“Redemption: The Story Of The Crackhead Jesus Trials – Part II: The Second Coming Of The Three Muses.”©
By Victor-Hugo Vaca II.
© 2017 Victor-Hugo Vaca II All rights reserved.
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” – John 1:5
CRACKHEADJESUS/CRACK-HEAD JESUS/ krak-hed jee-zuh z/ (noun) 1. a contemptibly obnoxious person, jerk 2. a person who indulges in hypocrisy, hypocrite 3. a person or force seen as opposing Christ, Antichrist, a person or thing regarded as supremely evil or as a fundamental enemy or opponent, devil, satan.
“Somewhere in time.“- VHVII
Evil surrounded me in my restless slumber, when a bitter cold washed over me, as I felt my soul currency, being filled, with light and love. At that moment, I found myself lying in a room full of spiders: Tarantulas, actually and they weren’t biting or crawling over me, they simply surrounded me, swaying and pulsating, like a hairy mob, in a dense room with no furniture, windows, or doors.
“I am that I am.” An unfamiliar voice seeped into my subconscious, while I wrestled with familiar dreams and nightmares.
The throbbing ceiling and glossed walls were painted stark white, in contrast to the rose haired tarantulas that encircled my position at the center of the square room. The ominous murmuration of arachnids manifested a strangely sensual, ebb and flow of rhythmic color that danced along the floor towards my naked body.
“The debt of a man’s soul is paid by his children.” A Stranger’s voice floated into my eardrums, through wind gusts created by the sound of billions of spider hairs crashing into each other.
“Think Seven Generations forward in compassionate wealth.” The Voice carried over the maddening sound of infinite flexible spider limbs crunching, crawling and moving swiftly, within earshot of my consciousness, manifested in reality.
“Do not be a Crackheadjesus.” The Voice added five words, that echoed like blasphemy in a house of hypocrites, piercing through the noise of countless spiders and settling into the pit of my being, like acid rain.
“Blasphemy!” A Devil shouted through the madness, as a thousand spider hairs tickled my toes.
“Make sure the Witches of Which, Witch, Wicca and Wich fail to manifest George Orwell’s ‘1984’ in reality. One plus one does not equal three.” The prophetic words of a stranger, who introduced himself as, Crackhead Jesus, thrust me into a full-blown nightmare, while I pushed against an ethereal heaviness, that kept me pinned to sweat drenched sheets on a dirty mattress. A bright, blinding, light then flashed into my petrified, wide-open eyes, as I struggled, without strength, to wake up.
“You just got hit by a Mack truck, Maggot!” Pressure in the room was palpable, when the voice of Crackhead Jesus tapped into my steel, fiber of being.
“I will let you live as long as you do what I tell you.” The moment Crackhead Jesus threatened my life, from behind the bright light, I felt a sharp, cold, metal blade, on my bulging, neck-vein.
His words breathed deep into my soul and lingered, like bittersweet memories of lost love in a toxic relationship.
“Kill your roommate!” Crackhead Jesus shouted, at me, with fierce command, as I was held down, by an ethereal burden, that refused to release my soul into the waking state. “Do you understand, you worthless, Maggot?”
I lay silent, without moving or breathing, while praying for the nightmare to end, as I listened for what seemed like an eternity, to my frail roommate cry and moan, in extreme physical agony and mental pain, while being mercilessly beaten with socks full of quarters and pummeled with venomous words, repeatedly, within inches of his life and arms-length of my reach.
“And you were never at the keg party!” Crackhead Jesus added, as I gasped for air against the razor-sharp blade that nicked my tender Adam’s apple. “You never saw me! Do you understand? You, Bon-Jovi-faggot!”
“Help!” My assaulted roommate begged, while bawling, repeatedly, from inches away, as I struggled to survive, under the heavy burden, pushed down upon my fiber of being, by toxic supervision, at the world-famous leadership laboratory, in Annapolis, Maryland.
“If you say my name, you are a dead man. Accidents happen on Aircraft Carriers, you know: You may, unwittingly, get sucked into a fighter jet engine. Your spic and Spanish body parts will be mopped up, swept overboard and feed fish; while the Captain, makes sure your parents get a nicely-folded-flag, in honor of your service, you worthless, piece-of-shit!” Crackhead Jesus’ words, took my breath away, with a vengeance, that suppressed me from uttering anything, as I lay, helpless, within soaking wet, white, satin, sheets, that enveloped my shivering, naked, body, like a cocoon, trapped in a dream, filled with undulating spiders.
Just then, a solitary Black Widow spider gently made its way across my pale, petrified face and whispered into my throbbing ear, “Pray you flow. Flow and you will pray for more.”
I tried desperately to wake up and escape the nightmare but the dense heaviness kept my body immobile, with tribally tattooed arms, outstretched, like Jesus on a cross. I felt the hands of the Devil, deep inside me, trying to shake the soul currency out of my aching body, as the Black Widow spider tickled the hairs inside my ear while whispering; “Just be and all your prayers will manifest.”
My eyes flickered as my sanity caved in on itself, when I heard the Black Widow spider, inside my brain, say, “You are about to embark on a journey, into the New Age of Aquarius. You will meet many false prophets and lawyers along the way.”
I felt the Black Widow spider, dancing inside my aching head and heard strange words in the melody she hummed, while I witnessed her vocal frequencies and wavelengths manifest into colors and hues, as curious images of futures, past and present, flashed swiftly, across my soft, blank, stare, into the multi-universe.
The Black Widow sang lucidly, like a dark angel; humming haunting hymns, into the fiber of my being while repeating a chorus of questions ad nauseam, “Do you understand, My Love? Do you understand?”
A trinity of muses then appeared in a rainbow of colors within my being. The wisdom of generations pounded inside my chest, as the shrill voice of a Black Widow spider, nesting within me, floated onto a stream of profound melodies that drowned out the horror of my existence. At that moment, I surrendered in wonder, as The Three Muses sang sweetly, into my soul, “Be, The Artist. Do not be despondent. Trust your instinct and put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of Crackhead Jesus, the devil and his coven of supreme legal counsel at the enchanted law firm of Which, Witch, Wicca and Wich.”
Like a spinal tap, through my basic instinct, the sharp sting of a Black Widow spider downloaded generations of primal, carnal knowledge into the fiber of my being as The Three Muses continued to sing songs of strength into my soul; “You will come across a big man, who claims to be a poor Jew, with a law degree, from a Roman Catholic University. Do not be fooled by the false prophet named, Crackhead Jesus. He will float in and out of your life with the wind, morphing into strange, disturbing fractals of existence, which you will document in art, for future generations. Crackhead Jesus will tempt and challenge you but do not give in to his negativity and hate, instead, you must shine through the darkness by learning to live, love and flow.”
Trillions of tiny feet tap danced inside my head at the sound of the name Crackhead Jesus. For an instant, that felt eternal, my being was consumed by ravenous spiders, whose frenzied pitter-patter of long, hairy, legs tickled words, while pounding questions and phrases into my head, that sounded like, “What would Crackhead Jesus do?”, “Crackhead Jesus is coming” and “There is only one rule, The Golden Rule.”
“Beware of those you choose to trust on your journey.” The Three Muses sang, as my head spun around in circles, to the rhythmic beat of a thousand undulating arachnids, performing lustful mating dances, within my throbbing psyche. “Crackhead Jesus will introduce himself as a conservative Christian named Mister Rogers. In fact, he is a Wall Street bank lawyer and a judge-shopper, for the good-old-boys-club, at The Florida Bar.”
“You will meet a lawyer whose middle name is Rumpelstiltskin and he will commit perjury in the name of Crackhead Jesus.” The Three Muses noted in chorus. “He will use the Court to exorcise demons conjured by Crackhead Jesus and in so doing will unleash the devil’s minions from within dark shadows of the deep state. This fallen angel will rape the Constitution, in front of Lady Liberty, to force the unholy union of ego and greed; in the name of law.”
I felt the heat from the loins of the Black Widow as she seduced a male spider, full of hubris, with the politically incorrect words she whispered, inside my throbbing head. “The politics of the penis will bring man-made economies to their knees and Crackhead Jesus will manifest a gross conflict of interest, between ego and greed, that will infect generations, of global populations, with terminal distrust, of all government leadership and courts.”
I felt the sting of a Black Widow, sinking its fangs into an aggressive male spider, as he mounted and inseminated her inside my head. My body twitched and tingled as strange liquids traversed the chambers of my brain, while The Three Muses sang; “Crackhead Jesus will be birthed by a White Conservative-Republican, transgender lesbian, with a huge penis and a very small clit. She will be artificially inseminated by a Black, Liberal-Democrat, transgender, bi-sexual, closeted-illegal-alien-transvestite, from Syria, with huge offshore-bank-accounts, a micro-penis, no testicles, or any legal identification and very close ties to the deep state, Russians and The Clinton Machine.”
My swollen bosom heaved and strained as the Black Widow spider spoke sternly into my cerebral cortex, “The birth of Crackhead Jesus will expose portals of existence within shadow governments and reveal a Holographic multi-universe, that perpetually unleashes the creation of corrupt, incompetent and unethical attorneys and judges, that hide within a Litigation vortex, that is propelling the United Slaves of America, through a New World Order and into The Modern Dark Ages. If not stopped, countless generations will be enslaved in a vicious cycle, of hypocrisy, avarice and apathy, as the new norm and God, for all people.”
“If this threat is allowed to transpire to its predicted conclusion, the union of justice and peace, as a reality within nature, the human fiber of being and instinct, will cease to exist.” The Three Muses sang, as sharp hair, on the wet legs of the Black Widow spider, scratched the inside of my ear canal, while she thirst-fully devoured her limp suitor.
The bizarre sensation of nature taking its course inside my head reminded me that I was alive and cognizant, but not at all well, inside the real world; living alongside the United Slaves of America, in The Age of Fake News, before The Modern Dark Ages.
[Crackhead Jesus Loves You]
“Fuck, Facebook!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, as I picked up the script for Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, to read aloud. “Diversity of thought is under attack. Free your mind, Kid.”
“I was an outsider looking in, to what less than, one percent of the human race, gets to witness: A first generation Hispanic, with a world famous French name, who grew up in Hollis, Queens, New York, watching Run-DMC rap, while playing softball, at the park, and Spike Lee film, ‘School Daze’, while learning, at Brooklyn Tech, before hanging out with Nazi’s and pedophiles, in the Paraguay jungle, near Iguazu Falls, rock stars and celebrities at private house parties, in Beverly Hills, California and crooked cops and corrupt nightclub owners, in South Beach, Miami, Florida, after leaving the world famous leadership laboratory, at the United States Naval Academy, in Annapolis, Maryland.” I read out loud, from the heavy script, while pacing, in a room, filled with artwork and storyboards, painted on canvas, wood and paper.
“That’s nice, Kid, but we’re not writing a book, we’re writing a screenplay.” The Hebrew Hammer said, sarcastically.
“You’re the script doctor, tell me what to do.” I said, while tossing him the screenplay.
“Okay.” He said, flipping through pages of my script. “We need to put those words in action.”
“Let’s do it.” I said, enthusiastically.
“I can’t.” The Hebrew Hammer said, stopping on page ten and shaking his head.
“Crackhead Jesus loves you?” He paused to stare at me, as if I were a fool. “That’s disgusting!”
“It’s love.” I answered. “You said you were the best in the business. Fix it.”
“Crackhead Jesus is beyond repair!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted. “Listen, unless the Supreme Court strikes down the law banning disparaging trademarks, no one’s going to want to invest in this movie. The title puts you in the same category as The Slants and Redskins.”
“I can see the headline, in global newspapers, when the Supreme Court decides to protect our freedom, to express the thoughts that we hate.” I said, looking into the future and pausing for a psychic moment. “A remarkably high number of new applications for obscene and racist trademarks have been received at the US Patent and Trademarks Office.”
