Saturday, June 12, 2010

Injuns (crash WALKER Chapter 9)


The following morning Crash Walker got into makeup and wardrobe and read his overly simple sides, grappling with lines like, “Injuns, down Little Big Horn River way, take cover neighbors”.

A cowboy’s work is never done sang Sonny and Cher, and what a long day it was on set of “Wrangler’s Canyon”. Some cast and crew were warm and welcoming to him like an old family member but there were equally as many that seemed stand-offish and genuinely nervous in his presence. Well, fuck them, it used to be his show, co-starring Crash Walker, TV star and poster boy of toy commercials, cereal boxes and anything that fueled a young boy’s dreams. Riding like the wind astride his horse. It’s funny, he owned a lousy car but on set he got to ride the prettiest horses, white Arabians, Apaloosas, even a Palomino now and again. It was sweet, but the dream had thorns in them because he was alleged to have killed America’s hero, Bill Flagg.

A key grip called Bear walked up to him and hugged him until his back bones cracked. “GREAT TA SEE YUH, HOSS!”
“Mmfff!” Walker groaned from the pressure.
“YAH!” he barked. Bear acted like a tough Texan but he was actually from Stockholm, Sweden. “A HEE HEE HEE! ROPE EM, DUDE!”
He released Walker from his bear grip, trundled away and Walker dizzily slid against a trailer wall. He smoothed his rumpled hair with fake cowlick.
“Wish there were real bullets in these six guns”, Walker mused. “Shoot that fuckin’ squarehead. That really hurt. Motherfucker”.

Bullhorns blurted out, “Actors take your places. Scene where Crash has a showdown with the Injun chief”. Crash’s name on the show was oddly enough Crash. It’s been said in TV circles if an actor’s really dumb they use their own name on a show so when they’re spoken to they’ll respond, like James Dean in “Rebel Without A Cause”. So Crash Walker’s character on the show was named “Crash”.

Walker squared his shoulders and walked over to the center of set and stood in front of a line of Injuns, pulling out a skinny cigar. Lighting it he noticed that the customary fake cigar he smoked on set was replaced with a real one. He took a few drags and started getting dizzy.
“Funny joke, huh?” Walker thought. “This is the strongest shit I’ve smoked on set. I’ll just puff a little to keep the fucker lit”.

One of the warpainted Injuns turned to the other one. “Es que le?”
“Que es el asesino, Manuel”, the other Injun whispered. The Injuns began whispering to one another.
“Who are these guys?” Walker thought. “Where are the usual guys who play the Injuns? This is a little bit weird”.
“Que no parece muy peligroso para mí, Santo”, another Injun sneered at him and spread his legs defiantly, arms folded in front of him. He then spat on the ground.
A large guy with the biggest headdress took his place in front of Walker fixing him with the dirtiest look he’s ever been given.
“Big TV star, huh?” he hissed. “Pendejo, we’ll see about your shit, junior”.

“Quiet on the set, aannnndd…action!”
“Chief Running Wolf, I’ve tried to talk reason with you but you’re just another stoic redskin and we don’t take kindly to your type around here”, Walker acted.
“White man go back to Big City, leave my people alone”, Running Wolf acted with a distinctly Mexican accent.
They both went into a fake Indian wrestling routine. Mid way through their stiff grappling Chief Running Wolf let Walker have it between the legs, a real field goal kick. Walker keeled over. The Injuns all laughed.
“CUT! What the hell’s going on here? Nut busting isn’t in the script!” the Director yelled.
“Fucking taco benders”, Walker cussed, “Where are the regular guys?”
“Hey, fuck you, puto”, Running Wolf cussed back, “We’ll fuck up your Hollywood ass, boy”.
“Both of you knock it off or I’ll kick you off the set, both of you!”
The rest of the Injuns gave Crash Walker stink eye for the rest of the day.

Three hours later Walker sat in his trailer drinking a beer trying to calm his nerves down, when he overheard some of the Injuns in costume by his door.
“Sure, man, we have all kinds of stuff, weed, pills, we even dosed some maricon in Brentwood”.
“I don’t want to know about that-“
“-it was tragic, ese, he was never the same after that-“
“-Yeah, yeah, here’s my bread, hand it over, quickly, security’s coming”.

