Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Dan O'Bannon, R.I.P.
Remember the B-17 sequence in Heavy Metal? Dan O'Bannon wrote that. Remember the computer animation of the Death Star in the original Star Wars? That was O'Bannon's work. He was also the lead screenwriter on Alien. He wrote the screenplay for Lifeforce. And he made one of my all-time favorite movies, The Return Of The Living Dead...
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Steve Weddle Memorial Airport Flash Fiction Chanllenge
Ah, the time has come. I've already read some great entries, and now here I am with my own. I had some fun writing this. Be sure to hop over to Dan O'Shea's blog and follow the links to the other stories.
Here we go...
Bruno Sanchez dropped quarters into a payphone and punched in a number he’d come to know too well. The other end picked up on the third ring. “It’s me,” Bruno said.
“Where are you?”
“O’Hare.”
“And?”
“He’s here.”
There was just enough of a pause from the other end for Bruno to regret making the call.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s here at the airport,” Bruno said. “I don’t know how, but he’s here.”
“You told me you took care of things.”
“I did, Mr. Acker.”
“Then how can Buddy Wayne be at the airport?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bruno…”
“I can’t explain it. There’s no way he could’ve survived the accident…”
“Except he did.”
“Right.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“No sir.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Yeah. We had a beer at the bar,” Bruno said. “He’s got a ticket to Las Vegas. His plane leaves in less than an hour.”
“He’s coming here?”
“Yeah.”
“If he makes it to Vegas, you’re a dead man.”
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Acker.”
“You goddamn better.”
The line went dead and Bruno put the phone back in its cradle. Christmas day at O’Hare International Airport and he had to figure out a way to kill a man he’d already killed once in the previous 72 hours.
“Sonofabitch.”
Bruno took his time getting back to the bar. Killing Buddy Wayne had been a good gig. He’d cleared his debt with Mr. Acker and the cops didn’t seem to suspect a thing. The brakes on Wayne’s car had gone out at just the right time and jumped the rail on Lake Shore Drive. According to the reports, the driver had been killed instantly, and damn near decapitated. One cop said it was the worst accident he’d seen all year. And this year, the cop said, had been a very bad year in general.
It didn’t make any sense.
Buddy Wayne turned away from the bar and waved to Bruno. “Hey, there you are. Big line up to use the can?”
“Yeah.”
“How about another beer?”
“Sure,” Bruno said. “Why not?”
Buddy signaled the bartender over. He grinned as she walked toward them and jabbed his elbow into Bruno’s gut. “How’d you like a piece of her?”
Bruno shrugged. She was all right, he thought, though mostly she just looked tired. “I’m married,” he said.
“That right?”
“Yeah.”
The bartender gave them a weak smile. “Another round, guys?”
“You know it,” Buddy said.
Bruno put some cash on the bar. “I’ve got this one.”
The bartender put two beers and one shot of whiskey in front of them and took the money off the bar. Buddy downed the shot and picked up his beer. “You didn’t mention being married before.”
“It didn’t come up.”
Buddy craned his neck forward and looked at Bruno’s left hand. The stitches around his neck were done in green and red thread. A small glob of pus seeped from one of the stitches and dropped onto the bar. He spotted the gold band on Bruno’s finger and smiled. “Where’s your wife? It’s Christmas after all.”
“Vegas. That’s why I’m flying out there.”
“Really? And here I just thought you were following me around.”
“Following you?”
“Been seeing you around the city a lot. Just a coincidence, I guess.”
“That’s weird,” Bruno said.
“Think so?” Buddy tilted his head back and scratched at his stitches. “You want weird, try having your head cut off and then put back on. That’ll give you some perspective on weird, pal.”
Buddy didn’t know what to say, so he took a long gulp from his glass of beer.
“I suppose you noticed my festive needlework?”
“Yeah.”
“Put my car over the guardrail on Lake Shore Drive the other night. I shoulda been dead.” Buddy smiled. “Or, to be more precise, I shoulda stayed dead.” He laughed a big, booming laugh and slapped Bruno on the back. “I guess Christmas really is a time for miracles, huh?”
Bruno grinned back. Buddy had one purple alligator skin cowboy boot perched on the rail that ran along the bottom of the bar and was leaning heavy on his elbows. One good kick, Bruno thought, that’s all it’ll take.
Buddy finished off his beer. “One more?”
“Sure,” Bruno said. “One more.”
As Buddy turned away to get the bartender’s attention, Bruno kicked him in the knee as hard as he could. Buddy’s head hit the top of the bar hard. With a wet burst of blood and pus, the stitches broke.
The bartender screamed.
Buddy’s head rolled down the bar and dropped into a pilot’s lap. The pilot lost his holiday cheer all over Buddy’s head.
Bruno turned and walked away from the bar. He had a plane to catch.
Here we go...
Holiday Stitches
Bruno Sanchez dropped quarters into a payphone and punched in a number he’d come to know too well. The other end picked up on the third ring. “It’s me,” Bruno said.