“Cock Sucker, Nigger Please, Crackhead Jesus and Dicks by Mail, to name just a few.” The Hebrew Hammer laughed, while manufacturing a cross out of marijuana cigarettes on his special Bible. “You might as well try selling shit on a stick, Kid, because nobody’s buying Crackhead Jesus.”
“It’s not blasphemy, it’s the truth.” I answered in frustration, while watching a spider crawl along the moldy ceiling of our hotel room in Fort Myers, Florida, as the witching hour approached. “Besides, the Lord knows, a law forbidding official registration of offensive trademarks unconstitutionally limits free speech. The Supreme Court will come to its senses one day, you’ll see. We’ll be walking the red carpet at the Academy Awards, handing out Crackhead Jesus is coming stickers to fake journalists.”
“Maybe, when hell freezes over but I don’t have time for this megillah.” The Hebrew Hammer said, before pausing to take a sip of Kosher Beer, while sifting through his holey Bible. “I told you, making a real Hollywood film ain’t easy. The Thief and the Cobbler was in and out of production for thirty-one years and that was a fucking cartoon, not Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, so, I suggest you pick your battles wisely, Kid.”
“You don’t get it.” I pleaded, while shoving modern-art-gonzo-journalism in his face.
“No!” He shouted. “Du farkirtst mir di yorn! You don’t get it, your script’s fercockt. This Crackhead Jesus is Meeskait, I’m telling you, it’s just downright ugly, like lying to your Mother on Mother’s Day and I’m not just any Jew, saying that, I’m a seasoned script-doctor, with super-wealthy, movie-making friends, in Hollywood, telling, you, that.” The Hebrew Hammer added, while handing me a joint, before changing his tone of voice. “Light that, would you please, my Shabbos goy.”
Without fuss, I did as the Hebrew Hammer requested, took a toke and passed it back saying, “Dude, I can’t make this stuff up. Crackhead Jesus is a court case, not blasphemy. Google, it.”
“You say, what sounds like blasphemy, is a crooked justice system?”
“Is that Lisa Loeb?” I answered the Hebrew Hammer, with a question of trivia.
“You say, I only hear what I want to.” The Hebrew hammer sang, while bogarting the joint. “Yes, that you do, my free-spirited friend.” He laughed, while pointing a finger at me before looking deep into my cryptic creations. “But, you’re the one keeping a diary of the world on canvas, as you march to the beat of your own drum, into uncharted realms of existence.”
“It’s modern-art-gonzo-journalism.” I noted.
“You’re making your life an open book, for the Lied to Generation to decipher, like ancient hieroglyphics.”
“Hunter S. Thompson did it in words, Dali did it in art and John Lennon did it in music. I’m fusing all three into the Modern Art Music Movement, disguised as, The Maverick Artist.”
“On stage, in real-time, during a revolutionary period in human history.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, while furiously scribbling red ink, on the tenth rewrite of my script, about false prophets and lawyers titled, ‘Crackhead Jesus: The Movie’.
“While creativity is being threatened, by those who claim to champion free speech.” I added, before getting up and walking, towards crates, that I had neatly stacked in a corner, near the bathroom.
“Cultural genocide.” The Hebrew Hammer sighed. “It’s happening.”
“It’s a sign of the times. We’re coming to a fork in the road of human-history. To the right is an Age of Enlightenment, to the left, Very Dark Ages and in the middle, we have, the road less-traveled, which leads us all into the great unknown.” I said, while holding up a painting for the Hebrew hammer to reflect on, that I had created, on the same stage that Coldplay, The Rolling Stones and Billy Joel had performed, near South Hampton, at The Stephen Talkhouse, in Amagansett, Long Island, New York, during a momentous Modern Art Music Movement, MAMM Jam, with Big Suga.
“Live. Love. Flow.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he scratched his bald spot and stared at my work.
“We need balance, to pass through this wormhole into a Golden Age of Awakening.” I said, while pointing out subliminal messages hidden within the modern-art-gonzo-journalism painting.
“A very old Rabbi, I met at the Western Wall, in the Old City of Jerusalem, once told me: The day creativity reaches its pinnacle and we give up manifesting new realities, we cease to exist in time and space. Culturally, we fall back into the Dark Ages. At which point, he said, we’re all doomed, because nothing grows well and thrives, in darkness and gloom.” The Hebrew Hammer recalled, as I emptied a large crate full of artwork, for his careful consideration, all over the cramped hotel room.
“We all become mushrooms. I think that’s what his point was.” He said, while rummaging through his velvet Tallit and Tefillin Case, before pulling out a clear plastic bag full of fungus. “Speaking of which, I have some psychedelic treats with me, as well, my new, New York artist friend.” He sniffed inside the bag, while adding. “To spice up our time here, at The Welcome Inn, before your big show tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry, Doofus. The Golden Rule will get us through the Dark Ages and we’ll all blossom into a new Age of Enlightenment.” I said, while shoving raw works of art in the Hebrew Hammer’s face, as he dangled a sandwich bag full of intoxicating mushrooms, in front of my weary, bloodshot eyes.
“You’re so idealistic and with the help of mainstream news and culture outlets, like FOX and MSNBC, no doubt.” The Hebrew Hammer said, sarcastically, as I emptied another crate full of artwork, for his consideration, all over our confined quarter. “It speaks volumes that artists, George Carlin and John Stewart, were the last great investigative reporters, in mainstream media, because as comedians, they could ask serious questions and here you are, now, with the dark comedy of Crackhead Jesus.”
“Look.” I said, holding up a plethora of colorful story-boards on canvas. “Crackhead Jesus is not about anyone’s religion or God. Unemployed investigative journalists, contact me, with real news tips and folks fed up with fake news stories, who feel they are being ignored by police, government and mainstream media news outlets, they tell me what no one wants to hear and I paint their untold stories, giving them a voice, live, on stage, while channeling nature, through the art of creation, at major events.”
“Dressed in a black cowboy hat with skull and crossbones, looking like a redneck version of the band, Kiss.” The Hebrew Hammer, said while digesting the strange visuals being thrown at his Mirror neurons, in rapid succession.
“I give viewers an intense experience, summoning emotions and even activating other repressed senses, when I MAMM Jam on stage.” I said, before taking a long toke, to pause and reminisce, in colorful flashbacks, of Modern Art Music Movement Happenings, that I had participated in, around the globe.
“You make the ladies wet, do you?” The Hebrew Hammer said, sarcastically.
“I have extreme embodied cognition.” I revealed.
“Sounds awful, what is that?”
“The ability to project oneself as an agent into depicted scenes.” I answered, adding, “I capture bidirectional flow, in my mirror neurons, which gives me more vividness.”
“Really, is that true or did you hear that on MSNBC?” The Hebrew Hammer asked.
“I manifest reality, in front of thousands of people, at big concerts and charity events, with huge, global acts, in famous venues, at historic locations, full of ghosts, where I meet Light-Workers, from all over the Universe, while I travel around the world and across the United States, painting untold stories and news, disguised as, The Maverick Artist.”
“So, you paint the news, from coast to coast, dressed like, you’re alter-ego, the greatest American superhero, from an 80’s rock band. Then you use the modern-art-gonzo-journalism you created during your world tour with the Modern Art Music Movement, as film storyboards, for a modern-day parable of redemption. All, told through the eyes of a character, named, Crackhead Jesus, that is offending everyone, in this upside-down, politically-correct, no-free-speech world.”
“Crackhead Jesus, is the opposite of Jesus Christ.” I noted clearly, as thunder struck outside the door. “WWCHJD?”
“The Anti-Christ.” The Hebrew Hammer said, while staring into the face of the shape-shifter, Crackhead Jesus; a painting I had manifested at a benefit MAMM Jam with mentally challenged children in Naples, Florida, the day before our curious Sabbath, at The Welcome Inn.
“Check this out.” I said, while looking at my cell phone. “Facebook Nazi’s reported a Crackhead Jesus meme to Facebook police and had me thrown out of an offensive Facebook group.”
“What?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, as I approached him to share the image on my cell phone screen.
“I like trolling Facebook groups, where members post politically incorrect memes.”
“Why?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, while staring at a screen that said my account was temporarily banned from Facebook, because a contemporary art Crackhead-Jesus-meme, failed to meet community standards.
“To see how long it takes for hardcore snowflakes to melt.” I answered enthusiastically. “It’s amazing. Facebook permits terrorist groups to recruit members, promotes racism, violence, hate speech and misogyny but if you post an artistic, thought provoking meme with the words ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’ or, ‘What Would Crackhead Jesus Do?’, your account is suspended immediately and you get thrown in Facebook jail.”
“Facebook thinks your art is blasphemy.” The Hebrew Hammer noted.
“When people accuse me of blasphemy, they’re falsely claiming that I ever stated, that their Savior was, or is, a crackhead.” I explained, before retrieving my cell phone and taking a toke of Mary Jane, while the Hebrew Hammer returned to inspecting my diary of the world on canvas.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a pot head, crackhead or heroin addict, nowadays, as long as you don’t use the n-word, in this fake politically-correct world.” The Hebrew Hammer interjected. “You wouldn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings and be labeled racist or insensitive toward Facebook snowflakes.”
The Hebrew Hammer shook his head, after reading the comments of foul-mouthed born-again hypocrites, living in the hatred of Crackhead Jesus, before carefully setting the android down and hungrily reaching for another work of modern-art-gonzo-journalism to ponder.
“Though, I must admit, the names of some of your paintings are offensive.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, as he read the brutally stark titles of my artwork, including ‘Trump Art’, ‘Meinigga’ and ‘Crackheadjesus’, written in black ink, on the back of colorfully painted canvas. “How do you sell Crackhead Jesus and Trump Art to nonbelievers?”
“First, I ask folks who threaten me with, ‘I ought to kick your fucking ass, for saying that about my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ’; ‘What would Jesus do?'” I confess, before passing the joint back to the Hebrew Hammer with squinted eyes. “Then, the people who claim to love Jesus and live in his Light, that bully me with death threats and say they wish I had been aborted, look at me with confusion all over their dumbfounded faces, when I remind them, that Richard Pryor invented crack, in the 80’s, while Duran-Duran, was still hungry, like the wolf.”
“Cunts!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted. “Long after Jesus Christ was crucified, for their gossip, sins and hypocrisy.” He added, before inhaling God’s herb. “I get it.”
“Trump art is a hard sell, I know, but I love a challenge and beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” I noted, while receiving the reefer he passed back reflexively, so he could quickly dive back into, the beguiling nature, of my subliminal creations. “I’m working towards pretty and making, informative, happy art but all I get is beautiful chaos and hatred in return.” I stated, woefully while sifting through works of modern-art-gonzo-journalism with a doobie dangling from my lips.
“Pious hypocrites casting stones.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, before I passed him the loco weed.
“Trust your instinct. Paint what you feel, Kid.” He said, after inhaling. “Don’t let the haters make you despondent. Go ahead, be the maverick artist. Paint what you want.”
“Resist, persist, insist, enlist.” I said, while splashing color on works of art before handing them to the Hebrew Hammer for introspection. ” WWCHJD? What would Crackhead Jesus do?”
“What are you doing?” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, in horror as I began adding a hint of cerulean blue to a painting titled, ‘Eating A Nothing Burger with Hillary Clinton, At The DNC, During the Long, Hot, Resistance Summer, In America ‘, with a fresh oil stick. “Stop that!”
“I’m just finishing it up.” I said, without pausing the act of creation. “I’m practicing for my gig tomorrow night, with the All Stars at the MAMM Jam Festival.”
“I thought that painting was finished.” The Hebrew Hammer said, in disgust. “Nudnek! It was beautiful. You’ve ruined it!”
