Andy Seven, former rock star/male model/bon vivant, the man with the action-packed expense account, the fabulous free-lance creator of stories and images is available for your entertainment NOW! on Blogger.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Dead Eyes of Hollywood (crash WALKER Chapter 4)
2:00 pm. Liver. Crash Walker hated liver, and he hated it even more when he smelled it on someone's breath. He was in the shit hole when he had to do a kissing scene with Kitty the Dance Hall Gal, sweet 38" bust, red hair like the burning Hollywood Hills, and the smelliest dog shit breath on the planet. She couldn't help it of course, the scene had to be wrapped after lunch. He saw her out of the corner of his eye at the commissary piling into a plate of liver and onions and thinking, "You bitch. Your mouth will taste like dog turds on a hot summer pavement." She wouldn't think about popping a few breath mints, no, that's a man's job. Bitch.
Mister Method Director, Bartholomew Friedbaum, was still earning his oats helming this horse opry, and positioning everyone in their places. "Okay, this is the bumper where you tell Kitty what happened in the past episode. The scene ends with you grabbing her by the hair and kissing her brashly, passionately. Give me lust!"
"I'll give her puke if I have to breathe in her stinky vapors. Yuck!" Walker thought.
"Aaaaand, action!!" CLICK!
"Kitty, honey, it's been a coon's age since I've held you in muh arms, and-"
"BRAAAPPPP!" A booming fart ripped from behind the camera, stinking of sauerkraut and wieners. Stage hands laughed uproariously. Crash Walker's face turned green, coughing hard. Kitty fanned herself with her dance hall fan.
"I am zo zorry, de lunch iss too heavy", Gabor the cameraman apologized.
"-and too smelly. Rats!" some redneck grip cursed.
Crash turned around to see who said that, and saw a man in an ill fitting suit standing in the shadows towards the back staring at him. The man made him nervous, and he never got nervous on set. He looked to the other side of him and saw another man in a suit with a hat staring at him. "Who are these guys and what the fuck do they want?" he thought.
"Let's pick it up from the top! Actors take positions, quiet on the set, lights, camera on, aaaaaand action!"
"Kitty, honey, it's been a coon's age since I've held you in muh arms, and -"
BREEEEAAAATHE. The liver and onions vapors crawled into his nostrils like an atomic turd bomb.
"Gag!" The words wouldn't come out of Crash's mouth because he was dry heaving on Kitty the Dance Hall Gal.
"Cut! Cut! What's the problem this time?" Friedbaum cursed, his young, tortured face getting beet red. It was only three minutes of footage but it was going to take three days getting that bullshit done.
"Sorry, I need a little air", he gasped.
One of the men in the shadows stepped on set and grabbed Crash by the collar. "Yeah, kiddo, let's get some air, huh?"
Friedbaum stepped up, pissed at this intruder. "And who are you, pal?"
The plainclothes man whipped out his LAPD badge. "Police. We're going to give Roy Rogers some air here for a few minutes. Take a fuckin' coffee break, jerk yourselves off, we don't care."
The other plainclothes man from the shadows joined him by the side of Walker and they practically dragged him out of the sound stage.
They dragged him around the corner to an isolated passageway with tall weeds growing out of the pavement.
"Walker, I'm Sergeant Mason of the LAPD, this is my partner Sgt. Kurlich. Where were you on the night of July 17th?"
"That was two nights ago, I was at a party. What's this about?"
Kurlich, the fat slob in the hat and suit moved in on him. "Hey, swinger, did you ever get a taste of that ginger cooze in there? I'll be she'll suck off a big-dicked dog."
"Fuck you, you fat slob!" Walker sneered, and quickly got a punch in the gut. He doubled over and really retched this time.
"Big TV star, thinks he's a tough guy. We piss on tough guys until they love the taste", Kurlich sneered.
"This guy's not gonna tell us shit. Cuff him and throw his ass in the car", Mason mumbled.
"Let's dump him in the trunk. He's too pretty to ride in my back seat."
"Fuck you, asshole, I'm running this shit. He goes in the back seat. What are you doing?"
Kurlich reached over and felt Walker's pecker. "My wife thinks these bastards are hung bigger than regular guys like us. Just checking."
"You look like you're checking a little too much. Besides, his puke's all over your hand now."
Thirty minutes later, in a little tiny room on Hill Street, Walker still in cowboy garb sat in an interrogation room. The door opened and Sgts. Mason and Kurlich entered with an older man in short shirt sleeves following them. The older man sat down while the other two stood against the wall simply staring at him with pure disgust on their faces.
"Walker, I'm Captain Edmonds of the Wilcox Station of the Los Angeles Police Department. We've brought you in for questioning."
"What is this about? That fat slob rubbed my peck-"
"SHUT UP, COWBOY, OR I'LL-" Kurlich jumped at him.
"Settle down, Kurlich, or I'll throw your ass out of here. Walker, you were last seen at a party on 2600 Laurel Canyon Drive, were you not?"
"Well, yeah, a lot of people were."
"Uh, huh, you got into an altercation with Mr. William Flagg, kicking him and threatening him, correct? We have witnesses to the scene, don't even think of denying it, son. Serious threats, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't even remember."
"I can make this fucker remember everything, just give me five minutes with this creep", Kurlich jumped.
"Kurlich, I'm warning you", Edmonds yelled, getting impatient. "I ought to let him have his way with you. I'm sick of movie stars pissing all over my fuckin' beat and acting like they're cleaner than an nun's panties. I say bullshit!" he pounded his fist against the table, which made everyone jump.
"I wish I was big enough to be a movie star", Walker looked at the badged clowns around him. "Bill Flagg's an asshole and picked a fight with my buddies. And yeah, I kicked his ass, and I'd do it again."
Mason raced right up to him and threw a right hook at his mouth like a runaway locomotive. Walker flew out of his chair. "Get up, Cowboy Bob", Mason grunted, picking him up and throwing him back into his chair.
"Look familiar to you?" Edmonds threw a few 8 x 10 glossy photographs in front of him. They were pictures of a naked man with puffy eyelids on a bed, his nose broken, and needle marks all over his arms. "Shortly after your little Hollywood sex party, we got an anonymous phone call from the Sunset Siesta Motel reporting Mr. Flagg dead on the scene, his nose broken, neck broken holding a 20-dollar bill in his hand with needle marks all over his arms. He'd been injected with massive amounts of heroin. He didn't have an enemy in the world, Flagg". Edmonds pointed his finger in Walker's face. "All except you. You threatened him. And you killed him."
Kurlich burst into tears. "The greatest TV star in the world, an upstanding Christian and a credit to the Los Angeles Police Force, and you killed him!" he punched his fists in the air with grief until his hat fell off his head.
"You killed him because you were jealous of his popularity. He was a bigger star than you so you had to kill him. You broke his neck, you broke his nose, you ripped up his arms with junk, what the hell do you have to say to that?"
"I want to speak to my lawyer", Walker blurted.
"TAKE HIM AWAY!" Edmonds cursed. Walker was cuffed and taken to his cell, all the while wondering if F. Lee Bailey would take his case on spec.