Brian Dennehy is preparing to die for your sins.
“I’ve had six other hostage negotiators in here,” he’ll say, muzzle trembling at his temple, BDRI scrawled on his forehead in blood. “You’re not going down like they did. Not this time.”
Remind him that your background is in carpentry.
Brian Dennehy will already be wrapping your fingers around the grip. “Appropriate,” he’ll say. “Carry my beam for me, little Cyrenian?”
Tell him you don’t remember the story going quite this way.
“You will this time,” he’ll say, your finger between his and the trigger. “You’ll pay attention. Attention must be paid.”
You and Bogie should pick up a couple pandas to keep you company–a relatively tame development at El Morocco tonight. That is, until these two dames waltz over and try to steal them.
“Hey!” Bogie will say. “Don’t bogart the pandas!”
Lunge for yours (which you have named Mao-Chi) and a scuffle, says the press in the morning, will ensue. Confer soberly with Bogie in your unshaven pajamas.
“It’s a feeding frenzy,” he’ll say. “They’ll want a sacrifice.”
Assume you’re it.
“Well, yeah,” he’ll sigh, “this way I get two pandas,” as their carnivorous black eyes turn to you.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
You’ve been hunting Maura Tierney for so long that it has reduced you, like balsamic vinegar boiling, to a potent solution with a vigorous scent. And here she is in La Jolla, eating breakfast in front of you: poached egg and salmon over whole wheat toast.
Explain to her that she should kill you.
Ask her if her gun is loaded.
Tell her to tie you to the subway tracks.
Slide your cell phone across the table, already speed-dialed to the number that will explode the tiny bomb next to your heart.
“No,” she’ll say gently, and watch you sob.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Viggo Mortensen is one of the finest trained swordsmen in Hollywood.
“If not the Warren Beatty kind of swordsman,” he chuckles softly. “That’s who did this, though, isn’t it? Beatty?”
Rub the rope burns on your gasping throat and nod.
“Next time don’t mention old Pat.” Viggo Mortensen shrugs. “You couldn’t have known. But if you’re still breathing we must be only a few minutes behind him–did you see which way he went?”
Point. It doesn’t matter where.
Viggo Mortensen’s grin is a hungry teenage boy. “Not much longer, old man. Tally ho, Buckethead!”
Buckethead unsheathes his doubleneck and crows.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
“I was reduced to doing birthday parties for a while,” muses William Shatner. “Me. Five hundred dollars a pop.”
Shriek into the gag.
“I know,” he’ll say. “Canadian dollars.” He’ll spread a clanking roll of velvet on the stone beside you. Bloody your wrists against the ropes as he admires the light on surgical steel.
“I thought it was luck when things picked up again, until Nerine… poor Nerine.” He sighs. “I understood, then. Do you know the term ‘cult of celebrity?’”
Gurgle in the affirmative.
“Like any cult,” he’ll say, “it requires sacrifices,” and will begin to excise your liver.
Jodie Foster isn’t here to kill you.
“There is one thing everyone knows about my life,” she says, “and it’s not this: I speak French like a native. Four years of using it exclusively, in school, and I own a home dans la patrie. I recorded two singles there. I served on the jury at Cannes.”
Throw a pen at her. You’ll miss.
“But you’re going to do as I ask, in any language.” She slides around your desk with canine grace. “Aren’t you?”
Tremble.
“Cherchez la femme,” she whispers, holding the photo of Maura Tierney very close. “Cherchez la femme.“
“You got nothing on me,” says John Michael Montgomery.
Point out that you have witnesses. You have the guns he doublefisted across the border, and the Mexican orphans with bellies full of balloons.
“What that is, is covered,” he says. “I’m a celebrity. We can’t legally be prosecuted.”
Wasn’t Mel? Wasn’t Martha? Wasn’t he himself tried for multiple charges in 2006?
“No no.” He’ll snap his handcuffs easily. “That was for underdoing it. We were punished for the sin of daring too little.” Then he’ll reach forward, and break your neck like a string.
“And I,” he’ll smile, “learned my lesson.”
“People tend to confuse me,” sighs the woman next to you. Shit. What was her name? Not Helen Hunt. Laura… Laura Dern?
“I mean, not that they make me confused,” she laughs, “although they do. They mix me up with other, more well-known actresses.” Linney. Somebody Linney. Stretched out, lazy, toes hidden in the sheets. “And secretly? I use that to my advantage.”
Lean up on your elbow to look at her. Her straight razor is already dipping for your throat.
“Who will they arrest this time?” she muses, washing your lifeblood from her hands. “God, I hope it’s Streep.”