“Where are you?”
“O’Hare.”
“And?”
“He’s here.”
There was just enough of a pause from the other end for Bruno to regret making the call.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s here at the airport,” Bruno said. “I don’t know how, but he’s here.”
“You told me you took care of things.”
“I did, Mr. Acker.”
“Then how can Buddy Wayne be at the airport?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bruno…”
“I can’t explain it. There’s no way he could’ve survived the accident…”
“Except he did.”
“Right.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“No sir.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Yeah. We had a beer at the bar,” Bruno said. “He’s got a ticket to Las Vegas. His plane leaves in less than an hour.”
“He’s coming here?”
“Yeah.”
“If he makes it to Vegas, you’re a dead man.”
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Acker.”
“You goddamn better.”
The line went dead and Bruno put the phone back in its cradle. Christmas day at O’Hare International Airport and he had to figure out a way to kill a man he’d already killed once in the previous 72 hours.
“Sonofabitch.”
Bruno took his time getting back to the bar. Killing Buddy Wayne had been a good gig. He’d cleared his debt with Mr. Acker and the cops didn’t seem to suspect a thing. The brakes on Wayne’s car had gone out at just the right time and jumped the rail on Lake Shore Drive. According to the reports, the driver had been killed instantly, and damn near decapitated. One cop said it was the worst accident he’d seen all year. And this year, the cop said, had been a very bad year in general.
It didn’t make any sense.
Buddy Wayne turned away from the bar and waved to Bruno. “Hey, there you are. Big line up to use the can?”
“Yeah.”
“How about another beer?”
“Sure,” Bruno said. “Why not?”
Buddy signaled the bartender over. He grinned as she walked toward them and jabbed his elbow into Bruno’s gut. “How’d you like a piece of her?”
Bruno shrugged. She was all right, he thought, though mostly she just looked tired. “I’m married,” he said.
“That right?”
“Yeah.”
The bartender gave them a weak smile. “Another round, guys?”
“You know it,” Buddy said.
Bruno put some cash on the bar. “I’ve got this one.”
The bartender put two beers and one shot of whiskey in front of them and took the money off the bar. Buddy downed the shot and picked up his beer. “You didn’t mention being married before.”
“It didn’t come up.”
Buddy craned his neck forward and looked at Bruno’s left hand. The stitches around his neck were done in green and red thread. A small glob of pus seeped from one of the stitches and dropped onto the bar. He spotted the gold band on Bruno’s finger and smiled. “Where’s your wife? It’s Christmas after all.”
“Vegas. That’s why I’m flying out there.”
“Really? And here I just thought you were following me around.”
“Following you?”
“Been seeing you around the city a lot. Just a coincidence, I guess.”
“That’s weird,” Bruno said.
“Think so?” Buddy tilted his head back and scratched at his stitches. “You want weird, try having your head cut off and then put back on. That’ll give you some perspective on weird, pal.”
Buddy didn’t know what to say, so he took a long gulp from his glass of beer.
“I suppose you noticed my festive needlework?”
“Yeah.”
“Put my car over the guardrail on Lake Shore Drive the other night. I shoulda been dead.” Buddy smiled. “Or, to be more precise, I shoulda stayed dead.” He laughed a big, booming laugh and slapped Bruno on the back. “I guess Christmas really is a time for miracles, huh?”
Bruno grinned back. Buddy had one purple alligator skin cowboy boot perched on the rail that ran along the bottom of the bar and was leaning heavy on his elbows. One good kick, Bruno thought, that’s all it’ll take.
Buddy finished off his beer. “One more?”
“Sure,” Bruno said. “One more.”
As Buddy turned away to get the bartender’s attention, Bruno kicked him in the knee as hard as he could. Buddy’s head hit the top of the bar hard. With a wet burst of blood and pus, the stitches broke.
The bartender screamed.
Buddy’s head rolled down the bar and dropped into a pilot’s lap. The pilot lost his holiday cheer all over Buddy’s head.
Bruno turned and walked away from the bar. He had a plane to catch.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
The Crazies
I'm not about to get into the argument for or against remakes here. Sure, I'd like to see more original horror movies coming out of Hollywood and hitting the big screens. That would be great. But I have to say, if you're going to remake a movie, The Crazies is a good choice. And while it could turn out to be total piece of cinematic crap like that The Hills Have Eyes* remake, I think this trailer for The Crazies looks pretty damn good.
*It was just a bad movie, being a remake really had nothing, or at least, very little, to do with it.
*It was just a bad movie, being a remake really had nothing, or at least, very little, to do with it.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Jack Rose: February 16, 1971 – December 5, 2009
I stopped by Scott Kelly's blog this morning and learned of the passing of Jack Rose on Saturday. He was 38 years old. Rose was an immensely talented self-taught musician. If you're not familiar with his music, I think you'd be doing yourself a favor to check it out.
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