“I’m not a speed painter. I’ve got a ninety-minute show to put on, tomorrow.” I said, to the Hebrew Hammer, as his face cringed. “My paintings aren’t finished until they are sold; away from my whim and brushstrokes.” I paused, before asking, “If you liked it so much, why didn’t you buy it, before I enhanced it?”
“You should give it to me, Kid. I have rich friends come over, all the time. They’ll see your artwork, on my walls.”
“And then what?”
The Hebrew Hammer sat silent, before I asked,”Do you tell your doctor, to perform free surgery on you, or your lawyer, to do free legal work, for you, so you, can recommend them, to all your cheap, elitist friends?”
“We can barter.” The Hebrew Hammer said, with a smirk and raised eyebrow. “As a script doctor, my services ain’t cheap.”
“You write for, Kosher Pervert Productions, in the porn industry.” I noted sarcastically.
“I’m trying to go mainstream.” He replied, earnestly.
“With Crackhead Jesus: The Movie?”
“I can make it work.” The Hebrew Hammer said, with confidence. “If you want to trade, for your art.”
“We can do that,” I voiced my agreement, as we both reached in for a firm handshake. “Listen, if you like a painting, buy it but until my art sells, the creations are my kids.” I paused, to look him in the eyes and feel his grip in my hand, before adding, “Let my paintings evolve naturally. I’ll raise the art to fruition, don’t you worry.”
“I’m not. So, let’s return to your script.” The Hebrew Hammer pivoted back on point, stating pragmatically, as he made notes in red ink on my script, “Alright, let’s see, here, it says that, somewhere in time, Jesus Christ walked the Earth. Around 1 A.D. Jesus Christ hung out with Buddha and Muhammad and Crackhead Jesus hung out with Richard Pryor after the death of Disco and the Mayor of Toronto, before crack was whack in Canada.”
“Is that true, or did you hear it on CNN?” I asked, as the image of CNN reporter, Charles Jaco, feigning coverage of the 1990 Persian Gulf War, flashed across the purposefully, silent television screen, facing away from the Hebrew Hammer’s line of sight, to be Orthodox, on Sabbath.
“It’s a hard sell man, especially in this politically-correct culture we’re living in. Most people won’t understand Crackhead Jesus and the Golden Rule, that’s all I’m telling you.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, while coughing a large, residual-cloud of smoke, into the room, as I showed him another Facebook conversation, about Crackhead Jesus and fake news, influencing pop culture.
“Crackhead Jesus and the Golden Rule.” I paused after speaking, to let the words sink into my subconscious, as I watched CNN contributor Donna Brazile, peddle colluded fake news coverage, over airwaves.
“I like that.” I said, while tearing strips of toilet paper, as designated Goy, in halachic compliance, approved by major poskim, for the Hebrew Hammer, who was keenly digesting modern-art-gonzo-journalism, for the very first time, in his extraordinary life.
“So what’s with all the spiders in your Crackhead Jesus script?”
“It’s metaphor.” I answered.
“Okay, but the beginning is still too existential. It’s meaningless to a filmmaker. You need action not metaphor.”
“You want more action?” I asked.
“And big tits, somewhere in the story. Look, my point is, you’re limiting your audience. You’re going to lose whoever sticks around after seeing the name Crackhead Jesus and anyone with arachnophobia, that’s for sure.”
“Just keep reading.” I said, before exhaling a cloud of rings, into the smelly room, as The Hebrew Hammer shook his head while looking down at my screenplay. “Here, take a hit of this, it’ll help you make sense of the story.”
The Hebrew Hammer adjusted the yarmulke, on his balding head, before grabbing the joint, taking a hit and delving back into the legend of Crackhead Jesus, with an open mind, as the sky poured heavy rain, down on The Welcome Inn, long after midnight.
[Judge Donald “The Duck” Hafele]
“Beware of the witch, who calls himself a Judge and is nicknamed, Donald “The Duck” Hafele, at the shady Florida Bar, where Your Honor is regularly pimped out, to the highest bidder, for judicial favors.” The Black Widow spider spoke to me, as I judged her ethics in my mind, while watching her devour another limp suitor.
“Judge Donald “The Duck” Hafele speaks one thing but does another.” The Three Muses sang, as the Black Widow spider licked her hairy legs inside my head. “And, like Rumpelstilstkin, you can’t say his name out loud, or Crackhead Jesus and his minions, will accuse you of blasphemy, in the court of public opinion.”
“You will meet the specter of G-Rod Miller and he will open your eyes, to a man-made drought of soul currency that threatens to starve billions of souls, when a catastrophic tsunami of spiritual famine is unleashed upon mankind, by lawyers, witches and devils, embedded in shadows of the deep state.” The insatiable Black Widow whispered, as I opened my eyelids, to see a room full of spiders, staring back at me, with over a billion eyes. “The Golden Rule, will cease to exist, on Earth, forever.”
I shut my eyelids quickly and in the darkness, saw the face of a bright, young, boy staring back at me, with hope in his eyes and a great white smile, on his big, black face. Like a lunar eclipse of the sun, G-Rod Miller’s ghostly image blacked out the spiders I sensed crawling all around me. “What Would Crackhead Jesus Do?” He asked my soul, as I released a primal scream, into the echoes of my mind.
“Crackhead Jesus will try to convince you that everything is broken beyond repair and to accept the status quo but do not be fooled by his wily deception.” The Black Phantom spoke through a chill that left me shivering. “Witches, disguised as lawyers and judges, will attempt to veer you from your destiny as, The Maverick Artist. They will try to alter your identity in Court, by forcefully changing your birth name on record, but fear not what liars call you in corrupt halls of justice, because you are also, the voice of the Lied to Generation and The Three Muses will always be there to protect you. “
A fat spider scurried across my grinding teeth to the top of my head shouting, “Crackheadjesus is coming! Crackheadjesus is coming!”, as the Three Muses sang, “Angels and Light-Workers will enhance your ability and talents to spread a message of peace, love and compassionate wealth, through seven generations forward. Do not fear, My Love, we will always watch over you, with the strength and guidance of Saint Michael the Archangel.”
“You will keep a diary of the world on canvas.” The Black Widow whispered in my ear as the Three Muses seeped into my fiber of being, through the iris of my eyes, singing, “You are the Backpacker and will forever be ethereal as you travel through the multi-universe.”
I vaporized into my core and visualized my aura hovering above realms inside the multi-universe, just outside of reality, where one plus one, did not equal three. In a moment of both panic and ecstasy, I gave into my faith and passed out from the sheer pleasure of pain. Minutes later, I awoke, drenched in a cold sweat that left my body listless, as a strong voice in my head spoke of secret messages and instructed me to pack my necessary belongings swiftly, for a very long road trip.
[How To Make A Film Titled Crackhead Jesus: The Movie]
“Great! Now we’re getting somewhere. I love road trip movies.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he leaped from the chair and stretched his arms out, like King Kong in a cramped room.
“It’s not really a road trip movie.” I said, while passing a freshly lit joint, over to The Hebrew Hammer, after he adjusted his tzitzis and yarmulke, in front of a rusted and cum-stained, standing-mirror, at The Welcome Inn.
“Well then, forget it, because I’m not gonna invest my trust fund money in a B-Movie or arthouse flick about a fat-Jewish-crackhead, who thinks he’s Jesus Christ.”
“Fuck you, man!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted. “Change the title, at least. You can’t call it Crackhead Jesus: The Movie. What were you thinking?”
“Man, obviously, you’re too fucked up to remember. I told you, my gonif Jewish attorney came up with the title, Dude. You said it was ironic, because Jesus was a Jewish carpenter, whatever that means and then you asked, ‘What would Crackhead Hebrew Jesus do? Which I told you was not funny, before you passed out, while I was driving.” I said, accepting the Panama Red he shared.
“Feh! Rumpelstiltskin, that khazer?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, before adding. “He’s a fucking schmoe.”
I nodded confirmation, to which he said, “Screw that, now I’m definitely out of the picture.”
“Dude!” I gasped.
“Marketing Crackhead Jesus, is not like marketing puppies and babies!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, in frustration.
“I know, everyone thinks I’m crazy for trying.” I admitted.
“You’re a putz and he’s momzer! I want to see Rumpelstiltskin, promote Crackhead Jesus.” The Hebrew Hammer insisted. “That fat-faced-fuck, he’d have better luck marketing, a dating app for people with herpes and halitosis, to horny teenagers, on spring break.”
“I know it won’t be easy to promote Crackhead Jesus but I trust people will get it.” I argued.
“The same people, who say they wish your Mother had aborted you and call you a fucking cunt, in the name of the Lord?”
“Yes, once they realize Crackhead Jesus is no more offensive than the Washington Redskins or a John Waters film.” I said tenaciously. “People will get the true meaning of Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, one day.”
“Like, ‘The Grinch Who Stole Christmas’, or, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, for the Lied to Generation.” The Hebrew Hammer noted while jotting notes on my script. “We can sell it to distributors, as a new holiday classic and release it Thanksgiving weekend.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he stretched his arms out with flair, to display an imaginary sign in the sky. “Crackhead Jesus is coming and he doesn’t pull out, on billboards and buses, everywhere, during Santa season.”
“I like where you’re going with that idea, Meinschvatz.” I said, without realizing he was being sarcastic. “Crackhead Jesus is the opposite of Jesus Christ. It’s a modern-day parable of redemption about living the Golden Rule in a politically correct world.”
“Abortion is like Crackhead Jesus, some folks get it and some folks don’t. Either way, it’s not funny, so, your film is fucked, from the start.”
“Dude, that’s rude!”
“No! You don’t get it, Dude! Your script is too highbrow and most people, are too stupid to think creatively! That’s why they watch CNN and read The New York Times.” The Hebrew Hammer hollered. “You’ll have better luck selling shit scented air fresheners to the blind, than trying to pitch Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, to the soulless, PC-fucks in Hollywood, believe me, Kid.”
“So, what would you call it?” I asked, earnestly.
“I’d call it, shit in a bag and leave it the fuck alone.” The Hebrew Hammer answered, after exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Listen, Kid, I bet you my balls in a box full of donuts.” He continued, while coughing.
“Why would I want that?” I interrupted the Hebrew Hammer, before my mind wandered off into a realm of existence, where a bag of donuts cost fifteen-thousand dollars.
“It’s not the art. It’s the artist.” The lovely Young Asian Woman, minding the booth for one of the most prestigious fine art galleries in the world, at the Miami Beach Convention Center, during the Inaugural Miami Art Basel, said to me, with heartfelt conviction, in front of my Sister, as A-list celebrities mingled around us, with paparazzi, at the V.I.P. Private Preview reception.
“Fifteen-thousand-dollars?” My Sister asked the smiling Young Asian Woman, while rolling her eyes. “It’s a bag of donuts.”
“It’s a shellacked bag of donuts, inside of a glass case, set on a fancy stand, with a fifteen-thousand-dollar price tag.” I added, while walking around, intently staring at the work of art and trying to make sense of it all.
“We are what we do and our past shapes our present. If you don’t know the artist, you won’t appreciate the art.” The beguiling Young Asian Woman said to us, with a sincere smile, that served to elevate the bag of donuts in my eyes, as I began to understand the meaning of inventiveness and the value of artistry, in both sales and craftsmanship. “And if you can figure out what’s happening to the brain on art, you know a whole lot about the brain.” She added, with an alluring wink.
“Trust me, newspapers in the United States won’t mention your Crackhead Jesus film, in print.” The Hebrew Hammer said, before snapping his fingers, to bring my attention back to the present. “Are you listening to me, Kid? They will censor you. Believe me, no newspaper is going to put Crackhead Jesus in the movie listings.”
“No they won’t.” I answered, as the image of the lovely Young Asian Woman dissipated before my eyes, in a cloud of smoke, that smelled like Patchouli.
