Get Zombie: 8-Book Set (72 page)

A
second later, an elderly woman zooms in on a motorized wheelchair and
parades around the room while everyone cheers. She looks to be 80-sh.
Mr. Snake yells out: “Welcome, Lady Rainbow!”

This
is apparently the old woman’s name. She parks and hops out from
the chair, responding in kind.

“Greetings,
King Popx!”

Sexually
charged images of geriatric love thunders into my mind and I let
loose a shudder. Bethany, untangling some electrical wires, asks if
I’m okay. I tell her, “I’m just cold, on the
inside.”

Lady
Rainbow goes to leave, but Mr. Snake encourages her to stay and
“Enjoy the show”. Joann takes off her kimono and sits on
the wheelchair, naked. Tim disrobes as well and gets behind the
wheelchair, braiding her hair as Mr. Snake explains the scene.

My
heart quickens. I try not to look at her nakedness. This is a working
environment. Surprisingly, the sight of her does not excite me –
although she is extremely gorgeous. It’s because of all the
people here, I know it. And thank God. I must focus on the task at
hand!

I
feel professional, and smile.

Adult
film stars are amazing. I have nothing but total respect for them.
They have mastered their insecurities. How hard it would be to shut
down that part of our mind that judges us and makes our lives a
living dread?

Joann
examines the chair.

“I’ve
always hated people in wheelchairs. They look so irritating –
thinking that they’re so special in their little go-carts. I
wonder how these things work? Magic, maybe?”

Joann
fools around with the chair’s controls and bolts forward with a
horrifying shriek. “Waaaaaaaaaa!” She stops suddenly, and
then inches forward in tiny jerks before stopping completely.

She
hops out of the chair and Tim hugs her.

“Why!
Why! Why, Tim! I almost died! Oh, sweet Jesus! He’s so sweet!”

“Shhh!
You’re safe now, baby.”

He
kicks the chair.

“Take
that, fucker!”

She
kicks it, too.

“I
hate you so much right now!”

She
happens to make eye contact with me and I look away immediately,
setting the camera onto the cheap, plastic tripod. Does she find me
attractive? If we got together, would we be a happy couple? And how
would our kids turn out, I wonder.

Would
they be retarded?

Mr.
Snake walks up to me and explains that we’ll be shooting the
whole movie in order, because that’s how Kurosawa did his
movies. Then he walks off and consoles his actress, who is crying in
a maniacal way.

“That
chair is the devil! Linda Blair’s in that motorized wheelchair!
Sweet Jesus, you’re so sweet!”

“Calm
door, my love, please calm down. Linda Blair isn’t even in the
house today. And she’s a wonderful actress. Remember
Repossessed?”

“Uh
huh…”

“She
did so well in that film. Do you think Linda Blair would be acting
the way you’re acting now?”

“I
guess you're right.” She sniffles and smiles. “There’s
no evil presence in this wheelchair, is there?”

Mr.
Snake brushes her hair. “Of course not.”

They
hug, and Joann sits in the chair in a merry fashion. She giggles and
begins clapping and hopping up and down.

“Clapping!
Clapping!”

I
hide behind the camera’s flip-out monitor and say under my
breath:

“Good
Lord, it’s worse than that time I tried to name my penis.”

Bathroom.

I
sat on the bare, cold floor, in the nude, my legs crossed with a
towel wrapped around my head, crossing names off a notepad.

“…Sassafras.
Er, naw, sounds too close to Sissy. Let’s see now… The
Corrupter? No, too Asian… Scary Pillow? What? Too religious.
Male Vagina? I don’t remember writing that…or do I? Hmm…
Anyway, what’s this here? Dongalinger… Hrmm, NOW we’re
on to something. Yessm, I christen thee penis DONGALINGER.”

I
pressed play on a tape recorder of people clapping and cheering. I
closed the notepad, and kissed it.

“Love
like I love, feel like I feel.”

And
then I ate the notepad.

After
I finish with the camera and all the monitors have been set up, I
walk over to the director and tell him we’re all ready to go.
He says that I’ve done a good job, and tickles me under my chin
and gives me a candy, and then tells everyone to get in their
"Places, friends".

Joann
readies herself in the wheelchair.

