The Wild Last Ride of The Unusual Suspects

This is the first chapter in a new novel by John H. Corcoran Jr., tentatively called "The Wild Last Ride of the Unusual Suspects" It is copywrited by the author and intended for your enjoyment and as a writing sample only. It may not be republished without the express consent of the copyright holder.  All characters and events are fictitious.

Chapter  One

Malibu, CA, September 2001

“Are those barbeque tongs?” Breezy Willow asked Clam Limmisch, beginning to regret her decision to personally fetch the veteran character actor for his all-day TV interviews. Limmisch was in Chicago that weekend junketing the all-male remake of the 1959 Audrey Hepburn classic, The Nun’s Story.

Inside Limmisch’ luxury suite, Breezy noted the actor had already self-applied his makeup, had his signature monocle in place and the film’s press kit in hand. Other than the fact he was stark raving naked and using a barbeque implement for purposes other than its design, Limmisch seemed otherwise just fine, thank you.   

The tongs—or perhaps they were some specialized medical device—were being used to hold Limmisch’ flaccid penis aloft above its familiar bed of junk. The sight reminded Breezy of the time her Uncle Fenwick proudly showed her the dead Rattler he’d just dispatched with a garden hoe.

“I got these from Hammacher-Schlemmer,” Limmisch said, nodding junkward, “What did you call them again?”

“Barbeque tongs,” Breezy answered.

“Barbeque what?”

“Tongs.”

“You’re velcome... God, I never get tired of that joke,” Limmisch said.           

“You can’t beat the classics.”           

“Anyway, I wont be needing them once the Viagra kicks in. I thought we might have time for a quickie before my interviews start.”

“Do you always fuck with your monocle on?”

The remark was classic Breezy, who never blushed, panicked, nor ran from a crisis.  She credited her calmness amid celebrities acting oddly to her military MP training and the old lecturer’s trick of visualizing as unclothed anyone who might upset her. No visualization needed today, of course.

Although Limmisch’ be-tonged dong showed no signs of coming to life, the actor smiled broadly and removed his monocle.  

“Shall we get started, then? We don’t want to keep the media waiting.”

“Not going to happen, Clam,” Breezy replied.

“May I call you Clam? Because formalities ended once Captain Winky made his appearance. But here’s the thing. It’s not you, it’s me. I don’t do quickies. I require dinner and a play, G-spot orgasms all night long, and breakfast in bed the next morning.

“Also, I would never sleep with a supporting actor, so you’ll be needing—you should pardon the expression—a much bigger part.  Now either put your dick away and get dressed, or slather some Dry Rub on it and throw it on a grill. You’re here to promote a goddam Disney movie, for crissakes.”

With that, Breezy departed. A few minutes later Limmisch, now fully dressed, no tongs to be seen, his Monocle re-inserted, was seated before the cameras ready to go.

That incident joined other Breezy lore that helped make her the go-to junket organizer in the movie industry, someone who would handle a show-business crisis without a ruffled feather or bead of sweat.  Notably not included in the lore was any incident of bumped uglies between her and a Star, Super Star or Mega Star she’d worked with; but a few weeks later she noted with some satisfaction that Clam’s next role was as a leading man.

In her business the big stuff tended to take care of itself, it was the little things that made Breezy so valuable.

Star’s Shi-Tzu fresh out of its favorite sparkling water? Breezy’s got it.

Director’s “special” assistant needs a tantric massage at three AM? Breezy will make it happen.

Charisma transplant for a rising starlet? Done.

Toupé delousing for an aging roué?  Rug cleaned, combed out, nit free, and then promptly returned to its proper perch.

Little threw Breezy off her game in her chosen profession. So why was a room full of college kids giving her flop sweat this morning?

Breezy looked out at the dozen or so youthful faces in front of her.  Individually, nothing was intimidating about them. A few were dozing. One was loudly practicing the art of gum-cracking. The rest looked ready to hammer bamboo shoots under their nails.   Not a raised hand nor spark of interest in sight.

Breezy was doing a favor for Melinda Ha, a publicist and friend who taught a Modern Junkets course at Malibu Elevated Highlands Community College. Melinda bribed Breezy with an official Malibu Elevated Highlands sweatshirt with “MEH” in huge lettering across the chest.  The sweatshirt was not needed at the moment; Breezy was being cooled by the onshore breeze of Ennui wafting off the students.

“Anyone know what famous actor revolutionized junket interviews?” she asked.

Sounds of silence.

             “None other than Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

Crickets.

            “Arnold never misses a trick. For Terminator II he had a Harley from the movie placed behind him during his TV interviews. Arnold knew it would visually reinforce the sense memory associated with the movie more than just the interview itself. And it looked really cool.”