“Alright then, ask your buddy Rumpelstilstkin if he could market Nike or McDonald’s without using their name in social media advertising?”
“The golden arches and swoosh, it’s been done before.” I answered, coyly. “Besides, we have the First Amendment. Free speech.”
“Schmuck, fake newspapers, like The Palm Beach Post, will list your film in all question marks, instead of the title. Do you know how confusing that is, business-wise, to the general public?”
“You’re right. No golden arches, no swoosh, just question marks.” I said, before passing the joint. “What the fuck is that?”
“Censorship!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, in frustration, before lowering his tone to thank me for passing him the doobage.
“If people can’t find the movie…” I stuttered, as my eyes opened to the truth in front of me.
“People can’t pay to see it, Kid. Remember, you’re in the entertainment industry and art market, there are no safe spaces, in this cut throat business.” The Hebrew Hammer finished my sentence, in a cloud of smoke, before saying, “Look, the First Amendment doesn’t mean shit to stockholders and you don’t have the kind of money Nike, McDonald’s or the Redskins have, nor any of their expensive big shot lawyers or lobbyists, assisting you, to fight the forces of evil, in the Supreme Court, over the Crackhead Jesus Trademark and censorship, so give it up.”
“Fake news fucks!” I shouted, before thanking him for passing back the doob and taking a puff, then asking, “Did you hear about CNN doxxing?”
“This isn’t David versus Goliath, this is your punk ass versus the Illuminati, as represented by the Witches, at Which, Witch, Wicca and Wich. So, settle the fuck down and listen to me, Kid.” The Hebrew Hammer said, without beating around the bush. “Adapt or die, because self-pity is pathetic in a leader like you and when light exposes darkness, things can get dangerous. Believe me, I’ve seen the dark side and stared into the eyes of evil. It’s not easy and it sure as hell ain’t pretty.”
“But…” I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, before the Hebrew Hammer railroaded me, into brief silence.
“No buts, Kid. News and gossip is big business, it’s not a constitutional right.” The Hebrew Hammer said, while staring into my eyes. “Let’s write a story about puppies, babies and kittens.”
“I’m not writing a story. I’m painting a diary.” I paused to realize how serious the look in his eyes were, before adding, “Of our world. On canvas.”
“I will pray for you, not to wander off the enlightened path, into the darkness I’ve witnessed. Don’t say I never tried to warn you, Kid.”
“Thanks. I’ll take all the prayers I can get.” I told the Hebrew Hammer, in earnest.
“Look, I meant what I said about Sabbath, I’ll help you with this Crackhead Jesus crap but after that, all you’ll have from me is my prayers.”
“Good enough. Let’s get to work.”
“First of all,” The Hebrew Hammer said, before pausing to flip through several pages of text. “This isn’t really a script, it’s a mish mosh of stuff, I haven’t quite figured out yet. I’m not saying, your writing is bad, I’m just saying, the first couple of chapters and scenes are magic realism.” He paused again. “And, honestly, I’m not willing to invest in that kind of ethereal film, unless you can, somehow, get David Lynch, Michel Gondry, Sofia Coppola or Tim Burton to direct and frankly, even if they were to say yes, I don’t have that kind of money to spend, right now.”
“I can direct it.” I said, without hesitation, knowing I had some experience.
“Oy-yoy-yoy! You don’t know drek about making movies.” The Hebrew Hammer nearly laughed himself off the chair before continuing, “And I can tell you this, for sure, you don’t know shit about writing a script either, Brother. What you’ve shown me so far, is more like narrative, on a canvas storyboard. Which, is kind of cool, I must admit but seriously, let’s write about a lost pony or something, anything but Crackhead Jesus.”
“You said you would help me finish the script, if I agreed to be your Shabbos goy during Sabbath.” I interrupted. “You think I want to be stuck in this shit-hole with you, writing about some assholes acting like Crackhead Jesus under everyone’s nose, when I can be out partying with rock stars and groupies?”
“I’m a script doctor not a miracle worker but since you’re my Shabbat goy, I’ll give you until the end of Sabbath. After that, you’re on your own, my fraynd.”
“Oy Vey! Don’t be a dick.” I sighed. “You know in your gut, that I’m on to something.”
“Something strange, for sure.” He laughed, as I stared back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Okay, but only because you’re such a mensch, I’m going to introduce you to Large Marge, my Aunt, in Long Island who used to work for Bear Stearns on Wall Street. She’s produced some movies and she might be crazy enough to invest in your curious film. If, you agree to direct it for free and do some favors for her, like house-sit for her while she visits relatives in DC. Are you allergic to cats?”
“No.” I answered, through cat interaction flashbacks.
“I’ll call her, for you, after Sabbath and give her your number. If she’s interested in anything, she’ll call you.”
“Thanks, Brother.” I said, giving him a hug.
“Nishto far vos. Pass the roach and let’s see where this story takes us.” The Hebrew Hammer, said as he gently placed the end of the joint, between his giant fingers, before peering back into the saga of Crackhead Jesus, with new appreciation.
“The Witches are here, open your eyes.” I heard Crackhead Jesus whisper, into the raised hairs on the back of my neck, as I finally surrendered to the powerlessness of a single moment, when I had, willfully, forsaken all hope for the future.
Soul currency from The Three Muses filled my fiber of being, when a vision, so pure, came and shook me to the core of my principles. My barren innards rumbled from an overwhelming sense of despair and confusion that weakened my knees. Like dripping, thick, syrup, I slowly crumbled to the floor. Exposed and crying out for one last chance at redemption, I wept without restraint, for sheer sake of release, and felt free, the moment I humbled myself to the reality of fate, in a pile of human frailty.
That’s when Crackhead Jesus uttered a sound so awful, Earth hiccupped from the butterfly effect of its echo, thrusting humanity into a deep recession of trust, hope and love.
My full submission, spared me from an empty fate, so I awoke instead, to a cold sweat, in a dark room filled with shadows, ghosts and the sound of calm silence. Naked and shivering but unafraid, I jumped out of bed, slipped on my sandals, reached for my robe and rushed to the bathroom, quickly turning on the light, to eliminate the overwhelming darkness.
Standing in front of the streaked mirror, I calmly stared back at my reflection with acceptance rather than hubris. “I am that I am.” I said out loud as I turned both faucets to fill the white porcelain sink with water. “The Golden Rule: It’s just that simple.” I whispered, at a peaceful moment of introspection and self-reflection.
The sound of splashing water rushing down the drain filled the void of silence that echoed throughout the 1924 multi-level, Tudor, in Miami Beach, Florida, that I called home. I looked down, thrust my hands in the water and noticed it was still too cold for my sake.
Curiosity compelled me to look up into the mirror and I found myself staring back at a ghost, in my reflection. My face looked pale and haggard, suddenly, I felt exhausted and full of dread. Staring deep into my mirror image, beyond the wraith, I saw a vision of the Holy Ghost and Saint Michael the Archangel, staring back at me, past the phantom menace.
The same lovely vision of The Three Muses, that saved me from my frightful slumber, was now instructing me to calmly splash warm water on my face.
“Your nightmare is over.” The Three Muses sang, from inside the crowded mirror. “Share your visions and dreams with Light Workers and Indigo children.”
They then instructed me to pack my belongings, for I was about to embark on a long journey. According to The Three Muses, like The Blues Brothers, I was on a mission from God, and my mission was to warn the world, about Crackhead Jesus, through the Modern Art Music Movement.
So, I hastily packed for my pilgrimage, without a doubt in my mind, fitting as much as I could, into my Lexus convertible. I had no idea where my pilgrimage would take me, or how long I would be on the road, but the siren song of The Three Muses echoed a hauntingly beautiful symphony in my head, that compelled me to go west, without fear. On August 11, 2007, I left my home, as The Maverick Artist, for destinations unknown.
I drove alone, past a tsunami of debt created by unscrupulous bankers and lawyers, that manifested a wave of ‘For Sale’ and ‘Foreclosure’ signs along the beautiful Florida coastline, into the man-made, burning, wild-fires of Alligator Alley, in an elegant, eight-cylinder sports car, towards my destiny, as a visionary artist.
“Vey is mir! What the fuck is this shit?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, as he threw his arms up in frustration while reading my script at The Welcome Inn.
“Dude!” I shouted, passing him a freshly lit joint.
“Fuck you, Dude!” The Hebrew Hammer screamed, before noticing the fresh doobie being passed his way. “Wait. Thanks.” He said, in a lower tone, before taking a long toke and continuing through clouds of smoke.“It’s like you just threw every freaking topic into a blender and spit it out, on canvas. Is this a faith based film?”
“It could be.” I answered, giving it some thought.
“For members of the XXX Church, maybe.”
“Actually, they’re big fans, I met the Pastor at the International Porn Conference in Miami Beach.” I answered, in a flashback, to young girls, waiting in long lines, with their parents and boyfriends, to get autographs, from Adult Film Stars, preaching the Gospel of Love, inside the magnificent, Miami Beach Convention Center, home of Art Basel Miami.” I interviewed ‘Porn Stars for Peace’ and ‘Porn Stars for Jesus’ while making a documentary titled, ‘The Marketing of Peace’.”
“Make porn, not war!” The Porn Stars for Peace shouted, at Westboro Baptist Church protestors, who were holding up, ‘God hates fags!’ signs and ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’ stickers, while being escorted forcefully, out of the private venue, by armed security guards, as the Porn Stars for Jesus hollered, “Jesus loves porn stars, strippers and fags!”
“I want to be just like Jenna Jameson, when I grow up, Mom.” The Blonde Teenage Girl said, to her Mother who patiently waited in line with her son and daughter for Porn Star signatures, as I sat next to the Ultimate Fighting Champion, Tito Ortiz, behind his Girlfriend, the main attraction, Jenna Jameson, while she lovingly signed autographs, for hours.
“I’ll bet.” The Blonde Teenage Girl’s older Step-Brother said, before getting slapped by his Mother, in front of his overly-eager, Step-Father, who was next in line.
“Wow!” I said, in earnest, to the Giant Warrior sitting calmly beside me. “People really like your Girlfriend.”
“Yeah.” Tito Ortiz answered, as his Lover autographed a woman’s bare chest with a marker, in front of an adoring crowd. “They do.”
“Is this some self-help shit for Millennials?” The Hebrew Hammer continued, his interrogation, at The Welcome Inn, while passing me a joint that brought my being back into the moment.
“Why not?” I answered, before inhaling myself into reality.
“Because self-help movies don’t make money. I mean, really, what the fuck kind of film category does, Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, fit into?”
“Dark-comedy.” I answered, quickly.
“Is it dark or a comedy? Pick one, Moron!” The Hebrew Hammer ordered, while reaching out for the joint I was passing. “Oh! Thank you.” He said, in a mild tone, before adding, harshly. “Real film producers don’t want to hear about multi-genre movies, it shows them you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Is it dark or is it a comedy, because it can’t be both, not, on my dime?” The Hebrew Hammer insisted before inhaling.
“It’s a comedy.” I answered, while looking in his eyes and pondering the question seriously.
“Well, Crackhead Jesus isn’t funny. I’m sorry to tell you but you’re all over the place, like diarrhea, so I’m not financing this crap.” The Hebrew Hammer paused to take another long hit of the spliff. “There’s no genre here and where are the tits? I’m almost at act two and there are no tits in this script! Unless you plan on having the Three Muses, naked, throughout the movie.” He paused, dead in his tracks, while pacing, before lunging towards pen and paper on table. “Hang on, that might work.” He began scribbling notes on my script, frantically. “Let me see here.”
“Dude, it’s not about tits.” I said in frustration.
