That Oscar Winning, One-Eyed Son Of A Bitch Named Marion (crash WALKER Chapter 2)

“Wrangler’s Canyon” was not the most popular Western show on television. It didn’t even come close. Television programmers didn’t know what to do with it: they put it up against “Gunsmoke” on Mondays, then they put it up against “Bonanza” on Sundays, they even tried pitting it against “The High Chaparral” on Fridays. So they just buried it at 10:00 Saturdays when the whole world was out having fun and didn’t have time for crap like TV. Even old fogies turned their nose at such nonsense when Jackie Gleason and Lawrence Welk were ready, willing and able to entertain them.

Crash Walker was one of the principal stars of “Wrangler’s Canyon” and sat in his makeup chair looking at the ratings that week. He read them from the ground up so his show looked like it had a fighting chance. It didn’t work, and he never failed to bristle when he saw “Roadblock” in the top ten with a huge audience share, again. While tons of pancake was getting blended into his face he overheard excited voices behind him.

“Hey you guys, Dutch O’Hara’s here!”
“Bullshit artist. Dutch O’Hara wouldn’t touch this fucking show with a 10 foot pole.”
“If I’m lying I’m flying, Clyde. Here he comes in his golf cart."
“Check that little baby out. Outtasite!"
Even Vic, Crash’s makeup artist stopped what he was doing and looked out the trailer. “Oh, Mary”, he drawled, “It really is him. Say a little prayer.”
Crash looked a mite peeved, “Hey, what’s all the fuss about? Who is this Dutch O’Hara, anyway?”
“Drop your cock and grab your socks, it’s going to be a long day. Well. At least we’ll get paid overtime.”

A gold-plated golf cart pulled up to the set right by the head cameraman, a very old man in a sailor’s cap wearing an eye patch bounding out, stubby cigar hanging in his grizzled maw, instantly cracking a whip so loud it made crew members jump a few feet. This giant of the cinema was none other than Marion “Dutch” O’Hara.

Who is Marion “Dutch” O’Hara, you may ask? The man who invented the cinema, of course. He started out as a cameraman for Fatty Arbuckle comedies, yeah! It was said he was the one who juked the legendary Coke bottle that killed Virgina Rappe (“Virginia Rape” he joked) but Fatty, being the stand up guy that he was, took “the rappe” instead (another Dutch joke). He also dated Thelma Todd before she parked for the last time (“Piece of ass, dumber than ZaSu Pitts though”). Most importantly, he won three Oscars (alright, in the 1930’s), wrestled Ernest Hemingway and out drank Castro. Ava Gardner shoved a bottle of tequila up her ass at his birthday party. He’s the stuff of legend.

“Bah!” Walker sneered, “I never did like tequila.”
“We’re done!” Vic sang. “Top of the morning to you!”
Crash Walker walked on set ready to shoot, when he saw Dutch grumbling at the Assistant Director, frowning at today’s script in his hands.
“What are we shooting today? Mexicans or Comanches?”
“Apaches, sir”, the A.D. replied, clearly in awe of this master of filmic art, “Comanches didn’t live in Montana.”
“The name’s Dutch, kid, I say we shoot Comanches, screw the fuckin’ Apaches.”
“But sir, I mean Dutch, it’s not going to be believe-“
“GOD DAMN IT, if I say Comanches, Comanches it is!” Practically spitting out his cigar, but thinking the better of it and pulling it out with one fist, and cracking his whip, narrowly missing a script girl’s arm as she ran for cover behind a trailer. Even the horses whined and clustered together.

O’Hara rammed the stogie back in his face and appraised Walker with disgust as he stepped up to the director. “Well, aren’t you something? What do you do around here?”
“I’m Crash Walker, we’re shooting the gunfight scene today.”
“Crash Walker. What kind of a name is that?” Dutch spat cigar juice on the ground.
“It’s my name, Dad.”
“My friends call me Dutch. You call me Miss-ter O’Hara.”

