STENCILS
James Dean came crashing through the greenscreen dressed like a modern marine. John Wayne screamed at him, and for one lung, The Duke screamed well. He had to take over since George C. Scott took a piece of shrapnel in the liver. He was alive and ornery as ever, but The Duke had replaced him.
"Sorry, sir," Dean said rising from the dust where he had biffed it on the motorcycle. "All this armor and gear--kinda screws with the aerodynamics, if you know what I mean." Although wearing a helmet, Dean self-consciously tried to straighten his hair.
Explosions rang in the distance. The director wobbled forward. He was only half as drunk as usual. Still, his eyes were bloody, broken moons. "Get this show on the road, Wayne!"
"Yes, Mr. Peckinpah." The Duke looked somewhat subdued for once.
Just then Mitchum wandered on set. He looked haggard, which was saying something. "Sir--" he began to say to the director, then vomited right on Peckinpah. It was like a putrid waterfall on the tiny man. He was knocked from his feet. Then he sprang onto Mitchum's meaty neck like a ninja and applied a skillful squeeze.
Mitchum went out like a light. Peckinpah wiped booze and barf from his shirt then nonchalantly lit a cigarette. The Duke gawked.
Dean had wondered off and was staring at the charred skeleton of an old barn. He kicked at ashes and caused tiny tornadoes to roam the ruins.
"I've had it," Peckinpah said. "It's a wrap." He pivoted on his heels and strode away rapidly, barely staggering at all.
The Duke rubbed his jaw, almost spoke (to whom?) and walked away. As he walked the flesh on his bones withered and his hair fell off and then his skin, dry as a snake's slough, and gradually his walking bones faded into the western sky. Where his heart had been the sun smoldered like a sick coal until the shadow of a horse rode through it and snuffed it out.
Dean was sitting amidst the ruins in the dusty ash. He had removed his boots and was massaging his feet. He did not notice the falling light, the sky seeping between the bones of the burned barn like spilled ink, purple ink, the thorny orange sun swallowed by the black fishmaw horizon.
He did not notice the little girl until she was right beside him.
"Hullo. Nice feet."
Dean jumped, startled. He looked at the little girl, swiveled his head and looked for the director and his thug, The Duke. Nothing.
"Do they smell?" asked the girl, like some sort of uncouth wastrel. Then she moved forward and tickled his feet. Despite himself, Dean giggled. He withdrew one foot, but teased her with the other.
Suddenly, she bit his big toe.
"Hey." He pulled away.
The girl smiled and giggled, wiped blood from her lower lip.
"Why'd you do that?"
She cocked her head and studied him, and for a moment seemed no longer a little girl. Then she straightened her head and giggled. "Just playing, Speed Racer. Ruff! Ruff!" She play-barked like a dog. "Ruff! Ruff!"
Dean was not amused.
"Hey, stop that. I ain't playing stupid games with you, kid. I've got a movie to make."
She got down on all fours, rolled her head, make a weird almost-growl. Almost-- because the timbre was that of a little girl's vocal chords.
Dean felt his hackles rise. He tried to ignore his fear.
"Hey, stop that. I said stop it!"
The girl stopped growling, looked away (where her eyes really yellow for a moment?) and whined like a sad puppy.
Suddenly, Dean felt bad.
"I'm sorry, girl," he said, and she raised her pretty face and smiled. Her eyes were bright as blades, as swollen moonlight or sun on the chrome or the oilblack sleek hood of a hotrod--he saw her open her mouth--an immense black hole--and then extrude her long tongue and lick his hand--then the fangs, brighter than the eyes could ever be, shining for a moment then set deep in the flesh of his hand.
He screams. He tries to pull his hand away and it tears off, spilling black dust instead of blood. He stares at this wrist, feeling himself fade with shock. Looks at the girl. Sees her swallowing his hand with jaws distended like a python. Black dust pours from her mouth. Her hair twirls as though caught in a maelstrom of wind.
Dean passes out, falls to the ground, becomes a sand castle a pile of ash a sculpture of stenciled letters reading
H O L L Y W O O D
And the little girl becomes a big black wave and crashes it away. Black water rises to the night sky. A million stars, each scrawled with a name, rain from the night on James Dean's lips to melt like sugar.