“Well it better be, no tits, no money, that’s the Hollywood standard. Realize, I’m not in the business of losing money and neither is my Aunt, so you better find a place for big, fat, tits somewhere in this shitty convoluted script.”
“I planned it as a seven-movie series, so I’m sure…”
“You still don’t get it. Do you?” The Hebrew Hammer interrupted, while passing me a plate, holding a tiny cardboard coffin filled with Maui wowie. “If Crackhead Jesus, the first film flops, there’s no follow up movies and your career is ruined. Capisce?”
“Crackhead Jesus is not going to flop.” I argued, doggedly.
“I’m telling you.” The Hebrew Hammer argued, inflexibly. “You’re beating a dead horse.”
“That’s what they said about Obama and Trump.” I noted.
“What? Stop! Nobody’s buying Crackhead Jesus, you’re better off selling Chinese drywall to the Japanese.” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, provokingly.
“What does that even mean?” I laughed.
“Money! You need money and you ain’t going to get it, with a title like Crackhead Jesus.” The Hebrew Hammer shouted before taking a toke and passing the reefer. “Crackhead Jesus is coming.” He laughed and coughed, while exhaling a cloud of smoke, into the smog filled room. “For fucks sake, Brother, that son of a bitch is already here. Haven’t you been reading the headlines and watching the news?”
“Exactly.” I replied, stubbornly. “The timing is right for Crackhead Jesus: The Movie and in this politically correct world, you’re going to help me make Crackhead Jesus, a household name.”
[Stranger in The Bathroom]
Between here, there and smack dab in the middle of nowhere, I made my first stop for petrol, at a crowded fueling station owned by the Miccosukee tribe of Indians, in the Florida Everglades. The sign shouted, “$4.99 a gallon” as I slid my credit card into the slot, shoved the nozzle in my gas tank and after securing my vehicle, went off to use the restroom, at the convenience store.
I was surprised to see the words, ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’, screaming at me, from the back of a dirty rental truck that drove past the island, while unattended, deformed, multi-ethnic children, sitting on the curb, pointed at me and snickered, as I walked into the market, feeling dazed and confused.
“Don’t be racist.” The slender White teen, covered in tattoos, sporting no teeth and a face full of pimples, said to me with a scowling look, as I stared at the rude disabled kids, mocking me from outside, while a big government worker, drove off the gas island loudly, in his bright red motorcycle, before the menacing minor added, with a sneer, “Keep walking, fuck-face.”
On my way to the bathroom, as I passed the Twinkies and gummy bears, a woman bumped into me, asking, “You know the Doctor is a serial killer, don’t you?”, while staring deep, into my eyes.
“Who are you?” I asked, the alluring, middle-aged red-head as she held my hands firmly, to steady our suddenly precarious balance, in the candy aisle.
“He knows.” She answered, with alert eyes, scanning the convenience store. “The Doctor watches us.”
I looked around my vicinity but did not see the Doctor, nor anyone I recognized anywhere in sight.
“Give me your number.” She said, while aiming her cell phone at mine.
“I’m not giving you my number.” I answered, while pulling back, as I felt my cell phone vibrate, while her cell phone beeped.
“You just did.” She said, as she rushed off. “I’ll call you with more information, as soon as I find a safe space.”
“Wait!” I shouted, as she grabbed the front door handle to exit.
“Beware of strangers, false prophets and lawyers.” She said, as she ran out, before driving off.
I noticed a ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’ sticker on the back of her car, as she sped onto a dirt road, surrounded by canals and huge, sunbathing, alligators, in a big cloud of smoke, that billowed into the unforgiving Everglades.
On my way to the restroom, I noticed a large graphic novel section in the books, newspaper and magazine area. A title caught my eye, when I met a Woman, looking to purchase a graphic novel for her Son. She claimed, with noticeable shame but without hesitation, that her Son was in prison, for what, I don’t know. I never asked.
The Mother wondered, if I knew anything, about graphic novels and I told her, that as a matter of fact, I was manifesting one, at the moment.
The Woman looked at me while arresting her emotions and said, “There is a groundswell of visionary artists. You are one of them, I can tell. You have plunged yourself into the redemptive mission of art, in its purest form, echoing the creation of cosmos and dark matter through the Modern Art Music Movement, producing sacred universal images, full of hope and redemption, for future generations, to understand how they got there.”
Then, she began asking me, about Superman and Spiderman, in an unusual panic.
She was terrified of not knowing much about either superhero or villains but most of all, she feared disappointing her Son, in prison.
“My Son loves both” The Mother choked on her words. “He said, he wanted to be Superman one day.”
I reassured her that no matter what work of art she chose for her Son, he and the other inmates, would appreciate her warm, loving gesture. I told her that she was a good mother.
She stared into my eyes, for what seemed an eternity, with the intense grief and horror of a Mother, who’s lost her son to an unforgiving penitentiary.
I advised her not to worry but rather, to take solace in knowing that her action would bring moments of joy into her son’s miserable life.
“My son was gang raped in jail and now he’s pregnant.” The Convict’s Mother did all but hug me with her eyes, when, holding back tears, she noticed me do a double take and whispered, “Nothing is by chance. There was a reason I met you, today. Thank you, Picasso.”
We never physically touched but our souls met, when we commiserated, in the graphic novel aisle, while sharing appreciation for heroes and our freedom to choose, between Spider Man and Super Man, in a world full of saints and sinners.
When I entered the surprisingly clean, white-tiled men’s room, I noticed a burly man, with white hair and chubby cheeks, exiting one of the bathroom stalls near fresh smelling graffiti. He wore a grey Armani suit and approached me like an ogre saying, “The Temple of Justice has been desecrated.”
He tried handing me a sealed, five-ounce, silver container, with his meaty paws, while saying, “You are the wise elder, Victor Hugo, reincarnated, to scribe the story of the Modern American Revolution.”
“Take this, Maverick Artist, you will need it.” The Stranger said, grabbing my wrist while placing the container in my open hand.
He noticed my hesitation and alarm, as I looked around the empty bathroom nervously, while attempting to return the gift he gave and adamantly, refused to take back.
“No worries, relax.” He said, with a genuine nature, that transformed the unfamiliar person, into someone more manageable. “The Three Muses sent me. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to guide you through your journey.”
“You didn’t wash your hands.” I said, as he tried shaking mine.
“Things aren’t always what they seem. It’s kind of like, watching a video of Adolph Hitler, handing a pretty young girl some flowers, at the German Olympics. The sweet moment doesn’t reflect reality in history, does it?”
“In the material world, it’s easier to handle and remember good experiences, than it is to forget bad memories but we all try. Time heals all wounds but not in the spiritual realm. There, evil lingers in instinct, right beside goodness. Do you understand, Kid?”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Call me Newt Gingrich, for now, until I get to know you, Kid.”
“You ask too many questions. Listen and learn. These are clues I’m giving you. Trust your instinct. Beware of false prophets and lawyers and realize which witch is which, on your journey, Kid. Always, make sure you know which Witch is true, when it comes to the Wich’s, do you understand?”
“You’re speaking in riddles. Here, take this back, I don’t want it.” I said, during a failed attempt to return the silver container.
“I can’t take it back, it’s yours. The Three Muses told me to give it to you.”
“What is this?” I asked, staring at the silver container without opening the lid.
“The Flow.” He answered. “It will help you see past the truth but use it sparingly.”
A gust of wind forced the bathroom door open. A tall, pale-faced man in blue jeans and a t-shirt that read, ‘This is my horny look’, walked in and headed directly for the stall, from which Newt Gingrich had emerged. I instinctively put the container away, in my pocket, where it weighed heavily on my new blue jeans.
“Flawed people can do good things, remember that, Kid.” The pale-faced stranger whispered, as he glided past Newt Gingrich and I. “Trust your instinct.”
Newt Gingrich, winked at me, before drifting off like a phantom, past the swinging door, as he exited the public restroom. I heard the man in the toilet stall flush then witnessed a flash of bright light shoot up to the ceiling, as I ran towards the exit. When I swung the door open, I realized that Newt Gingrich had vanished into memory.
I searched throughout the convenience store for Newt Gingrich but all I could find was Twizzlers, Red Bull, Marlboro and issues of Penthouse, Juggs and Barely Legal, wrapped in plastic, behind the bulletproof counter. I looked past the coated windows, advertising fresh brewed coffee and two for one hot dogs, searching for truth, inside islands of gas, surrounded by SUV’s, mini-vans, and Hummer’s, but all I found when I surveyed the scene, was a lonely world, full of lost souls. So, I returned to my car and drove off into the open road, realizing that I would find neither truth, nor answers, in the present state.
“My nephew says you want to make a movie named Crackhead Jesus with Newt Gingrich.” Large Marge said, as she placed a tray of cold cuts and cheese in front of me with a great big smile, in the living room, of her Orient Point home, in the Town of Southold, in Suffolk County, New York.
“Actually.” I said, before being interrupted.
“Did you notice, when you came here, that we’re just steps away from the entrance to the top secret, highest security classification, United States federal research facility containing Biosafety Level 4 labs on Plum Island?” Large Marge asked, in one long, quivering, breath, when I realized, why she had been given the description, by those closest to her; the woman was undeniably big, in ways that made her being, larger than life.
“Yes. I saw the ferry entrance, just off the tip of Long Island’s North Fork.”
“This whole place can be quarantined, at any minute, if biocontainment of transboundary animal diseases at Plum Island is compromised. Just, so you know.” She said, while shoving bacon, into her sausage filled mouth, in front of me. “That place is nicknamed, Anthrax Island, by well-informed conspiracy theorists.”
“That can’t be good.” I said, in horror.
“No, it’s not. Erich Traub, the Godfather of Plum Island, was a Nazi scientist recruited by Heinrich Luitpold Himmler, Reichsführer of the Schutzstaffel. He had a plan to inject disease into ticks and release them, as an army of bio weapons. That’s why I’m so fat. That Nazi gave me Lyme disease.” Large Marge explained, between bites, of sliced Italian meats and images of CNN breaking news silently in the background.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I said, sincerely, after taking a sip of water and asking, “Is the tap water here, safe to drink?”
“Don’t worry, this ain’t Flint. I got filters, Kid, drink up.” Large Marge said, while winking at me. “Tell you what, I bet Crackhead Jesus is all over Plum Island. That place is a terrorist target. Look up, Montauk Monster. The case is unsolved.”
I poured hot sauce over everything on my plate, to extinguish any germs or virus.
“Oh!” Large Marge exclaimed, while convulsing, as if she were having an orgasm. “And security on Plum Island, runs on the honor system. So, workers exposed to foot and mouth disease, are told, not to have pets, visit zoos or pet shops.” Large Marge snickered. “As if that alone, would prevent employees, from bringing home any virus, that could potentially cause a pandemic.”
“Really?” I asked, dubiously.
“Look, I’m not saying this to scare you or anything, Kid. It’s just, you’ve got to know where you’re at, as my houseguest and where you’re at, for the next week, is in an Emergency Planning Zone.”
“Oh, no!” I said, as I watched masticated food particles, fly from her yapping mouth, onto silver trays, filled with snacks.
“Oh, yes!” Large Marge exclaimed, while convulsing, as if she were having another orgasm. “You may have noticed, pole-mounted sirens, when you got within a ten-mile radius of this place and I don’t need you freaking out, if you hear the emergency warning sirens because we’re in an EPZ. They usually schedule it on Wednesday mornings but sometimes alarms go off without warning and the noise can be frightening, especially when you realize it’s a hothouse for catastrophe next door.”
“So what do you do if the alarm sounds?” I asked, concerned and disgusted by the scene.
“Tune into a local radio or television station for more information on what to do, Kid, then, bend over and kiss your ass goodbye.”
“That’s crazy.” I said, while watching Large Marge spew, chewed-up Polish sausage bits, into the bread pudding, as she guffawed over her wit and rolled around in her chair.