“Let’s do the gunfight scene. Take your marks, gentlemen”, he pointed with the bullwhip handle at both ends of the old Western town streets. He gingerly picked up the viewfinder around his neck and squinted into it.
Walker leaned over to the clapper loader and whispered, “Shit, is that a cast over his good eye? What good’s that fuckin’ viewfinder?”
“Hey, that’s Dutch O’Hara, kiddo. Listen…and learn. One of the masters!” The clapper loader’s weaselly face was a mixture of awe and fear, as if Moses himself were leading him down The Red Sea.
Walker took his place, cradling the pistol in his holster nervously.
“Aaaaand…..ACTION!”
“Drago, you shoulda git when the gittin’ was good. Now it’s too late –"
“CUT! CUT! Goddmammit, Method Boy, that sounded like you were mumbling down your shirt. We’re gonna have some real acting –"
“Hey!” Walker still had his hand on his gun.
O’Hara turned to his A.D. and grunted, “Get me some Hindu boys to get in Comanche dress, willya? Hindu bastards look like Comanche’s better’n the damn injuns themselves."
“Yes sir, yes sir.”
O’Hara belted to the whole crew, “I’m the Skipper here, got it? Is that Kate Hepburn waving at me?” O’Hara pulled at his crotch fitfully. “Kate, is that you? Come and give a sad Irish lad a hug, you sweet red-headed rose of a gal.”
“Uh, sir, that’s the Producer’s daughter”, the A.D. quietly pointed out.
“Shit Nellie, shoulda used my viewfinder. I’d pack her proper anyhoo.”
Walker rolled his eyes in disgust.

TAKE THIRTY. A little hair touch up, make up touch up, and then…
“Drago, you shoulda git when the gittin’ was good. Now it’s too late –"
“CUT! Now let me get this straight, Drago gets killed, not this punk kid?” pointing at Walker.
“Sir, Mr. Walker’s one of the stars of the show, we can’t kill him.”
“Well, why not? Let’s have Drago win the gunfight and have him star the series-"
“Now, wait a minute!” Walker yelled angrily, getting hot under the collar.

TAKE FIFTY-TWO. “Drago, you shoulda git when the gittin’ was good. Now it’s too late –"
“CUT! Can we get an acting coach on set to help Mr. Walker learn the finer points of acting? That’s not a Kansas City dialect, Sonny.”
“We’re not in Kansas City, Grandpa, we’re in Montana. Can we just get on with the scene and wrap already?”
“We’re going to do a hundred takes if it takes all day, Method Boy.” O’Hara spat more cigar juice on the ground. “My spit means more to me than your goddamned Method.”
“What does your smelly ass mean to you?”
“What? What? Speak to the right ear, Smarty Boy.”

Walker stepped away from his mark and rushed O’Hara. “I’m gonna stick that fuckin’ whip up your ass, old man.” Grips ran over to Walker to hold him back from kicking O’Hara around.
“Let him go, let him go”, O’Hara grumbled, dropping his whip. “You want a shot at me, boy? Think you’re tougher’n Papa Hemingway? Just try it. How about it, Method Boy, Coke or Pepsi?”
Walker wriggled free from the grips, and landed a haymaker into O’Hara’s weak chin, leaving him sprawled in the middle of the Old Time Western Street.
“Royal Crown, you son of a bitch”, Walker stormed off to his trailer.

EPILOGUE: Well, for that major infraction Crash Walker was “on hiatus” from the series for punching out the great master himself, Marion “Dutch” O’Hara. A week later, Dutch O’Hara was let go from the episode for drunk and disorderly behavior (something about two teenage girls outside of Molly Malone’s), only to be replaced by a 25-year old "Playhouse 90" director...from New York. A friend of Eli Wallach, Elia Kazan, and, yes, Marlon Brando. Shortly thereafter, Crash Walker’s phone rang again.