diary of a professional antagonist
Tag Archives: Film
It was gone when I woke. She’d taken it. There was no doubt in my mind. I stumbled out of the cot, legs still working their way back into sensation. My head was pounding and I was numb from the waist down, that is until I pulled on my slacks, wrenched the zipper and tore a landing strip off the shaft of my still erect prick. My legacy, my name, my next two weeks were fucked, and catching the bitch wasn’t going to be easy.
The engine rattled a strained growl as it barreled down the highway. The desert sun was hot as hell, crossing lizards popped beneath the rubber and bugs kamikazied into my windshield. All this ending life and impending death didn’t cost me a thought, all that was on my mind was the box. All I hoped was that she hadn’t undone the leather belt that held it together. All I knew was my crotch was warm with blood and I hadn’t yet taken the time to piss out the last bottle of dollar wine. I prayed I was still limber enough to bend around the stream and save myself the sting, but with God in absentia and my middle aged legs shriveling under the weight of time, win or lose pain was on the horizon.
Then I saw saw a flicker just ahead. Was it a mirage? And if it wasn’t, was it even her? I jammed my foot down hard on the gas and soon realized it was. The taillights were broken, one on each side, just like I’d left them. The rusted silver side panel jarring against the sun bleached red of the rest of the machine. That blonde hair trailing in the breeze off a head so fuck-me-now beautiful even the man in hell would be tempted to ignore the conniving glint in her gold digging eyes and take a dip. I decided to play it cool. This time she wouldn’t get the drop on me. I eased off and followed until she stopped at gas station then pulled in the other side of the cashier building, grabbed the tire iron and carefully negotiated the side wall.
The cashier was a dope in his late teens, drooling over the counter at her tits like a sloped fucking yak as he handed her a pack of cigarettes. She’d probably already done enough to convince him to say “on the house ma’am”. I convinced myself this was the case as she kissed him on the cheek then collected a pack of chips from a low shelf. He was good as dead the way that short red skirt was bobbing and weaving off her hips and didn’t even notice when she collected a bottle of suds from the fridge on the way out. I don’t know what made me madder, the fact that she was getting away with it again, or that I’d fallen for the same routine twice already and was still watching her in action instead of taking it.
I bucked up and slid into the passenger seat just as the car pulled away. She wasn’t even shocked, just looked at me like another bump in the road she had to run over. But at least with the tire iron I had her attention. I asked where the box was. She didn’t have it any more, she’d stashed it somewhere safe and if I wanted it I was going to have to do something for her. I asked what, considering I had a tool worthy of trying my hand at dentistry in my grip. Naturally she used the tools at her disposal but the second her hand contacted my crotch I yelped like a scolded pup. Most people would retract, but she knew the score and spun the wheel into off-road terrain and dug in. The car filled with dust and in the blinding pain of confusion and with gravel adding to the problem I suddenly realized I was alone.
The trunk creaked open, a shotgun was racked and a deafening boom of buck pelted my door and shattered the window. I crawled over, knocked it into drive and revved hard. Dust sprayed everywhere. I couldn’t see her. BOOM! This time the back window exploded into pieces. I sliced my hand open on the seat debris then out of nowhere there was clarity and a drop into a drainage ditch. Two teeth hung from my mouth from a long, thick glob of blood then parted company with me once and for all. I shoved the door open and toppled out. The sun vanished as she stood above me then cracked the butt of the gun into my forehead. All I hoped was that when I woke I wasn’t tied to a cactus getting gang-banged by a bunch of vultures.
Consciousness came before sight. I figured I was in the trunk of a car, which had to mean that she had an accomplice. Just then the car slowed to a stop. Two people got out and I waited until their footsteps had cleared earshot. After some more kicking sunlight washed over me and when my retinas had adjusted I clambered out. We were at a junk yard, a lost and forgotten wasteland filled with every trash and crap-mobile since the forties. I saw her disappear into the hut set in the center of it all a couple of hundred yards away. They were going to sell the box – had to be why they were in such an isolated dump. I was fucked, then, realized the car was the heap I’d driven to the gas station, I grabbed the spare key from the glove box, started it up and turned to face the road. “Get far away” ricocheted inside my skull but then something came over me. Maybe it was pride, or self loathing at my cowardice, or just that plain old nasty instinct that usually put me in that position, but as I looked in the rearview I knew that I couldn’t just let her get away with it.