“Just make sure you cover yourself up around here. I mean, you can run around naked in the house, if you wish. Don’t let me stop you.” Large Marge smiled, with swollen cheeks full of food and globs of mayonnaise, loitering around her botoxed lips. “I won’t mind, I’ve seen naked before but remember, Lyme disease. Don’t let a tick get on your prick, or you’ll be screwed and not in a good way. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, Kid.” She winked at me while licking mayonnaise from her lips seductively.
I made pretend not to notice but she was on to me.
“So, Newt Gingrich, huh, isn’t he that fat, fuck-faced, Christian, Conservative, that handed his wife divorce papers, while she was on her death bed?” Large Marge asked, while shoving globs of wet meat in her mouth. “He’s a real macher. He’d be perfect to play Crackhead Jesus. How much does he want?”
“Holy cow!” I said when the truth dawned on me. “That, would be brilliant casting, but no, that’s not what I meant. It’s metaphor.”
“You’ve got to stop with the metaphor shit, Kid. My Nephew warned me about that with you.” Large Marge chuckled, as she rolled over, to pick up my script, with hands full of red, hot-sauce and grease.
“Oh, no!” I said, watching grease and red hot stains, get on the pages of my opus.
“I’m sorry.” She said, licking smudge marks, from her huge fingers while wiping off the pages. “Now, I’m going to be absolutely honest with you, Kid. I’m on page five of your script and I don’t see tits, anywhere. My Nephew didn’t say anything about this to me. You want me, to produce a fucking children’s book, is that what you’re here for?”
[The Road to Alabama, From Miami Beach, In A Crackhead Jesus Cab, With Elvis Presley.]
At twilight, I witnessed a Crackhead Jesus cab, pull up in front of a diner, just past the, ‘Welcome to Alabama the beautiful’, sign, on the Florida border, moments after I realized that Google was subliminally using handicapped children, LGBTQ’s, Muslims, Jews, young girls and minorities, to openly promote satanic symbols, on Google Search engines.
“No way.” I said to myself, inside the empty diner, before the waitress stepped out from the sterile kitchen, as I looked up from my Android, in disbelief at what I witnessed, staring past the sign on the window, that claimed, the coffee I tasted, was the best in all of Alabama.
“I’ll take a cup of this beautiful state’s best coffee.” The Taxi Driver said, to the waitress, as he took a seat beside me, at the long, empty, lunch counter.
“Holy shit, Mister, I just picked up Elvis Presley and drove the King here, from Miami Beach, non-stop.” The Taxi Driver said, as he slapped my back in a friendly, non-threatening gesture. “It’s a fucking miracle! Not once, did we stop to piss, or get gas, I swear! I just realized that, Mister. Like the loaves and fish. We never ran out of gas! The tank is still half-full!”
“Here you go, Mister.” The Waitress said, as she placed a steaming cup of black coffee in front of the excited Taxi Driver, while handing him a menu. “Cream and sugar is on the counter.”
“Thank you.” The Taxi Driver said, while sorting through a wad of hundred-dollar bills, wrapped in a rubber band.
“Anything else?” The Waitress asked, with a look of disgust, while staring past him, at the bold, banner, on top of his yellow cab, that proclaimed loudly: ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming… (And He Doesn’t Pull Out) Crackheadjesus.com’.
“Elvis is alive, Man. I picked the King up at the Miami Beach Hilton. He was in the back of my cab for 12 hours.” The Taxi Driver said, as he poured sugar into his coffee. “He said my cab saved his life. He’s the fifth person, with suicidal tendencies, I’ve saved this week. It’s like all the lost souls are drawn to my cab.”
“They think there’s a comma after Crackhead.” I said after taking a sip of my coffee and looking back down, at my Android, in total disbelief. It was then I realized, that nobody in the fake-news-world had noticed, that Google was promoting the Devil around the globe, while Cox was promoting Crackhead Jesus, all over America.
“Yeah! Before getting in the cab, they all look at me, with a blank stare, like they had just seen a ghost. They all say the taxi spoke to them, personally. They describe it as getting hit by lightning, inside of a question mark. Then they jump in my ride, with tears in their eyes and ask me to take them to the closest rehab or emergency room. Every one, thinks it’s a sign, from God.”
“Well, it’s not Mister. Some fucking asshole, who should have been aborted and is for sure taking the Hell-express, paid for that sign on top of your cab, calling my Lord, Jesus Christ, a crack-head and I don’t like it one bit. I find it downright offensive and I wish you wouldn’t park it in front of this diner. You’re offending my customers.” The waitress said, while looking over at me intensely, for back up, from behind thick glasses.
“I’m the asshole.” Is what I felt like telling the pious Waitress, while looking around the empty restaurant but instead, I said, “I don’t see, your Lord or Christ, anywhere.”
“What customers?” The Taxi driver asked, after scoping out the diner, by swiveling around, on his bar stool.
“Right there, on that taxi’s billboard, in black and white, it says Jesus Christ was a crack-head.” The Waitress pointed, with a long and bony index finger, covered in gold rings.
“Actually, Richard Pryor invented crack in the 80’s.” The Taxi Driver noted, nonchalantly, while scanning the menu. “Besides, the name, Christ, is nowhere in that message, Lady. I should know, I’ve been driving that cab for a month now, the most profitable month I’ve ever had in my life.”
“I just don’t see what you say, Maam.” I spoke softly, after reflecting on what the Taxi Driver had experienced. “I see Dada.”
“Are you retarded, illiterate or blind, Kid?” The Waitress took off her black glasses and wiped them after breathing on the lenses, before attempting to hand them to me, sarcastically, with a raised eyebrow, full of reckoning.
“I see art, in this light, to be blue and white.” I said with poetic conviction, while looking out at the contentious sign, through glistening dust, dancing in the purple haze, that looked like people protesting their own futile existence, as sunlight dissipated slowly, into the nebulous ether of memories past.
“It’s a sign of the times.” The Taxi Driver noted after sipping his coffee. “Things change.”
“You two boys are crazy.” The Waitress said, before putting on her vintage glasses to stare out at the Crackhead Jesus Cab, through illegal aliens, cleaning her storefront window.
She gave me a dirty look when I said, “His cab doesn’t offend me any, I get it. It’s obviously, metaphor, in a work of performance art. What Would Jesus Do?” I asked her.
“I bet you the liberal media wouldn’t dare say that sort of shit about Mohammad. Muslims practicing Sharia Law couldn’t care less about the First Amendment, free speech, art or Women’s Rights.” The Waitress said, to the Taxi Driver, with venom in her eyes, that darkened her aura and dimmed the lights inside the diner. “You liberal-Dems are fucking nuts.”
“No offense, Lady, it’s just thought provoking art on a cab.” I said, wholeheartedly. “Besides, I’m not a Democrat. I’m a registered Republican.”
“So you’re a racist, Nazi.” The Waitress said, under her breath, before adding, with a saucy curled lip, “You probably watch CNN, too.”
“Not, that it should make any difference because I am first and foremost a unique human being.” I said before sipping some coffee while looking around at the hired help doing busy work. “Just like you, him and all the illegal aliens that help you run this place, so you can afford that nice, beehive-wig you are wearing.”
The Waitress rolled her eyes while Yogi Bear beat CNN on silent television screens above her head.
“Why hate creativity?” The Taxi Driver asked. “Besides, Lady, I’m a Conservative Republican too, so watch your stereotypes. Not all people are bad. Don’t be a Crackhead Jesus.”
“Sharia Law wouldn’t put up with liberal media promoting blasphemy in Saudi Arabia. Believe me, Mister, if you were driving a cab, like the one you parked outside this restaurant, with the name Mohammad on it, in some Middle East Countries, you’d be dead before leaving the parking lot and saying that doesn’t make me Islamophobic or racist, it’s the truth.”
“I never said you were either.” The Taxi Driver responded, earnestly. “God bless America.”
“It makes me proud to live in a country where every asshole has a right to speak, no matter how stupid, because people, en masse, regardless of race, religion or politics, have common sense enough to appreciate the immense value of free speech and art in a civil society.” I said, while the Waitress fumed over a pot of hot coffee. “Art keeps things real.”
“That fake-black-savior, Obama, ruined this once great nation.” The Waitress said, recoiling from me, as if I had just farted out loud and stunk the place up. “I voted for that son-of-a-bitch twice and the colored’s around here, still think I’m racist.”
“Don’t look at me. I never voted for him. I ran for President against Obama and McCain in 08, as an independent, dark-horse candidate.” I said after sipping my coffee. “You should have voted for an artist, not a lawyer, if you wanted real change in this world.”
“Whatever, I never heard of you.” The Waitress said, while rolling her eyes. “I blame it all on that false prophet and biased media that sold everyone fake change. Obama only served to divide our country and destroy healthcare!”
“He did nothing for blacks and I’ll tell you what, I think Obama and the Clinton Machine are in cahoots with Iran and Russia.” The Taxi Driver said.
“That Iran nuclear deal, is a joke.” The Waitress said.
“Why’d Obama, let Clinton, give Russia, U.S. Uranium, in exchange, for big-money contributions, to the Clinton Machine?” The Taxi Driver asked.
“Why did Obama allow unmarked-cash ransom, to be paid to the biggest state sponsor of terrorism?” The Waitress asked the Taxi Driver, as she stared out at his cab, with red hot fury, steaming from her pasty face.
“He’s a Manchurian mole.” The Taxi Driver answered. “Illuminati.”
“Whatever, don’t believe the fake news.” The Waitress said, before crossing her arms, taking a deep breath and rolling into, ” That half-Black, Muslim, ruined our country. Obama isn’t fooling anybody with that fake birth certificate and transgender wife, to hide his being a faygala.”
“I hear Michelle’s penis, is bigger than Obama’s.” The Taxi Driver noted, with a snicker under his menu.
“What Would Crackhead Jesus Do?” I asked the Waitress, before she gave me the evil eye and stormed off towards the kitchen, without taking the Taxi-Driver’s order.
“Anyway, everyone left me huge tips, in cash that says, ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’ and asks, ‘What would Crackhead Jesus do?’.” The Cab Driver pointed out what he meant, as he recounted his wad of money in front of me, with eyes wide open and a big, toothy grin.
“I hope she didn’t spit in my food.” I said, to the Taxi Driver, as the Waitress walked towards me, carrying a Reuben sandwich, on a plate full of crispy, French-fries.
“Hallelujah! Elvis just gave me the biggest tip I ever got in my life!” The Taxi Driver shouted, before tossing another hundred-dollar bill, from his fat roll of cash, at the despondent Waitress, with a wink and sincere smile, saying, “This deplorable fellas meal, is on me, Miss and please, keep the change.”
[The Art of Writing A Screenplay Using Canvas Storyboards]
“No tits! Narrishkeit! I’m looking at a hundred and twenty pages here, Kid.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he tossed my script down on the edge of the moldy bed, on top of the cum stained comforter, underneath the sleeping bag I lay inside, as a barrier, from the filth, that surrounded me, at The Welcome Inn. “That’s a minute a page, at a hundred-thousand- dollars per page, if you go SAG. Nobody’s going to finance a two-hour movie by an unproven talent in Hollywood. You are not James Cameron or Leonardo DiCaprio, so forget about Crackhead Jesus.”
“The matrix is changing. Hollywood is not what it used to be and technology is making independent film a viable option for projects like this.” I said, while grabbing the script and wiping the cover page down with a sanitary wipe.
“We’d have to chop off enough fat to get your film in under ninety minutes.” The Hebrew Hammer said, while rolling a joint.
“I set it up as a seven-movie-series.”