A student with piercings in her eyebrows, both nostrils and her right cheek had a question.  Finally, Breezy thought, some interest in the work I do.

            “Like, how much money do you, like, make? Is it, like, a lot?”

            “I’d prefer not to get into my salary. But would you answer a question for me?” Breezy returned. “How many piercings do you have?”

            “Six. Five on my face and one through my clit.”

             “Will that be on the final?” A kid in blue jeans asked.

            Before anyone could answer, a guy in the back spoke up. “She said five on her face and one on her lip. Isn’t her lip on her face?”

“Not lip. Clit, moron,” Piercings replied.

            “What’s a Clitmoron?” Kid in back asked, looking puzzled.

            “Let’s hold the questions until Miss Willow has finished her lecture,” Melinda said, refusing to make eye contact with Breezy for fear they’d both dissolve in hysterics.

           “My boyfriend, like, got me a nipple ring and a tongue stud for my birthday, like,” Piercings continued. “But I haven’t had them, like, put in yet.”

           “Good to know but probably not on the final, correct, Professor Ha?” Breezy said, shuffling her notes and trying to regain control. Just like that, her nervousness had ended.

            “No clitmoron questions either,” Melinda replied.

            “Cool,” Kid in back said.

“Moving on, then. Let me give you an example why it is critical to pay attention to details. Anyone see Dragging Grandma, the Cher movie about the heroic grandmother dragged cross-country to raise money for farm awareness?”

            “Sucked,” white kid dressed street, watch cap and oversize baggy jeans, noted.  

            “Nevertheless,” Breezy continued. “For that junket, the rooms were set up to look like Ma and Pa Kettle's farm.”

            “Nice reference, Grandma,” Melinda stage-whispered.

“Who are Ma and Pa Kettle?” Piercings asked, on cue.

            “They had a farm. They made movies about their farm.”

            “Why?” Piercings asked.

            “I make about $90, 000 a year,” Breezy said. “Let me finish my story and I’ll let you go early so you can get your tit ring and stud put in.”

            “Right on,” Watch Cap said. 

“So in Cher's interview suite they scattered about a few bushels of straw,” Breezy continued. “And they put a full size fiberglass cow behind Cher.”

 “Like, who’s Cher?” another student, stirring from his nap, asked.

 “Shut up,” Piercings said. “She’s that old singer with the tats on her ass.”
             Satisfied, the student nodded and resumed the sleep of the disinterested. 

             “Nobody knew the straw had gotten damp, which caused it to get moldy. The mold caused an allergic reaction. Cher sprouted boils the size of a Baked Alaska and started sneezing.  That caused certain structural and facial upgrades to pop loose and her doc put her into the hospital for a general tune-up and tightening.  No interview. No press. Movie bombed.”

            “Sucked, man,” Blue Jeans repeated.

             “Thank you. Any other questions?” Breezy asked. About a sixtieth of a second later, she added,  “Seeing none, thank you and good day.”

“You’re buying lunch,” she said to Melinda as the students filed out.

            Melinda Ha was personal publicist for Tom D’Medici, the actor slash uni-balled shock comic who’d married into Hollywood royalty and became a relentless maker of bad movies.  Melinda took her job seriously, but not herself. Breezy knew her to be a fun and profane lunch companion in a town where meals were just part of the nine-to-whenever work cycle.

Instead of power lunching at The Grill or Musso and Frank, Melinda and Breezy were filling their arteries with cholesterol at Darnell Yoshimoto’s House of Ham Hocks ‘n’ Sushi.  Since she was buying, Melinda didn’t waste time getting down to business—

her top client’s upcoming junket.

            As part of the new trend of dressing up backdrops, the self-proclaimed Auteur had insisted that a knight in full armor stand vigil behind him during his junket interviews for Tom D’Medici’s Macthello.  He wanted an actor inside the costume to hold a Super Soaker squirt gun like the ones featured in the film, and to be ready and willing to squirt any interviewer who started to criticize the film or his work.

During a pre-junket “Good Morning, America” appearance, however, the actor in the costume fainted, toppled over and nearly killed host Charlie Gibson. The idea was dropped.

            “Any questions off limits?” Breezy asked Melinda.

             "Nothing about his house burning down, nothing about his wife's tits, and nothing about Tom's balls, or ball,” Melinda replied.

         "Do you really want me to tell the media not to ask those questions? I would imagine they'll be so, ah, entranced by the film itself, they wouldn't get around to those tired old topics," Breezy said between bites of her Sashimi with Cajun Hamhocks.

"You're bullshitting a bullshitter, Breezy, " said Melinda, a short, bubbling hunk of energy with blond Jherri curls. “I’ve always admired that about you.  Have you seen this particular masterpiece yet?"