My brain started working around two seconds before I plowed the car into the shack, but by then it was too late and when the dust settled I’d slammed some fat guy I didn’t know into a spike on the wall and was face to face with the shotgun, in her hands. She told me to get out. She was teary eyed, it looked like genuine sorrow but it might have been rage, I wasn’t sure. As I got out I stumbled on something rubbery and only after I found equilibrium again did I notice the gas station cashier’s head sticking out from under the chassis. It was rage. I took another shotgun butt in the nose, it broke, and given the number of previous breaks I knew that after this I was going to resemble some sort of a retarded puffin for whatever number of days I had left. She didn’t like that notion, though and as she racked the gun one last time I knew I was seconds from oblivion.
SNAP. All out. SLAP. Knocked out. I caught her before she fell. Bad a bitch as she was it would have been a crime to let that body bruise. I tied her hands to the wheel then looked for the box. She came to after five or so minutes and laughed in my face. This wasn’t a sale, this was a negotiation. The box was not here. The money was not here. There was nothing here except two dead men one hot broad and a retarded puffin. I’d killed the only party interested this side of the Grand Canyon and her partner in crime, the only one who could safely retrieve the box without drawing unnecessary attention. She was out of friends and I was out of luck so against my better judgement, which I’d last seen the night I turned twenty one, I teamed up with her one last time.
The gas station was quiet at night. The passing trade was slow. Then the night cashier came into view, resembling an aggression repressed MMA fighter, which was just perfect. She was about to take him down all by her lonesome, one bat of the eyelids and a long deep breath and he would be in the back toilet working her for all she was worth, but then the law rolled in. They questioned Mister MMA, showed him a photo or two, then pointed at the CCTV. Someone was looking for the goober I’d crushed back at the junk yard, and the only person of interest on those tapes was my red hot passenger. It was only a matter of time before they searched the place and found his locker. It was all or nothing time, so I headed for the back toilet window.
Once inside I could hear them bantering away out front. The muscle bound freak manning the desk was doing a wonderful job of not making the cops’ job easy, simply because he had the mental capacity of a grape and was getting pissed at the questioning.
“Go in back and get the God-damn feed from today”.
“Fuck you, pig – make me”
“I’ll get it myself.”
“Not on my watch, mother fucker.”
“Get outta my way, dummy.”
SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. I couldn’t help but look. MMA and the two cops were fighting full tilt. I found the locker, nabbed the box and got out the window without any of them noticing a thing. Everything was golden, all I had to do was get around the corner, back in the car and drop over the horizon before the next squad car arrived and I was made. The only problem was that the car was gone. Bitch.
I ran off into the desert, knowing that if I was caught with it that’d put me down for everything and clear her slate. I made it as far as the Canyon just before dawn. I stank and vultures were circling overhead by noon. A tour bus had pulled in a few hundred yards ahead. I couldn’t risk exposing them to it, fuck that, letting anyone near enough to swipe it so I decided to climb down into the red rock and hide it. I didn’t get far before my sense were crippled with fear but luck was on my side and I stashed it in a crevice. The markers were decent, a flagpole, a wood cabin and a memorial plaque for some dead guys who went down the canyon river in row boats back in the day. I was choosing a forth when I saw her.
Taser in hand, approaching at pace, she jabbed it into my side, knocking me to the ground. I scrambled to stay clear of the edge. This time she wasn’t letting me get any sort of a second chance and kicked me in the face. I gripped pathetically at the earth as I slipped over the side. Then I felt the pain. She dropped her stiletto hard, stabbing it through the bones in my hand and pinning me to the wall. Some of the tourists noticed the activity and unsurprisingly started to take photos and video as gravity conspired with her stiletto against me and began to tear a slow line through the tendons, inching me closer to death by the second. She looked at me, didn’t have to say anything by way of stating the obvious. I nodded. She dropped the taser, reached down and took my free hand. Dumb broad. I fucked her into the canyon and climbed to safety.