“Stop, with the seven-movie-series nonsense! You sound amateur. I’ve told you already, if number one flops there is no number two. All you have now is bupkes on toast; hold the toast, because you got nothing.” The Hebrew Hammer said, before licking the rolling paper to seal the marijuana cigarette in his hand. “Here, light this for me, please, while I take another look at your script. I’ll chop it up for you and add some tits and ass, so you can show it to my aunt in New York.”
I traded his reefer for my script and we both got to work.
“First of all, you’ve got to start where the action is, no one has time for bobbymyseh, bullshit.” The Hebrew Hammer said. “What you’ve got here, is a series of non-sequiturs that go absolutely nowhere and mean fuck nothing.” The Hebrew Hammer paused to take a toke from the lit joint I passed him. “Yet, somehow and I haven’t figured out why, it works. I want to know what happens next.”
“I’m using artistic metaphor and a character named Crackhead Jesus to show audiences how pernicious political correctness, fueled by fake news media and toxic leadership, has raised concern for micro-aggression over macro-aggression.”
“That threatens to destroy democracy in America, I get it, but nobody gives a fuck. People don’t want to feel depressed or educated when they go to the movies, they want to be uplifted and ‘Crackhead Jesus: The Movie’, doesn’t sound like the feel-good-movie of the year, Kid.”
“It’s not supposed to be.” I said.
“Well, let’s see what we can do to change that, shall we?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, while I looked on in disgust, as he rearranged, on the stained carpet, the canvas-story-boards that I had meticulously created, to tell the tale of Crackhead Jesus.
ARTIST (NARRATION Voice Over (V.O.))
Life is beautiful chaos.
ARTIST, DRESSED IN BLACK PAINTERS OVERALLS, WEARING STARS AND STRIPES LIKE A COWBOY, CARRYING EASEL, PAINTS, BRUSHES AND SPRAY PAINT CANS IN A CLEAR BAG WALKS INTO DIM LIT STARK WHITE PADDED CELL, WITH HUGE OVERHEAD SPEAKERS BLASTING NIN, CLOSER.
Nothing is by chance.
ARTIST PROCEEDS TO ANIMATE THE PADDED WALLS WITH PICTURES IN WORDS, LEAVING CANVAS BLANK.
ARTIST (NARRATION V.O.)
Our souls are eternally connected.
ARTIST BRUSHSTROKES ANIMATE A BLACK BUNNY RUNNING ACROSS BLANK WHITE CANVAS ON EASEL, INTO STORM.
EXTERIOR – MIAMI BEACH – HIGH RISE CONDO – SUNRISE
CHEM TRAILS FILL SKY OVER, GLASS MONOLITH, CASTING A DARK SHADOW OVER OCEAN, AS OMINOUS HURRICANE CLOUDS ROLL IN FROM DISTANCE.
THUNDER DIAMOND WIPE TO –
– INT: ENCLOSED PENTHOUSE LEVEL HALLWAY OF MAMMOTH HIGH RISE AT EARLY STAGE OF HURRICANE WARNING – FLICKERING LIGHT – OSTENTATIOUS – CHEAP CHIC
UNIFORMED MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR, 40’s, HAIRY, Latin, races – PANICKED, POUNDS on doors OF RESTING RESIDENTS as MOTHER trails crying CHILD carrying a BRIGHT RED PLASTIC FUNNEL SPILLING MULTICOLORED MARBLES while chasing her PET – A BLACK BUNNY, NAMED COPERNICUS.
MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (THICK ACCENT)
Get out! The building’s not safe! Save yourselves! Get out!
Bleary eyed residents poke their heads out doors as MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR runs down hallway, screaming, TOWARDS PENTHOUSE APARTMENT 111.
MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR unwittingly BUMPS INTO BUM, 40’s, unfit, UNKEMPT, KNOCKING HIM TO GROUND AS THE BLACK BUNNY SCURRIES PAST HIS SCRUFFY BEARD.
MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR POUNDS ON DOOR OF PENTHOUSE APARTMENT 111 AS BUM PICKS UP SPINAL SCREW HE NOTICES AT EYE LEVEL.
ARTIST PAINTS, BUM, WRAPPING LONG, SCARY-LOOKING, SPINAL-SCREW, INSIDE A torn sheet of BUILDING PLANS IN BUMS BACK POCKET.
HURRICANE EVACUATION CHAOS mounts IN ROOFTOP HALLWAY AS SCANTILY CLAD RESIDENTS BEGIN TO EVACUATE ICONIC HI-RISE BUILDING A PANIC.
BUM folds sheet over SPINAL SCREW and slips it into a WIKI Airline Boarding Pass folder as CNN SCREAMS HEADLINES, ABOUT JUMBO JETS VANISHING OUT OF THIN AIR, OVER MALAYSIAN SKIES, WHEN A BIG BREASTED LATIN WOMAN, WITH COLORFUL ROLLERS IN HER HAIR, OPENS FRONT DOOR OF HER APARTMENT IN A BRIGHT TOWEL, THAT FLIES OFF FROM GUST OF WIND AND VACUUM CREATED BY LOW PRESSURE SYSTEM IN HALLWAY AS TORNADO APPROACHES OUTSIDE GLASS MONOLITH.
MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR POUNDS ON DOOR WITH EYES ON WOMANS CHEST AND POSTERIOR AS SHE SCREAMS AND RUNS BACK INTO HER APARTMENT, STRUGGLING TO SHUT FRONT DOOR AGAINST LOW PRESSURE SYSTEM BETWEEN OPEN SLIDING GLASS DOORS OF BALCONY IN HER APARTMENT AND HALLWAY WITH OPEN ELEVATOR SHAFT.
MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (POUNDS ON DOOR WITH EYES ON WOMAN)
Wake up, Senor Artista! El Doctor lied. The windows are not up to code y los sprinklers no work!
AUDIO SEGWAY – THUNDER TO –
DAY: CALM – SUNRISE
INTERIOR: LOWER LEVEL – GRAND VIEW PALACE APARTMENT – UNDER RENOVATION
MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (James-Comey-Cowardly)
Pero, Señor. (TAKES TWO STEPS DOWN FROM TOP OF LADDER, while POINTING AT DANGEROUS ELECTRICAL WORK NEAR FAULTY SPRINKLER SYSTEM PIPES.) Me no think is safe for me to do this.
There’s no need to call my friends at ICE. (GRABS FIRM HOLD OF MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR TESTICLES.) After you are done building the wall, (POINTS TO TOXIC Chinese drywall IN CORNER OF ROOM) you are going to re-route the sprinkler system in this unit. Do as I say, Señor. I trust you comprende, not to fuck with El Doctor.
AUDIO SEGWAY – THUNDER TO –
INT: GRAND VIEW PALACE – ENCLOSED EMERGENCY EXIT STAIRWELL – FLICKERING LIGHT –
BUM EXITS DOWN, claustrophobic, bare, STAIRWELL, SCREAMING.
Crackhead Jesus is coming! (THUNDER)
INT: GRAND VIEW PALACE – ENCLOSED EMERGENCY EXIT STAIRWELL PENTHOUSE LEVEL BETWEEN FLOORS – DIM LIT
BUM LOOKS DOWN OVER BANNISTER, INTO WHITE FACE OF TALL, SLENDER MAN IN LAB-COAT, OVER A BLACK HOODY SWEATSHIRT, HIDING BEHIND A SMALL BLACK OVAL MORETA MASK, WEARING SURGICAL GLOVES, HURRYING DOWNSTAIRS CARRYING ARCHITECTURAL PLANS & BLACK LEATHER MEDICAL BAG.
IN SHADOWS BUM has EPIPHANY beside evacuees and ECHOES doomsday WARNING thru cavernous STAIRWAY to MAN IN LAB-COAT.
Crackhead Jesus is coming!
MAN IN LAB-COAT looks up, as EMERGENCY EXIT DOOR OPENS TO RUSH OF PANICKED RESIDENTS SLAMMING THE OFF-GUARD BUM AGAINST CONCRETE WALL, CONJURING FLASHBACKS OF METHEAD GRINCH’S FINAL MOMENTS.
BUM (FALLS SCREAMING)
Crackhead Jesus is coming!
SLOW MOTION – MAN IN LAB-COAT SLIPS, ON POLAROID PICTURE, IMPALED INTO A VOODOO DOLL WITH A LONG BLOODY SPINAL SCREW AND SLIPS TO A SITTING POSITION, AS HIS BLACK LEATHER MEDICAL BAG CRASHES DOWN STAIRS, SPILLING GRUESOME SURGICAL EQUIPMENT, ON TOP OF UNFURLING BUILDING PLANS, BEING STEPPED ON, BY NERVOUS, EVACUATING RESIDENTS, AS BUILDING SWAYS TO AND FRO.
POLAROID PICTURE is torn FREE FROM VOODOO DOLL AND IN THE CHAOS OF EVACUATING FEET, IS SWEPT UP IN A GUST OF WIND THAT FLOWS TOWARDS BUM.
BUM SNATCHES POLAROID PICTURE AS IT FLOATS TOWARDS HIM.
The ghost of G-Rod Miller!
INTERIOR: STERILE OPERATING THEATER IN HOSPITAL
ROOM FULL OF NURSES AND SURGEONS WORK IN SHIFTS TO ASSIST THE DOCTOR IN RADICAL TWENTY HOUR, SURGERY TO REMOVE A TUMOR AND NINE INCHES OF SPINE FROM PATIENT.
DURING PROCEDURE PATIENT’S NAKED BODY IS SUSPENDED HORIZONTALLY FROM THE CEILING SO THAT SURGEONS CAN OPERATE AT EYE LEVEL FRONT AND BACK.
BLOOD PASSES INTO PATIENT’S LEGS THROUGH TUBES TO MAINTAIN CIRCULATION.
DOCTOR SMILES THROUGH SURGICAL MASK AS HE LOOKS THROUGH PATIENT’S ABDOMINAL CAVITY AND SEES THE SHOCKED FACE OF ANOTHER SURGEON THROUGH THE MASSIVE HOLE.
He’ll be three inches shorter but his own muscles and scar tissue should form a sling around the spine and that should prevent further shrinkage.
You performed a miracle Doctor!
Fire and fury. That’s why they call me, God. Close him up. I’m done here.
INTERIOR: STERILE HOSPITAL LOCKER ROOM – CNN SCREAMS FAKE NEWS HEADLINES about CHELSEA CLINTON AND CRACKHEAD JESUS, FROM FLAT SCREEN TV’S HANGING ON WALLS.
DOCTOR HUMS A SPINE-CHILLING TUNE, AS HE WASHES HIS VICTIM’S BLOOD OFF SCRUBS AND SHOWERS IN LOCKER ROOM.
DOCTOR IN PINK LACE UNDERGARMENTS, BEFORE LEAVING, CALMLY PUTS ON A FRESH SET OF SURGICAL GLOVES, AFTER SPRITZING POWDER ON HIS HANDS AND EXPENSIVE COLOGNE ON HIS WRISTS, ARMS AND NECK.
DOCTOR ADJUSTS HIS COLORFUL SILK TIE IN MIRROR BEFORE GRABBING HIS BLACK LEATHER SURGICAL BAG OFF COUNTER.
INTERIOR: HALLWAY – CROWDED HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM
CNN SCREAMS FAKE NEWS HEADLINES ON MUTED FLAT SCREEN TV HANGING FROM CEILING ABOVE NURSES STATION.
DOCTOR, WEARING FRESH SURGICAL GLOVES AND GIANVITO ROSSI SUEDE CUISSARD BLACK HIGH HEELED BOOTS UNDER A HANDCRAFTED SUIT, STRUTS INTO AREA FULL OF WAILING PATIENTS, ON STRETCHERS, IN AGONY AND GIVES EACH INVALID A GREAT BIG SMILE, AS HE CONFIDENTLY STRIDES OUT OF the HOSPITAL humming wickedly.
Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.