            "Actually I have," Breezy responded—despite the fact she knew she'd be better off lying. Breezy could be brutally honest if pressed, but preferred not to be, knowing honesty to be one of Hollywood’s Seven Deadly Sins.

            “So tell me then,” Melinda said. “How much did you love Tom’s picture?"

            "It's different."

            "'Original' is the word Tom prefers."

            "How are your hamhocks?"

            "These are the best hamhocks I’ve ever eaten, words I’ll bet you’d never expected to hear from a nice Jewish gal like me.”

            “I didn’t know you were Jewish.”

            “Before I changed it, my name was Melinda Hapfenburg.”

            “And you’re eating ham hocks?”

            “I’m going to hell for indiscrete schtupping, for forgetting to call my mother, and not becoming a doctor, so I figure I should eat well before I die.”

            Breezy plowed ahead. "Has Tom discussed why everyone shouts throughout the movie, or why the shouting is in various foreign languages?"

            "He said it came to him in a dream."

            "Was he on anything at the time?"
            "Onion Pizza. His wife is dabbling in the culinary arts."

            "And what's the deal with the Super Soakers? I don’t believe they had that kind of weaponry back in the Elizabethan era."

         "Tom is using the power of anachronism as a cry against violence. Tom is nothing if not socially responsible."
             "Ah, the old cry against violence anachronism storyline."

            "Did you like the scene when Macbeth squirted Othello in the crotch?"

            “Tom does know Othello wasn’t in the original Macbeth, right?” Breezy asked.

            "Yeah, but the kids will love it."

             “I think it worked better back when the first writer was on it," Breezy said.

            "What do you mean? Tom's the only screenwriter. The WGA has already signed off on it."

            "I’m talking about Shakespeare."

            "Oh, him."

            "Not to be a stickler, but Tom D’Medici rewrote the greatest writer ever, William fucking Shakespeare.”

            "And that, dear Breezmeister, is the genius of Tom's version. Tom is exploring a kind of a Jungian fourth wall thing, because, you see, Macbeth certainly sprang from the mind of Shakespeare, just as did Othello and Hamlet and the rest, so in a sense they were all inside there together."

            "Inside where?"

         "Shakespeare's mind. Stay with me on this. Tom has always wanted to raise the issue of internalized artistic conflict, and thus visualize how difficult it is for a creator to keep his ducks in a row."

            "Well, that would explain those Mallards waddling after Othello as he headed off to see Juliet," Breezy said.

            "'Alas poor Juliet, I knew her, Horatio, Quack quack quack,'" Melinda responded, repeating a line from the movie. "When they play a clip during the best actor category. That will be the one."

"Which duck do you think will be nominated?" Breezy asked.

            "I'm serious. We're planning an awards campaign already," Melinda said.

Breezy poked at her meal. Melinda knew that was one of her friend’s ‘tells.’

            "Honest opinion, Breezy. You're the only one I trust on such things. Did you hate the movie absolutely? Was there enough redeeming value to fool at least some critics? I’ve been ordered to get some quotes for the print ads, or I could lose my job."

            “Eat your Ama-ebi.”

            "Tell me.” Melinda’s blood was starting to drain from her face.           

Breezy hated to do it, but she had to stop the madness or explode.

            "Melinda?" Breezy said, putting her hand gently on the publicist's shoulder. "I've been going to movies since I was six. And this is the worst fucking movie I've ever seen."

            "Come on, Breezy, cut Tom some slack. He only has one ball, you know."

            "That's no excuse for this atrocity." Now Breezy felt she'd gone too far. She was, after all, responsible for the administration of the junket, not the artistic merit of the movie junketed.

"Shit, I'm sorry. It's not my place to—“

"

            "Okay, what the fuck, I gave it a shot," Melinda said, visibly slumping. "We earn our pay on shit like this. What the fuck was he thinking? The studio wants to sue him. Poor bastard thinks this will make the country take him seriously as an filmmaker." 

             “Tom’s lucky they’ve outlawed burning at the stake,” Breezy said sympathetically.

            “We’ll worry about that in a couple of weeks. I’ve got a bitch of a weekend coming up. Three movies in LA, then out into the wilds of Montana.”

            “Montana. For what? Why?

            “River of Mild Concern. It’s about riding the rapids and they want to give everyone a taste of what it’s like by letting them ride the same rapids used in the movie. With any luck we’ll drown a couple of junketeers. It would lessen my load, but I’m not sure it’s worth the paperwork.”

            "Enough about business, Melinda said. “Who you schtupping?”

            “I don’t have time to schtupp. And you?”

            “I stopped schtupping when Duracell came up with the alkaline battery.”