Mr.
Snake sits in his director’s chair, which is not labeled
DIRECTOR, but SNAKE. He brings his hands to his mouth.

“Roll
camera! And…ACTION!”

Joann
flicks on the wheelchair’s motor. It hummmmmmms and she is
obviously disturbed, looking to Mr. Snake, who smiles at her brightly
and signals her to sally forth. She smiles back, wearily, and jerks
forward with her medium-sized breasts jiggling. Even from where I am,
I can hear her beg under her breath, in a shaky voice, “…Jesus,
Jesus, Jesus, hey, Jesus…”

She
comes to the bathroom door and opens it with her foot. She flicks on
the light, with her foot.

“I
want to urinate.”

She
says it depressingly.

My
face crinkles. Something inside me says Acting=Not good. I look over
to see if Mr. Snake shares my feelings. But he just sits there, all
smiles. I get back to the job at hand and plant my eyes onto the
monitor.

Joann’s
chair zooms toward the toilet. Stops suddenly. She lifts the lid and
makes to elevate herself off the chair.

Tim
raps his knuckles against a wall and I’m surprised that there
has been a naked man standing behind me the whole time.

Joann
looks up, large-eyed.

“Who
is there?”

I
don’t recall any dialogue in the script. They’re
ad-libbing. Are these words actually coming out? Did Snake coach them
on their ad-libs? Every director does; deep down they’re all
wanna-be actors.

Tim
stands in the doorway.

“Ye
has caressed my surgically-implanted cow heart. Thank you for being
with me that scary day. I was scared. I look at you now and I miss
you so much and I want to touch you in a sexy way. Maybe even that
part of you which is paralyzed.”

“Understood.
Oh, lover, please exit! When I see you my eyes hurt, on the inside.
Ye words have fallen on blind ears.”

Tim
raises a finger into the air and says as his buttocks jiggle, “Try
and stop thee!”

I
actually gasp a little as he takes three quick steps toward her and
lifts her off the chair, the two of them groaning in passion. He sits
on the chair and places her on his lap and then they kiss in a kind
of mad dash.

Their
bodies move in an irritated way as Tim locks lips and fumbles for the
control stick. He finds it and backs out of the bathroom as the chair
goes BEEP BEEP BEEP.

I
can hear Mr. Snake say, “Yessm, good, excellent –
excellent cinema, glorious cinema.”

Tim
and Joann slobber over each other – it’s a pecking
contest, more like – and make crazy love sounds. The wheelchair
reverses slowly then makes a silly BURP and speeds up. A horrified
look crosses the actors’ faces and now they’re screaming
for help as the chair rear-ends a table, knocking over a giant
Chinese vase. There is nothing inside. The crew looks at each other
with “O” mouths. Tim and Joann squeal at the crew as the
chair bolts toward us.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Mr.
Snake stands up in a panic.

“Run
away! Run away!”

Everyone
scatters as the wheelchair zooms past us and runs into the bed and
bounces off. The chair spins around and around like a merry-go-round
as Tim and Joann scream for help from God. Mr. Snake points an
accusing finger at the old woman.

“You
are to blame, toad!”

She
cries and holds out her hands, pathetically.

“Please,
kind sir, I don’t mean to be old!”

He
pushes her away.

The
old lady complains, but he doesn’t hear it.

“Get
away from me, toad. I don’t like you anymore.”

Actors
trapped on the wheelchair whine.

Tim
throws his hands in the air as he bawls bloody murder.

“Blahhhhhhhh!

Joann
cries in a wrong way.

“Waaaaaah!”

Mr.
Snake runs up to me.

“Never
stop rolling! Oh, God!”

I
nod, afraid that he’s going to hit me.

He
shakes me by the shoulders and says, “Stop nodding!” and
then points to the actors who are still spiraling in place.

“This
must be handheld to make it more hectic and therefore dramatic! I
went to film school!”

“Yessm!
Good!”

I
carry the camera – tripod and all – and run to the
wheelchair.

I
zoom in on their confused faces. I want to help them, but I know Mr.
Snake is standing behind me because he’s cheering the
wheelchair on.

“Now
make-out!”

The
actors immediately begin kissing and shrieking at the same time.

The
director steeples his fingers.