The stiletto came in handy. I managed to latch onto the leather belt around the box and drag it up as distant sirens rang out. I had no choice left but open it. Fuck the fortune it was worth, fuck the loss, fuck the death it had brought by my hands – if I was going to walk, this was the only way. I crawled under some shrubs, unclasped the belt and wrapped it around my hands. The latch broke apart on contact. I sat there for a moment, listening to the rush of footsteps on approach. The words I picked up indicated that the cops knew what I had. They were cordoning off the area. The flesh on my fingers slipped between the lid and the bulk then prized it open. The last thing I remember is the blinding light.
I woke in the desert, close to the highway, the box lying empty by my hand. A tour bus was pulling away. The windows were blacked out. I sat up, scanned the horizon until I saw the flashing blue lights way out in the distance. It’s value was gone, she was gone and I was back at square one again. I sat by the highway until sunset when I began to slump. Maybe it was the dehydration setting in, but the last time I looked the belt was clasped tight around the box and a car was on approach. The driver’s blonde hair was trailing in the breeze.
Cats get my goat. First off they’re conceited, wicked, sly-eyed bastards whose purpose on this planet seems only to kill the odd mouse and cadge food off every sad son-of-a-bitch who thinks an act of generosity will earn them some feline affection. In the wake of feeding, cats are more likely to slice open your scrotum with their razor sharp claws and then playfully knock your bloody dangling balls against each other just to cause any additional amount of pain in order to punish your neediness and total dependence on a life form that hasn’t learned to walk on two legs, or grow opposable thumbs, as your primary source of love. Second, their aloof nature reminds me of the French.
It’s no wonder that ancient Egyptians worshipped them as gods. I guarantee you that some pharaoh was doling out whippings, or overseeing the administration of a good torturing in front of his subjects until he reached over to pet his cat and was subsequently hissed and scratched at. The subsequent sight of a pharaoh dripping blood made the retarded, superstitious types within the populous see the cat as some all powerful being. The truth being that the little fucker was probably in the middle of one of it’s countless butt-licking routines and didn’t appreciate the disturbance.
It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that cats brought down that civilization, or were the true reason that the black death spread in Europe. I wouldn’t blink twice if I was told that cats were behind the Kennedy assassination or were responsible for global warming. In a nutshell, I’m not a fan, and if you haven’t got that at this point then you’re probably a cat, purring away proudly to yourself right now.
A friend begged me to look after his cat the other day because he was heading to LA to talk at a screenwriting convention. His cat is a bigger celebrity than I am; it has been in countless movies including a James Bond, it understands multiple commands in three different languages, has it’s own stylist and does it’s own stunts; it can also lick it’s own balls which comes in handy in the industry when the sycophants aren’t around. So, naturally I was predisposed to not liking the little prick. Any animal whose success ridicules my lack thereof, who eats better than I do on any given day, and who earns more in a year than I do in a decade is not considered a welcome house guest, but my buddy was desperate, promised me a half decent wedge of cash and that he would pass one of my scripts on to his agent who is a relatively influential industry gatekeeper. I figured the long term payoff would be worth the short term hassle. I was wrong.
On arrival, the fat, bewhiskered fuck ran free into my home as if it were his own and disappeared up the stairs while my buddy, who might as well be the cat’s bitch, handed over it’s luggage and recited instructions.
“Give him one of these salmon steaks every day, three of these pills, make sure he has plenty of Evian water, comb his fur with this brush, give him plenty of affection and positive reinforcement about his image and, oh yeah, here’s the cat nip”.
“What the fuck is that?”
“That’s where he shits and pisses, Chukk. He’s been a bit loose in the bowel lately. We’re trying to shed a few pounds for a commercial so you might need to clean it fairly regularly.”
“I wish. Listen, I gotta run. ‘Preciate it, buddy. See ya in a few days.”