Finis.
"Sorry, sir," Dean said rising from the dust where he had biffed it on the motorcycle. "All this armor and gear--kinda screws with the aerodynamics, if you know what I mean." Although wearing a helmet, Dean self-consciously tried to straighten his hair.
Explosions rang in the distance. The director wobbled forward. He was only half as drunk as usual. Still, his eyes were bloody, broken moons. "Get this show on the road, Wayne!"
"Yes, Mr. Peckinpah." The Duke looked somewhat subdued for once.
Just then Mitchum wandered on set. He looked haggard, which was saying something. "Sir--" he began to say to the director, then vomited right on Peckinpah. It was like a putrid waterfall on the tiny man. He was knocked from his feet. Then he sprang onto Mitchum's meaty neck like a ninja and applied a skillful squeeze.
Mitchum went out like a light. Peckinpah wiped booze and barf from his shirt then nonchalantly lit a cigarette. The Duke gawked.
Dean had wondered off and was staring at the charred skeleton of an old barn. He kicked at ashes and caused tiny tornadoes to roam the ruins.
"I've had it," Peckinpah said. "It's a wrap." He pivoted on his heels and strode away rapidly, barely staggering at all.
The Duke rubbed his jaw, almost spoke (to whom?) and walked away. As he walked the flesh on his bones withered and his hair fell off and then his skin, dry as a snake's slough, and gradually his walking bones faded into the western sky. Where his heart had been the sun smoldered like a sick coal until the shadow of a horse rode through it and snuffed it out.
Dean was sitting amidst the ruins in the dusty ash. He had removed his boots and was massaging his feet. He did not notice the falling light, the sky seeping between the bones of the burned barn like spilled ink, purple ink, the thorny orange sun swallowed by the black fishmaw horizon.
He did not notice the little girl until she was right beside him.
"Hullo. Nice feet."
Dean jumped, startled. He looked at the little girl, swiveled his head and looked for the director and his thug, The Duke. Nothing.
"Do they smell?" asked the girl, like some sort of uncouth wastrel. Then she moved forward and tickled his feet. Despite himself, Dean giggled. He withdrew one foot, but teased her with the other.
Suddenly, she bit his big toe.
"Hey." He pulled away.
The girl smiled and giggled, wiped blood from her lower lip.
"Why'd you do that?"
She cocked her head and studied him, and for a moment seemed no longer a little girl. Then she straightened her head and giggled. "Just playing, Speed Racer. Ruff! Ruff!" She play-barked like a dog. "Ruff! Ruff!"
Dean was not amused.
"Hey, stop that. I ain't playing stupid games with you, kid. I've got a movie to make."
She got down on all fours, rolled her head, make a weird almost-growl. Almost-- because the timbre was that of a little girl's vocal chords.
Dean felt his hackles rise. He tried to ignore his fear.
"Hey, stop that. I said stop it!"
The girl stopped growling, looked away (where her eyes really yellow for a moment?) and whined like a sad puppy.
Suddenly, Dean felt bad.
"I'm sorry, girl," he said, and she raised her pretty face and smiled. Her eyes were bright as blades, as swollen moonlight or sun on the chrome or the oilblack sleek hood of a hotrod--he saw her open her mouth--an immense black hole--and then extrude her long tongue and lick his hand--then the fangs, brighter than the eyes could ever be, shining for a moment then set deep in the flesh of his hand.
He screams. He tries to pull his hand away and it tears off, spilling black dust instead of blood. He stares at this wrist, feeling himself fade with shock. Looks at the girl. Sees her swallowing his hand with jaws distended like a python. Black dust pours from her mouth. Her hair twirls as though caught in a maelstrom of wind.
Dean passes out, falls to the ground, becomes a sand castle a pile of ash a sculpture of stenciled letters reading
H O L L Y W O O D
And the little girl becomes a big black wave and crashes it away. Black water rises to the night sky. A million stars, each scrawled with a name, rain from the night on James Dean's lips to melt like sugar.
Finis.
