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August 9, 2008

Crocodemon Finished

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 9, 2008 3:59 PM
Permalink |  Colby & Perdida  | Digg It

Last night, Perdida called me up, bawling her eyes out. “It’s Vance,” she sobbed. “Rumors are floating around the set that he found out about our affair and wants to shut down production on Crocodemon.”

“That makes no sense,” I said. “Are you sure you aren’t just being retarded?”

After a long, irritated beat, Perdida stated flatly: “Yes, Girth. Vance Sloane hates you and wants to bang me. It’s just a revenge tactic.”

“Man, that guy is so fucked,” I said. “He’d really fuck up his own career—wasting all that money on preproduction and what he’s shot so far, just to get petty revenge on me, and to a lesser extent you.”

“You know him, though,” Perdida sobbed. “It’s not out of line for him.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Girth…” She whispered.

“I’ll take care of it.” I hung up.

I went into the kitchen, where Margo was preparing a foul-smelling dietetic dinner. I crept up behind her, sliding my hands around her waist as I kissed her neck. “My love,” I breathed, “I need to go out for a few hours.”

“Where?” she snapped.

“You remember Vance Sloane?” I asked.

“How could I forget?” I felt her body shudder slightly.

“Yeah, that’s him,” I agreed.

“What about him?” Margo asked incredulously.

“Dean Charleston set up a meeting with him,” I said. “Apparently, he’s interested in directing a movie version of Fuck Machines.”

“The one you wrote with the whore?” she asked tersely.

“That’d be the one,” I said. “He’s already directing her next movie, so Mr. Charleston figures it’s a good idea to at least hear him out. But don’t be surprised if I kick the shit out of him and get arrested.”

“I’ll be more surprised if you don’t,” she said sweetly, twisting her neck to kiss me on the lips before we parted ways.

I drove all over the Valley, looking for gay clubs where I’d be likely to find Vance. When I came up empty, I decided to drive out to his alleged headquarters in Canoga Park, a small warehouse where (I have it on good authority) Vance secretly lives to cut costs. The place was empty, which surprised me, but then I remembered principal photography took place in Capetown.

I called Perdida’s cell and asked, “Is Vance in this country?”

“Yeah,” she said. “He took a few days off to hang out with a bunch of surfer fags down in Huntington.”

“Awesome,” I said.

I drove down to the beach and waited in a parking lot until I saw the right group of guys: sun-bleached, musclebound, glistening with sweat as they played a vivacious game of, ahem, “touch” football. Among them, sticking out like a sore thumb, was all 5’1” of Vance Sloane, his muskrat features, black hair, and sunken chest sharply contrasting with the chiseled features of the men he, ahem, “played” with.

I confirmed it was him after watching the snap and seeing Vance – playing the part of quarterback for the “skins” team – intentionally get “sacked.” I jumped out of the hearse and stalked across the warm sand toward him. His gay compatriots machoed up immediately, puffing out their shiny chests and surrounding Vance. I dispatched them easily by dropping leather pants, revealing a huge and throbbing Johnson that made a few of them swoon. The ones who didn’t caught their shocked, impressed lovers, leaving Vance wide open.

I divebombed with the full weight of my body and partial nudity. Vance struggled, rolling around, but then he sort of got into it, moaning softly and breathing heavily.

“Eww!” I shouted, getting back to my feet and pulling my pants up. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Vance said suggestively, splaying in a way that said Take me, big boy.

“You fired Perdida Cheyenne because you want her, but I got her.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t even know why you’d be into her. She’s a chick.”

“Well,” Vance said, with a look of fond remembrance in his eyes, “she is the best of both worlds: built like a man, only with a pretty face and something soft and squishy to stick it in.”

It surprised me how revolting I found that description. I readied myself to jump on him and give him another pounding, but I didn’t think I could tolerate the feel of his erection sliding around as I pinned him to the ground.

“It’s a moot point, however,” Vance continued. “I have little sexual interest in Perdida. She’s full of crap. Corman pulled the plug on Crocodemon because we had some big, expensive special effects days coming up, and based on the dailies and the weak script, he just thought he should cut his losses.”

“Since when has a weak script and slipshod dailies stopped Roger Corman?” I wanted to know.

Vance shrugged. “The guy’s going batty in his old age. What can I say, other than ‘Perdida’s full of shit’?”

Hanging my head in shame and disappointment, I slunk back to the hearse and made the long drive back to the Valley. Just shy of home, I decided to keep going, up to North Hollywood. I stopped at Perdida’s apartment, glancing around to make sure I didn’t see Colby spying as I entered the building.

Perdida opened the door. Inside her apartment, I could hear the soft, sad strains of the Beach Boys’ “Please Let Me Wonder” playing on her kitschy suitcase record player. “Girth?” She sounded surprised.

“You’re full of shit,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

I explained that I had beaten the shit out of Vance, and he politely explained that pulling the plug on Crocodemon had nothing to do with his barely-there desire for her.

“I’m sorry,” Perdida sobbed. “It’s just… Most guys don’t respond to my officially sanctioned ‘cry for help’ call by actually trying to help. They usually just parlay it into an easy lay.”

I tried to hide my disappointment that I hadn’t thought of that tactic. I’m slipping in my old age, in fewer ways than one.

“You’re a stand-up guy,” Perdida went on, wiping the tears from her eyes. “You want to come in for, um ‘coffee’?” She even made sarcastic air-quotes with her fingers as she said it.

In that moment, I hated her. I also lusted after her. I nodded and said, “Okay, but only one cup, or I’ll be up all night.”

“In more ways than one,” she said, the sobbing instantly gone. She pulled me into the apartment. I kicked the door closed behind us.