11/16/11

In which our hero films the Easy Rider remake and returns home to find his computer hacked.


NEWS: The papers described the performance as passionate and enraged but this they had only come to by watching my films.
LETTERS: I’d like to apologize to the Honda company.

INT. EASY RIDER (remake) – FINAL SCENE – DAY
Ashton Kutchner and Shia LaBeouf ride their horses side-by-side down a country dirt road. They are young and free.

Danny DeVito drives his pickup truck and I ride passenger (shotgun) position. We are old and conservative.
DANNY DEVITO
Hey, hallo-loo-lee-lims!

JACK NICHOLSON
Pull around the side, we’ll scare the Hell out of them.

I reach for the shotgun behind us and take it off the gun-rack.
We drive up beside a mustachioed and long-haired Ashton Kutchner.

JACK NICHOLSON
Want me to blow your face off?

DeVito laughs, and this makes me proud.
Kutchner flips his middle finger up at me.

JACK NICHOLSON
Why don’t you get a haircut?

He don’t respond. Pussy. I shoot. You know, just for shits and giggles.
But his horse goes all crazy. It falls, and the cowboy is crushed under the thing.
We drive past the other one (Shia LaBeouf) and he gives me a look like he just don’t understand. Gets a good look at me too.

In a panic, Shia LaBeouf rides back to the fallen young hero, Mr. Kutchner.

ASHTON KUTCHNER:  I got punked.
SHIA LABEOUF:  I my God. I’m going for help.
ASHTON KUTCHNER:  I got ‘em! I’m gonna get ‘em!

MEANWHILE:
JACK NICHOLSON
                                                We gotta go back.

CUT BACK TO:
LaBeouf putting his American flag leather jacket over Kutchner’s face.
He jumps back on his horse.
DeVito’s pickup drives towards him.
LaBoeouf’s horse.
DeVito’s pickup.
LaBoeouf’s horse.
A shot and a cloud of smoke coming from my window.
LaBoeouf’s horse goes flying through the air in pieces. A leg. A head. Where’s LaBoeuf? Presumably he is in pieces too.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you’re not wearing your sunglasses this morning, Jack.” My agent can sound so damn smug. “I think it’s good that you learn to live without them. Don’t you?” I choose not to respond. “It’s a sign of making real progress.” He allows me to think this over. “Just imagine all the possibilities, all the new and interesting roles that might open themselves up to you if you approach them without relying so heavily on your sunglasses.”

"Did you have a chance to read my script yet, Mitch?"

“I was confused by the kabuki sequences. Why are they in there?”

“That’s an homage to Japan. You know, after the earthquake…”

“I’m not sure why you feel something like that belongs in this film.”

“That’s the problem with you Hollywood-types, the aesthetics always take precedent over the ethics.”

“That’s very interesting. Tell me more about that.”

Upon returning home, Jack Nicholson found a passive-aggressive note posted to the front door interior of his apartment building.

To the man who attempted to lure my 12 year old daughter into his apartment… blah, blah, blah.

He tore it down and threw it on the floor.

Strange happenings seemed to emerge from his computer once he connected online. Various cease and desist messages from Danny DeVito had now progressed to death threats; his facebook account had become temporarily suspended; and when looking through his correspondences with Edith, he first noticed several references in her emails to comments he had no recollection of making and then words and sentences randomly inserted to his own messages that he had positively never written.

jack nicholson < robEdupea > wrote:
Dearest Edith,
I thought about you again this morning when listening to that song
by Leonard Cohen. You know the one…
“There is a crack in everything… That’s how the light gets in…”
I have developed a diet which has allowed me to only diarrhea
for the past week. With that diarrhea, I have filled an empty bottle
of whiskey. It is my intent to make you drink it. Why?
Because I would like to fill you with my fluids. Not just my cum, but
I also prefer his earlier work, but there are certain songs from his later
period that are just so close in taste to my bowels that I need you to
swallow them.

Had he been hacked? First his sunglasses stolen and now this!

Too tired. Too tired to figure things out. Too tired to even think about things. And so, his head already sinking to his chest, our hero marched the slender path to bed and attempted sleep. There was another body beside his. There had already been another human being in his bed, and Jack had been too exhausted to even notice until now.  The other body seemed to belong to a man, and so he shook the hairy shoulder aggressively enough to let the stranger know that nothing sexual could be interpreted about the two men in bed together. The other man turned his face toward our hero and, even in the darkness, he could see that it was Jack Nicholson.  They both did. Nicholson – the other Nicholson whom he had found in his bed – howled into the night, played fisty-cups and punched at shadows in the black air. Then he laughed and wept without transition. Nicholson was a little jealous of this Jack Nicholson, who so embodied emotion, but he dared not confront the crazy man. Instead, a strange sort of embarrassment took hold of him, freezing him, and he chose to fake sleep until it became a reality. He was soon awakened, however, by a soused Crag sneaking into his pillowcase to curl beside his warm breath. After scaring the pest away, he drifted back to sleep and each nerve ending felt the vibrating tap-dance of multiple Cragganmores stepping across the bumps on his brain.  In a cold sweat, he ran out of his apartment building.

At the pizzeria, he found a payphone. “You have to help me. I can’t live with it anymore. I’m not used to this… this feeling.” And why was he at the pizzeria anyway? “I want to kill it! This cute little thing. (hint of laughter).” Why? Because Cragganmore wanted it! Because Cragganmore left that flyer from the pizzeria uneaten!  “I want to hurt it. That’s not normal. (slight laughter). It’s so small. It’s disgusting.” Mozzarella! He spit out the pizza from his mouse (mouth). “It’s disgusting! It’s disgusting!! Ignore this. (sharp, single laugh). It’s not me.” The exterminator was bothered – more by the alluring sound of masticated pizza than anything else – and casually told the caller to bring a couple of slices to his private residence.

Rubbing his eyes in want of his sunglasses, Jack Nicholson looked up and down the list of residents and buzzer numbers. To the side of that list was a handsome brass door-plate inscribed: Al Condor – Exterminator of rodent and insectual beings.




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