“Splendid…”

Tim
pounds on the controls to no desired effect. He yells out curses…

“Curses!”

…and
gives it one final POUND.

The
chair farts and smoke begins bellowing out from its bottom. The crew
watches – men & women crying, striking curious poses.

The
mechanical monster growls and bolts toward the crew again, its front
wheels in the air. All screech with their hands to their faces as the
possessed chair runs into a wall, throwing the actors so many feet
into the air. They ricochet off the ceiling, mind you, and land in
dull thuds, limbs flailing about like rubber. Their bodies wiggle on
the carpet as they moan for Jesus.

Mr.
Snake slaps my buttocks and takes me by my terrified arm and we both
kneel before the actors.

“Sexy
time! Have sex now! We’re still rolling!”

The
actors hastily squirm over each other and hug, rolling around in pain
in front of the dying, overturned chair – its wheels smoking &
coughing.

The
director makes a rectangle with his hands and looks through it as if
it were a camera.

“Now
make sexy sounds with your mouths,” he says, calmly.

The
actors try, but what comes out sounds like a hyena.

All
I recall is: Moaning, pain, smoke, people crying behind me, hyenas,
and an awkward cat smell.

The
place is full of smoke now – so much that Mr. Snake jumps to
his feet and exclaims, “Fire, fire!”

Over
my shoulder Polly yells, “Clear the set!”

NOW
everyone exits, screaming indescribable words. Someone, a female
human, runs out screaming, “Blood!”

I
help Mr. Snake and Polly as they carry the naked actors out of the
room. The injured actors cry in sync, “Why me, why me?”

The
two obese men I saw earlier kissing, now dressed as sumo wrestlers,
run past us, carrying fire extinguishers, and charge into the smoke.
I can hear them stomping about and throwing directions at each other
as they put out the threat.

I
run past a fat white cat.

We
nod to each other.

“Fearing
Hell”

WE
BRING THE ACTORS into the kitchen and clear the table of empty
Budlight bottles that smash onto the hard floor like glass bombs. We
lay the actors down. They convulse and cry like they have splinters
in their hair.

Polly
instructs the spectators to beat it and give us some room to console.
They don’t listen due to shock and intrigue, so Mr. Snake grabs
a nearby, giant-sized, wooden spoon and chases them away. He screams
“Gahhhhhhhhh!” but it does no good. They stand about in
the living room. Some watch in concern with their hands over their
mouths.

Mr.
Snake and Polly give Joann a backrub. Tim is unconscious. There is
some discussion about whether to call the police or not, but that
idea is quickly thrown out the window.

Mr.
Snake talks about someone who might be able to help – someone
Polly isn’t familiar with, judging by the frown on her face.
Apparently, this mystery person is a therapist. Or at least was –
he was let go years ago due to insatiable reasons yet unknown.
Eventually, they both nod in trust of the choice and leave to use the
phone. They tell me to stay by Joann and make sure she doesn’t
do anything weird.

I
pull up a chair and sit in front of Joann.

She
stares into the air with a blank expression on her face. Only now do
I notice that she’s still in the nude, so I asked around for a
towel, and drape it over her trembling torso. Fearing Hell, due to my
Catholic upbringing, I try as hard as I can to keep my eyes off of
her breasts, hoping that she’ll cover herself up.

She
doesn’t…eyes forward, staring dead into mine.

I
stare back…afraid that if I look away she may take it as an
insult.

This
goes on for a whole minute.

Then,
she brushes her hair back and asks for a cigarette.

I
light up.

So
we sit there, smoking, staring at each other. It takes all I gots to
keep my eyes on her eyes and not on her baby-feeders.

She
ashes her cig onto the front of her neck.

Cigarette:
“Sizzle…”

“I
do that to show how much I hate my body. I’m so insecure. And
fat.”

When
consoling someone, there’s only one rule to follow:

Listen.

You’re
only allowed to talk if you sense they’re ready to listen to
what you have to say. Which is rare. People love to listen to
themselves yack.

The
hard part is looking for an opening to push in a few words.

Pause.

I
make my move.

“I
think you’re pretty.”

She
blushes and smiles.

“Thanks.”

I
inhale a puff of thick refreshing smoke and blow out an “O”.
She’s impressed.

“I’m
impressed. How do you do that?”