The voices disappeared and Walker slowly opened his trailer door and peered out, watching the guy called Santo splitting from the PA. So that’s how they got on the show, they’re dealing to the crew in exchange for being on the show. What did that guy say? “We dosed some maricon in Brentwood, he was never the same”. Bill Flagg got mysteriously dosed with drugs and OD’ed. During the taping they called me “Es Asesino – The Killer". This is just a little too weird. He got his street clothes on and walked to his car with “HERB MILLER” scrawled in front just as he caught the “Injuns” riding off on their motorcycles.

Crash Walker followed them, dropping back a little. The Injuns, Manuel, Santo, and Chief Running Wolf all wore leather jackets and had their jet black hair neatly combed and bryllcreamed. They were heading for Silver Lake, combination Latino and Bohemian neighborhood in Downtown Los Angeles.

The motorcycles all headed down East Sunset Blvd., far away from the neatly trimmed lawns and tony lounges until they reached a bar painted black with “The Hacienda” in Army-stenciled letters. Walker pulled to the curb a block away and put on his darkest shades. He walked into the bar that had a little stage by the front door. “Sleepwalk” by Santo and Jimmy was playing on the jukebox. The boys sat in a booth by the back and Walker leaned up to the bar and ordered a beer. He turned around to glance at them.

“Querita, pepita”, Santo crooned as he clutched Manuel and kissed him passionately. Their arms were wrapped around each other making passionate love in the club. They popped pills in their mouths and locked tongues together. Walker chuckled and looked around seeing nothing but Mexican men. He was in a gay bar for low riders – all the boys had butch waxed hair, Vitalis, etc. wearing gang flannel shirts buttoned up, some with hair nets, a few drinking and others totally making out.

“What are you doing with my girl, bitch?” Chief Running Wolf yelled at Manuel with his hand on his hips, indignant.
“Holy shit”, Walker giggled quietly.
“Sir?” the bartender asked, “Another drink?”
“Later, gracias baby”.
All three were yelling at each other and occasionally kicking it up into girlish shrieks alternating in English and Spanish.
“Bitch, leave my girl alone!”
“Up your culo, whore!”
Slapping and shoving, Chief Running Wolf tearfully ran into the Men’s Room.

The bartender picked up a cheap microphone and announced, “And now, Hombres, Lolitas, and Cholitas, The Hacienda queerfully presents the winner of 1966 Miss Hully Gully Thing, Miss Carmen!”
A record started playing by Thee Midniters, “Let’s take a trip down Whittier Boulevard, ariba ariba!” Wolf whistles cars honking, and the lights turned up for Chief Running Wolf in full drag go-go dancing to the record, fringed mini-skirt flying in all directions. She was smiling, licking her lips and feeling up her falsies, rocking out to the low rider anthem. The boys in the club cheered her on, whistling and shrieking.
“GO GIRL!”
“CHICA CHICA CHICA!!!”

Finally the big finish: Miss Carmen ripped off her mini-skirt, her tiny, thick penis bobbing up and down to the rhythm, her high heels flashing against the lights, big bouffant black hair swinging, shrieking like a wild Mexican spitfire. At this point Crash Walker took off his sunglasses, messed his hair up, and walked towards the front of the stage, flipping her the Fuck You finger.
“Up yours, Chief Running Wolf!”
Miss Carmen’s face fell into a mask of feminine anger. She stared across the room to Santo and Manuel, pointing angrily at Walker, but to no avail. They were necking furiously making sweet boy-on-boy Latin love.

Finally having enough of this shit, Miss Carmen stomped bottomless on high heels towards Santo and Manuel and pulled a switchblade out of his bra and slashed Santo across the face.
“Culo! Fucking bitch!!!”
Everyone ran out of the club, but Manuel stood his ground and kissed Carmen right before he twisted the blade into her back all the way to the handle. Carmen convulsed to the floor, bleeding to death as Santo grabbed his face and pulled his shirt up to stop the bleeding.

The bartender began crying and picked up the phone. “Send an ambulance to The Hacienda, 2476 West Sunset Boulevard, "he sobbed hysterically, "Quickly, someone is dying”.
“Well”, Walker mumbled, “that’s my cue. I’m out of here!” He quickly departed realizing that if the boys were guilty of Flagg’s murder no one will live long enough to talk. If they were guilty he’d have to find another way of proving his innocence.

1 comment:

Busy Gal said...

I did not expect this to happen. This is a hell of a lot wilder than what I predicted. keep writing!