The instant the door closed I heard a sound that reminded me of an exorcism I attended a few years back. It was coming from the bedroom. Pure horror set in as my eyes took in a sight worse than anything I’d ever seen before. There he was, James Bond Cat, squatting while simultaneously dragging himself across the middle of my king size bed, pinching off a gynormous shit which was easily the length of an adult boa constrictor. My immediate reaction was to introduce my size eleven loafer to that fucker’s butt by force. This was of course a mistake and ruined a perfectly good pair of shoes, although the brown imprint left behind looked like some sort of abstract painting of a dirty bomb explosion.
In my despair I neglected to take care of business and string him up while I had the chance but by the time logical thought returned it was too late and he had already escaped. I ran downstairs to find my sofa shredded, my best gentleman’s magazines flittered and my banzai overturned. Revenge was on the cards so I took the salmon steaks, his pills, cat nip, the lot and booted it out the back door. Movie cat was going to leave my house on my terms, that is with a tail heavily matted in shit and starved down to the requisite weight for his commercial.
My next move was surprisingly logical. I decided it was best to hunt by eliminating rooms one by one, shutting them off and narrowing the arena of conflict down to as small a space as possible. The plan was undone almost immediately; James Bond Cat was one step ahead. I’m not entirely sure if it’s just Evian my buddy was giving this fur-ball or if he was dosing it with battery acid to burn off it’s excess weight, because when I stepped into the kitchen a squirt of piss blasted me in the eyes that was so hot I thought I had been permanently blinded. He had taken up a strategically brilliant position, primed himself on a shelf, waited on me to walk in and then fired off a shot of nuclear urine on sight of his target.
It took two hours for ocular function to return to normal. In this time my feline adversary had rifled through my cabinets eating anything it took a fancy to and then took to pissing and vomiting up hair-balls all over the house. My haven, my bachelor pad, had been transformed into a steaming, post plague infection zone that smelled like the grey hairs on Satan’s nut-sack after a month without showering.
Sadly, it became evident that I was no match for this cunning bastard and so in my darkest hour I left my home in search of hope and a savior. After a solid day of thinking about it I finally figured out a way to overcome my home invader and headed off down to the dog pound with a crusty ten dollar bill and a bloody steak. I went from pen to pen looking for the most abused, vicious, bedraggled canine and finally settled on Penny, a German Shepherd with an eye that said “fuck me over and I’ll tear out your throat”.
In the car on the way over there I explained the situation to Penny, that my house, which would thereafter also be her house was under attack by a spoiled cat and that I needed the cat neutralized and alive. I gave full permission to run riot if necessary; the house was in need of a complete overhaul already. I looked in Penny’s eyes and knew that she understood. I fed her the steak, and promised her another one every week on completion of the mission. I opened the front door, cracked open a beer and waited.
Ten minutes of furious battle later and all became silent. The war zone was almost impassable, remnants of my life pre-cat glimpsed through the rubble. I found Penny in the bathroom, standing alert, scratched, soaked in sweat. James Bond Cat, nowhere to be seen. “Where is he, girl?” Penny glanced up at me with one of those oh so clever looks and only then did I notice the toilet lid down and one paw holding it in place. I secured the room and then lifted the lid. James Bond Cat was alive and well, no major wounds to speak of, shaken and stirred, cowering in the toilet bowl. I felt like flushing the fucker but thought about opposable thumbs and that I was the better species here and instead took the moral high ground.
Penny, who I’ve since renamed Moneypenny for obvious reasons, acted as prison guard to James Bond Cat for the rest of his stay and made sure that he got plenty of exercise by being chased around the back yard at least three times a day, depending on how good a mood I was in. Cat nip and cleaning never became an issue, simply because the fucker was usually shitting himself while on the run, and, he behaved when indoors from that point on because he was too fucking exhausted to do anything else.
I slapped my buddy with a hefty bill for damages and repairs when he returned. He told me to meet him at the end of the rainbow to collect, so I countered with a right and left hook, blackening his eyes. Then I took a slash on the front seat of his car and managed to get Moneypenny to shit all over his back seat. We’re about square as I figure it but he’s not been in touch since to confirm this.