EXTERIOR: EMERGENCY ROOM STAFF PARKING LOT AREA – DAY – CHEM TRAILS CRISS-CROSS SKY AS STORM CLOUDS FORM IN DISTANCE.
THUNDER ROARS AS DOCTOR CALMLY OPENS DOOR TO HIS BENTLEY AND STEPS INSIDE DRIVERS SEAT.
DOCTOR STARES AT DEFORMED, BLIND PICKETER AS HE REACHES UNDER SEAT AND GRABS LETTER SIZE ENVELOPE STAMPED IN RED INK WITH THE WORDS, “TOP SECRET”.
AS ILLEGAL ALIEN APPROACHES CAR HOLDING AN I’M READY FOR HILLARY BUMBER STICKER, THE DOCTOR PULLS OUT A TYPED PAGE TITLED: “THE CLINTON DEATH LIST: CLINTONCIDE – MR. SETH RICH GRINCH”.
Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.
DOCTOR USES HAND-CARVED, WOODEN-BACK-SCRATCHER, IN HARD TO REACH PLACES WHILE FLIPPING OFF PROTESTORS, BEFORE TURNING OFF HIS CELL PHONE.
CLOUDS UNLEASH MASSIVE DELUGE, DISSAPATING CROWD OF SOGGY PROTESTORS, AS SMILING DOCTOR DRIVES OUT OF PARKING LOT, INTO RAVAGING STORM.
IN THE BACK SEAT ARE GRAND VIEW PALACE BUILDING PLANS, A LARGE METAL RING FULL OF KEYS, A HORRIFICALLY LONG, STERILE, SPINAL SCREW, BLACK CANDLES and A WIKI Airline Boarding Pass folder, WITH A TICKET TO Geneva International Airport in SWITZERLAND, PROTRUDING FROM POCKET.
DOCTOR DRIVES PAST CRACK WHORES CLIMBING ROOFTOPS AND WEAVES THROUGH TRAFFIC, ONTO BUSY HIGHWAY, humming, while listening to talk radio, WITH BOTH, SURGICAL GLOVE WEARING HANDS, ON THE WHEEL.
Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.
EXT: GHETTO – TENEMENT BUILDING – RAIN SLICKED STREETS – DUSK
BUM HIDING, BEHIND DUMPSTER, WATCHES AS DOCTOR, WEARING CLEAN SURGICAL GLOVES, PULLS BENTLEY INTO ABANDONED LOT BEHIND RUN DOWN BUILDING FULL OF GRAFFITI AND VERMIN AS LIGHTNING CRACKLES IN PURPLE SKY.
DOCTOR STEPS OUT OF CAR WEARING A SMALL BLACK OVAL MORETA MASK AND CALMLY PUTS ON LAB-COAT, OVER HIS BLACK HOODY SWEATSHIRT, BEFORE ENTERING TENEMENT BUILDING, THROUGH TRASH AREA.
INTERIOR: CLAUSTROPHOBIC LAUNDRY ROOM – DARK – DINGY – GRAFFITI ON WALLS – NO PEOPLE – RATS AND ROACHES DANCE in SHADOWS – ‘OUT OF ORDER’ SIGNS ADORN ALL BROKEN MACHINES.
DOCTOR GRABS A PAIR OF NINJA SHOES, FROM ATOP BROKEN VENDING MACHINE, BEFORE WALKING THROUGH A SECRET COMPARTMENT BEHIND IT.
DOCTOR WALKS THROUGH SECRET COMPARTMENT BEHIND BROKEN VENDING MACHINE.
INTERIOR: SECRET STAIRWELL – ALMOST PITCH DARK BUT FOR DINGY YELLOW LIGHTS.
DOCTOR MAKES HIS WAY THROUGH DIMLY LIT LABYRINTH OF GRAFFITI FILLED HALLWAYS WITHIN BOWELS OF RUN-DOWN TENEMENT BUILDING.
DOCTOR REACHES PITCH BLACK STAIRWELL AND TURNS ON SMALL FLASHLIGHT TO LEAD HIS ASCENT TO TOP FLOOR OF BUILDING.
DOCTOR COUNTS STEPS, and hums, AS HE HOLDS ONTO THE RUSTY HAND RAIL, WEARING SURGICAL GLOVES, WHILE DELIBERATELY CLIMBING RICKETY STAIRS, in NINJA TABI BOOTS, THROUGH DARKNESS UNPERTURBED BY THE LOUD CLAPPING SOUND OF THUNDER OUTSIDE.
INTERIOR: DARK, DIRTY HALLWAY COVERED IN GRAFFITI – LIGHTS FLICKER
DOCTOR EXITS DARK STAIRWELL THROUGH DOOR MARKED ’10TH FLOOR’ IN FADING NUMBERS AND LETTERS.
DOCTOR CALMLY WALKS PAST FILTH TO FRONT DOOR OF APARTMENT 1010 BEFORE STOPPING.
DOCTOR MAKES A FIST AND KNOCKS THREE TIMES ON GRAFFITI COATED DOOR OF APARTMENT 1010.
INTERIOR: APARTMENT 1010 – FILTHY, DINGY, DRUG ADDICT HAVEN
METHHEAD GRINCH IS PASSED OUT ON HIS COUCH TRIPPING ON HEROINE AS RADIOHEAD, ‘BURN THE WITCH’, PLAYS IN BACKGROUND OVER MUTED 60 inch, BIG SCREEN, rear-projection TV WITH CNN BREAKING NEWS HEADLINES FLASHING ACROSS SCREEN.
MOMENTS PASS BEFORE DOCTOR, humming, SEES AN EYEBALL STARING BACK AT HIM THROUGH PEEPHOLE.
METHEAD GRINCH (V.O. THROUGH DOOR)
I’m sorry about the rent, Doc.
DOCTOR (Backing away from door calculatedly)
Open the door, Grinch.
DOCTOR STANDS BACK AND LISTENS AS CHAIN LOCKS ARE UNDONE, TO OPEN DOOR.
DOOR OPENS TO REVEAL METHEAD GRINCH, Disheveled, Male, 30’s, Slim, ADDICT.
METHEAD GRINCH (FEARFUL)
I’ll have it for you next…
DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY GRABS FIRM HOLD OF METHEAD GRINCH’S THROAT AS CNN FAKE NEWS HEADLINES SCREAM FROM 60 inch, BIG SCREEN, rear-projection TV.
WITH GREAT FORCE AND NO HESITATION DOCTOR DRAGS METHEAD GRINCH, CHOKING AND STRUGGLING, THROUGH FILTHY APARTMENT, TO OPEN WINDOW.
DOCTOR DANGLES METHEAD GRINCH OUT WINDOW LONG ENOUGH TO WATCH HIM SUFFER AND PLEAD FOR HIS LIFE THROUGH THE SOUL IN HIS EYES, BEFORE TOSSING HIS LANKY BODY TO THE GROUND, LIKE A PILE OF TRASH.
EXT: GHETTO – TENEMENT BUILDING – RAIN SLICKED STREETS – DUSK
METHEAD GRINCH IS IMPALED THROUGH OPEN RED FIRE HYDRANT AFTER HE FALLS OUT WINDOW TO SIDEWALK, FROM TOP FLOOR OF TENEMENT BUILDING.
BLOOD AND GUTS TURN SLOW RUNNING WATER, RED, IN GHASTLY SCENE.
BUM, hiding behind stripped abandoned vehicle, sees WHITE FACE HIDING BEHIND SMALL BLACK OVAL MORETA MASK staring down, FROM THE WINDOW, WHERE METHEAD GRINCH FELL.
INTERIOR: METHEAD GRINCH APARTMENT – DISHEVELED – HORDER – GRAFFITI ON WALLS
DOCTOR grabs remote control and switches channel to Yogi Bear reruns before STARING DOWN at the mangled body of METHEAD GRINCH, impaled on LEAKING fire hydrant, BESIDE SHOCKED BUM, standing in a sea of blood, LOOKING UP AT HIM.
EXTERIOR: GHETTO AREA OUTSIDE SECTION 8 TENEMENT BUILDING
BUM, STANDING BESIDE GRAFFITI COVERED MERCEDES BENZ, WATCHES DOCTOR, humming, AS HE DISAPPEARS INTO METHEAD GRINCH’S APARTMENT, past 60 inch, BIG SCREEN, rear-projection TV, screaming fake CNN headlines.
A PINK COMPUTER MEMORY STICK FALLS FROM METHEAD GRINCH’S BLEEDING HAND, ON TO SIDEWALK, BESIDE STREAM OF WATER, LEADING TO GUTTER, WHERE TWO DRAGONFLIES TAKE REFUGE, as BUM, in a panic, APPROACHES METHEAD GRINCH, WHO IS A BLOODY MESS spurting blood and guts everywhere.
METHEAD GRINCH (Gurgling Blood)
He’s no Doctor. He’s a monster.
BUM STANDS ABOVE METHEAD GRINCH WEEPING as Porn magazine with images of A SLENDER RED HAIRED CNN REPORTER, HOLDING THE SEVERED HEAD, OF A UNITED STATES PRESIDENT, NEXT TO THE IMAGE OF A big breasted woman, on the cover flies, into his face.
GRAPHIC ART FLAPS PAST Image of GIGANTIC naked breasts with black duct tape over both HUGE, ERECT, PUFFY-nipples, RESTING ON MASSIVE AREOLAS, FILLS SCREEN IN 3-D.
METHEAD GRINCH (Gurgling Blood)
He thinks he’s Jack the Ripper.
METHEAD GRINCH GRABS BUM’S ARM AS PORN MAGAZINE FALLS ONTO HIS IMPALED BODY UNFURLING CENTERFOLD OF BIG BREASTED LESBIANS TRIBBING.
BUM (Staring at centerfold)
METHEAD GRINCH (Groans)
He wants to be the most prolific serial killer in history.
BUM (looks nervously at corner of building)
Crackhead Jesus is coming!
METHEAD GRINCH (Blood spills from mouth)
Tell the outsider artists, to paint the story of how the Doctor kills his tenants and patients, under the FBI’s nose, to fuel the Clinton Machine.
He kills his patients and tenants!
MENACING DOCTOR WALKS CALMLY AROUND CORNER WEARING HOODY OVER BLACK OVAL MORETA.
METHEAD GRINCH (Spitting blood)
You’ve got to warn people.
Nobody believes me!
METHEAD GRINCH SEES DOCTOR APPROACHING.
METHEAD GRINCH (Gurgling blood)
He was at the Gotthard Tunnel Opening Ceremony, in Switzerland, so he has an alibi for the young girl’s death at the GVP but not the alleged murder-suicide of his tenants in Philly.
I don’t want to go back to Philly with the Doctor!
METHEAD GRINCH (Spitting blood)
Run! He’s going to kill you.
DOCTOR (Calmly approaching scene)
Step away, from Methead Grinch you fucking crackhead!
BUM (Frozen in Fear)
Don’t hurt me!
I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to break you.
TERRIFIED BUM STANDS FROZEN IN PLACE, HOLDING METHEAD GRINCH’S HEAD UPRIGHT, AS DARK, GREEN, BLOOD SEEPS OUT OF HIS MOUTH.
METHEAD GRINCH (Dying)
Beware the Witches who call themselves lawyers and work for the Doctor.
METHEAD GRINCH GRABS BUM’S HAND WHILE POINTING TO PINK MEMORY CARD FLOWING IN STREAM, LEADING TO GUTTER, BESIDE APPROACHING DOCTOR, WHO IS BRANDISHING A LONG NEEDLE, FILLED WITH GREEN FLUID.
METHEAD GRINCH (Last breath)
Quick! (POINTING TO PINK MEMORY CARD) Grab that and give it to a real journalist, before the Doctor helps the FBI and Clinton Machine rewrite history.