surreal. I get complaints from people that it’s
like The Nundead, only sexier.

This
is bad.

Because
my 1st film ended up being, in my opinion, unmarketable, totally
detached from the world. I vowed to make my next film salable. But
now it seems that the same thing is happening all over again. I can’t
change. I can’t escape who I am.

I’m
happy with the film. I love it. Proud of it.

Polly
hates it.

And
she hates me now.

She
watched a screening of “Aloha Mannequins” at Wallace
Theatres in Restaurant Row that cost me $150 to rent out for a day.
She got up and walked down, across the flickering screen, stomping
her feet in an obvious way, staring at me. She walked out through
that Exit, into the sun, and I never saw her again.

ALTHOUGH,
I do believe I heard from her days later.

I
think.

See,
one early morning the phone rang – it was something like 2am –
and on the other end all I heard was heavy, mean breathing. I
listened for a full thirty minutes…listening to this heavy
breathing, trying to figure out who it was, not saying anything to
the stranger for reasons that even I don’t understand.

There
was another crazy sound – this one in the background: Something
like heavy bits, falling into a toilet.

Then
there was the sound of a shower blasting on…and click.

Whoever
it was hung up.

My
male’s intuition tells me that it was Polly.

Three
days later, in the morning, while my mum is at her dialysis
appointment, someone breaks into the apartment.

I’m
upstairs in the bathroom, brushing my teeth when it happens. The door
is kicked down and feet rush in. I hide in the bathtub, behind the
curtain. It all happens so fast. When all is silent, I go downstairs
to find the place perfectly intact.